The battle had ended, and the field was strewn with broken ice, scattered corpses, and melted snow stained red. Hundreds of Icefield Wolves lay motionless, their frozen bodies dim and lifeless. Rayder stood on a snowy ridge, overlooking the disastrous result of their failed assault.
He had expected more.
He had hoped that using a pack of undead Icefield Wolves would break through the Savage Tribe's outer defenses and force a panic. Instead, the wolves barely made a dent. The tribe was prepared, well-armed, and aided by several members of the Night's Watch—men clad in black cloaks, each wielding weapons forged of obsidian dragonglass.
Rayder exhaled slowly. His breath turned to crystalline frost in the frigid air.
"This is far from enough."
The Icefield Wolves had been torn apart too easily. Their bodies were light, fast, agile—but fragile. Dragonglass pierced them like soft clay, severing the connection between his magic and their undead bodies.
He needed something bigger.
Something that could break through walls instead of slipping through shadows.
Without wasting another thought, Rayder climbed onto Ghidorah's massive back. The three-headed dragon let out a low, rumbling growl, sensing his rider's irritation and intent.
"Let's find something fiercer."
Ghidorah didn't need further explanation. All three heads looked toward the north where the winds howled like wailing spirits. The dragon's enormous wings spread out, blocking the moonlight for a moment. With a powerful downward stroke, Ghidorah soared into the cold night sky.
Rayder scanned the frozen world below as the dragon carried him higher. Snowfields stretched endlessly into the horizon, broken only by jagged cliffs and the silhouettes of distant forests. Harsh wind whipped at Rayder's cloak, yet he felt exhilaration growing.
He was hunting.
From their height, the world became small—like pieces on a chessboard waiting to be rearranged. Rayder narrowed his eyes, searching for a suitable threat.
Something caught his attention.
Down below, prowling near an icy ravine, was a massive white beast. It stood over three meters tall even while hunched on four limbs. A Snow Bear—pure white fur, enormous paws, muscle stacked upon muscle beneath its coat. It moved with a predator's silent confidence.
A perfect candidate.
"There. Take it down," Rayder commanded. "Try not to destroy the body."
Ghidorah's three heads hissed in unison, eyes flashing with lethal excitement. The dragon folded its wings back and plunged downward like a falling star. The sudden drop created a sonic boom, marking the beginning of the hunt.
The Snow Bear barely noticed the looming shadow before Ghidorah descended upon it.
In a single, synchronized motion, all three heads struck—one clamped down on the bear's neck, another on its forelimb, and the third on the thick muscle around its abdomen. Bone cracked under the raw power of the jaws. The beast didn't even have time to growl before Ghidorah swung its massive neck and slammed the bear into the ground.
The snow exploded outward from the impact.
The Snow Bear lay still, its body twisted and broken. Its glassy eyes stared blankly at the sky as blood dripped into the snow, dying it crimson.
Rayder descended from Ghidorah and walked forward. He placed his right hand above the bear's still body, fingers spread like a claw. His expression became focused—cold and precise.
A faint pulse of icy magic radiated from his hand.
The Snow Bear's body twitched.
Slowly, unnaturally, the bear's eyes shifted from lifeless gray to a burning ice-blue glow. Its limbs jerked once, twice, then moved with more strength. The wounds stopped bleeding; torn muscles sealed with frozen magic.
The Snow Bear—dead only moments ago—rose back to its feet with an unnatural stiffness.
Rayder smiled.
"One isn't enough."
He spent the next two days hunting relentlessly. Ghidorah flew over valleys and ravines, while Rayder spotted targets below—Snow Bears, Icefield Wolves, and anything large enough to be useful. For every beast that Ghidorah killed, Rayder revived it.
By the end of the second day, one hundred undead Snow Bears stood behind him like silent white mountains. Their ice-blue eyes flickered ominously in the snowy wind.
During their search, Rayder found something else—something far more valuable.
A mammoth herd.
At first, he thought he was mistaken. But as Ghidorah descended, Rayder finally got a clear look. Towering creatures covered in thick fur, seven meters tall and nine meters long. Massive curved tusks protruded from their heads, longer than a grown man.
Each mammoth weighed over ten tons.
They were walking siege engines.
Rayder had Ghidorah kill three of them. It wasn't elegant—there was chaos, roaring, crashing—but eventually, they fell. Raising them back as wights took longer than the Snow Bears, but in the end, Rayder stood before three colossal undead mammoths.
His wight army now included:
• one hundred Snow Bears
• three mammoths
• over two hundred reanimated wolves
Rayder rode at the front of this monstrous army, cloaked by the blowing blizzard and accompanied by Ghidorah flying overhead. When they approached the cannibal tribe, the warriors guarding the entrance froze in shock.
"No… no, this isn't… this can't be real…"
The ground shook with the steps of undead mammoths.
Snow Bears charged like living siege towers.
The tribe panicked. Screaming. Fleeing. Fighting. Arrows flew, spears shattered against the undead flesh. Nothing stopped the advance.
The Night's Watch joined the fray, armed with dragonglass, but even they struggled.
Stabbing at the undead Mammoths was like trying to stab a mountain.
Crushing sounds echoed as massive bodies slammed into tents, walls, wooden barricades. Snow Bears clawed through flesh and bone alike. Instruments of war, unstoppable and unfeeling.
By the time it ended, corpses blanketed the ground.
Rayder watched from a hill, expression unreadable, while wights tore through the settlement.
He did not order them to chase the ones who fled.
He wanted witnesses.
He wanted fear to spread.
If survivors escaped, they would panic.
They would report to other tribes.
They would tell the Night's Watch.
They would tell the world.
The Night King has returned.
The perfect lie.
When the battle finished, Rayder walked among the bodies. Hundreds of fresh corpses lay frozen in unnatural poses. Their faces were twisted with terror.
He could revive them immediately using the Night King's severed arm.
But this time, he hesitated.
The Night King's power came with risks. It left traces. It connected him to a god he wanted no allegiance with.
Rayder chose instead to let the corpses turn slowly. The cold, the strange magic in the Land of Eternal Winter—all of it would transform the dead into wights naturally.
"That will be enough. The more time passes, the harder it becomes to trace anything back to me."
As expected, the surviving savages fled in terror. They ran straight into neighboring tribes, screaming about undead beasts and wights.
Exactly what Rayder wanted.
He hid at a distance, observing, waiting.
He planned to wait several days for the corpses to transform.
But something strange happened.
By the second evening, all of the corpses—hundreds of them—rose.
Faster than ever before.
Rayder was truly stunned.
Wights usually took longer to transform, especially without magical assistance, yet here they rose in a single night. No explanation. No ritual.
As though the Cold God himself accelerated the change.
Rayder didn't care why. Faster was better.
When the newly formed wights began moving, Rayder manipulated the situation brilliantly. He maneuvered scouts from nearby tribes, guided the Night's Watch patrols, and let them stumble into the massacre site.
What followed was chaos.
Savages and Night's Watchmen clashed with swarms of wights. Screams pierced the air. Rayder watched calmly from a distant ridge, arms folded, eyes reflecting the burning chaos below.
Every time someone died, Rayder's system chimed silently in his mind.
Energy gained.
Energy gained.
He didn't need to do anything. He only needed to watch.
He felt a thrill rise in his chest. The first time he manipulated events like a puppeteer, everything fell into place perfectly.
"No wonder people like scheming."
He whispered to himself with a crooked smile.
"It's addicting."
Watching two forces slaughter each other while he profited—it was intoxicating.
He estimated that the wights would kill hundreds, possibly thousands, before falling. At the thought, his smile widened slightly.
Even so, Rayder wasn't satisfied.
Even with hundreds of wights rampaging, he wanted more power. More energy. More growth.
He thought of the Night King's severed arm.
He still had the ability to resurrect these corpses directly—and doing so would give him massive energy in return. Hundreds of energy points, maybe thousands.
He hesitated, just for a moment.
Then his eyes turned sharp.
"When there is profit, risks are meaningless."
People who gambled always believed that the next win would be bigger. Rayder felt the same way—not about money, but power.
Onc
e he made his decision, everything became clear.
The risk of using the Night King's arm no longer felt like a danger.
It felt like an opportunity.
And opportunities were meant to be seized.
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