Lord of the Frozen Winter: Starting with Daily Intelligence Reports

On the fifth day, at dusk, the snowstorm had yet to arrive, but an unsettling chill spread through the valley, as if even the air had lowered its voice.

Deep within the camp, a few wisps of cooking smoke had just begun to rise, and the low murmurs of the scouts' reports echoed among ◆ Nоvеlіgһt ◆ (Only on Nоvеlіgһt) the rocks.

Visa squatted before a map behind a rock, frowning as she examined the updated border defense map.

"The sentry positions change slightly every day; we can't figure out the pattern, but it's definitely a planned adjustment," a scout muttered, chewing on dried meat.

"It's the best defensive setup I've seen in the Northern Territory," another veteran frowned.

Visa's expression grew more solemn; she could sense that the border defense here was more than just a simple defense.

That rhythm and layout were unlike the usual style of imperial lords; they were more like a frontier fortress system meticulously built by a highly professional military core during wartime.

This indicated that the master of this territory was no simple person.

She was about to speak when she suddenly heard a faint whooshing sound.

"Boom!"

A cloud of ice-blue smoke exploded at the valley entrance, and a fragrant potion rapidly diffused.

Visa had no time to react; her body suddenly went limp.

Immediately after, dozens of Red Tide knights suddenly appeared from both sides of the mountain path.

They charged silently, their coordination almost chillingly seamless.

Their tactics were clear, their coordination precise: one throwing bombs, one controlling the field, one capturing, like precise gears.

In just a few breaths, more than a dozen scouts had been hit and fell to the ground, rolling into the woods, unconscious.

Visa gritted her teeth, swinging her spear in counterattack, trying to protect the last few companions, her figure as swift as a snow fox.

But just as she unleashed a blow, she heard a soft sound behind her, and a subtle, cool scent wafted over her—another Magic Bomb exploded beside her.

She felt her knees go weak, her strength rapidly draining as if being sucked dry.

"Gurgle..."

The rocks, forest shadows, battle, and shouts before her blurred rapidly in violent shaking, as if the entire world was tearing apart.

Her last thought before collapsing was: We've been targeted for a long time.

The last scene before she lost consciousness was of the knights charging uniformly into the camp, their movements like mirror images, silently and seamlessly suppressing and disarming all surviving scouts.

The crisp clinking of metal, heavy breathing, and practiced footsteps intertwined.

Then, a descent into cold, dark nothingness.

Consciousness returned in a cold, damp air.

When Visa opened her eyes, the first thing she felt was not light, but the chill from her back—the stone wall pressed against her, rough and hard, damp with underground moisture.

A movement of her wrist immediately pulled out the sound of iron chains.

She was bound backward and fixed to the wall of the dungeon, her ankles also locked, with only a few steps of movement range.

She struggled to lift her head and found that it was a regularly constructed underground cell built of dark gray stone.

The iron door was heavy, and the crack was narrow, allowing only a faint glimmer of light to pass through.

This was the Red Tide Territory's dungeon.

It was not a crude temporary cage, but a standardized, long-term detention facility.

She could even smell the lingering stench of blood and rust on the walls.

Footsteps approached.

Steady, rhythmic, neither fast nor slow—the gait of a soldier trained for years.

The iron door opened.

Four guards in Red Tide standard armor filed in, followed by a man in a black official robe.

The interrogator, expressionless, walked up to Visa, wasting no words, his tone cold and direct: "Name, tribe, purpose of mission."

No one responded to him, so for the next few hours, the Red Tide Territory conducted the interrogation in a highly imperial manner.

They separated everyone.

Each interrogation room consisted of a chief interrogator, a recorder, and two guards.

The questions were almost identical, and every clue revealed by each person was quickly recorded, archived, and cross-referenced.

Even deliberate lies were quickly exposed through overlapping information.

Visa was left until last.

She sat in the black stone cell for most of the day, finally being led to another, relatively brighter interrogation room.

She was not tortured or humiliated, but simply escorted into a small interrogation room made of black stone, seated on a fixed iron chair, her hands bound by chains to the armrests.

Before her sat a middle-aged man in neat black clothes, with no superfluous expression on his face.

"Visa," he began, without honorifics, getting straight to the point, "Your comrades have admitted to being of barbarian descent and participating in unannounced border entry, constituting military espionage suspicion."

Visa's gaze was indifferent; she said nothing.

The other party stared at her and continued, "The feather-bone pendant on you is only worn by the old people of the Han Yue Tribe."

This sentence was like a small knife, cutting a line across her heart.

Visa remained silent, biting her teeth tightly.

The interrogator stared at her in silence for a long time, then expressionlessly closed the record file.

He stood up and walked to the table: "You won't talk, will you? Then listen carefully."

"We will pull out your fingernails, one by one. We will drill holes in your leg bones and pour ice water into them, letting you clearly hear the sound of your bone marrow freezing and cracking."

"We will burn your skin, little by little. Not to make you talk, but just to see when you start to cry."

He leaned closer, his voice extremely soft, but every word was like an awl: "Then we'll drag you into the snow, strip you naked, throw you in a snowdrift, not letting you die, freeze you for a few hours, then drag you back and continue questioning."

Then he stared intently into Visa's eyes, but her eyes showed no fear; instead, they glared back fiercely.

The interrogator straightened up, slowly putting his gloves back on: "I guarantee you will speak, it's just not time yet."

The iron door closed heavily, the lock bar clanked shut, emitting a dull thud as heavy as a tomb.

Visa huddled in the corner of the dungeon, her hand and foot shackles removed, replaced by something heavier—waiting.

Then, for some unknown reason, these people never appeared again; there was no torture, nor was she asked another word.

Days passed, silent, unlit, and without temperature, only the sound of dripping water from the high walls and occasional shouts from afar, as if the world outside this cell had also been sealed off.

She kept repeating one sentence: "I am the clan's blade. A blade does not betray."

But she also understood that this pride had, in a sense, become a joke.

In her team, someone must have already spoken.

It wasn't that they were weak; they were just young, and they didn't know what dignity was.

And Titus would not come to save them.

It wasn't that he hadn't come yet; it was that he simply would not come.

She wasn't stupid; Titus didn't need loyal subjects, but tools, and she was already useless.

"I'm probably still too naive."

She thought mockingly, slowly sitting down against the cold stone wall.

"The Han Yue Tribe is long gone. Who am I preserving this purity for?"

But that trace of pride still gnawed at her heart, like the last ember not yet buried by ice and snow.

Therefore, she would rather rot in this dungeon than let those high and mighty imperials extract a single piece of information about her clansmen from her.

Even though she now pledged allegiance to Frostflame, even though Titus had abandoned her,

She still tightly clutched the blood-stained, tattered fragment of the Han Yue arm badge hidden in her clothing seam.

Sif paused slightly at the end of the stone steps.

The dungeon was cold and damp, with black mold growing in the wall cracks, and a chill crept inch by inch from the bluestone floor into her bones.

Her heart was beating a little fast, but she did not retreat.

Soon after returning to Red Tide Territory, Louis told her: "We captured a team of barbarian scouts; they were operating in the canyons of Red Tide Territory—they are from the Han Yue Clan."

Sif was originally silent.

Until Louis softly added, "Do you want to see them?"

She hesitated for a moment, then nodded.

She wanted to know the truth; she wanted to know who had betrayed her father, and who had killed her brothers and mother in the flames.

At the end of the corridor was a heavy iron door, from within which came faint sounds of breathing.

A guard pushed the door open for her.

Sif was somewhat surprised; she recognized this person, and even remembered her name was Visa, the female warrior who had once wielded a spear to protect her in her youth.

But today, she was disheveled, thin, and huddled in the corner, covered in dirt and exhaustion.

The other party also looked up.

Their eyes met, and time seemed to freeze for a moment.

"...It's you." Visa's voice was hoarse, her eyes filled with undisguised shock and complexity.

Sif stood by the door, motionless for a long time.

She had imagined countless times what a reunion with the remnants of her old tribe would be like: roaring? Accusations? Silence? Or complete estrangement?

But at this moment, she just quietly looked at the warrior who had once shed blood for Han Yue.

Visa struggled to stand up, still retaining the stiff demeanor of a barbarian soldier.

"Why are you here? Did you betray us?" Visa's throat tightened, her voice hoarse.

That question ignited the emotions Sif had suppressed for so long, like a spark.

Those images flashed in her mind: her father's blood on his chest, her mother's cries, her brothers falling—

She stood ramrod straight, her fists almost white, her voice filled with anger: "Was it I who betrayed?

Did I kill my father? Kill my mother? My brothers and sisters buried one by one in the snow, was it I who betrayed them?"

The air froze instantly.

"Oh, right—" She gave a cold laugh, her eyes like knives, "There is no Han Yue Tribe anymore. Tell me, what do you pledge allegiance to now? Are you still worthy of the oath you once swore?"

As the words fell, Visa seemed to be struck by a heavy blow, choking suddenly, opening her mouth, but unable to utter a single word.

Her body was taut, her eyes blank, something caught in her throat, and she finally could only lower her head, like a puppet with its skeleton torn apart.

Silence, like frost, froze in the air of the dungeon.

After a long time, Sif finally asked in a low voice, "Do you know who poisoned the banquet and killed my father?"

Visa bit her lip, hesitated for a moment, then still whispered: "...Everyone said it was Lord Titus. But—there's no direct evidence. It's just that after that, things kept happening, and finally Han Yue became 'Frostflame'."

"Titus?" Sif was stunned.

The gentle yet always slightly distant face flashed in her mind.

Her cousin, Titus, who had held her on horseback and taught her archery when she was young.

She had suspected him before. But when the truth was laid out before her, she was still stunned.

Not because of shock, but because it made too much sense.

"Are you sure?"

Visa shook her head: "...No evidence. But at that time, he was the one who led troops to clear the royal tent, and he was also the one who, months later, renamed Han Yue to Frostflame."

A sharp pang of pain rose in Sif's heart, but she did not show it.

She just stood straighter, her voice dropping: "Tell me what you know—everything about Frostflame."

Visa seemed to suddenly lose her connection.

She had been fearless during the Red Tide interrogator's questioning, but facing Sif now, she was completely like a kite with a broken string.

She poured out everything she knew, one thing after another: 𝓯𝓻𝒆𝙚𝒘𝓮𝙗𝓷𝒐𝓿𝙚𝒍.𝙘𝓸𝙢

From Frostflame's border supplies to the scout lines Titus had set up in the north, from the hidden conflicts between barbarian tribes to how the war with the Shattered Axe Tribe was conducted—

She spoke faster and faster, more and more chaotically, as if her long-suppressed emotions had completely collapsed, pouring out everything she knew in one go.

There was no longer the resistance to the interrogator in the dungeon, no longer that barbarian warrior's integrity.

Sif listened, without saying an extra word.

She just quietly ordered, "Close the door."

The iron door slammed shut, and the heavy clanking of the lock echoed in the corridor, the reverberations lingering.

Visa still sat in the corner.

She hugged her knees tightly, her face buried in her arms, as if her entire being had collapsed.

Former oaths, battle flags, glory—all seemed to have become a silent joke.

The night was deep, and the Red Tide Tower was dimly lit.

Sif walked up to the government hall, the echo of her boots on the corridor floor clear and cold.

She did not knock, but simply pushed the door open.

Louis was hunched over, organizing some blueprints. Hearing the door, he looked up at her, raising an eyebrow, seemingly having noticed the unusual expression on her face.

"What did they say?" he asked, his voice steady.

Sif did not answer, just walked silently forward.

She stood before his desk for a few seconds, her expression as hard as a stone statue, but the next moment, the emotions buried for too long finally collapsed.

She spoke softly: "It's Titus, it's him—they all say he killed my father."

Her voice was as thin as a needle, yet it carried an extremely suppressed sob.

"He's my older brother, the person I trusted most since childhood. He even taught me archery. When my father died, he was still by my side. How could he—" She suddenly sat down in a chair, burying her face in her palms.

"I stayed here, I got back on my feet, I even—thought I no longer hated.

But I can't lie to myself, I haven't let go at all.

They say I betrayed Han Yue, but Han Yue is long gone!"

She was almost out of control, tears silently streaming down, dripping onto the delicate metal clasp on her chest, gradually blurring her long-suppressed stubbornness.

Louis didn't say an extra word, gently pulling her onto his lap, letting her lean closer, his palm lightly stroking her back.

In that moment, she did not resist.

She leaned in his arms, as if she finally didn't have to face all of this alone.

The heavy betrayal, the hatred of tribal annihilation, the tearing and guilt within her blood, all like a tide, slowly engulfed her in this quiet office.

"You've done very well," Louis said softly.

Sif did not respond, only buried her face deeper into his shoulder, like a child finally allowed to be weak.

After a long silence, Louis softly said, "Go back and get some sleep first. As for what comes next—we'll deal with it slowly."

Sif nodded gently, her eyes red, stood up, looked at Louis, then turned and walked out of the office.

The door closed, so quietly as if nothing had happened.

Soon after, an official holding a black leather folder pushed the door open and placed a sealed document on the long table in front of Louis.

"Transcript of Miss Sif's conversation with the scout leader Visa," he bowed slightly.

Louis nodded. After the man left, he broke the seal and opened the thick record book.

The handwriting was neat, the sentences precise; the recorder had almost verbatim transcribed the emotionally suppressed but information-dense conversation.

He quickly scanned each line of content, the lines on his brow deepening with several key phrases.

This conversation between Visa and Sif was almost brutally direct, with no concealment and almost no misleading information.

Combined with the recent clues from his Daily Intelligence System regarding the Frostflame Tribe, this testimony could almost certainly be deemed highly credible.

"Titus..." He murmured the name, his fingertip lightly tapping the edge of the paper.

As a member of the former Han Yue bloodline, he quickly rose to power after Han Yue's demise, annexing old units, reorganizing the system under the banner of Frostflame, acting cleanly and decisively, without any hesitation.

Coupled with the mysterious power of the Burning Thorn Vine Court, it was indeed very tricky.

Louis slowly closed the intelligence report, let out a soft breath, stood up, and walked to the window, gazing far out at the endless snowfield in the night beyond the city walls.

For some reason, he had a clear premonition: a direct confrontation with Titus was not far off.

And he would settle this blood debt, one by one, for Sif and for himself.