Lord of the Frozen Winter: Starting with Daily Intelligence Reports

Frostflame 2

Deep within the Hall of the Cold Moon, faint blue ice flames flickered like breathing.

Titus sat huddled in the silver-inlaid bone chair, as still as a rock in the snow.

His heavy Cold Wolf Cloak draped down to the steps, and he clutched a flask of Snow Brew.

A warrior, striding swiftly through the snow, knelt down on one knee. Cold sweat still glistened on his forehead, but his voice cut through the ice like a blade: "The Shattered Axe Tribe—they've hung the head of our envoy on their northern wall."

He {N•o•v•e•l•i•g•h•t} paused, a hint of terror in his eyes, "On the skull, there's also the blood seal of the Red Rock Tribe—they say it's their consensus."

A cluster of blue flames suddenly leaped from the fire altar, spiraling upwards as if trembling with rage.

Titus remained silent for a moment, as if he hadn't heard, his fingertips slowly caressing the flask of Snow Brew in his arms.

The firelight illuminated his profile, stark and chiseled like a knife.

"—What did they say?"

The warrior lowered his head, speaking with difficulty: "They said you are a parricide and a rebellious son, a petty thief who seized power amidst chaos. They claimed that even if you usurped the Frostmane Tribe's position, you are not qualified to wield the authority of the Eight Banners."

The generals in the hall were stunned.

But Titus did not respond for a long time, then slowly exhaled a puff of white mist.

He slowly rose, set down the flask, and walked to the Frost Oath Stele.

It was the sacred oath stele left by the ancient Cold Moon Tribe, its mottled inscriptions long eroded by wind and snow.

His gaze quietly swept over the carvings that once represented "faith and righteousness," then his hand gripped the sword hilt and he drew it out lightly.

"Clang—"

The Cold Moon Ancient Blade was unsheathed, its ringing like howling snow, startling the entire hall.

The blue flames were forced low by the sword's aura, and the generals were terrified.

He spoke in a low voice, yet it seemed to echo throughout the entire Northern Realm: "I originally intended to give them a dignified future. But they only understand brute force, not dignity."

He turned, his gaze sweeping over the assembled generals like an ice pact, his tone chilling and clear: "Since that is the case, I shall teach them what order is with my blade."

In that instant, an indescribable pressure emanated from the Frost Lord, who had been as serene as a snow-covered rock.

He slowly inserted the sword tip into the ice flames: "Transmit my command: all Eight Banners of the army and all tribal military departments are to assemble at Whitefrost Ridge within two days!"

On Whitefrost Ridge, the cold wind was like knives, and the snowy night was far from over.

Titus stood at the peak of the high altar, clad in his great Cold Wolf Cloak, its grey-blue fabric flapping like a battle standard in the fierce wind.

Behind him, Cold Moon warriors stood like a forest, surrounded by braziers, blue flames rising to form a fiery sea where fierce snow and fire intertwined.

This was the night of the Frostflame Oath, the moment when old alliances shattered and a new order would rise.

He slowly walked to the center of the oath altar, raised his sword to the sky, and spoke in a booming barbarian tongue, like rolling thunder piercing through the wind, snow, and hearts of men:

"The Shattered Axe Tribe, they disregard the alliance! The Red Rock Tribe, they disrespect the snow oath!"

"I, Titus Frostflame, not for personal vengeance, no longer for tribal shame, but only for the children of this snowfield, that they may no longer wander, no longer kneel!"

The sword he held high ignited a blue glow in the firelight, like thunder and lightning.

"In the past, the barbarians were dogs under the Empire's feet, slaves who fought amongst themselves! But now, what we want is land, a homeland, a snowfield nation—one where we can light fires and bear children!"

He paused, looking towards the invisible south at the edge of the dark night, his voice low, yet imbued with a hatred that could burn everything to ashes:

"The Empire crushed our dignity and seized our ancestral burial grounds. Don't beg them for a bowl of gruel, and don't expect them to leave half a granary.

The snowfield does not raise cowards, nor should it continue to be led by men like Harold. His prostrate demeanor is only fit for holding the Empire's riding whip."

Before he had finished speaking, a roar like a mountain collapsing and thunder erupting rose from below the oath altar.

"Frostflame Undying!!"

"Long live Titus!!"

Warriors waved their spears, axe blades, and bone shields, shouting in fervent frenzy, bare-chested. Those who knelt pressed their foreheads into the snow, creating a rising mist of heat.

But outside the ring of fire, those who had not knelt still stood rigid like iron pillars in the cold wind.

Several elderly generals had followed Harold Frostmane for decades, and their eyes held no fanaticism illuminated by the blue flames, only suppressed anger and deep sorrow.

"He's mad."

Old Ortan, with a trembling white beard, gritted his teeth and whispered, his voice full of a metallic tang: "That was an alliance forged by Harold's own hands. His body isn't even cold, and he's already trampling the old oath underfoot."

His voice was mixed with hatred: "He poisoned the tribal chief, beheaded Harold's three sons, burned Frostmane Hall, and now he wants to wash his hands clean with a few words?"

Beside him, General Hergen clenched his fists, blood faintly visible in the gaps of his armor: "What he did was not just betrayal, but a parricidal usurpation."

Then another silent elder suddenly spoke in a low voice: "But it can't be stopped."

Everyone was startled.

The elder looked at Titus's towering, monument-like figure in the flames, his eyes complex. "Shattered Axe and Red Rock have broken the alliance, and the Empire watches eagerly from outside. If the snowfield delays any longer, there won't even be bones left.

And there's no one left in the Frostmane Tribe. Titus did it so cleanly that even if we wanted to rebel now, we wouldn't have a legitimate reason."

He bit out in a low voice: "We hate him, but perhaps this vengeance is already too late."

And amidst the wind and snow, the young warriors who had still been hesitant had long since been pierced through the chest by Titus's ardent, blade-like oath.

He wasn't asking them to die; he was telling them: from now on, the snowfield would no longer be lowly.

The blue flames burned brighter.

Titus quietly watched all of this, a barely perceptible curve forming at the corner of his mouth.

He knew very well that not everyone obeyed him, but he didn't need everyone to love him; he only needed everyone to fear him.

He murmured softly, as if to himself: "This land, I want it to live no longer on its knees."

The wind, laden with snow dust, brushed past his cheek, as if stirring a memory.

He recalled that winter, Harold half-kneeling before the Empire's envoy tent.

That old warrior, who had once led him through valleys, taught him to wield an axe, hunt wolves, and master the snow, was the most untamed old lion of the barbarian tribes.

That day, he half-knelt, just to trade for dozens of carts of old grain and a few barrels of salt.

The envoy from the Empire, draped in a silver-embroidered ceremonial robe, sat on a high seat, smiling as if feeding a dog.

He pointed to the brazier beside Harold and said: "You are not sincere enough—if you can put your hand into it, then I will believe you are truly submissive."

Titus witnessed Harold, after a moment of silence, actually putting his hand in, and he used no fighting qi, solely to please that running dog.

He didn't utter a single cry, but his eyes were fixed on the distant mountains.

Later, that hand rotted and never grew back.

But even more rotten was the Empire's laughter, which echoed outside the tent all night.

At that moment, Titus felt neither hatred nor anger, only a profound indifference.

"He was a man who could tear the spine of a mountain lion with his bare hands," Titus murmured softly, "but for a few paltry bags of grain, he was willing to kowtow three times."

So he sprinkled the powder into that pot of medicinal broth and quietly left.

Wind and snow swept through the camp, but the beast-skin tents, illuminated by bonfires, were brightly lit, with songs and wine intermingling, as if the Frost Tribe had finally found a brief respite.

This was a feast personally arranged by the old chief, Harold Frostmane, to celebrate the tribe's successful survival through winter.

At the beginning of the feast, everything was orderly, until the third round of medicinal wine was poured.

And as Harold raised his cup, Titus stood at the back of the crowd, his brows and eyes as calm as a glacier.

His gaze pierced through the crowd, falling upon that rough, weathered hand, the hand that had once gripped a battle axe but ultimately bowed to the Empire.

When Harold tilted his head back and drank, he didn't move, only slowly exhaled.

Dozens of eyes had not yet had time to discern what had happened when the aged yet still majestic tribal chief collapsed with a thud, the drinking vessel in his hand shattering on the rocky ground, emitting a crisp, mournful sound.

Someone shrieked, someone rushed forward to check, someone shouted for the shaman.

Titus didn't move, nor did he step forward.

He merely turned his head slightly in the firelight, glancing at his aunt, the matriarch of the Frost Tribe.

She was staring in horror at her husband's body, her face ashen.

Titus memorized that momentary expression, then turned and quietly departed.

This night was just the beginning.

Three days later, the matriarch died of poisoning in her tent; while her body was still warm, Titus's confidants had already taken control of her personal guards.

A week later, his younger brother "accidentally" fell from his horse and died, and his sister "slipped" and drowned in the Snowmelt Stream—

No one saw Titus act, there was no evidence, and no witnesses.

But everyone understood that from the moment Harold collapsed, the Frostmane bloodline of Frost had died out.

He took a full twenty-seven days, advancing step by step, using "purging imperial lackeys within the tribe" and "investigating traitors" as pretexts, calmly and decisively eliminating all dissenters.

The elders dared not speak, the warriors gradually fell silent, and the youths began to shout his name.

A month later, he stood in the old council's main seat, clad in blood-stained wolf pelts, his gaze sweeping over everyone present like a frost-edged blade.

"From now on, Frostflame will no longer be my battle name, but the surname of this tribe." His voice was not loud, yet it overcame the wind, "We, the Frostflame Tribe, will never again bow down for food, nor will we ever again lick the boots of our enemies."

"How did Harold die?" Someone asked in a whisper.

He only replied with two words: "The Empire."

Thus, the blame for this coup shifted from his palm to beneath the Empire's iron boot.

Hatred was rekindled among the barbarians, and the totem banner of the Frost Tribe flew across the snowfield like a raging fire.

Titus stood on the high northern slope, his cloak flapping, behind him the newly built walls of the Frost barracks and the crude iron weapons forged day and night.

He looked further to the southwest, where the Red Rock and Shattered Axe Tribes held sway.

They had once been allies, but now they were bickering fiercely over border conflicts.

And so, the military banner of the Frostflame Tribe once again rose high above the frozen plains, like a raging grey wolf, awakening the long-dormant bones of war.

Titus Frostflame personally led the campaign in armor, his silver-grey battle armor forged like ice rock, his snow wolf cloak flapping in the wind, like an avatar of the god of war.

His commands, forged from cold iron, restored order to the fragmented tribal forces, re-stitched shattered banners, and formed a new "Frostflame Legion."

His goal was not just Shattered Axe, not just Red Rock, but the entire Northern Realm.

To unite the barbarians, to recast their glory.

To ensure that this group of people trapped in the snow would no longer bow their heads for food, no longer kneel before the Empire.

He wanted the entire Northern Realm to—swallow this humiliation and betrayal with him, then spit it back at the Empire, carrying Frostflame and raging fire.

But he did not act out of impulsive passion.

Titus was never a reckless man.

He personally severed the old alliance, not out of anger, but because he had seen a longer path.

And he was not making a desperate gamble.

The night before he poisoned Harold Frostmane, an ancient entity responded to his summons.

Since that night, Titus had never spoken of defeat.

And even the oldest prophet in the old clan dared not look him in the eyes.

He carried a secret, unknown to others, yet destined to overturn the entire world.