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Chapter 7: Whose Scheme Will Prevail - Men or Beasts?

In the late autumn wilderness, the cold was biting, especially at midnight when the crimson and silver moons intertwined in the sky. Yet, no one in the mercenary camp felt the chill of the autumn wind, for an even colder force had locked onto their hearts.

Since the first howl echoed, cries, both long and short, echoed from all directions. Some were solitary, while others blended into a chorus, seemingly surrounding the entire camp. The mercenaries, exhausted from a day of pursuit and battle, were abruptly roused from their rest, gathering together in nervous uncertainty. Having just slaughtered a werewolf village that day, could it be that they were now the prey?

"Panicking for what? Those wolf pups are trying to intimidate you! If they truly possessed scores of Wolf Riders, they would have silently struck by now. Why would they need such eerie howling?"

The old captain's reprimand served to calm the troops, but the werewolves' strategy had been honed through countless trials. Just as most mercenaries settled down to rest, several dark figures dashed out from the shadows. Two guards, caught off guard, were clawed down upon, their heads spurting blood like fountains.

Thereafter, the lurking shadows struck relentlessly, claiming the lives of seven mercenaries in total. The campfire became the werewolves' most formidable ally, illuminating the humans while concealing the wolves. None dared to extinguish the flames, for it would leave them vulnerable to the wolves' ambush in the darkness. Ideally, a circle of fire could effectively repel the werewolves. However, in the Orc Wasteland, wood was an exceedingly scarce resource. Despite the humans gathering all available materials before setting up camp, it was insufficient to form a protective firewall.

If everyone were on high alert without any rest, it was likely that the mercenary group would meet its doom the following day. Eventually, the veteran captain ordered that half of the team stand guard while the other half slept, and they would rotate. Although this arrangement wouldn't allow the mercenaries to fully recover, there was no better alternative.

Amidst a night of stealthy attacks and counter-attacks, humanity greeted the dawn of the wilderness at the cost of two fallen warriors and six wounded.

Dawn is the hour when humanity is at its most weary, and likewise, once the sun rises, werewolves lose their cover. No matter the perspective, the final assault would inevitably erupt at dawn.

As the sun was yet to ascend, but the sky had already begun to pale, the human mercenaries, who had been battling through the night, finally caught sight of their adversary that had engaged them the entire night.

Twelve underage Werewolves, mounted on twelve snarling, howling beasts, were the stuff of their nightmares, the sum total of the foes they were about to confront.

Antara held her battle blade firmly in both hands, gazing intently at the human encampment from afar. No trace of tension or fear could be found in her, for the Werewolf was a born warrior by nature.

"Charge~~~"

At Altria's cry, twelve youthful Werewolf warriors spurred their colossal wolf mounts forward, howling as they charged into the human ranks. Neither the strength of their foes nor the odds of victory mattered in that moment. Once the charge began, there was only fighting, fighting, and fighting again.

As the twelve wolf riders charged forth, their numbers seemingly multiplied into an overwhelming horde, the human formation stirred with a slight unrest. After all, mercenaries were not regular troops; adept at chaotic battles, they were less proficient in static warfare. However, a select few standing at the rear of the formation, observing their adversaries calmly, held a different perspective.

"Foolish beasts, however ferocious, shall fall to the wisdom of mankind," the young Sword Master, Lanster, mused aloud, though his words were meant as praise for the cunning "Black Swamp Fox," the old guild leader, Hake.

"Still just a youthful Werewolf, likely seeing combat for the first time. His tactics are but a mimicry of his forefathers, I suppose? Though executed flawlessly, warfare is ever-evolving," the old captain lamented.

"Are you prepared?" The elder turned to inquire of the mages and clerics readying their spells and divine arts, receiving an affirmative response. At that moment, the four Swordsmen attendants to the Sword Master, the half-elf archer, and the young mercenary beside the old captain all stood guard around the two maidens.

"On my mark... Leap!"

An unexpected command was issued as the old leader judged the Wolves to be within striking range. Upon hearing the order, every mercenary leaped into the air without hesitation, then crashed back down onto the ground with force.

Nothing bizarre emerged from beneath their feet; in truth, the mercenaries' collective leap was a signal, a message intended for certain companions concealed beneath the earth.

"Huu... Huu... Huu..."

On either side of the werewolves' charging path, the previously empty ground suddenly erupted as dozens of mercenaries wielding military crossbows rose from their concealed pits. In response to their comrades' signals, they barely needed to aim before unleashing their heavy bolts at the onrushing werewolves.

"Puff, puff, puff, puff, puff"

The Werewolf youths, who had been charging full speed ahead, never expected such a powerful assault to come from their flanks. Already clad only in leather armor and without shields, they bore the brunt of nearly forty heavy crossbows' barrage. Their momentum was immediately halted. In quick succession, a dozen fireballs the size of human heads rained down from the sky, engulfing all the wolves in a fierce explosion.

"Boom... Boom... Boom..."

Explosions stirred up massive clouds of dust, rendering the scene at the epicenter invisible for a moment.

"It's over just like that?" Everyone was taken aback by how smoothly the plan had unfolded, finding it hard to believe.

"He's not dead, there's a magical beast."

"Be cautious, the creature inside is still alive!"

Both the magic-sensitive mage and the half-elf perceived the aura of an icy spell mitigating much of the flames' destructive force at the epicenter of the explosion. They promptly issued a warning.

"Slay~"

Penetrating the billowing smoke, twelve blood-soaked figures charged towards the archers on both flanks. Most of these young werewolves had been struck by one or two crossbow bolts, but with the Eighth Layer of the Golden Bell Shield protecting them, they were akin to being clad in full-body steel armor. Though they couldn't entirely deflect the concentrated barrage of military crossbows at close range, the bolts could only pierce their bodies by an inch. To the robust werewolves, such injuries merely fueled their ferocity.