CHAPTER 92: Dark Rage

Monster Rampage

One man with a sack took one skull and placed it in the ground, then began the enchantment with a dark and ominous spell.

The skull sank slightly into the blackened soil as if the earth beneath the Monster Dominion had opened its mouth to receive it. The carved symbols along its cracked surface glowed in a sickly green light, pulsing with each syllable that left the man’s lips. Around him, the other cloaked figures stood with their hoods low, their hands hovering near weapons, charms, and sealed jars filled with dark powder. The boundary of the forest trembled.

The trees answered.

Far inside the darkness, something growled. Then another. Then dozens. The sound did not rise all at once. It spread, root by root, branch by branch, like a sickness waking beneath the snow. The black-barked trees groaned, though no wind touched them. Yellow eyes opened between trunks. Red eyes followed. Low shapes moved through the fog, then taller ones, then heavy ones that made the frozen ground pulse beneath their steps.

The bald man with scars on his face smiled as the first circle burned fully.

“One,” he said.

The man kneeling before the skull trembled, but his chant did not stop. Dark mana leaked from his fingers into the soil, spreading like veins around the iron stakes. The skull cracked wider. From within its hollow eye sockets, black smoke poured out and crawled toward the forest line.

A howl split the afternoon.

The Monster Dominion had heard the insult.

And it had begun to rage.

Far north of Valenhart, in the fortress territory of Frosthelm March, Marquis Simmon Frosthelm was in the middle of a territorial discussion when the first urgent report arrived.

The meeting had been held in the cold stone hall of Frosthelm’s northern administrative fortress, a place built not for comfort but endurance. Thick pillars supported a ceiling darkened by years of hearth smoke. Maps of the snow ridges, monster passes, and supply roads hung along the walls. Several lesser lords of the North sat around the table, their cloaks heavy with fur, their faces hardened by altitude, winter, and the kind of pride that came from living where weakness was not given time to become old.

Marquis Simmon sat at the head.

He was not elegant like the Western nobility, nor politically polished like the central court lords. He was broad, severe, and weathered, with iron-gray hair tied at the back and a beard trimmed short for military practicality. The Frosthelm bloodline had guarded the northern ridges for generations. To outsiders, the North was snow, fortresses, and monster passes. To Simmon, it was duty carved into stone. The kingdom slept because the North stayed awake.

A lesser lord was explaining grain reserve strain along the Dravenfrost Chain when the door opened without ceremonial announcement.

A captain knight entered with urgency so clear that no one objected to the interruption.

He struck one fist against his chest. “My lord.”

Simmon’s gaze sharpened immediately. “Report.”

“A monster wave has been sighted in the vicinity of the Dark Forest. The forward scouts confirm movement toward the North Wall. Estimated arrival: one hour.”

The room went silent.

Not from ignorance.

From recognition.

Monster waves were not unknown in the North. They were part of its ancestral burden. Goblin colonies spilled out when food ran low. Orc warbands gathered under brute chiefs. Dire wolves hunted during harsh winters. Beasts fled deeper predators. Lesser golems sometimes wandered from stone nests after mana disturbances. The North had fought all of them. It had buried sons and fathers because of them. It had built walls because it expected them.

Yet a wave from the Dark Forest with only one hour’s warning meant the movement had either formed suddenly or been concealed unnaturally.

Simmon rose.

His chair scraped against stone.

“All lesser lords will send their available knights to the North Wall at full force,” he ordered. “Evacuate outer villages and ridge settlements immediately. Move citizens to fortress shelters. Open winter granaries under emergency authority. Inform the mage towers assigned to Frosthelm defense to prepare detection arrays. Send communication to the West requesting supply support. Food, medicine, arrows, healing herbs, and transport animals.”

The captain bowed. “At once.”

Simmon turned toward the map. “Which section?”

“North-eastern wall approach, my lord. Below the lower ridge line near the old monster pass.”

One lesser lord cursed softly. “That approach is wide enough for a large wave.”

“Then it is wide enough for our arrows,” Simmon said.

No one spoke after that.

The room moved.

Lords who had entered to discuss border grain now left to command troops. Messengers ran through stone corridors. Bells rang across Frosthelm. The fortress town below answered with practiced alarm. Doors closed. Citizens gathered what they could carry and moved toward shelter points. Old men helped children into sled wagons. Women tied medicine bundles to their belts. Blacksmiths stopped civilian work and began repairing spearheads. Priests opened chapel halls. Archers climbed toward the walls. Aura knights assembled in frost-lined armor.

The North did not panic.

The North prepared.

That afternoon, the monster wave met the wall with madness.

The first line appeared as black movement across white land. Goblins came in clusters, hunched and shrieking, their green-gray bodies wrapped in stolen hides and bone charms. They ran over one another with mindless hunger, claws scraping against ice and stone. Behind them came dire wolves, larger than horses, their fur matted with frost, their mouths foaming as though something had burned reason from their skulls. Orcs followed in heavier groups, thick-armed and tusked, carrying crude axes, broken tree trunks, and shields made from hide and scavenged metal.

Then the wall horns changed tone.

A lower golem appeared in the back line.

It moved slowly but with terrible weight, a hulking shape of stone, mud, and frozen root, its body bound together by wild mana. Each step made the snow jump. Around it, smaller monsters swarmed like insects around a moving boulder.

The first arrows fell.

Hundreds.

Then thousands.

Northern archers fired from the wall in disciplined volleys, their bows heavy enough to break untrained shoulders. The first goblin clusters collapsed before reaching the ditch line. Dire wolves leaped over bodies and were met by spear-launchers mounted along the parapet. Mages released frost-binding spells to slow the front wave, then fire bursts to scatter groups before they gathered at the gates. Oil was not wasted early. Simmon had forbidden it until heavier monsters pressed close enough to justify the resource.

The North knew defense.

This was their ancestral task.

They were the vanguard of the Arcane Kingdom.

Simmon stood atop the central command platform, watching the field with the stillness of a man who had seen death enough times not to waste movement. Beside him stood his advisor, Elder Hadrin, an old mage with a fur-lined robe, a hooked nose, and eyes clouded slightly by age but sharpened by mana perception. Several captains waited for orders around them.

“The wave is manageable,” Hadrin said, “but abnormal.”

Simmon did not take his eyes from the field. “Explain.”

“The mana wavelength detected by our mages does not match a natural migration. The pattern is disturbed. Agitated. Layered with residue, I do not recognize it fully. Also, the composition is wrong.”

An orc reached the forward ditch and was struck by three spears from above. It fell backward, crushing two goblins beneath it.

Hadrin continued, “A natural wave usually forms around one dominant pressure. A goblin colony fleeing starvation. An orc army moving under a chief. Dire wolves chase prey migration. But this wave contains multiple types moving in the same direction without a proper hierarchy. Goblins, orcs, dire wolves, and now a lower golem. They are not cooperating. They are being pushed.”

Simmon’s eyes narrowed. “From behind?”

“Or from within their instincts. Something has disturbed the Dominion boundary.”

The lower golem reached the first obstacle line.

A heavy ballista bolt launched from the wall and struck its shoulder, shattering stone but not stopping it. A second bolt pierced deeper. The golem raised one huge arm and slammed it into the frozen barricade, cracking the outer defense.

Simmon lifted his hand. “Mage unit three. Bind the legs. Ballista unit two, aim for the core seam.”

Orders passed instantly.

Blue-white magic curled around the golem’s feet, freezing mud and roots to the ground. The creature strained forward. The second ballista fired. The bolt struck its chest seam, breaking through the unstable core. The golem convulsed, took two more steps, then collapsed into a heap of stone that crushed dozens of monsters beneath its fall.

The wall roared with disciplined approval, but Simmon did not smile.

Hadrin’s warning remained.

“If this continues,” the advisor said, “and middle to upper-level monsters appear, the wall may suffer heavy damage. If a high ogre, frost wyvern, stone troll, or elder golem joins the later wave, penetration becomes possible.”

“Possible,” Simmon repeated.

“Not certain.”

“Do not comfort me with technicalities.”

Hadrin bowed slightly. “Then yes, my lord. If stronger monsters appear consistently, the wall may be damaged or penetrated.”

Simmon’s jaw tightened.

“Send reinforcement request to the capital.”

A captain stiffened. “My lord, the West communication is already being sent.”

“Send both. The West for supplies. The capital for military reinforcement and mage investigation.”

“Yes, my lord.”

The battle continued into the evening.

The first wave broke against the wall, but it did not vanish quickly. Goblins kept coming long after enough had died to scatter an ordinary colony. Dire wolves threw themselves toward spear lines without the caution of predators. Orcs climbed over fallen bodies, their eyes bloodshot and unfocused, roaring not with war discipline but rage. Mages began rotating early to prevent exhaustion. Archers switched between broad volleys and targeted shots. Aura knights moved along the wall to reinforce sections where monsters reached too close. Priests blessed the wounded and cleansed claw wounds that carried a strange, dark irritation.

By midnight, the snow below the wall was no longer white.

By dawn, the first monster wave had become a battlefield of corpses, broken spears, shattered stone, and steaming blood.

The rumor spread before the second day ended.

In the West, merchant couriers carried the news faster than official letters. Marquis Edward Silvarenne received the report while reviewing silk contracts and grain movement. His face hardened at the mention of a monster wave lasting beyond normal expectation. Western lands did not love the northern cold, but they understood what would happen if the North weakened. Monster pressure did not remain politely behind ridges forever.

He ordered the supply preparation at once.

Grain, preserved meat, medicinal herbs, wool blankets, silk-lined winter cloth, healing tonics, replacement bowstrings, and transport wagons were gathered under emergency northern support. West merchants complained only until Edward’s steward informed them that refusal would be remembered after the crisis. Then their loyalty improved.

In the capital, King Leonardo Gotha began an emergency meeting.

The Sevenfold Council Chamber filled with royalists, military officials, tower representatives, Church delegates, and tense nobles who spoke in careful tones while watching one another. The King received Simon’s request, then the reports of abnormal mana wavelength, mixed monster composition, and prolonged assault. His expression remained controlled, but those close to him saw the displeasure beneath it.

A monster wave in the North was not only a northern problem.

It was a kingdom wound.

The Aurelion Tower recommended sending detection mages. The Verdant Spire offered healers and nature-mana analysts. The Church promised blessing, support, and purification, specialists. Several noble faction representatives expressed concern with faces too polished to trust. King Leonardo listened to them all and ordered preliminary reinforcement movement, though not enough to strip the capital’s defenses. The eastern border had already begun producing unrest reports. He saw the pattern forming, though not yet fully enough to name every hand behind it.

In the South, the news arrived quietly.

Valenhart did not publicly react.

No emergency bells rang. No market panic was allowed to form. Alistair received the northern report inside the secure chamber, read it once, then passed it to Adrian, Merek, Seraphine, Enel, and Garret. No one needed to say that the prediction from the continental map discussion had begun to come true.

Monster disruption in the North.

Capital attention is pulled.

West supply movement activated.

Surface kingdom pressure is rising.

Adrian’s face remained calm, but his eyes sharpened.

“The first circle has been lit,” he said.

Seraphine understood immediately. “Then the others will follow.”

Alistair looked toward Garret. “Silent Vein progress?”

“Survey teams are active. Entry hollow materials are being moved under the wall reinforcement classification. Fredo’s first support panel prototypes are scheduled for inspection tomorrow. Gilbert reports that the soil reading near the between-walls pocket is stable enough for controlled descent testing.”

“Accelerate silently,” Alistair said. “No public strain.”

Garret bowed. “Understood.”

Thus, while the North fought in open snow and the West prepared wagons beneath public urgency, the South hastened its underground construction beneath silence. Carts moved at night with false labels. Mana lamps were tested in closed workshops. Surveyors entered storage depots and exited through mine access routes. Workers believed they were expanding wall support chambers, winter granaries, or emergency bunkers, depending on what their section required. Only those at the top knew the truth.

The Silent Vein had not yet become a route.

But its first breath had begun.

On the second day of the northern battle, some monsters broke formation.

Not many.

Enough.

A group of dire wolves and goblins split away from the main assault after a failed push near the lower ridge and ran toward the northern capital border settlement. The wall defenders noticed too late to stop all of them from slipping along a ravine half-buried by snow. That border line fell under the royal knight's responsibility, and the royal garrison stationed there moved quickly.

Royal knights formed shield lines outside the settlement gate while archers took the rooftops and low towers. A pair of court mages created flame walls to force the dire wolves away from civilian shelters. Goblins tried to swarm through a side road and were cut down by aura-enhanced blades before reaching the inner street. The settlement survived, but the incident confirmed what Simmon feared: the wave was not behaving naturally. Pressure was leaking into directions it should not prioritize.

The battle lasted three days for a single monster wave.

Three days.

By the end of it, the northern soldiers looked carved from exhaustion and frost. Their armor was scratched, dented, and darkened by monster blood. Archers wrapped blistered fingers and returned to the wall. Mages slept in shifts so brief they woke without knowing whether they had closed their eyes at all. Priests ran out of prepared blessings and began chanting raw support prayers between wound treatments. Blacksmiths repaired weapons through the night. Children in shelters learned not to cry loudly because the adults were listening for horns.

Winter was beginning to end in the rest of the continent, but not truly in Frosthelm.

The North still lived under cold altitude and mountain shadow. Snow remained in ridges. Ice clung beneath eaves. Sunlight came thinly, bright but weak, giving sight more than warmth. The wall stones stayed cold even under midday light. Men bled more slowly in the open air but stiffened faster if wounds were not treated immediately.

The good thing was that Western supplies arrived before the fourth dawn.

Marquis Edward’s wagons moved faster than expected. Grain and preserved food entered Frosthelm under armed escort. Medicinal herbs replenished exhausted healers. Wool and silk-lined winter clothes helped replace damaged cold gear. Wine arrived too, not for celebration, but for warmth, morale, and medical use where needed. The western supply support did not erase the losses, but it filled enough of the gap created in just three days to prevent immediate ration strain.

Simmon sent a brief but formal acknowledgment westward.

It contained only three lines.

The North received the West’s support.
The supplies prevented further loss.
Frosthelm will remember.

For Marquis Edward, that was worth more than flattery.

On the third evening, the northern command hall gathered again.

This time, no one sat comfortably.

Maps were covered with stones marking monster movement, breach attempts, corpse density, abnormal mana readings, and villages evacuated. Captains stood with bandaged hands and sleepless eyes. Elder Hadrin leaned over a mana chart drawn by three exhausted detection mages. Lesser lords argued less than usual, not because pride had vanished, but because the wall had reminded them what mattered.

Simmon stood before the map, arms crossed.

“What do we know?”

Hadrin answered first. “The wave did not form naturally. The mana wavelength remained distorted throughout the three-day assault. Dark residue was faint but present in some outer readings. Not enough to prove a specific caster, but enough to confirm interference.”

A captain added, “Monster types remained mixed. Goblins, orcs, dire wolves, lower golem, frost crawlers on the second night, and two young stone trolls on the third morning.”

“Stone trolls should not have been in the same push as goblin clusters,” another captain said.

“No,” Hadrin agreed. “They were driven from behind or triggered through territorial rage.”

Simmon’s eyes moved to the Dark Forest marking. “The Dominion boundary?”

“Unstable at six points, according to scouts who survived a close approach.”

The number made Simmon look up.

“Six.”

“Yes, my lord.”

A faint silence entered the hall.

Six points meant design. Not an accident.

A scout captain stepped forward. “We could investigate the edge directly, but sending men too close after the wave is dangerous. The monsters inside remain agitated.”

“Defense first,” Simmon said. “Investigation second.”

At that moment, the door opened again.

Another captain entered, breath visible in the cold hall air.

He bowed sharply. “My lord.”

Simmon’s expression did not change, but everyone felt the room tighten.

“Report.”

“Another monster wave detected.”

No one cursed this time.

They were too tired for waste.

Hadrin gripped the edge of the table. “From the same direction?”

“Dark Forest vicinity. Larger movement not yet confirmed, but scouts saw fresh clusters gathering beyond the corpse field. Estimated approach within half a day if their speed remains consistent.”

A lesser lord’s face went pale. “Another wave immediately after three days?”

Simmon looked at the map.

The suspicion inside him hardened.

This was not ordinary. It was not migration, hunger, or seasonal pressure. Something was reaching into the Monster Dominion and striking it like a drum, forcing rage outward in timed bursts. He did not yet know who. He had suspicions. The eastern unrest, noble faction tension, Valenhart’s recent reports, the strange timing with the capital’s instability, the sudden need to pull western supplies north—too many pieces leaned in the same direction.

But suspicion did not stop claws from reaching the wall.

Defense mattered more than investigation.

For now.

Simmon straightened.

“Raise the wall to full second-wave readiness. Rotate the exhausted units behind the inner line. Bring the reserves forward. Send word to all lesser lords: no one holds men back for private protection while the North Wall stands under repeated assault.”

The captains bowed.

He turned to another officer. “Hire mercenaries for additional troops. Only companies with monster experience. No glory bands. No drunk swords. If they cannot follow wall discipline, send them away.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Then Simmon looked toward the communication officer.

“What happened to the reinforcement from the capital?”