Lord of the Frozen Winter: Starting with Daily Intelligence Reports

Southern edge of the Northern Territory, Pine Fir Valley, a small village forgotten by maps.

It was located on the edge of the hilly forest, perpetually shrouded in mist and pine trees. A hundred or so people worked from sunrise to sunset, making it one of the better-off villages in the Northern Territory.

Until that day, when the nightmare arrived.

It wasn’t a large-scale Doomsday Mother Nest descent, just a few searching Worm-Eaten Household corpses, but for a small village with almost no combat power, it was a complete disaster.

“It’s monsters! Everyone, run!”

That was the warning loudly shouted by Tal, the village hunter, from the edge of the forest.

Then came the chaos.

Cries, stumbles, the sound of flesh being gnawed, and torches wildly flailing.

Elvin the blacksmith wielded his still-hot forging hammer, trying to smash the charging Worm-Eaten Household corpses.

Sparks flew the moment the hammer struck the insect shell, like the faint, unyielding flame in his eyes.

Then, his right arm was torn off.

“Don’t mind me—go!”

He roared, using his remaining hand to push the little girl behind him towards the escape route.

But then he was pulled away by Tal the hunter, blood spilling from his shoulder, staining the mountain path beneath their feet all the way.

They fled into a cave by the village.

It was the remains of a mine from the old era, long sealed by dust and vines.

But at that moment, it became synonymous with “life.”

Ultimately, only 24 people survived and escaped into the cave.

Elders, women, children, and the unconscious, bleeding young blacksmith.

They barely survived on leftover dry rations and rainwater trickling down the cave walls. The cave was dim and damp, and the cries of the Worm-Eaten Household echoed outside; no one dared to make a sound.

Some cried, some stared blankly, some tried to pray, and some gritted their teeth and said, “As long as we’re alive, there’s still hope.”

Hunger was a metallic pain, rising from the pit of the stomach and spreading throughout the body, as if all nutrition had been drained from the bones, leaving only a weak shell.

The old mine in Pine Fir Valley had truly become a “House of Bones.”

People survived by gnawing on tree roots, chewing dry wood, and licking condensation from the rock walls.

The cold in the cave was biting, so they could only carefully light a small fire to avoid being sniffed out by the Worm-Eaten Household corpses.

They used smoke to mask their scent, and even arranged stones at the cave entrance, attempting to “trick” the monsters’ instincts.

Most terrifying were the constant explosions and insect roars from outside, like hell lurking on earth.

There was no day, no night, only eight continuous days of chaos and deathly silence.

The eighth day.

Their rations were completely depleted.

The smallest child began to cry silently, the dried tear tracks at the corners of his eyes more cracked than his lips.

“Mom, I’m so hungry.”

“Wait a little longer, just a little longer...”

A young man once tried to go outside.

But it wasn't long before he returned, with eyes so hollow they seemed to have lost their soul.

He said, “Outside it’s moving—the ground is alive, a living hell—”

After that, he started screaming and babbling, burying his face in the fire and crying, “They’re still there, they’re still there—we didn’t hide at all—”

Dawn of the ninth day had not yet arrived, and the mine was on the verge of collapse.

Just then.

“—Click, click—”

An almost inaudible metallic grinding sound came from the side of the mountain wall.

Everyone held their breath, unsure if it was new death or the absolute end.

Immediately after, came the light of torches.

The torchlight reflected on the damp cave walls, carrying a warm and sacred glow.

On that sunless ninth day, knights in red and silver armor stepped into the cave entrance, holding torches high, like angels descended from heaven in myths.

Their capes fluttered in the wind, and the flames illuminated the emblem on their chests: a yellow sun on a red background, a blazing sun.

“Is—is it humans?”

“It really is knights! Help, help us!”

The next second, from deep within the cave, emaciated figures swarmed out.

Their faces were ashen, their eyes bloodshot, and they were clad in blood-stained rags and blankets woven from wild grass. Some knelt, some crawled, just to get closer to that bit of light.

“Give them water!” the knight captain commanded in a deep voice.

The knights behind quickly opened their waterskins and first-aid kits at their waists, distributing dry rations, purified water, and basic healing potions one by one.

Steam from hot water rose into the cold air, like wisps of long-lost human warmth.

Some held water, trembling as they drank, crying as they drank.

Some fainted in the knights’ arms before they could even express gratitude.

The knights said, “Don’t be afraid, it’s alright now. We are the Red Tide Territory Rescue Knights under Lord Louis.”

“Lo—Lord Louis?” an old man repeated blankly, clearly having never heard the name before.

But they knew these knights had saved them.

At this moment, the name wasn't important; what mattered was that they were still alive, that someone had saved them.

The young blacksmith, covered in wounds, was helped out of the cave by two knights.

Half his face was ash, the other half blood, but his lips trembled as he repeatedly whispered, “We—we’re alive, we’re not dead—”

Someone in the crowd couldn't help but kneel, prostrating themselves and crying hysterically, as if repaying all the tears not shed over the past eight days at once.

The knight order didn't rush them, simply integrating everyone into the “Emergency Migration Queue,” escorting them south.

This was not the first time.

Dozens of Red Tide Territory rescue knight teams had already been dispatched.

Each expedition, they carried ample dry rations, simple purified crystals, and basic magic potions as rescue supplies, solely to find “still living humans” in the gaps between the Worm-Eaten Household and the corrosive fog.

In mountain forests, broken valleys, caves beneath frozen riverbeds, and even secret passages beneath collapsed ruined fortresses...

There were always people barely surviving, just waiting for that belated ray of light.

The reason they could accurately locate these places of survival was not coincidence; it was the credit of the Daily Intelligence System.

Countless ordinary people, originally destined to die in the Worm-Eaten Household, survived because of this intelligence.

“It’s the knights of the Red Tide Territory.”

“Lord Louis sent them.”

“The Dragon Ancestor sent him to save us—”

Through word of mouth among the survivors, the young Lord who had broken through the siege in the Northern Territory War and swept away the Doomsday Mother Nest was no longer just a person, but a sun that continuously shone upon them.

Children secretly drew the red flag in the mud, and women sewed strips of Red Tide Territory cloth into their prayer sashes.

And old men softly murmured “Louis Calvin,” as if reciting a scripture of redemption.

They didn't understand empires, nor knight orders; they only knew that this name, in their most desperate hour, had pulled them back.

It was faith.

It was synonymous with a miracle.

Back in the Red Tide Territory, the injured, exhausted soldiers who had just crawled out of the Worm-Eaten Household, dismounted and removed their armor.

Approaching the carriage, a rescue captain, covered in dust, knelt on one knee and hoarsely said, “Pine Fir Valley—all twenty-four survivors have been safely brought back.”

He glanced at the blood-stained report, then at the knight.

He simply nodded slightly, without saying much.

He lowered his gaze to the tactical map, that entire area of the Northern Territory that was once mountains and rivers, now reduced to scorched earth.

“Continue.”

His voice was calm, his tone low, but everyone knew that behind those two words lay responsibility for countless lives.

The current team had already taken in over three thousand refugees.

Wounded soldiers, orphans, widows, fleeing nobles, stranded mercenaries—they all knew that as long as they could enter the Red Tide Territory, they would not be swallowed by the Worm-Eaten Household again.

Frost Halberd City to the Red Tide Territory was not actually too far.

The carriage moved slowly, and with each village or town ruin they passed, the air grew heavier.

The fields that once were, now only remained as patches of charred remains.

By the village stone tablet, only the fragmented remains of a child were left, with a few small ribs scattered nearby.

He saw the corpse of an old man sitting under the eaves, covered in thick snow.

The river was no longer clear; some sections of the water, corrupted by corpses and spores, appeared in an eerie red and black intermingled color. Fish had long disappeared, leaving only scum and putrid stench.

Some forests were burned by spores, their charred, ink-black branches standing upright towards the sky, like a lament.

The knights were silent, even the horses became restless, as if sensing the lingering death that had not yet dissipated from this land.

As the carriage swayed, Louis looked at the picturesque ruins outside the window, his fingers unconsciously tapping the edge of the map.

The Northern Territory landscape was shattered, roads broken, bridges collapsed.

The population was decimated, the nobility extinct, and the resource supply chain had completely collapsed.

“The Northern Territory has truly died once,” he murmured softly.

He was clearly the victor of the war, yet he felt no sense of “triumphant return.”

He leaned back in the carriage, closing his eyes wearily.

How would the future path unfold?

Livelihoods, resources, reconstruction of order, territorial expansion, political struggles, noble vacancies—

Too many problems followed one after another. He knew that the post-war Northern Territory would be an empty void with no one to rule it.

And he would have no choice but to step into this void, becoming one of the main forces in rebuilding the Northern Territory.

Although the Emperor’s reward decree had not yet been issued, Louis already knew in his heart:

“Land, there is no longer a shortage.”

After this catastrophe that annihilated four-fifths of the population, the land became empty and silent, awaiting new rulers to write the rules.

And the deaths of countless nobles, especially the generational breaks and extinctions of several major fiefdoms in the Northern Territory, also meant that the Emperor would re-enfeoff power.

And “Lord of Red Tide Territory, Louis Calvin,” was undoubtedly at the top of the list for rewards.

But this was both a reward and a poison.

He had to face not only the ongoing post-disaster reconstruction of order but also guard against those old nobles and new political enemies who would claim credit, doubt his origins, and seek benefits.

A new, bloodless war had already begun, though at this stage, it was not something he could control.

He had already written to his Duke father, asking him to mediate and arrange things.

After a long and dark journey back, Louis finally returned to the Red Tide Territory.

When that knight pulled back his cape and revealed his faceplate, he softly said to him, “Lord, we are home.”

He didn't need to answer.

Because he had already seen, at the familiar mountain bend, dense figures standing on the mountain path, facing the wind,

Like welcoming the sun emerging from clouds.

The boundary of the Red Tide Territory was like a threshold leading to light.

Unlike most of the Northern Territory, which was a wasteland ◆ Nоvеlіgһt ◆ (Only on Nоvеlіgһt) of flowing insect fluid and ubiquitous spore paste, the sky here was still blue, white clouds floated leisurely, and cooking smoke rose gently among the mountains.

This land, the Red Tide Territory he had built brick by brick, was still intact.

It was thanks to his meticulous pre-war deployments, thanks to the Daily Intelligence System’s ceaseless warnings, and thanks to the small teams that rushed to the front lines and returned silently.

And today, the one who created miracles had returned.

He was welcomed not by a court orchestra, nor a red carpet and flower petals, but by the heartfelt trust and reverence in thousands of faces.

Farmers who rushed from the fields, artisans covered in sawdust, village doctors holding unhealed injured people, children holding tattered flags—they gathered on both sides of the road, coming spontaneously, their faces filled with excitement and gratitude.

What they held in their hands were roughly dyed red cloths, bouquets of medicinal herbs that still retained their fragrance after drying, and simple wooden plaques painted with a red sun.

They knew what had happened outside, and they knew who had saved this land from disaster, who had cut a path for them between the Worm-Eaten Household and despair.

Someone shouted, “Lord Louis has returned! The sun has returned!”

Someone hoarsely yelled, “It was him who saved us!”

“Long live Lord Louis!”

“Red Tide is eternal! The sun shines forever!”

Some cried, and some knelt.

At this moment, no one asked where he had returned from, nor where he was going.

They simply, in the most humble way, regarded him as the true “sun.”

And amidst this throng, Louis saw many familiar and unfamiliar figures—the old woman with half her face burned, who had lost her child in the flames, yet now smiled with her one remaining eye.

The young mother who had lost her husband, holding a wailing infant, bowed deeply.

The little boy who had been buried in the snow, still bearing unhealed scars, held a wooden board painted with the “Sun Mark,” raising it high in the wind, as if responding, “You’re back, I’ve been here all along.”

Among them, some were original territory residents, some were refugees, orphans, and sorrowful people Louis had rescued one by one from the scorched earth. They were not nobles, yet they gave Louis the most profound and gentle response in a silent way.

Amidst the tidal welcome of the Red Tide Territory residents, Louis’s gaze finally fell upon that familiar figure.

Emily, her blue hair gently swaying in the wind, still wore a simple yet elegant noble gown.

She stood at the very front of the crowd, her eyes slightly red, yet maintaining the posture of a noble lady, slowly walking towards him, her fingertips gently resting on his shoulder.

“—You’re back,” she whispered, her tone unhurried, as if suppressing emotions that had long overflowed.

Louis looked at her, nodding gently, “I’m back.”

No sooner had he spoken than she could no longer hold back, throwing herself into his embrace, her movements restrained yet with a subtle tremor, as if a long wait had finally found its destination.

Behind him, Sif slowly approached, her silver-white short hair swaying slightly in the wind, its tips still dusted with ash.

She stood a few steps away, arms crossed, and snorted, “So you finally decided to come back.”

Her tone was as sour as ever, but her steps didn’t stop. After getting closer, she also hugged him without hesitation.

She was as stubborn as ever, but her eyes were red-rimmed.

At this moment, Louis suddenly felt that all the fatigue and confusion of his journey had finally found a resting place.