Lord of the Frozen Winter: Starting with Daily Intelligence Reports

Asta August sat alone in his study, clutching the edict that had just arrived, his knuckles tightening.

Candlelight reflected off the parchment, making the golden threads of the Imperial Emblem dazzling.

“Establish a fief in the Northern Border,” the few words read.

There were no admonishments, no expectations, just a cold third-person address and a commanding tone.

He gazed at the candlelight, an indescribable emotion churning within him.

Unease.

And a hidden sense of opportunity.

“Finally remembered me?” he murmured softly, a touch of self-mocking sarcasm in his voice.

For years, he had almost been certain that he would quietly, silently grow old in this palace.

As a prince without achievements, without real power, ◈ Nоvеlіgһт ◈ (Continue reading) without a story.

He had long been sealed away in the blind spot of imperial power, as if his name on that family tree was merely to fill a number.

It wasn’t that no one reminded him.

Many people had kindly advised him, “You are not suited for contention.”

He couldn't offer a rebuttal, but neither could he say, “I am willing to be content.”

He always felt something pressing down on his heart.

It wasn’t ambition; it was a reluctance—a reluctance to be categorized as “useless,” a reluctance to be deprived of even a single chance to try.

And now, his Imperial Father had suddenly reached out a hand and pushed him into this already fragmented Northern Border.

“What is this? A test? Exile? Or a gamble?” Asta didn’t believe it was due to any appreciation or favoritism.

He understood his father; he was a man who never spoke much, never allowed for pleas, and never gave opportunities.

He had never heard his father say, “I have high hopes for you,” nor had he ever received any attention beyond a written order.

The Emperor of this empire was best at making people fight to the death amongst themselves, not only with his subjects but also with his own sons.

“Sending me to the Northern Border—is it to grant me power, or just to see how I die?”

He looked at the unfurled map; it was the Northern Border.

Scorched earth after the insect plague, a wasteland intertwined with disease and cold disasters, a “land of death” where nobles had evacuated and rioters ran rampant.

“But if I can truly survive, if I can truly establish a fief, then perhaps I won’t just be a transparent prince anymore.”

He murmured to himself, his tone unruffled, yet like a sharp sword, it began to strike deep within his chest.

But when he recalled how the imperial decree was issued, a feeling of humiliation couldn't help but rise in his heart.

His father hadn’t seen him, hadn’t summoned him, hadn’t given any instructions, not a single explanation.

He had merely sent the Chief Steward, Lin Ze, to calmly and efficiently inform him of the personnel, supplies, and departure time he would be taking.

Then he left, as if announcing a routine matter.

“He didn’t even want to look at me again—

At this moment, Asta couldn't help but feel lost, couldn't help but feel that he might truly be just a “discarded piece” casually thrown out to test the waters.

He understood the Northern Border's current predicament and knew why none of his brothers were scrambling to go there.

He understood that he was chosen because he was too “harmless,” too “insignificant.”

The imperial map lay open before him, its edges creased from being clutched.

His finger rested on the Northern Border Province on the imperial map, but his gaze fell upon the imperial edict, which was as short as could be.

“Establish a fief in the Northern Border, proceed on your own, matters have been arranged.”

Concise and cold, as if commanding a piece of furniture to be placed, rather than pushing a prince into the eye of a storm.

He stared at the words for a long time, ultimately unable to discern even a trace of his father's expectation from them.

He softly asked a guard, “Has Seifer not arrived yet?”

No sooner had he spoken than the door gently pushed open, and a silver-haired old man, covered in snow and wind, entered the room.

He was tall and straight, his eyes sharp; despite his advanced age, his movements still carried the crispness and sternness characteristic of a soldier.

Asta rose to greet him: “Teacher.”

This old man was Seifer, the former Vice Commander of the Imperial Sixth Legion.

He was also the only elder who still addressed Asta as “Your Highness” when everyone else had long forgotten his name.

“I heard,” Seifer said, taking off his cloak and hanging it by the stove, glancing at the map and edict on the table with a complex expression. “Finally, what was bound to happen has come.”

“Does he want me to die?” Asta asked directly, his voice low.

“Perhaps,” Seifer didn't shy away. “Perhaps he just casually threw you out to test the waters. Whether you live or die, he doesn't care.”

Asta lowered his gaze, silent for a moment: “Then what should I do?”

Seifer didn't answer. Instead, he sat down and pulled out a neatly folded old map from his embrace, spreading it on the table.

“What do you think the Northern Border is now?”

“Ruins, chaos after disease, cold disaster, and insect plague,” Asta said blandly. “A place no one wants to go.”

“Wrong,” Seifer pointed at the map. “That is an opportunity.”

Asta raised his head.

“A portion of the old nobility in the Northern Border died in the insect plague, another portion fled, and those remaining are either severely weakened or on the verge of collapse,” Seifer analyzed calmly. “You think the Emperor entrusts the Northern Border to you because of trust? No, it's because there's no one left there. He doesn't expect you to perform any miracles; it's just a move to clear the chessboard.”

Asta was silent.

His pride momentarily wanted to refute those words, but he couldn't, because it might just be the truth.

“But if you can establish a firm foothold in the Northern Border, then that will be your territory,” Seifer's tone shifted, becoming steady.

“In the current imperial situation, whoever can stabilize a territory will have a say. Even if you're consistently overlooked, as long as you hold real power, no one can ignore you anymore.”

Asta's fingers, resting by his knees, subtly tightened.

“You're not without ambition,” Seifer said, looking at him, slowly. “You're just too afraid of not being good enough, afraid to make mistakes, afraid to fail.”

This hit him hard.

He suddenly looked up, a wounded anger appearing on his face: “I just had no one to teach me how to do it!”

“Now I will teach you,” Seifer didn't back down. “The Northern Border is already in such disarray; it's the perfect time for you to train your soldiers, govern, and temper your courage.”

“Will they look up to me? A small prince with no backing and no military achievements?” Asta sneered.

“They won't look at you, but they will look at whether you have fire behind you, whether you can distribute supplies,” Seifer tapped the table lightly with his cane. “If you can save the common people, appease the displaced, and stem the chaos, when your banner is raised, people will pledge allegiance.”

“...Banner,” Asta murmured softly, suddenly recalling the ornate heraldic banners of his brothers.

And he had never had a banner of his own.

“Indeed,” Seifer nodded. “You've been out of the limelight all these years; no one in the court takes you seriously. Being sent to the Northern Border at a time like this looks, by all accounts, like you're being thrown into a mess to fend for yourself. But—”

He changed his tone, his gaze sharp: “The Northern Border is now the empire's most real and cruel chessboard, and you are the player with the most opportunities.”

Asta slightly furrowed his brow.

“Duke Edmund is still alive, but he is old and injured. Most of the Northern Border nobles under him are dead, and the remaining ones are either severely wounded and not yet recovered, or their territories are in ruins. And you, even if you only bring a small imperial decree and a small force, could become the key to breaking this deadlock.”

Seifer paused, then casually picked up a charcoal pencil and circled a name on the map.

“However, there is one person—you cannot ignore him.”

Asta looked down and saw a few words marked there: Louis Calvin.

“The eighth son of the Calvin Family, recently ennobled, but in just over a year, he rose to viscount through military merit and happens to be one of the few meritorious officials in this great Northern Border disaster. If his surname wasn't Calvin, he would already be an earl.

Moreover, he is Edmund's son-in-law, and he also has Duke Calvin supporting him.”

“What about his strength?” Asta asked.

“Young, but not to be underestimated. You can cooperate with him, learn from him, but you must never belittle him,” Seifer flicked the charcoal pencil, his tone carrying a complex warning. “He is the kind of person who can carve a path of blood from a wasteland. You must befriend him, and also be wary of him.”

Asta was silent for a long time, then finally said softly, “I understand.”