Because there were elders and children in the group, the wildlings did not withdraw quickly.
They could only struggle south along the snowy path the Slimes had carved at the edge of the northern coniferous forest. The elders were wrapped in thick hides and leaned on wooden staffs, while the children were carried on the backs of strong tribesmen, their cheeks raw and red from the cold, but they gritted their teeth and no one cried.
Their destination was a northern post station about half a day’s travel to the south.
It was a makeshift outpost the Slime Kingdom had set up to maintain communications and material transfer in the North. There were a few log-and-gel reinforced houses and a crude beast pen that housed more than a dozen swamp monitor lizards and draft animals wrapped in thick hides.
These tamed lizards were enormous, with thick limbs and broad paws suited to trudging through snow. They could carry several people or a load of supplies on their backs, and they were the Slimes’ primary mounts in the north.
When the exhausted migration finally arrived at the station, Slime messengers who had already received word immediately sprang into action. They helped the elders and children onto the lizards’ backs, secured them with straps, and handed out hot soup and hard bread.
The lizards exhaled frosty breaths and shifted their claws uneasily, but under the soothing of the Slime animal trainers they quickly calmed.
All the robust wildlings, both men and women, stayed behind at the station. They watched the lizard-mounted groups carrying their kin push off along a more concealed trail toward the southern safety zone.
They waved vigorously until the silhouettes of their loved ones vanished into the vast snowy forest, then the tenderness and reluctance on their faces was swiftly replaced by steely resolve.
The harsh environment had honed their bodies; gender differences in strength and endurance were not as pronounced as among humans. It was common in the tribe to see towering female wildlings with bulging muscles who could snap a caribou’s neck barehanded.
As long as they were in their prime, wildlings—male or female—were essentially born warriors, boasting explosive power, cold resistance, and pain tolerance far beyond ordinary humans. In wildling culture, women were not symbols of weakness; they could grasp stone axes or bone spears and stand shoulder to shoulder with men on the front lines, fighting to the death for the tribe’s survival.
Yet the wildlings’ wisdom and generations of experience taught them that raw flesh and courage alone, in open melee, could hardly overcome the more brutal, ferocious orcs.
Fortunately, wildlings had their own cunning. Beyond their warrior physiques, they possessed survival smarts honed by their unforgiving environment.
As early as this past summer, Molok, relying on his veteran hunter’s experience and knowledge of orc movement patterns, predicted the orcs might head south this year.
So, with the Slimes’ help, they spent the entire autumn and early winter carefully setting traps along the main snowy routes.
Those traps weren’t limited to simple snares and pits; they included compound traps using terrain and simple mechanical devices, and even more terrifying magic traps.
Especially this post station: set up as a bait and ambush point, it was surrounded by the deadliest set of magical traps.
If the orcs were lured here and triggered the traps, even if it couldn’t completely stop the legion’s advance, it would inflict significant casualties and severely blunt the legion’s momentum.
This was the wildlings’ counterattack.
They were striking back not only at the southbound orcs, but at the humiliating history of being driven and enslaved by those beasts for generations.
It was time to bid farewell to past weakness and flight. They wanted to tell those green-skinned brutes that wildlings were not to be trifled with.
“Teacher Jiggu, how are the traps holding up? Any spots crushed by the snow or frozen solid?” Molok lay in the snow on the post station’s roof, exposing only his eyes and half his head. He watched and whispered to the green Slime beside him who was also lying prone.
That blob named Jiggu was actually Molok’s close-combat and weapons instructor.
If we talk purely about warrior skills and combat techniques, even the strong, enduring wildlings couldn’t match Jiggu.
Almost any tribe member who yearned to improve their fighting ability would become Jiggu’s student and train with it in their spare time.
As for why such a formidable slime like Jiggu would stay at a bitter northern post station, Slimes privately guessed it was because their master’s personality was... overly cautious—hardly bold—and so His Majesty sent it there for seasoning.
Jiggu wanted to spring up instinctively, but since they were on a stealth mission and in front of a student, it forced itself to maintain the image of “mature and steady Instructor Molok.” It only squeezed its gel body slightly and said calmly:
“Hmph, there are formation nodes set with Gray Gravel Crystal out there. Not even that big blanket of snow can mess them up. Even if those barbaric green skins rush through, they’ll be slowed down enough to buy you time to retreat.”
“Watch how I use the traps to teach those rude savages a lesson.”
Big words were out, but then it grew a little worried. It flattened itself even more to avoid being spotted by possible orc scouts and asked in a low voice, “Um... are you sure those big dogs can’t run fast in this terrain? I heard they’re dangerous in the snow.”
Molok nodded with certainty and explained softly, “Those frost wolves are good at running across open plains and gentle woods, but this is the border between conifer forest and tundra. The terrain is more complex, and we know it better.”
“And we laid so many traps and obstacles along the way; they definitely can’t keep up with the heavily laden swamp monitor lizards. Don’t worry, Teacher Jiggu.”
Jiggu relaxed a little, its gel body wobbling slightly, a few delighted little bubbles rising from its belly.
But it soon recalled something and again lowered its voice to ask, “By the way, any news from the snowy mountains? I remember Lord Sekashi sent back word via messenger bird that the trial was nearly complete?”
Molok shook his head, worry on his face. “Lord Sekashi and Lady Semiaya last sent a messenger bird three days ago and there’s been no movement since.”
“If they were on the way back and happened to run into the southbound orc legion...”
Jiggu gave a round little nudge with its gelatinous belly against Molok’s arm, huffing, “What do you know? The King said Lord Sekashi went to complete an Extraordinary trial; when she returns she’ll be an even more powerful Extraordinary Lizardfolk.”
“Just a bunch of orcs... hmph.”
“Wait, Teacher Jiggu, movement!” Molok, whose senses were sharp, suddenly hushed. He immediately noticed motion at the edge of the forest not far away.
A cloud of snow dust rose there, but it was not on the main trail; it came from a rougher, harder-to-traverse patch of woods beside it.
It seemed the orcs had grown cautious after suffering enough from traps during their tracking and no longer dared to advance along the Kingdom road.
Soon, the orc legion’s frost-wolf cavalry scouts burst from the forest first, followed by a mass of orc warriors running on foot.
Many of them bore injuries—some clutched bloodied, ragged arms, others had filthy cloths covering one eye, blood seeping through their fingers.
They had evidently taken hits from traps set by the wildlings while crossing the snowwood.
“Teacher Jiggu, they’re coming.”
Molok whispered, then carefully scooped up Jiggu and slid down the roof via a prearranged rope ladder on the other side.
Inside the station, the other wildling warriors on guard were already in position, gripping weapons, holding their breath, waiting for the orcs to enter the final trap ring.
From now on,
these beasts would be the prey.
.....
Groln and two other tribal orc warriors rode frost wolves out of the forest and stopped on a slightly elevated slope.
His face was sullen, full of anger and irritation. The traps they’d often sneer at as “little toys” and “rat tricks” had cost the legion significant obstacles and casualties, even causing some frost wolves to hesitate, afraid to step on unseen snares.
They had spent nearly an hour longer than expected just to get out of that cursed wood.
“Damn rats!” Groln spat a glob of foul phlegm onto the snow, his gaze landing not far away.
There lay a tundra blanketed in deep snow, the white reflecting a harsh glare under the gloomy sky. In the center of the tundra stood a lone wooden-and-stone post station.
He could clearly see a few wildlings riding large lizards bolt out the station’s back door and continue fleeing southward into the snowy wood.
Orcs who had doubted whether more traps lay ahead could not restrain themselves at the sight.
The sight of fleeing prey and their flight posture stoked their primal lust for plunder and slaughter. Even the frost wolves beneath them let out excited howls, pawing at the snow.
Although his instincts told Groln this was likely another of the sly wildlings’ bait-and-trap setups, letting the prey slip away again was unacceptable.
He had to catch those rats, and wash his shame with their blood and screams.
“Wolf riders!” Groln raised his massive warhammer and pointed toward the post station and the fleeing wildlings, roaring, “Pursue them! Tear them apart!”
Dozens of frost-wolf cavalry roared, tightened their grips, lashed their rough reins, and drove their mounts down the slope. The wolves’ powerful limbs churned huge plumes of snow, moving at alarming speed.
But Groln himself held his wolf back, not rushing down at once.
A remaining caution kept him in the relatively safe center of the legion. Even if the tundra held traps, he could observe the situation and respond in time.
However, as the wolf riders crossed what seemed to be flat tundra, a white, thick fog suddenly billowed up and within a blink cloaked the entire tundra.
Visibility plunged; whenever orcs were more than two or three meters apart, their companions’ figures blurred and soon vanished into the white haze.
“Damn! Magic!” Groln’s heart clenched; he realized this was bad.
He didn’t have time to ponder how the wildlings could cast such a wide fog spell. He tightened the reins, restraining the restless frost wolves, and shouted with all his might, “Halt! Hold your positions! Don’t scatter!”
“Damn it, I told you to stop!” Groln flew into a rage, cracking his leather whip and lashing a panicked orc rider nearby.
But it was too late.
A piercing shriek suddenly rang from the depths of the fog, followed by a chorus of screams and curses.
Blinded by the fog, the orcs flailed like headless flies, repeatedly triggering buried traps in the snow. Iron brambles from deep pits pierced their paws or bodies, sharpened wooden spears or stone fragments hurled from the mist struck them.
Invisible enemies and falling comrades spread panic like a plague through the legion.
“Hurl spears!” Groln’s eyes were bloodshot as he barked orders and himself pulled a short spear from beside his saddle, heaved it hard toward the general direction of the post station.
The spear sliced through the fog with a shrill whistle, prompting several orc foot soldiers and riders to start flinging their weapons toward the station as well.
For a moment, the chorus of slicing projectiles temporarily suppressed the attacks coming from the station’s direction.
Meanwhile, the legion’s only two Silver frost wolves threw back their heads and howled, their cries carrying a primitive force.
[Wind Creation Technique]
A breeze radiated outward from each wolf.
This wind couldn’t entirely disperse the thick magical fog, but it thinned it somewhat and revealed the glittering formation nodes embedded in the snow around them.
“Smash those glowing stones!” Groln’s eyes sharpened and he bellowed toward the nodes.
Nearby orc soldiers, at his command, swung their weapons and smashed the exposed Gray Gravel Crystals protruding from the snow. As each node was destroyed, the energy supply sustaining the fog formation was cut, and the mist began to fade visibly.
Minutes later, the fog finally cleared, exposing the tundra’s brutal scene.
The pristine snow was stained with vast dark red splotches. Dozens of orc soldiers and more than a dozen frost wolves lay in pools of blood—some impaled by spikes in pits, some pierced by wooden spears or enchanted stone arrows.
Among them were some elite orc warriors.
If not for shamans in the ranks casting spells to block some of the ranged attacks, their losses would have been even worse.
Groln’s face was ashen, his chest heaving with rage. He saw the post station’s back door wide open. The last pack of wildlings, mounted on swamp monitor lizards, charged out and fled headlong into the southern snowwood without looking back.
“Pursue them!” Groln swung his warhammer and roared.
The remaining frost-wolf cavalry were roused to ferocity and answered with howls, urging their mounts forward with tightened reins. The frost wolves gave chase with fierce cries.
[Ice Surface Technique]
Two Silver frost wolves led the charge. Where their legs touched the ground, sheets of hard ice sprang up, shielding the surface from potential traps.
They chased the swamp monitor lizards into the denser southern wood, but the terrain there was far more complex—deadfall, rocks, and concealed gullies were everywhere.
And the wildlings were clearly intimately familiar with it. Coupled with the orcs’ lingering fear of more traps, they couldn’t match the swamp monitor lizards’ speed through the tangled terrain.
Beside Groln, an older shaman spoke gravely, “Lord Groln, this chase won’t work. It’s time... to use the magic granted by the Returner.”
Groln didn’t hesitate. He quickly produced a piece of dried meat from the lining of his leather armor and tossed it to his restless frost wolf.
The powerful wolf seemed to instinctively crave the meat, leapt up, seized it in its jaws, and swallowed it down.
Then it began to shake, silver fur bristling as it let out a long howl. The air around it chilled rapidly and countless tiny ice crystals condensed, swirling like stars around it.
[Ice Spear Technique]
The circling ice crystals rapidly condensed and enlarged, then formed into hundreds of sharp ice spears that shot toward the fleeing wildling group.
And not only Groln’s wolf—several other wolves that had been fed similar meat underwent comparable transformations.
“Frost wolves that can cast Ice Spear?!” Molok clung to the rough ridge on the swamp monitor lizard’s neck to steady himself as the lizard bucked. He glanced back and felt his heart stop.
He saw wolves transformed by the meat, like they had ascended to Silver rank, acting as mobile magical batteries unleashing spells.
The ice spears flashed deadly brilliance through the thin forest light.
“Molok, are we going to die here?” Jiggu trembled, curling into Molok’s arms, its round gel body quivering.
If not for Molok’s habitual deference calling it “teacher,” no one would believe this was a Slime warrior.
Ice spears screamed in, and though most missed because of distance and tree cover—slamming into snow or trunks and exploding into clouds of ice shards—several dangerously grazed the lizards or wildlings, and the chill winds they generated were bone-piercing.
One giant lizard’s hind leg was grazed by an ice spear, flesh ripped open, blood gushing, it let out a pained roar and slowed noticeably.
Molok hurriedly raised his hand and shouted, “Teacher Jiggu, let’s surrender now!”