The One-Eyed Dragon’s Avalanche on Snezhnaya Camp
Date Masamune led his arquebusiers and artillerymen, gliding down the mountainside on custom skis like a raging avalanche.
Before the gunsmoke from their volleys faded, the One-Eyed Dragon’s battle standard was already planted in the heart of the Snezhnaya military camp.
When the Fatui commander found him amid the chaos, Masamune was gently running his prosthetic hand over the seized grain supplies.
“Go tell your Tsaritsa— not even the waters of the Pacific can extinguish the wildfire of my dragon’s wrath.”
Wind and snow howl endlessly across Snezhnaya’s boundless snowfields, swirling ice crystals and lashing all living things. Under the rule of bitter cold, all creation seems frozen solid; even sound is devoured, leaving only the eternal, monotonous roar of the gale. Yet beneath this veil of frigid death, in the shadow of a mountain ridge overlooking Snezhnaya’s massive Frost Giant military camp, supply depots and granaries, another kind of silence gathers. It is not the peace of nature, but a tense stillness— steel and resolve held in check, waiting to unleash fury.
Date Masamune stands atop the snow line. Beneath his heavy snowcloak, the icy chill of his armor merges almost perfectly with the frosty air. His remaining right eye, sharp as a falcon’s gaze, pierces the swirling snow curtain and locks firmly onto the sprawling, lantern-lit camp nestled in the valley below. Palisades, watchtowers, domed warehouses, and the Fatui standard flapping stiffly in the bitter wind— every detail is etched clearly in his sight. The black eyepatch covering his left eye hides old scars, lending him an inhuman, demonic cruelty.
Katakura Kojuro, his most trusted right-hand man, glides silently to his side like a shadow and murmurs: “My lord, all is ready. The wind favors us, and the snow conditions are perfect.”
Masamune does not turn his head, only giving an almost imperceptible nod. His voice is low yet resonant, like metal grinding on stone, carrying clearly to every breathless soldier behind him. “You all heard him? We are the Dragons of Oshu. Today, we shall carve the claw marks of my single eye into this snowfield!” He raises a hand sharply, pointing toward the camp below, now marked as his prey. “Target the granaries, armories, and command center! Crush them! Let the savages of Snezhnaya tremble beneath fire and steel!”
A suppressed, fanatical growl rumbles from the soldiers’ throats. These are the Date clan’s elite arquebusiers and cannoneers. Instead of standard military boots, they wear narrow, mastercrafted skis glinting with a cold, eerie sheen.
No further rallying words are needed. Masamune draws in a breath of knife-sharp frigid air and moves first. Leaning forward, he releases his ski bindings in one abrupt motion. Like a black leopard broken free of its leash, or the first boulder breaking loose from a mountain peak, he plummets downward.
In an instant, countless more “snow boulders” surge down behind him.
Over a hundred elite warriors, blessed as if by snow spirits, follow their lord to form a silent tide of steel slicing down the steep snow slope. The soft scraping of skis cutting through snow hangs in the air, perfectly masked by the storm’s roar. They glide through mountain ridge shadows, ghosting past bare ice cliffs, gaining speed with every passing moment. Their figures blur into dark streaks across the snow veil, charging straight for the unsuspecting camp below.
Death rides the wind and snow, creeping ever closer.
At the camp gate, two Fatui sentries bundled in thick cotton coats huddle together, fumbling with trembling hands to light a storm lantern, cursing the accursed weather under their breaths. One catches a strange, constant scraping sound. Confused, he lifts his gaze to the pitch-black mountain silhouette.
Nothing.
No— something is there! A shifting shadow, moving far faster than his mind can comprehend.
His mouth falls open, but a warning cry never escapes his throat—
Bang!
A sharp, alien crack tears apart the curtain of snow.
A bloody hole bursts open in the forehead of the staring sentry. Shock freezes in his eyes as his body slumps straight backward to the ground.
“Enemy raid—!” The second sentry finally screams in terror, his voice warped by overwhelming fear.
It is already too late.
That first gunshot sounds the clarion call of battle.
Date Masamune charges to the forefront. As he nears the camp’s crude wooden palisade, he twists sharply on his skis, sending a wave of snow billowing upward as he comes to a steady halt. An ornate arquebus has appeared in his hand, thin wisp of smoke curling from its muzzle. He spares no glance for the fallen sentry. His single eye sweeps over the stirring camp, and he snaps a cold command: “First Unit, seize the watchtowers! Second Unit, break through with me! Artillery, set up positions and bombard the granary district!”
The orders are concise and clear, cutting through the chaos of high-speed descent and sudden combat to reach every squad leader’s ears.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
More arquebus shots ring out like popping firecrackers. Positioned briefly on a side hill, the musketeers rain searing lead bullets with astonishing speed and accuracy upon Fatui troops scrambling to rally inside the camp, as well as the wooden watchtowers rising above the barracks. Archers atop the towers never spot their attackers before being struck by bullets from the shadows, plummeting down with screams.
The camp erupts into total pandemonium. Snezhnayan soldiers pour out of warm barracks, many without full weapons or proper armor, stumbling aimlessly like headless flies under the sudden precision assault. Officers’ hoarse shouts are drowned out by explosions and dying cries. The panicked neigh of warhorses, the accidental clash of blades, and the dull thud of falling bodies weave a chaotic symphony of death.
Masamune’s personal assault unit capitalizes on the momentary chaos, slicing through the outer camp defenses like a hot knife through butter. Their skis remain agile on the packed snow inside the compound, their forms flickering as their arquebuses unleash death at point-blank range. Every volley clears an entire stretch of ground.
“Dragon Unit, advance!” Masamune’s roar echoes across the battlefield. He fights like a vengeful spirit incarnate. Firing his arquebus, he discards it casually and draws his famed sword Shokudaikiri Mitsutada. Where the blade flashes, rainbows of blood spill forth. Cold, blazing fire burns in his single eye— the unyielding hunger for victory.
Katakura Kojuro stays ever at his flank, switching seamlessly between sword and pistol to eliminate any foe that threatens his lord.
Meanwhile, on slightly higher ground, the artillery unit leverages their gliding mobility to quickly set up several lightweight yet powerful field cannons. The gun captain adjusts their firing angles slightly, referencing battle plans studied countless times beforehand.
“Loaded and ready!”
“Fire!”
Boom—! Boom—!
Deafening cannonfire thunders over the camp for the first time, overwhelming the power of arquebuses. Blazing iron cannonballs slice through the frigid air, carrying the scent of death as they slam into the cluster of large domed buildings deep within the camp— the lifeblood of the Frost Giant encampment: granaries and supply depots.
The first volley misses the reinforced warehouse roofs directly, yet the shockwave and shrapnel blast auxiliary buildings and stacked supplies skyward. Flames erupt instantly, igniting dry timber and grain sacks.
“Adjust angles! Extend the range of fire!” The gun captain’s voice hoarsens with excitement.
Second and third volleys follow in quick succession. This time, fortune favors the attackers. A cannonball strikes the corner of the main granary structure with pinpoint accuracy. Wood splinters and stone shatters as a massive gap is torn open, exposing mountains of stored grain. Embers from subsequent blazes catch the stocks, and thick black smoke billows high into the sky.
Chaos escalates further. Burned grain is one of the most devastating blows any army can suffer. Cries for fire control clash with shouts of resistance, and Fatui morale crumbles visibly by the second.
Seizing this fatal disarray, Masamune leads his assault unit driving like a wedge straight into the camp’s heart. His target is clear: the tall flagpole before the central command tent, where Snezhnaya’s standard flutters weakly in the wind.
A Fatui Cavalier Lieutenant struggles to rally dozens of routed soldiers into an impromptu spear formation, determined to halt this terrifying black tide.
“One-Eyed Dragon! Cease your arrogance!” He raises his battleaxe high and roars.
Masamune replies with a cold smirk and an unslowed charge. Closing in on the spear line, he drops low, gliding almost along the ground. Snow and mud kicked up by his skis splatters across the frontline soldiers’ faces. At the same time, he sweeps Shokudaikiri Mitsutada upward in a cold, lethal arc.
Clang!
A mighty force knocks the lieutenant’s battleaxe aside, leaving his guard wide open.
The next instant, the sword’s tip rests pressed against his throat.
Masamune does not spare him a second glance. A flick of his wrist, a swift slash of the blade, and he glides past. The lieutenant clutches his gushing throat and collapses to his knees in disbelief.
With their commander slain, the last pockets of resistance shatter instantly.
Unstoppable, Masamune races to the flagpole. He leaps high, pushes off the pole with his toe to gain more height, and swings his longsword in one clean stroke!
Snick!
The rope holding Snezhnaya’s symbol of dominion snaps cleanly. The flag flutters to the ground in humiliating folds, soon trampled into muddy slush by panicked footsteps.
A brand-new battle standard— black with white emblems, bearing the ferocious mark of the One-Eyed Dragon— is driven firmly into the flagpole’s vacant spot by Katakura Kojuro, billowing fiercely amid gunsmoke and snow.
The Date clan’s Dragon Standard stands triumphant at last.
The main goals of the raid are accomplished. Fires rage across the camp, especially around the granaries, painting half the sky crimson with flame. Explosions still echo intermittently. Remaining Fatui troops break rank completely, fleeing in all directions or dropping to their knees in surrender.
At a quiet clearing on the battlefield’s edge, where the fires have softened, Date Masamune comes to a slow halt, breathing lightly. White frost fogs the air before him. He sheathes his sword, then lifts his cold, metallic prosthetic left hand to catch snowflakes drifting down from the eerie orange-red night sky, stained by fire and smoke. The flakes rest on his metal knuckles, refusing to melt for a long while.
Katakura Kojuro directs his soldiers to clear the last resistance holdouts and methodically claim spoils of war— mostly undamaged weaponry and intact supplies spared from the flames.
Just then, noisy footsteps draw near. Several Date soldiers march over escorting a bound Snezhnayan officer, his hands tied behind his back. His uniform is charred and tattered, his face smudged with ash and blood. His insignia mark him as a high-ranking official, one of the camp’s chief commanding officers. He glares fixedly at Masamune’s back, his eyes burning with humiliation, rage, and barely concealed fear.
Masamune does not turn, still gazing quietly at the snowflakes resting on his prosthetic hand, as if admiring a priceless work of art.
The officer struggles against his bonds and snarls hoarsely: “Date Masamune! You dare defy the majesty of Snezhnaya! The Tsaritsa will never forgive you! Your ambition shall be buried forever beneath endless ice and snow!”
Masamune finally moves.
He turns slowly, his single eye regarding the defeated commander with calm composure. No arrogance of victory lingers in his gaze— only an unfathomably cold abyss. Ignoring the officer’s ranting, he strides toward a pile of grain sacks salvaged from a half-collapsed warehouse, covered with waterproof tarpaulin; the last stocks untouched by fire.
With his cold metal prosthetic hand, he brushes gently, almost tenderly, over the rough burlap of the top sack, brushing away ash and settled snow.
Then he lifts his gaze once more to the stunned officer, a sharp, icy smirk tugging at his lips.
“Go tell your Tsaritsa—”
His voice is soft yet forged like tempered steel, every word unshakable and resolute, cutting through the faint echoes of battle to hang heavy in the air.
“Not even the waters of the Pacific can extinguish the wildfire of my dragon’s wrath.”
With that, he dismisses the commander entirely and turns to walk toward the One-Eyed Dragon standard dancing wildly amid flames and bitter wind. The snowstorm still rages on, yet it seems to bow in submission behind his retreating figure.
独眼龙雪崩至冬营
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伊达政宗率领火枪队与炮兵，乘特制滑雪板如雪崩般俯冲而下。
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火枪齐射的硝烟未散，独眼龙的军旗已插在至冬军营中央。
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当愚人众指挥官在混乱中找到他时，只见政宗正用他的义手轻抚缴获的粮食：
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“告诉你们的冰之女皇——太平洋的海水，也无法浇灭我龙之野火。”
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---
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风雪在至冬国无垠的雪原上永无止境地嘶吼，卷起冰晶，抽打着一切。这片被酷寒统治的天地，万物似乎都已冻结，连同声音也被吞噬，只剩下风永恒的、单调的咆哮。然而，在这片极寒死寂的幕布下，在某一座俯瞰至冬国“霜巨人”大型军营、补给点和粮仓的雪山脊背阴影处，有另一种寂静正在凝聚。那不是自然的宁静，而是钢铁与意志被强行压抑后，蓄势待发的死寂。
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伊达政宗伫立在雪线之上，厚重的防雪斗篷下，甲胄的冰冷几乎要与周遭的空气融为一体。他仅存的右眼，锐利如隼，穿透翻飞的雪幕，牢牢锁定下方山谷中那片灯火闪烁、轮廓庞大的军营。栅栏、哨塔、仓库圆顶，还有那面在寒风中僵硬翻卷的，属于愚人众的旗帜，一切细节都在他眼中分毫毕现。左眼的黑色眼罩，掩盖了旧日的伤痕，更为他平添了几分修罗般的冷酷。
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片仓小十郎，他最信赖的副手，如同他的一道影子，无声地来到身侧，低声道：“大人，一切就绪。风向对我们有利，积雪状态完美。”
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政宗没有回头，只是几不可察地点了点头。他的声音不高，却带着金石摩擦的质感，清晰地传入身后每一个屏息凝神的士兵耳中：“都听见了？吾等乃奥州之龙，今日便要在这雪原上，刻下我独眼的爪痕！”他猛地抬手，指向山下那一片在他看来已是猎物的军营，“目标，粮仓、军火库、指挥中枢！碾碎他们！让至冬的蛮子，在火与铁中颤栗！”
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“吼！”压抑而狂热的低吼从士兵们喉咙里滚出。他们是伊达家最精锐的火枪兵与火炮兵，此刻，他们脚下踏着的，并非寻常军靴，而是经过能工巧匠特制的狭长滑雪板，闪烁着幽冷的寒光。
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没有更多的动员。政宗深吸一口口凛冽如刀的寒气，第一个动了。他身体前倾，滑雪板的固定机关被猛地松开，整个人如同挣脱了缰绳的黑色猎豹，又像是从山巅崩落的第一块雪石，骤然向下俯冲。
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刹那间，在他身后，更多的“雪石”崩落了。
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百余名精锐，如同获得了雪之精灵的祝福，紧随着他们的主公，化作一道无声无息的钢铁洪流，切入陡峭的雪坡。滑雪板切割雪面，发出令人心悸的“沙沙”声，却被完美的控制在风雪的喧嚣之下。他们时而利用山脊阴影滑行，时而如鬼魅般掠过裸露的冰岩，速度越来越快，身影在雪幕中拉成一道道模糊的黑线，直扑山下那毫无警觉的军营。
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死亡，正乘着风雪悄然降临。
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军营门口，两名裹着厚厚棉袄的愚人众哨兵，正凑在一起，试图用颤抖的手点燃一盏防风的油灯，嘴里嘟囔着对见鬼天气的诅咒。其中一人似乎听到了某种异样的、持续不断的摩擦声，他困惑地抬起头，望向漆黑的山影。
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什么都没有。
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不，有什么东西！一片移动的阴影，速度快得超出了他的认知。
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他张大了嘴，警告的声音尚未冲出喉咙——
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“砰！”
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一声清脆而陌生的爆鸣，撕裂了风雪的帷幕。
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那名抬头张望的哨兵，额头猛地出现一个血洞，眼中的惊愕瞬间凝固，身体直挺挺地向后倒去。
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“敌袭——！”另一名哨兵终于发出了凄厉的尖叫，声音因极致的恐惧而扭曲变形。
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太晚了。
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第一声枪响，如同吹响了进攻的号角。
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伊达政宗一马当先，在接近军营外围简陋木栅的瞬间，身体猛地一侧，滑雪板铲起漫天雪浪，稳稳停住的同时，他手中不知何时已多了一柄造型精良的火铳，铳口还缭绕着淡淡的青烟。他看也不看那倒毙的哨兵，独眼扫过开始骚动起来的军营，冷喝道：“第一队，压制哨塔！第二队，随我突破！炮兵，建立阵地，轰击粮仓区域！”
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命令简洁、清晰，在高速滑行和骤然接敌的混乱中，精准地传入每个小队长的耳中。
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“砰！砰！砰！”
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更多的火枪声爆豆般响起。占据着侧翼小丘短暂停留的火枪兵们，以令人瞠目的射速和精度，将灼热的铅弹泼洒向军营内试图集结的愚人众士兵，以及那些高出营房的木质哨塔。塔上的弓箭手甚至没能找到目标，就被来自黑暗中的弹丸击中，惨叫着从高处栽落。
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军营彻底炸开了锅。从温暖的营房里冲出来的至冬士兵，很多连武器都没拿全，衣甲不整，在突如其来的精准打击下，像没头的苍蝇一样乱撞。军官声嘶力竭的吼叫被爆炸和惨叫淹没。战马的惊嘶，刀剑无意中的碰撞，还有身体倒地的闷响，交织成一曲混乱的死亡交响乐。
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伊达政宗亲自率领的突击队，已经利用这短暂的压制，如同热刀切黄油般撕开了军营的外围防线。他们脚下的滑雪板在营内压实过的雪地上依旧灵活，身影飘忽，手中的火铳在极近的距离喷射死亡。每一次齐射，都清空一小片区域。
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“龙之队，前进！”政宗的怒吼在战场上回荡。他本人更是如同修罗再世，火铳射击后，随手丢弃，反手拔出名刀“烛台切光忠”，刀光闪处，必然带起一蓬血雨。他的独眼中，燃烧着冰冷而炽烈的火焰，那是对胜利的绝对渴望。
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片仓小十郎始终护在他的侧翼，刀与短铳交替使用，精准地清除任何可能威胁到主公的敌人。
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与此同时，在稍高一点的位置，炮兵小队已经利用滑行带来的机动性，迅速架设好了数门轻便但威力不俗的野战炮。炮长根据事先反复推演的地图，略微调整射界。
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“装填完毕！”
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“放！”
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轰——！轰——！
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震耳欲聋的炮声第一次在这片军营上空炸响，远胜火枪的威势。灼热的铁球划破寒冷的空气，带着死亡的气息，狠狠地砸向军营深处那一片巨大的、有着圆顶轮廓的建筑群——那里是“霜巨人”军营的命脉所在，粮仓与补给点！
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第一轮齐射，并未直接命中坚固的仓顶，但爆炸的冲击波和溅射的弹片，瞬间将粮仓外围的一些附属建筑和堆放的物资掀上了天，火光随之窜起，引燃了干燥的木材和麻袋。
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“调整角度！延伸射击！”炮长的声音因兴奋而嘶哑。
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第二轮、第三轮炮弹接踵而至。这一次，幸运女神站在了进攻者一边。一枚炮弹精准地命中了粮仓主结构的一角，巨响声中，木屑与砖石齐飞，破开了一个巨大的窟窿，里面堆积如山的粮秣暴露出来，紧接着被后续爆炸引燃的火星点燃，浓烟滚滚而起！
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更大的混乱爆发了。粮食被焚，对于任何军队都是最沉重的打击之一。救火的呼喊与抵抗的呐喊混杂在一起，愚人众的士气以肉眼可见的速度崩溃。
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伊达政宗抓住这致命的混乱，率领突击队如同楔子般直插军营心脏。他的目标明确——中军指挥帐前那高大的旗杆，上面至冬国的旗帜仍在无力地飘动。
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一名愚人众的骁骑尉，试图组织起身边几十名溃兵，结成一道临时的枪阵，阻挡这支可怕的黑色洪流。
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“独眼龙！休得猖狂！”他高举着战斧，怒吼道。
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政宗的回应是一声冷笑，以及毫不减速的冲锋。在接近枪阵的瞬间，他身体猛地伏低，几乎贴地滑行，滑雪板铲起的雪泥泼了前排士兵一脸。同时，他手中的“烛台切光忠”自下而上撩起，一道凄冷的弧光闪过。
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“铛！”
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骁骑尉手中的战斧被一股巨力荡开，中门大开。
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下一瞬，刀尖已经点在他的喉结上。
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政宗甚至没有看他第二眼，手腕微动，刀锋轻巧地一抹，身影已然掠过。那骁骑尉捂着喷血的喉咙，难以置信地跪倒在地。
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主将阵亡，最后的抵抗瞬间瓦解。
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政宗如入无人之境，冲到旗杆之下。他猛地跃起，足尖在旗杆上一点，身形借力再升，手中长刀挥过！
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“嚓！”
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那面象征着至冬国在此地主权的旗帜，绳索应声而断，带着屈辱的褶皱，飘落在地，旋即被无数慌乱的脚步践踏入泥泞的雪水中。
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一面崭新的，黑底白纹，绣着狰狞独眼龙徽记的军旗，被片仓小十郎奋力插在了旗杆原本的位置，在硝烟与风雪中，猎猎作响！
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伊达家的龙旗，于此屹立！
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奇袭的主要目标已然达成。军营四处火起，尤其是粮仓方向，火光映红了半边天，爆炸声仍不时传来。残余的愚人众士兵彻底失去了组织，四散奔逃，或者跪地乞降。
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战场边缘，一处火势稍缓的空地。伊达政宗缓缓站定，微微喘息着，白色的呵气在他面前凝而不散。他归刀入鞘，左臂的义手——那冰冷的、闪烁着金属光泽的假肢，轻轻抬起，接住几片从被火光和硝烟映成诡异橘红色的夜空中飘落的雪花。雪花落在金属指关节上，久久不化。
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片仓小十郎指挥着士兵清扫最后的抵抗据点，并开始有秩序地收缴战利品，主要是那些尚未被焚毁的军械和部分完好的补给。
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就在这时，一阵略显嘈杂的脚步声传来。几名伊达家士兵押解着一名被反绑双手的至冬国军官走了过来。这人军服焦黑破损，脸上混合着烟灰与血污，但看其服饰徽记，级别不低，应是此地的留守指挥官之一。他死死盯着政宗的背影，眼中充满了屈辱、愤怒，以及一丝难以掩饰的恐惧。
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政宗没有回头，依旧看着自己义手上的雪花，仿佛那是什么绝美的艺术品。
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那名指挥官挣扎了一下，嘶声道：“伊达政宗！你们……你们这是在挑衅至冬国的威严！冰之女皇绝不会放过你们！你们的野心，终将被无尽的冰雪埋葬！”
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政宗终于动了。
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他缓缓转过身，那只独眼平静地注视着败军之将，里面没有任何胜利者的骄狂，只有一片深不见底的寒潭。他没有回应对方的叫嚣，而是迈开步子，走到旁边一堆刚从某个半塌仓库中抢救出来、用防水油布覆盖的物资前。那是少量未被火势波及的粮食袋。
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他用那只冰冷的金属义手，极其轻柔地，甚至可以说是带着一种近乎怜惜的姿态，拂过最上面一个麻袋粗糙的表面，掸去上面落下的灰烬和雪花。
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然后，他才抬眼，再次看向那名目瞪口呆的指挥官，嘴角勾起一丝冷冽到极致的弧度。
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“回去告诉你们的冰之女皇——”
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他的声音不高，却像淬火的钢铁，每一个字都带着斩钉截铁的力量，清晰地穿透了战场零星的余响，烙印在空气中。
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“太平洋的海水，也无法浇灭我龙之野火。”
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话音落下，他不再看那指挥官一眼，转身，走向那面在烈焰与寒风中狂舞的独眼龙旗。风雪依旧，却仿佛在他身后，化为了臣服的背景。
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