Chapter 369: The Assassin’s Choice

The snow battered the battlefield with more fury than before. Wind howled through torn tents and shredded banners, whipping the fabric into the air with a harsh, constant rhythm that nearly drowned out every other sound. The cold was merciless, so sharp Eleanor could barely feel her own body. Even beneath layers of cloth, coat, and steel, the frost seemed to pierce straight through the armor and settle in her bones. Each breath escaped in quick white clouds, proof that she was still alive, barely.

She drew an arrow from her quiver with trembling hands. The bow creaked as she pulled the string back, then snapped forward with a dry twang. The arrow sliced through the storm and buried itself in the face of a charging undead. It fell backward, but Eleanor was already moving. She stepped over the corpse, yanked the arrow free from its skull, wiped it clean on her sleeve, and nocked it again. Every arrow mattered. The camp had been ambushed; supply chests lay scattered somewhere under the snow. And conjuring new arrows cost mana, something she couldn’t afford to waste.

A warped scream echoed in the distance. Then another. And another. The sound rippled through the blizzard like a twisted chant. The undead howled in intervals, as if speaking in a corrupted tongue. With every response, Eleanor’s stomach tightened.

She glanced at the timer strapped to her wrist.

[Estimated Time Until End: 03 hours : 00 minutes : 07 seconds]

That countdown was a curse made visible. Everyone knew what it meant, the time until the defense fell, the time until everything ended. It was what kept them going, clinging to that fragile hope that the main group, somewhere beyond the storm, was still fighting the tutorial bosses. But the longer the clock ticked, the more that hope tasted like poison.

Eleanor could feel it gnawing at her thoughts. The same question stabbed at her over and over: what if the main group was already gone? What if no one was fighting for them anymore? Were they just waiting to die here? The thought was dangerous, and she knew she wasn’t the only one who had it. All it would take was one soldier breaking ranks, running for the castle, and others would follow. One after another, like falling stones, until no one was left to hold the line.

A sharp crack snapped her back to reality. An undead lunged at her, eyes dim and mouth gaping in a guttural roar. Eleanor stepped back and drew the knife from her belt. Her strike was clean; the blade slipped beneath the creature’s jaw and burst through the back of its skull. She shoved it away with her knee, panting hard. Before the blood could freeze, she tore the blade free, sheathed it, and already had another arrow in hand.

She fired at a warden emerging from the white mist. The arrow struck its helm, sending it staggering before it collapsed into the snow. But more shapes moved behind it, organized, deliberate. They weren’t just beasts. They used the storm itself as cover, waiting for the right moment to strike, like wolves hunting in a pack.

The air was thick—heavy with fear and the cold stench of smoke. When she looked toward the horizon, all she could see was a wall of snow rolling forward like a living thing. Worse than the storm, though, was the darkness. Every distant camp was fading one by one, the glow of their fires dying in a slow, dreadful sequence, as if the souls of the defenders were being snuffed out with them.

Behind her, visibility was almost gone, but faint orange points still flickered through the haze—torches fighting to survive the wind.

“They’re putting out the damn fires!” Gilbert’s voice cut through the storm.

Eleanor turned just in time to see a warden kicking snow over a campfire.

“Don’t let them!” someone shouted back, panic in their tone.

She nocked an arrow and released it, then another, then another. The creature fell, collapsing in the snow before it could finish the job. These monsters weren’t attacking at random. They were coordinated. Deliberate.

“Those bastards… this all started because of the generals!” a soldier yelled, his voice trembling between anger and fear.

He wasn’t wrong. The undead weren’t mindless. They had command. Organization. And that made them infinitely more dangerous.

“He’s coming again!” a voice cried from the blizzard.

The ground began to tremble under heavy steps. Eleanor lifted her gaze—and there it was. A massive silhouette pushing through the storm, slower than before, but so heavy it warped the air around it. The general.

His armor was different from the others—reinforced, forged from black metal that reflected none of the firelight. It didn’t gleam. It devoured. Each movement echoed with a deep, metallic weight that the wind couldn’t drown out. For a fleeting moment, Eleanor wondered if the darkness itself was part of him—something alive, something that moved when he did.

Then his eyes ignited. Red light burned within the sockets, not just glowing but seething—rage made visible. The guttural roar that followed tightened her stomach, and the answering howls from the horde sent a chill down her spine. The sound rolled like thunder across the camps, shaking the air.

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She turned to her right. In the neighboring camp, the same thing was happening—monsters moving in unison, advancing in formation. It wasn’t chaos. It was a strategy. A coordinated offensive. The general charged. Arrows peppered his chest and shoulders, bouncing harmlessly off the armor. He didn’t even flinch. The first line broke beneath his shield, soldiers crushed and thrown aside as he forced his way through. Snow exploded upward as he slammed into the cannon emplacement, his strike so powerful it sent a shockwave through the ground.

The cannon fired almost simultaneously, the shot colliding with the general’s chest. The blast threw the creature backward—but the recoil shattered the central fire pit. The flames flared wildly for a heartbeat before being swallowed whole by the wind.

And then, darkness.

Total and absolute.

The screams began moments later.

***

Luke and the others emerged from the snow-covered trees, returning to the place they had left hours ago. But the scene was unrecognizable now—a white hell. The blizzard had swallowed the battlefield whole. The wind slashed at their faces like blades of ice, and the storm’s roar was so deafening they had to shout just to hear one another. Winter itself felt alive there, furious, as if it had decided to consume everything.

Mason led the way with the maids, flanked by a small group of soldiers. They trudged forward slowly, carving a path through the drifts. Undead sprinted past them toward the forest, drawn by the distant sounds of battle. The group reacted instinctively—steel and magic cut through the storm, clearing a way forward.

Charlie broke off to the flank, her blade slick with frozen blood. Ronan, surrounded by his men, barked orders through the chaos.