Once the warriors finished securing their gear, they ceased their idle waiting for the enemy to strike. Under Arctosz's signal, the combined force marched directly toward the coordinates reported by the scouts, intent on uncovering the truth.
Every single soul present understood they were stepping into a trap. Yet facing disadvantage on every front, thrusting themselves into the snare remained their only chance at exposing a flaw in the deadlock and turning the tables.
"There is still a very real chance Enciodes wipes us out in one clean sweep," Arctosz growled, striding at the very front of the column. His towering Ursus frame blocked the cold wind for Ratatos and Valais behind him. If ambushers sprung their trap, he would be the first to fall. "If things turn sour, I will cut a path through their lines for you two. When that happens, make sure you break out and carry word back to the valley."
Ratatos kept her thoughts to herself. Though every instinct warned her that this aggressive approach was foolish, splitting her focus with pointless arguments now would be nothing short of suicidal.
Beside her, Valais walked with her head bowed, lost in quiet contemplation. Her face remained unreadable as her mind worked through endless tactical calculations, and no one dared disturb her focus.
Finished with his warning, Arctosz raised his booming voice to address the column. While shouting across the snowdrifts risked broadcasting their position to enemy scouts, he cared far more about a pressing issue: the sagging spirits of his troops.
Confronting an opponent whose equipment and training vastly outmatched their own had left the warriors taut as bowstrings.
Arctosz knew all too well that prolonged dread would drain his men's stamina long before the first battleaxe swung.
"Heads up, every single one of you!" Arctosz roared, his voice echoing off the frozen cliff faces like thunder. "In Kjeragandr's name, no matter how formidable our foes claim to be, we shall secure victory under the Divine Mother's shadow! Straighten those backs! If our ancestors see a line of miserable, slumping cowards shuffling through these sacred peaks, they will spit on our graves!"
His deafening roar jolted the warriors out of their gloom. A surge of fierce heat seemed to ignite in their chests, rushing from their hearts straight into their limbs—a raw, surging wave of courage!
"RAAAAAAH!"
"Long live Kjeragandr! Long live our ancestors!"
"Victory! Absolute victory!"
Spurred on by their chief's defiance, the soldiers cast aside their doubts, bellowing wildly into the mountain wind as though the day were already won.
Arctosz looked back over the roaring line of warriors, a trace of solemn pride in his eyes. These were fine men... every last one of them.
Yet deep down, the old chief held little genuine confidence. Knowing the crushing disparity between their forces, he knew that a bloody stalemate was the best outcome they could hope to achieve.
To lead these loyal men into an engagement where survival was doubtful—all while convincing them of an inevitable triumph—was a cruel burden to bear.
Yet he marched on regardless. He did it for the ancient honor of the Paleroches Clan, for the untamed Kjerag he held dear, and to crush the unnatural modernization threatening to tear their ways apart.
The column surged forward with renewed momentum, making so much noise across the basin that hiding their approach became impossible. Out in the deep snowdrifts, hidden observers watched the spectacle in utter bewilderment.
"Do the locals always wage war like this?" a seasoned soldier from the Tschäggättä Squadron muttered, watching the loud, chaotic march through a pair of optics. "Are they marching into a battle or heading out for a winter picnic?"
Having survived brutal, high-intensity conflict on the tundra outside Kjerag, the mercenary found their lack of basic tactical discipline baffling.
"Don't underestimate them," the squad leader cautioned, lowering his visor with a grim expression. "They may have given away their position, but that speech reignited their fighting spirit. A mob of fanatics driven by raw morale is far more dangerous in close quarters!"
The squad leader rubbed his temples. The earlier skirmishes had successfully battered the locals' confidence, only for that old Ursus to single-handedly undo their work with a few boisterous shouts.
Without heavy Arts ordnance to break their momentum, clashing head-on with such a force would cost his men dearly.
"Orders from Master Enciodes," the leader announced over his Terminal. "We pull back to the primary perimeter. Since they're marching straight to our front door, we'll welcome them inside."
Following the command, the scouting units melted back into the white wilderness. Across the surrounding ridges, hidden squads began closing the ring, tightening the net around the advancing column.
"Something isn't right," Arctosz grunted, bringing his axe down to test his footing as he scanned the desolate crags. "We've been marching for nearly an hour without spotting a single scout."
He had hoped to catch a few isolated patrols to bolster his men's confidence, yet the surrounding ridges remained completely devoid of movement. Had the enemy grown so confident in their trap that they no longer bothered to monitor their march? Or were the high clans deemed too pathetic to warrant tracking?
He didn't have to wait long for his answer.
Emerging from behind a narrow mountain pass, the enemy base materialized right before their eyes. Fortified quarters housing both the escaped workers and those formidable, armored soldiers stood nestled against the sheer rock wall.
Arctosz took a deep, freezing breath, raised his battleaxe, and bellowed the order: "CHARGE!"
With a deafening roar, the fearless warriors surged forward at his heels, hurtling down the snowbanks toward the encampment.
Yet a small detachment remained behind on the ridge.
Ratatos halted, staring in utter disbelief at Valais, who stood beside her with a cold, unbothered composure. An icy knot of dread tightened in the Zalak chief's chest.
"Never commit your entire force at once," Valais noted softly, her voice devoid of emotion. "If an enemy springs a hidden ambush, charging in blindly leaves you without a reserve to mount a retreat... just like what is happening right now."
SWOOSH—!
Dense, unnatural white mist burst forth from hidden vents around the basin, rapidly swallowing the valley floor. Within seconds, the charging vanguard vanished beneath a blanket of thick fog. Ratatos could no longer see what was happening inside, but the terrifying sense of absolute vulnerability grew unbearable.
"You... you betrayed the Paleroches Clan?!" Ratatos gasped, stepping back.
She couldn't fathom what could possibly drive this woman to turn her back on her own blood. Arctosz had quietly groomed her to take over as the next clan chief! What could Enciodes have offered her to buy such treachery?!
"Strictly speaking, we are merely aligned by shared interests," a calm, familiar voice chimed in.
Gnosis stepped out from the ranks of the Browntail escort, stepping alongside the remaining guards who had quietly lowered their weapons. He looked out over the fog-drenched basin, his demeanor cool and detached. "She never explicitly pledged loyalty to our side. We simply realized our immediate goals aligned."
"Do not misunderstand my motives," Valais replied, fixing her gaze on the swirling mist below. "I acted according to my own judgment. I have no interest in taking sides."
She knew precisely what comprised that white fog—a costly, specialized chemical agent Enciodes had procured from foreign traders, designed to induce rapid unconsciousness upon inhalation.
It was an unstable compound, highly sensitive to thermal shifts. Excess heat rendered it completely inert, while freezing temperatures caused the liquid formula to solidify inside its delivery canisters.
Had Valais not guided the column directly into position on schedule, the compound would have frozen solid within thirty minutes, forcing both sides into a horrific, blood-soaked massacre.
Suddenly, a loud crash echoed from the edge of the mist.
A small, battered unit burst out of the swirling white vapor, sprinting madly back toward the ridge. The onlookers froze in shock as the lead figure broke into the clear air.
Arctosz stood there, his left arm wrapped tightly in a blood-soaked strip of cloth. The old bear had driven himself through the fog by sheer willpower and self-inflicted pain, carving a path out of the trap through brute force alone.
Gnosis's calm facade cracked, his eyes widening in rare astonishment. "Impossible... The concentration I calculated should have rendered any mortal unconscious instantly... Did you alter the dosage?!"
Gnosis spun around, fixing a sharp glare on Valais. Among the select few who knew the details of the trap, she was the only one with both the access and the medical knowledge to tamper with the compound.
"Your original concentration carried a fatal risk of respiratory failure for weaker individuals," Valais answered smoothly, her face as still as a frozen pond. "Our agreement explicitly stipulated that unnecessary loss of life was to be avoided at all costs. You were well aware of that condition."
"You naive fool!" Gnosis spat.