"Get out there, mutts! Hunt the heretics!"
A burly warrior of the Frostwolf Wildmen tribe roared wildly.
This Saint Lord-level fighter had a savage face and wore a grotesque necklace made of infant heads from various nonhuman races. In his hands, he wielded a twin-bladed greatsword nearly two meters long, radiating a terrifying presence.
Beneath him stood a massive silver-gray Frostwolf, fangs bared, exhaling freezing breath that seemed to freeze the air itself with every breath.
"Frostwolf Wildmen… unkillable mounted maniacs," Orson muttered, frowning.
A cold mist rolled in. From it emerged a pack of over a thousand monstrous beasts—Ghostfang Frostwolves, their claws like scimitars, their forms exaggerated and twisted.
Their riders were all Wildmen warriors clad in crude beast-hide armor, bald, heavily bearded, and tattooed from face to foot—easy to recognize at a glance. They hailed from the far northern extremes of the Infinite Dimensions continent.
