Belial dropped like a hammer, and in a single instant, nearly ten Mammorests fell under his claws. He went for the leader first. biggest target, thickest fur, even some kind of natural ice armor that tried to form in defense.
Impressive, in theory. In practice? Useless.
These things were built to take on predators, not walking disasters. Compared to his claws, even their toughest hide was barely more than stiff paper. It tore like nothing.
At the same time, his tail lashed out behind him like a whip. It wasn't just muscle, it was a weapon. Thin, sharp, and ending in a bone spike reinforced with magic.
When it struck, it moved so fast the sound couldn't keep up. Even the air couldn't catch it.
A split second later, several Mammorests were sliced apart. Some didn't even realize they were dead until their bodies gave out. A few more were skewered like meat on a stick.
The ones still standing didn't have long. Belial gave a single beat of his wings, and twin storms erupted, one of ice, one of lightning.
The cold hit them first. A deep, soul-shaking kind of cold that slipped through fur and sank into bone. But before it could freeze them solid, the lightning came.
It surged through them in jagged flashes, cooking them from the inside out. Their bodies spasmed violently.
Then went still.
Even though they were made for cold, built with thick hides and dense muscle, it didn't matter. Belial had forced raw mana through a rough, unstable spell just brute strength over finesse.
It didn't need to be clean. It just needed to work. And it did. In less than three seconds, the whole herd was gone. Frozen. Shattered.
"Not bad, if I do say so myself." He looked down at the splattered remains stuck to his claws.
Blood, bone, and meat, some of it still twitching. One carcass was a bit too broken apart, but he shrugged.
"Eh… I'll just eat around the messed-up parts."
With casual ease, Belial started snacking on a creature bigger than most buildings, like it was just another meal.
But far beyond that snowy field, deeper into the frozen wilderness, something else stirred. More snowfield Mammorests, and other beasts too, were on the move. Their steps were faster. Their breath came out in short bursts. Something had rattled them.
And in their eyes, a strange light flickered. Something distant had called them. Or maybe warned them. Either way, they were heading somewhere. Fast.
***
"This is the thirty-eighth case this month, is that right?"
"...Yes, sir."
The secretary, a young man with a slightly boyish face, lowered his head. His fingers fidgeted behind his back, and he ignored the way his glasses kept sliding down his nose.
He looked awkward and tense, unsure of how to carry himself. "Let me take a look."
The room wasn't big, and the fireplace crackled with a steady flame, but the draft from a slightly open window made it feel like snow was just around the corner.
Above the mantle hung a pair of sword-axes, beautifully made and polished to a shine.
Their metal surfaces reflected the presence of the tall man standing before them, a figure cloaked in thick animal fur. His face was hard and weathered, almost like it had been carved from stone.
With sharp features, a high-bridged nose, and deep-set eyes, he carried a heavy presence. A short beard framed his jaw, while long blond hair had been neatly braided.
His robe was made entirely of fur, with the head of a wolf resting on his shoulder, eyes gleaming like gemstones in the firelight. The armor beneath glinted with steel, and his build was like a wall broad, powerful, and unwavering.
Despite the rugged look, he flipped through the report handed to him with careful attention, gloved fingers steady, while chewing a strip of dried meat.
The papers detailed the latest monster attacks. Nothing new for the Northlands, which were crawling with beasts. But this time, something was off. The number of attacks was too high, too frequent, and too scattered.
Victims had no clear pattern, and everything together hinted at a deeper problem.
The secretary, lacking the composure of more seasoned aides, looked like he could barely stand still. Wrapped tightly in his thick cloak, he still trembled now and then, maybe from the cold, or maybe from nerves. He started to understand what the older staff meant when they said Lord Vane felt cold, even without harsh words.
It wasn't about cruelty. It was something else, something weighty. Standing in front of the Lord of the Northlands made you feel like you were in the presence of a legend.
This was Thalric Vane, High Lord of the Ice Fang Domain, protector of the Draegarn Empire's frozen edge. "Have you found the cause yet?"
Vane's tone wasn't loud or harsh, but hearing it felt like a cold gust straight to the chest.
The secretary flinched, quickly answering, "The magicians called in for investigation say the magical readings are normal. We dissected several monsters and found no abnormalities."
"We also checked everyone who was attacked. So far, there's nothing strange connecting them. No shared traits or triggers."
"...Keep digging. I want full reports soon. Pass this down: move up the curfew for all nearby towns, especially larger ones. Night patrols need to be increased by 20%, and the patrol duration should be extended by a third.
Double the investigation range. Every team needs to be led by at least three Black Iron-ranked personnel for now. Reinforcements will come later.
And raise the budget—add a 20% bonus for hazard duty. Expand the city defense equipment stockpile by at least one-third.
All orders must be sent out within three days. Everything must be in place within two weeks. Assign someone else to handle the smaller stuff."
The secretary scribbled furiously in his notebook, whispering the orders under his breath to make sure he didn't miss anything.
He managed a quick nod. "Yes, sir."
BAM!
The heavy door closed behind him, leaving the room quiet.
Vane let out a breath and reached into the drawer of his desk, pulling out a metal flask. He could always tell if someone was nearby, by the way their steps echoed or how the air shifted around them. Right now, he was alone.
He popped open the lid. The strong, sharp scent of high-proof alcohol hit his nose. He took a deep swig, letting some spill down into his beard.
"...Ahh. Honestly, I'd rather deal with a good bottle than all this nonsense. Much more pleasant. Care to join me?"
He grinned, licking the leftover alcohol off his lips and beard, raising the flask in offering. At his words, a shadow in the far corner unraveled like spilled ink.