Borne, Dillon, and Victor quickly stood back-to-back, forming a triangle, supporting each other with perfect coordination.
Around them, the cold air was already filled with the corpses of white wolf magic beasts.
These beasts had very distinctive features.
As they aged, the color of their mouths would gradually turn from gray to black—the older the wolf, the darker its mouth.
They were naturally adept at controlling ice elements, especially in such an extreme cold environment.
The Frostjaw wolves' attacks grew fiercer, their sharp claws slicing through the air with an ear-piercing whistle.
Suddenly, several wolves howled in unison, and the ice and snow on the ground quickly condensed into sharp ice spikes, shooting toward the scouts.
"Watch out!"
Borne shouted, but it was already too late.
The ice spikes moved incredibly fast, and the scouts had no chance to evade them.
The spikes were as dense as a rain of arrows.
Some didn't even have time to react before being pierced, their blood mixing with the snow, staining the frozen ground red.
A few screams tore through the air, and some of the scouts fell immediately.
The wind howled wildly, and the blizzard lashed at everyone's faces like a whip, making it nearly impossible to see anything clearly.
The wind and cold made their movements slower, as if they were being frozen in place.
Borne's warhammer was his only salvation.
The handle was wrapped thickly with bandages to prevent the metal from touching his skin directly and freezing it in the cold.
Victor's sword was similarly treated.
The sword's hilt had protective wrappings, which kept his hands from freezing like Dillon's.
Dillon, however, wasn't as lucky.
His spear hadn't been given such attention, and the metal shaft was now a deep red from the freezing cold.
Dillon's hands gripped the spear tightly, his skin turning purple and red from the frost.
Every time he swung the spear, a bone-chilling pain shot through his hands, as if they were being burned by fire.
All three of them were trembling uncontrollably.
Borne clenched his teeth, the white mist of his breath instantly freezing in the air.
Victor's face was also filled with pain, every muscle in his body resisting the relentless cold, but his hands still held firmly onto his sword's hilt.
Dillon's hands were completely numb, his palms stiff and nearly devoid of feeling.
The spear felt heavier with every passing moment, slipping from his grip.
At that moment, his battle instincts suddenly kicked in.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of several sharp ice spikes shooting toward them at high speed.
There was no time to think, no time to hesitate.
Dillon, relying on sheer willpower, yanked his frozen hands away from the spear shaft.
In that instant, the skin on his palms stuck to the freezing metal, and as his hands tore away, his skin ripped off with it.
"Gah!"
The searing pain made Dillon suck in a sharp breath. Blood instantly gushed from his torn palms, spilling onto the ground.
He could see clearly that his hands were now a mess of blood and flesh, with bones faintly visible beneath the raw skin.
The pain shot through him like fire, engulfing his entire body, making every nerve scream in agony.
Cold sweat broke out on Dillon's forehead, and he was on the verge of passing out.
But there was no time for pain—this was a matter of life and death.
Gritting his teeth against the pain, Dillon's mind became sharper in the midst of his suffering.
He quickly reached out with both hands, grabbing Borne and Victor, and yanked them to the ground with all his strength.
Neither Borne nor Victor had time to react before they were pulled down, falling behind the corpse of a dead scout.
Dillon gasped for breath.
Almost at the same moment, five sharp ice spikes shot through the air, stabbing into the spot where they had been standing just moments ago.
If it hadn't been for Dillon's quick reflexes, Borne and Victor would have been skewered by the spikes.
Three of the ice spikes plunged into the dead scout's body, making a sickening squelch as they pierced through the flesh.
The spikes were incredibly sharp, slicing clean through the dead scout's corpse.
Blood flowed from the corpse once again, mixing with the snow, forming a blinding patch of red.
Borne and Victor finally realized how close they had come to death, their hearts pounding.
Borne glanced at Dillon's hands and saw that his palms were torn apart, blood still gushing from the wounds.
Dillon's face was pale, his forehead soaked in cold sweat, but he gritted his teeth and held on.
He forced himself to suppress his trembling, enduring the pain without uttering a sound.
"Fuck!"
Dillon growled through clenched teeth.
It wasn't just Borne, Dillon, and Victor who were in a precarious situation. The other scouts were also in dire straits.
The blizzard raged on, the wind like knives cutting across their faces.
Their eyelashes and eyebrows were coated with thick frost, making it nearly impossible to see.
Their eyes stung from the icy wind, and their vision became increasingly blurred, reduced to a sea of white.
All around them, the wind and snow drowned out the sound of the wolves' howls.
In these extreme conditions, the battle was slipping out of their control.
Ice spikes shot at them from all directions, as the Frostjaw wolves relentlessly conjured more and more, launching wave after wave of attacks.
Many scouts were slowing down, the cold sapping their strength, making even basic defensive movements sluggish.
Some had already started shivering uncontrollably, their steps unsteady as the rhythm of the battle fell apart.
The blizzard gave the Frostjaw wolves a huge advantage, allowing them to blend into the snow, their bodies appearing and disappearing in the storm as if they were part of it.
The scouts couldn't pinpoint their location accurately, and every attack came with immense risk.
"Fuck!"
One scout shouted, but his voice was quickly swallowed by the blizzard, unheard by the others.
Captain Khazik realized that if they continued defending passively like this, the entire vanguard would be slowly picked off by the Frostjaw wolves.
He made a quick decision: they had to find the pack leader and launch a decapitation strike—this might be their only chance to survive.
"Harley, Lucius, Albert, with me! Cover me."
Khazik growled.
Without hesitation, the three men nodded and responded immediately.
Captain Khazik charged forward, leading the three through the storm toward the densest part of the wolf pack.
Ice spikes and ice magic rained down from all sides, but Harley, Lucius, and Albert stuck close to Khazik, blocking any potentially lethal strikes.
Lucius' slender sword was almost useless in the blizzard when he tried to parry an incoming ice spike.
The spike slipped through his defense and pierced his abdomen.
The sharp pain caused him to stumble, his face twisting in agony, but he only cursed under his breath and straightened his back stubbornly.
"Damn it, I should've brought a broadsword."
He muttered through gritted teeth as blood poured from the wound, staining his clothes.
Ignoring the searing pain in his abdomen, he pressed on, staying close behind Khazik, providing cover for the captain and the others.
Harley and Albert noticed Lucius' injury but had no time to say anything.