The journey back was far longer and more agonizing than the pursuit.
Finally, at the dawn of the fourth day.
When that faint glimmer of hope—like the purest egg yolk—once again tore thru the eternal, lead-gray canopy of the Giant Bear Ridge, that temporary camp, which they were already intimately familiar with and filled with noise and vitality, finally appeared at the end of their vision, now blurred by wind and snow.
It was a picture completely different from the silent, death-filled white wasteland they had left behind!
The camp was like a giant heart suddenly injected with infinite vitality, beating powerfully upon this cold, silent snowfield!
The heaven-shaking shouts rose and fell!
That was the roar filled with primal power, emitted by the Boar-folk warriors under Barton's command—who were like moving humanoid fortresses—as they used their seemingly inexhaustible brute strength to drag chunks of already butchered Giant-Horned Ox meat out of the temporary warehouse!
The piercing sound of friction was incessant!
That was the teeth-grating sound produced when countless huge Frost-Horned Deer hides, already frozen as hard as steel, were loaded onto the massive sleds temporarily constructed from animal bones and tendons!
The entire camp was a scene of bustling activity, filled with hope and vitality!
Every person's face was brimming with a genuine joy that only comes when one has secured a bountiful harvest sufficient to support the entire tribe thru the long, cold winter!
Hask and the thirteen Wolf Guards behind him, equally filled with exhaustion and a murderous aura, were like fourteen outcasts completely out of place in this atmosphere of joy and hope.
They passed silently thru the busy, noisy crowd.
Their figures, filled with cold murderous intent and resembling the Grim Reaper, caused the smiles on the faces of the warriors who had been happily laughing and talking to instantly freeze.
They unanimously cleared a path!
Barton, that silent giant tower sculpted from black granite, was standing in the center of the camp, using his deep, rolling-thunder-like voice to methodically direct his Boar-folk warriors—who were physically strong but slightly simple-minded—in this heavy and technically demanding loading task.
When he saw Hask's familiar and exhausted figure, his face, which was always expressionless like an eternal iceberg, revealed for the first time a look filled with concern and inquiry.
"Where is the leader?"
Hask did not say any unnecessary words.
His voice was hoarse and possessed the texture of metal rubbing together, something that only occurs after extreme exhaustion and dehydration.
Barton did not speak.
He just slowly raised his thick arm, which resembled a giant stone pillar, and pointed toward the largest tent in the center of the camp—the only one with a black battle flag flying atop it, embroidered with a ferocious, blood-red wolf head.
Hask nodded heavily.
He didn't even glance at Barton again.
He moved his heavy legs, which had been frozen to the point of almost losing all sensation, and walked quickly toward the temporary command post.
Inside the tent, it was as warm as spring.
The long-extinguished campfire had been relit at some unknown time.
The raging flames danced wildly in the center of the tent, spewing out waves of scorching heat filled with life! They completely dispelled the bone-chilling cold that kept seeping in thru the gaps in the tent flap!
Colin was sitting on that huge chair, covered with a complete, meticulously processed animal hide.
He was quietly using a sharp dagger to carve something, one stroke at a time, into a piece of unknown wood that had already been whittled into an unrecognizable shape.
His posture, filled with laziness and focus, made it seem as if the noise and busyness of the outside world had nothing to do with him.
The moment Hask's figure, carrying a chilling cold and a strong scent of blood, burst into the tent, Colin's eyes, which had not been lifted, moved slightly.
"You've returned."
He did not look up.
His voice remained as flat as ever, devoid of any emotion.
However, Hask was already accustomed to the detached and indifferent style of his leader, who was somewhat excessively young.
He knew that beneath that cold, calm exterior lay a heart more passionate than anyone else's, one that cared deeply about the life and death of every warrior under his command!
"Yes! Leader!"
Hask snapped to attention!
He offered Colin the most standard and respectful military salute!
Then, he began to report to Colin in detail the results of his two days and two nites of tracking, using the most concise, precise, and soldierly language.
"...The target's lair has been confirmed."
"It is located about 120 miles due north of the camp, beneath a massive scree slope in the 'Ice Rift Valley'."
"The entrance is extremely concealed. It appears to have been modified from a natural underground fissure. It is easy to defend an"I..."
Colin paused.
"will personally lead the team to meet them."