The camp was massive now—far larger than when Team 40 had first cleared the ground two weeks earlier.
Back then, it was just canvas and rifles. Now, it was a fortress.
The wooden walls were high and thick, made of stripped pine logs sunk deep into the earth. Watchtowers stood just behind them like silent sentinels, their wooden supports reinforced with scavenged metal from ruined carts. Some of the towers even leaned into the walls slightly, as if bracing them like weary soldiers holding a shield wall together.
On the western edge of the camp sat a long row of trucks—armored, hissing faintly in the cold morning air. The paint was worn and scratched from forest travel. Some were supply haulers, tarps pulled tight over crates. Others were fitted with forward-mounted repeaters or light mortar tubes, covered in mud and canvas.
A wide dirt path had been carved from the southern gate back toward the border town. It was still new—gravel laid over churned soil, wet from recent rain, but firm enough for truck columns. Supply convoys rolled in every few hours, carrying food, ammunition, and fuel stones. The sound of tires crunching dirt had become as familiar as birdsong.
In the middle of the camp stood a towering radio spire, wrapped in rune-etched copper rings. It connected this base to the smaller outposts scattered deeper into the forest, sending clear signal pulses across the wild miles. The tower buzzed faintly. Crystals blinked at its crown like eyes watching the sky.
Inside one of the officer tents, Leon stood over a wide wooden table. The inside smelled of canvas, sweat, and ink.
Across from him sat Ochs, boot propped on a crate, uniform half-buttoned, rifle leaning against his stool.
A map was stretched over the table—wrinkled and pinned at the corners. It showed the "Knowable Forest," though that name was barely legible anymore. The label had been scratched out and re-written in charcoal several times. Nobody agreed on what this place should be called.
Red markings cut across the terrain—paths, kills, convoy routes, skirmish zones. Circles marked ruins. Xs marked corpses.
Ochs tapped the center of the map with his finger.
"It's been two weeks, Leon."
Leon didn't look up.
"Yeah."
"No attacks. No sightings. Not even a howl. Nothing. It's like they vanished."
Leon nodded. "I know."
Ochs leaned back in his chair, arms crossed.
"And the pale ones too. Not a single one since the night assault. Not a claw. Not a track."
A pause.
"Are we really calling them that now? 'Pale ones'?"
Leon finally looked up. His face was tired but calm.
"It's the best name we've got."
Ochs huffed through his nose. "Guess it fits. Creepy little bastards."
He pointed to one of the marked ridges.
"So… any new orders? We've got hundreds of men sitting around with nothing to shoot at. They're gonna get lazy."
Leon gave a dry chuckle.
"Yeah. That's the concern."
He pulled a charcoal pencil from his coat and circled one of the forest routes.
"Right now, our orders are: keep paving. We're linking bases, clearing brush, and stabilizing roads. Call it 'civilized expansion.' Every truck route we finish gets us one step closer to full control."
"Glorified lumber work," Ochs muttered.
Leon smirked. "You're not wrong."
He tapped a corner of the map.
"We're also supposed to be receiving a batch of scientists tomorrow."
Ochs raised a brow. "Scientists?"
Leon nodded. "Straight from New Berlin."
"Ahh… so they want to study the wolves?"
"Maybe," Leon said, eyes narrowing slightly. "But I think it's more about the ruins."
"Ruins?"
Leon pointed to a mark past the eastern ridge.
"We found stonework—unnatural shapes, impossible lines. No tool marks. It's old. And it's not dwarven, not elven. Not human."
Ochs snorted.
"That's rich. Coming from the guy who once said he'd pawn every artifact we found for a hot bath and a stack of coin."
Leon laughed out loud. "And I still might. But not this one. Something about it doesn't sit right with me."
Ochs shook his head and leaned back.
"So what now?"
Leon straightened and spoke with a commander's voice.
"Same shift rotation as last week. Keep squads sharp. No relaxing. Officers need their men ready to deploy at a moment's notice."
He rolled his shoulders.
"Other than that… we pave roads. We eat. We sleep. We shit. Repeat."
Ochs stood and gave a short salute, grin returning.
"Well, I'll spread the word. Then I'm going straight to my cot. I've earned a few hours before those scientists show up and start asking questions I don't have answers for."
Leon returned the nod.
"Very well. You're dismissed."
As Ochs turned to leave, Leon added:
"I need to contact Zentrale."
Ochs paused at the flap.
"Zentrale? New Berlin?"
Leon nodded once.
Ochs gave a long whistle.
"Big calls. Good luck with that."
He pushed through the tent flap and was gone.
Leon turned toward the communications corner.
A thick black cord trailed across the canvas floor, linking the field telephone to the main radio tower.
He sat down, adjusted the dials—three clicks to stabilize the channel, two more to cycle through secure frequencies.
He pressed the receiver to his ear.
Static. Then—
"This is Commander Hartmann. Eisen, is that you?"
Leon adjusted his posture.
"Yes, sir. Lieutenant Leon reporting."
"Preparations going well?" Bruno's voice was steady, commanding but relaxed.
"Yes, Commander. The machines you provided—your trucks—have made the paving far easier. We've established routes to five outposts already. Supply's moving like clockwork."
"Good."
A pause.
"New orders for you. I need at least ten of the pale ones captured. Our friends upstairs want them for experiments. The scientists will be there in the morning. Make sure they're stacked and ready."
Leon frowned, voice flat.
"Sir… we haven't seen any pale ones since the last battle. We've got nothing to round up."
There was a long silence.
Then Bruno muttered, off the line.
"…Yeah, I told those shitheads that. They never listen."
Back on the line:
"If you see one, kill it. Bag it. Same with any other creatures. Alive if possible. Dead if not. Understand?"
"Yes, Commander."
"Oh—almost forgot." Bruno's tone shifted slightly."That wolf pup you found—the one the Führer took? He's being treated like royalty. You'd think the Führer was a different man the way he carries it around. Named it Kaiser."
Leon said nothing.
Just a quiet:
"…Hmm."
"You might get a promotion, Leon. Don't screw it up. Anyway—enough chatting. You don't have much to do, so get to it. Bruno out."
Click.
Leon placed the receiver down slowly.
The silence returned, broken only by the distant groan of a truck engine outside.