Lord of the Frozen Winter: Starting with Daily Intelligence Reports

"Why—how could this happen—"

Batu sat stunned amidst the ruins, his eyes bloodshot, his lips cracked, but no sound escaped him.

The battle was over.

The Red Rock Shattered Axe Alliance—that heavy-armored tribal legion, renowned as the most elite among the Northern Barbarians—was now nothing but scorched earth and broken bones.

The blood-soaked mud across the mountains remained wet, battle flags were tattered by flames, and armor intertwined with severed limbs lay buried on the blackened grassy slopes.

The air was thick with the stench of burnt fur and flesh, piles of wolf riders' corpses lay haphazardly, battle axes were lodged in the back of warriors' skulls, and flies buzzed and circled around the mountains of dead.

Last night, they had five times the enemy's strength, held the high ground, their camp was well-fortified, their equipment complete, and their cavalry arrayed on the slope like a torrent of steel. The Shattered Axe tribe had even hung their ancestral battle flag at the heart of the camp, swearing to "fight to the death."

Moreover, for a whole month before that, the Frostflame Legion had been beaten back repeatedly.

The Shattered Axe people cheered daily, proclaiming "the final battle is imminent," and even the tribal elders predicted that Frostflame would last at most one more day before it was time for the Northern tribes to divide the spoils of victory.

Everyone believed it would be an overwhelming victory.

However, before dawn, their internal lines had already collapsed.

Without warning, without the sound of fighting, their main central force was sliced open as if by an invisible blade, breaking down all the way.

The initial anomalies were just minor errors—first, communication suddenly ceased, the bugler's horn emitted a sharp, broken note and then abruptly fell silent.

Next, the outermost guards abandoned their defenses, some even turning to rush their own main tents, like wild wolves charging a sheepfold, their eyes blood-red.

He personally saw some familiar Qi warriors suddenly turn their long spears and stab their own brothers, with ruthless and unhesitating movements.

That brother, right beside him, had his throat slit, collapsing to the ground, a thick gush of black blood pouring from his mouth, his eyes filled with confusion, incomprehension, and despair.

He even tried to utter "Why" with his last breath.

But no one answered him.

More warriors rushed out of the tents, their eyes frighteningly hollow, as if their consciousness had been stripped away.

They no longer distinguished between friend and foe; some even hacked their battle axes into the necks of their own horses, just to make them shriek.

Tents exploded in flames, the smell of blood and wine mixed, forming a bloody, scorched aroma that choked one's breath.

Shouts, roars, impacts, the sound of bones breaking—everything intertwined into a symphony of hell.

Batu roared commands to rally, but no one responded.

He charged through three walls of fire to barely reach the central army, only to find scattered limbs and defecting men all around him.

This was not a military defeat; it was a spiritual disintegration.

The entire legion, as if at the same moment, had its loyalty and sanity plundered from its soul by something.

It wasn't magic. But it was more terrifying than magic.

Because what they had lost was their human will.

Just as the Shattered Axe camp was at its most chaotic and vulnerable, from the distant white mist, the warriors of the Frostflame tribe finally appeared.

They blew no horns, shouted no war cries, and there was no thunderous sound of cavalry hooves.

They advanced silently from the morning mist like a heavy iron wall. Only the dead-calm eyes beneath their brow bones instilled terror.

And when the first rays of sunlight shone down, it became clear that their armor still bore fresh bloodstains, and the long blades in their hands gleamed with a cold light.

They charged.

There were no roars, no slogans, yet it was more unsettling than any shriek.

The rhythm of their footsteps on the ground was like a funeral procession, not for themselves, but for this chaotic, lost, and will-shattered enemy before them.

Some of the Shattered Axe warriors finally came to their senses and tried to resist, but their formation had long since collapsed.

They frantically raised their shields, but they couldn't stop the charge, dense as an avalanche.

Halberds pierced chests, blunt weapons shattered helmets, and rows upon rows of men were knocked down and trampled.

The camp gate, like paper, was violently rammed down.

"Retreat! Fall back!" A deputy general shrieked, but his voice was drowned out by the sound of weapons cutting through the air and flesh tearing apart.

The Frostflame Legion was like a cold plague, gradually devouring the entire camp from the edge of the battlefield, each step treading through blood, each blow carrying an unquestionable resolve.

They were not fighting; they were cleaning up.

Like a group of "executors" with no mercy for their enemies.

"How could this... just like that..." Batu knelt among the piles of corpses, the world before him burning and collapsing.

His armor was scorched black, his palms covered in blood-soaked mud and his comrades' shattered hair.

His thoughts still churned, a chaotic jumble of battle scenes and collapsing commands overlapping in his mind.

Just then, a gust of wind swept across the scorched earth. Amidst the swirling ashes, a figure walked against the wind.

Batu suddenly looked up. Titus of Frostflame already stood before him.

In that instant, Batu almost thought he was hallucinating.

There were no attendants, only he alone, but it was as if the fury of the entire battlefield had condensed into his presence.

His cloak billowed slightly, the wind carrying the smell of gunpowder and the acrid scent of charred bones.

Titus wore heavy armor, yet bore no family crest or color, like battle attire crafted specifically for death.

And on his face, besides those calm, almost deathly silent eyes, there were grey-black lines like vines, spreading from the corners of his eyes to his neck, like withered branches etched into his skin.

But his gaze on Batu was like a lead weight on his chest, making one instinctively want to avert their eyes, lower their head, and submit.

Batu gasped, his chest heaving violently, his eyes bloodshot, but the anger on his face was gradually unable to hide a certain unspeakable terror.

"What sorcery did you use?!" he shrieked, his voice hoarse like burnt cloth, "Is it poison? Is it a curse? Or—what evil spirit crawled into our minds, tearing us apart one by one?"

He stepped forward, as if to lunge, but stopped abruptly as he approached, as if hitting an invisible death line.

"Your men! Your few men! How is that possible?! Five times the strength, three layers of camp walls, the ancestral spirit banner flying high, how could we lose?!

Your men aren't warriors, they're scum who betrayed their tribal chief! How could they tear us apart?!"

His eyes trembled, and the hand he pointed at Titus shook slightly, like a final struggle before going mad.

"You're not human," he whispered, as if cursing, or perhaps talking to himself, "You're not human. You're some—some kind of calamity."

Finally, he stumbled back a step, as if insane: "This shouldn't have happened... This couldn't have happened... This isn't the kind of power that should exist in this world."

The wind swept across the scorched earth, fluttering the tattered edge of the Shattered Axe battle flag.

However, Titus merely sneered.

That sneer was as cold as a sharp icicle emerging from deep within a glacier, neither pleased nor angry, just a look of disdain.

"You still don't understand," his voice was low and hoarse.

Batu wanted to retort, but his throat felt as if something was blocking it, his tongue heavy as lead, words swirling on the tip of his tongue, yet he couldn't utter them.

Then, abruptly, his mind felt as if a long-sealed book had been violently opened, filled with memories he wished not to recall.

He saw Imperial cavalry raising their firearms and riding through his village from his youth, his mother's blood staining the snow, his father forced to kneel and swallow commands.

He saw the night he first gritted his teeth and endured humiliation, heard the silence, intrigue, and compromises disguised as "oaths" within the Red Rock tribe.

These shames and hatreds, which he had buried deep, were now torn open like a tide, pouring back into his mind frame by frame, as if forcibly exposed by "some power."

His eyelids twitched violently, his knuckles white, yet he couldn't utter a single word.

And Titus merely continued to watch him, silently.

He didn't raise a hand, there were no magical fluctuations, no hint of a threatening posture.

But standing there, he seemed like the very axis of heaven and earth.

Around him, the Frostflame warriors stood unmoving, like statues, their breathing synchronized, their aura steady.

And at some point, Batu found himself involuntarily falling into the rhythm of their breathing, his body expanding and contracting with theirs, «N.o.v.e.l.i.g.h.t» as if pulled by invisible strings.

He saw Titus's figure waver in his pupils, like a ghost engulfed by flames, finally blurring into a bizarre scene—a land entangled with gray vines, cold flames burning on the vines, hills collapsing, streams freezing, and countless dark figures kneeling in the distance, as if silently begging for mercy.

The gray-blue morning mist had not yet fully dispersed, and the smoke from the smelter above had already begun to rise, the faint scent of veinless stone wafting in the air.

Lord Louis stood by the ironwood railing on the high ground, looking out at the busy scene in the pit area below.

Teams of laborers in grey uniforms were streaming in, and with knights patrolling the entrance, order was maintained.

"Have they gone down the pit yet?" he asked casually.

Kyle stepped forward, his face bearing his usual seriousness, "They just finished this morning. The branch mines around the main shaft have all started operations. According to the staggered schedule, that batch—the laborers supported by the Empire—have all been assigned to the mine shaft operation teams."

Lord Louis nodded: "How many in total?"

"Five thousand seventy-three," Kyle answered precisely, "Nearly seventy percent of them have criminal records, mostly atonement soldiers, families of disgraced officials, or exiled slaves. They have been sent down to the mines in batches as you instructed. Every ten people form a group, led by an experienced worker."

"No trouble, I hope?"

Kyle shook his head: "Very few incidents, a few small conflicts were suppressed. On the contrary—they work harder than expected. Some even work through the night—as if they can change their status tomorrow."

Lord Louis smiled: "It seems these criminals can still be saved. What about the batch with no prior offenses?"

"I've assigned them to the factory lines, as you instructed," Kyle nodded, "responsible for sorting, washing, pre-furnace mineral preparation, cooling, and molding—"

"Their movements are not yet fast, but they learn the rules very seriously. Probably because of your policy: 'those who perform well can gradually be released from slavery.'"

Lord Louis's voice was calm: "As long as they are willing to work, I don't care if they are slaves.

Red Tide Territory has already proven it; as long as the system holds up, these people are willing to endure hardship and work desperately for freedom. They are far superior to those free people who just drift through life."

Kyle paused, then asked softly: "You—do you really intend to release all of them?"

"Not release, but let them earn their way out themselves," Lord Louis said calmly, "I give them a path; whether they walk it is their business." With that, he patted Kyle's shoulder: "I'll head back to Red Tide Territory now; it's autumn harvest season, and they'll need me there too."

Kyle immediately looked up: "Lord Louis—this place has just begun, if you're not here—"

"It's already on track," Lord Louis raised a hand to interrupt him, "You follow my plan. After the second batch of equipment arrives, expand two lines and assign the new arrivals as reserve skilled workers.

Remember to report once a week, and tell me all problems via swiftwind bird; I will always reply."

Kyle was silent for a moment, then bowed and whispered: "Your subordinate—will not disappoint you."

Lord Louis said no more.

He took one last look towards the mining area.

In the distance, the pithead fires flickered, like a burning heart deep underground, hundreds of thousands of figures swarmed like ants, yet moved in orderly steps.

Heavy tracks hummed softly, mine carts rolled one after another towards the alchemy factory, piles of veinless stone fuel stacked like small mountains.

Sweat, heat, the sound of gears—at this moment, they formed the true pulse of Starforge Territory.

Then he turned, his cloak gently swaying in the wind.

At the end of the ramp, Sif, simply dressed, was waiting for him, holding a horse, a suppressed smile in her eyes, but she didn't urge him on.

The convoy behind her was already arrayed.

Several reinforced black iron boxes had been loaded into the middle carriages, personally sealed by Kyle.

Inside were several graded samples of intense vein stone, along with newly registered refining formulas and equipment parameter records.

Each item was not just a stone or paper, but Starforge Territory's most crucial "achievement list" from the past two months.

Nearby, nearly fifty knights were accompanying, all in light armor, ready to depart.

Lord Louis said nothing more, only glanced at the sky, then raised his hand as a signal.

A horn sounded, and the convoy turned onto the mountain path. In the dust raised by the tail of the procession, the pit towers and scaffolding of the Starforge mining area slowly appeared under the twilight.

The carriage gently bumped along the wide, smooth official road.

The windows on all sides were covered with soft curtains, blocking out the sunlight, yet one could still feel the sun rising outside.

When Lord Louis awoke on the padded couch in the carriage, the ceiling above him was carved with golden vine patterns, and the faint scent of fragrant wood mixed with saffron subtly wafted through the compartment.

This was no longer the simple carriage he had used before.

With the rapid development of Red Tide Territory, Lord Louis no longer adhered to his earlier strategy of "feigning poverty to be close to the people."

Noble status, in this world, was sometimes not a burden, but armor that had to be worn.

This carriage was built according to the standard of an "Earl's Touring Carriage" in the southern Empire, with widened shock-absorbing axles, seats upholstered in silver-wrapped leather, and even a small ventilation array on the roof and an independent cold-water tea cabinet.

It was both luxurious and practical, capable of traversing muddy roads and snowfields, and could also stop outside a noble's meeting hall without appearing the slightest bit shabby.

And beside him, Sif was nestled.

She was sleeping soundly at the moment, half her face buried in his arm, her breathing long and even.

Lord Louis shifted his shoulder slightly, careful not to wake her, and gently waved his finger in the air.

【Daily Intelligence Update Completed】