Lord of the Frozen Winter: Starting with Daily Intelligence Reports

Winter was approaching.

The first full year after the Brood War was also coming to an end.

And Duke Edmund, still retaining the traditions of his old era, would convene a Northern Conference before late autumn ended and the snow season began. Only this year, the location of the conference was no longer the magnificent, majestic, and cold-resistant Frost Halberd City of memory.

That city was dead.

After the entire city had been repeatedly devoured, gnawed, and burrowed through by the insect plague, it had long since become like the colossal corpse of a recently deceased creature.

Streets had collapsed, eaves had caved in, wells had dried up, and some even oozed a black, viscous liquid that no one dared approach anymore.

It wasn't a city; it was a graveyard.

The words “Frost Halberd City” remaining on the map were merely a nominal title.

The true new city was built two miles northwest of the old city, leaning against a mountain and hills, a temporary site.

It was called “New Frost Halberd,” but it looked more like a makeshift shelter constructed from grey bricks, planks, and salvaged materials; every brick and tile here seemed hastily and poorly put together.

Even so, the Duke insisted on naming it “Frost Halberd City.”

Because in his view, if even the name was lost, then the North would truly have no framework left.

But the reconstruction of New Frost Halberd City was not yet complete, not even “formed”; it was merely a rough framework built along the terrain.

Only the core administrative hall, command tower, and barracks, three main buildings, had begun to take shape, while the other areas were constructed with a large number of prefabricated wooden houses, temporary board walls, and simple roofs.

Walking into the streets, unplastered grey bricks were visible everywhere, eaves were low, drainage gutters were temporarily fixed, and the dampness had not yet dissipated.

People had moved in, and the houses seemed crowded.

During the day, the sounds of sawing wood and hammering nails rose and fell, while at night, the crackling of hearth fires came from house after house.

Children ran in the mud, women hung out wet clothes, and soldiers exchanged a few casual words with street vendors during patrols.

Soldiers jokingly called this place “Canvas Fortress,” while commoners privately referred to it as “Winterfell Camp.”

But the Duke consistently insisted on one name: “It is Frost Halberd. We will not abandon this name, just as we should not abandon this frozen land.”

This was also one of the reasons he insisted on holding a “Frost Halberd Conference” before winter.

The venue for the conference was the new Governor's Mansion in Frost Halberd City, which was actually just a hastily renovated abandoned fortress.

But after the fall of Old Frost Halberd City, it became the last meeting place for the entire North.

The nobles of the North had always paid little attention to pomp, especially after the Brood War; they were more concerned with whether there was enough firewood and whether the guards were well-fed. But even so, for this conference, they still dressed up a little.

The dome of the conference hall was painted dark grey, and a single curtain was hung. The wooden podium and long tables had been polished and repainted, and a few oil lamps struggled to cast a warm glow.

It couldn't be called solemn, nor comfortable, but compared to holding discussions in a tent, it was considered “decent.”

This was an internal high-level meeting of the Edmund Family.

Only those who truly held real power, possessed the bloodline of the Edmund Family, or could still barely maintain order in a region after the insect plague were allowed to attend.

Not just anyone could come, and even Louis, the Red Tide Lord, who was currently at the height of his power, was not on the list.

There was no whispering, no unnecessary pleasantries; the conference hall was silent and oppressive for a time.

Most of them understood how much power Duke Edmund truly had left.

And how difficult the past year had been for the old nobility of the entire North.

The expressions of those around the table varied, shrouded in fatigue; a year of wind and snow, a year of decaying corpses, a year of insect plague, all seemed etched into their eyes.

The door was pushed open from the outside at that moment.

It was a burly man in a black and red cloak.

His appearance seemed to make the air in the entire hall a little heavier.

Beneath the cloak was a simple yet heavy military uniform, with golden dragon emblems inlaid on the epaulets, and an Imperial Shield badge pinned prominently on his chest.

He was Duke Edmund, one of the most prestigious generals in the entire Northern Empire.

Although time had etched some wrinkles on his face and his temples were streaked with grey, his physique remained as sturdy as iron.

He didn't look like an old man, but more like a cast-iron statue that had walked out of an ancient battlefield.

However, even the most composed face could not hide the occasional flashes of weariness in his eyes.

It was not the unhealthy state of old age, but a deep fatigue from mental exhaustion.

Like a giant who once supported mountains, now still struggling, but faint cracks had begun to appear deep within his bones.

Edmund walked to the main seat, paused slightly, and looked up, sweeping his gaze across everyone, bringing an invisible pressure that made people straighten their backs involuntarily. “No pleasantries,” he said as he sat down, resting one palm on the edge of the table. “Let's get straight to the recent situation.”

Secretary Cavell opened the leather ledger, without preamble, and stated directly: “As of this winter, the total population of the North is less than one-fifth of what it was before the insect plague.”

No one in the hall was surprised, but a few vassal representatives still lowered their heads and sighed.

“The existing population is mainly concentrated in several areas that ‘can still maintain autonomy and order,’ such as New Frost Halberd, Silver Bay Valley, and Red Tide Territory.

In addition, newly arrived pioneering nobles from the south have brought in many displaced people and slaves. Although this helps, the overall situation is far from what it used to be.”

He turned a page and continued: “Regarding total food supplies: Six hundred and fifty carts of relief grain from the Imperial Capital, two-thirds of which are under our control for allocation. The rest are supervised by Imperial military inspectors and foreign envoys, allocated to their respective regions.”

“This year's autumn harvest was not ideal,” he said briefly, but clearly enough. “Too little land was cultivated, and much land remains severely barren. The people who could farm either died or are recovering from injuries. The farmers who can work the land don't even have enough plows.”

Silence fell in the hall for a moment.

“—Furthermore, from Red Tide Territory—Viscount Calvin sent five thousand tons of green wheat. It was transferred to the storage hall via the West Bank Corridor yesterday.” Everyone in the hall was startled.

“Five thousand tons?”

“At this time, who else can produce five thousand tons of surplus grain?” Earl Haig frowned, his voice incredulous.

“Is it ‘sent’?” someone asked in a low voice. “Not a trade, not a loan?”

Cavell nodded, his voice calm: “It is indeed a supply. No price was listed. According to the letter, it was ‘voluntarily given’ by Louis.”

Everyone looked at Duke Edmund, who was seated at the head of the table, in unison.

The Duke merely nodded silently, his face showing no obvious ripples, but his eyes were slightly lowered, as if suppressing some complex emotion.

Of course, he knew about this matter, even earlier than everyone present.

The night before the grain carts departed, Louis had personally sent him a letter, saying that this year's harvest was abundant and he was sending him some grain.

And less than three days after that letter, his youngest daughter, Emily, also sent him a family letter from Red Tide Territory.

The content was still understated: “Father, this year's harvest is much better than expected. Louis and I agreed that we don't need our share of the imperial supplies this time; we can even send some over.”

And the so-called “some” was five thousand tons of green wheat.

Duke Edmund shook his head, a faint, almost imperceptible smile appearing at the corner of his mouth, like a long-awaited comfort in a prolonged snowstorm.

“...This is one good piece of news among the recent string of bad ones,” he thought.

Seeing that he made no comment, the meeting continued.

“And coal?” a vassal noble in the corner asked in a low voice.

Cavell nodded in response and continued to read: “Current coal reserves are less than forty percent. Priority allocation will be sent to city defense outposts, command halls,

noble districts, and key shelters. Most ordinary residents rely on rotten wood for heating.”

He turned to the next page, his tone growing heavier: “In terms of medicine, reserves are also critical, and multiple areas have reported the spread of small epidemics.

Imperial Capital relief medicine is about to run out. So we must—prepare to face the double overlay of severe cold and epidemic.”

No one spoke immediately.

These important figures lowered their heads in silence, their faces filled with helplessness and exhaustion.

And Duke Edmund, on the high seat, merely closed his eyes slightly.

He already knew all these situations.

His desk was covered with more reports than this, each page with frozen, brittle corners and cracked handwriting.

“There really is no better way,” Cavell finally spoke.

He scanned the crowd and presented his plan: “My suggestion is to fully implement a population consolidation plan before the official snowfall this winter.”

He opened a new form, pointing to several marked areas: “Transfer the populace as much as possible to ‘core shelter zones,’ for centralized heating and centralized coal distribution.

Food allocation standards will remain at Level Three, with military and government personnel prioritized, and commoners limited to porridge. This is all we can do at this stage.”

He closed the booklet and looked at the person on the high seat: “At least we can avoid large-scale deaths from freezing and starvation.”

When his words fell, the hall remained silent.

Because everyone knew that this was indeed the most stable way to survive at present.

Edmund did not respond immediately. He merely let out a deep breath, as if slowly releasing the accumulated cold of the entire winter from his chest: “Let it be so.”

As soon as Cavell sat down, the hall fell into a brief silence.

At this moment, a grey-haired noble near the north side of the round table spoke in a deep voice: “How many ✧ NоvеIight ✧ (Original source) people can we still rally now?”

There was no challenge in his tone, just a dry question. Everyone wanted to know the answer, but no one wanted to voice it.

Cavell hesitated for a moment, then finally opened a document:

“...There were sixty-three original Northern vassals,” he said in a low voice. “As of this winter, only twenty-three can still mobilize effective troops.”

“The rest either had their entire families fall in the insect plague, or they simply lost contact, went missing—or even outright defected to other forces.”

Everyone's expressions varied, and many frowned deeply.

“The Northern noble system is fracturing,” Cavell added. “We can no longer rely on hierarchical directives to organize defenses and material allocation as we used to.”

“And this, can it even be called ‘nobility’?” a young general couldn't help but sneer softly.

Just then, General Barrett spoke: “Furthermore, after the insect plague subsided, the Imperial Military Affairs Department, under the guise of ‘security patrols,’ forcibly stationed three temporary Knight Orders, taking over several important strongholds on the old southern line.”

“They are entrenched in Old Iron Hill, Serene Pass, and Silverpine Ridge. Nominally, they obey orders, but in reality—they act independently,” he said slowly, but every word was like a hammer. “Some local soldiers have had conflicts with them at the border.”

He concluded coldly: “They are not here to defend the North; they are here to seize power and territory.”

The air in the hall seemed to solidify.

At this point, Edmund finally spoke slowly: “These are minor issues. The most important thing is the barbarian forces outside. The last five scout cavalry sent out have not returned. I have a very bad feeling.”

He turned to Barrett: “Starting tomorrow, dispatch thirty Elite Knights, divided into six routes. Go directly to the barbarian territories to scout.”

“Tell them,” he said, word by word, “even if only one person remains—they must bring back news.”

His voice was not loud, but it sent a shiver down everyone's spine in the hall.

No one spoke again.

Because they all knew that if the barbarians took advantage of the chaos to move south, the already fragile Northern Empire would fall into an unprecedented crisis.

The latter half of the meeting also discussed several secondary topics, such as a recent letter from the Ministry of Finance proposing that the Imperial Capital establish a special commissioner to supervise the next round of disaster relief grain distribution, which caused dissatisfaction among several noble representatives.

In addition, multiple new noble troops from the south had entered the North, and there were frequent frictions with local old nobles over garrison divisions and material allocation, leading to increasingly tense situations.

And other relatively less important topics.

These topics sparked some disagreements, but Duke Edmund remained silent, just listening quietly until the meeting officially concluded.

By the time the meeting ended, it was completely dark.

Lanterns were lit one by one on the command tower of New Frost Halberd City, and wind and snow swept over the temporary wooden eaves, rolling cold air along the flagstone streets.

Everyone gradually left, some whispering softly, others with complex expressions.

And Duke Edmund simply stood up from the high-backed chair, nodded in acknowledgment, and slowly departed.

The meeting did resolve some immediate problems; allocation plans were finalized, patrol plans were advanced, and even the deployment of troops from some vassal nobles received principled approval.

But these were like patching up a sinking ship, and no one knew how long it could stay afloat.

And he, more than anyone, knew that the bottom of that ship was already riddled with cracks.

Duke Edmund returned to the back of the Governor's Mansion.

He didn't go to his study first, nor did he change out of his heavy armor. Instead, he directly pushed open the door of the warm room on the west side.

Inside, Duchess Elena was sitting on a low couch, gently coaxing the infant in her arms.

She heard footsteps, looked up, and showed a faint smile: “You're back quite early.”

Edmund didn't speak. He just walked over, sat beside her, and reached out to take the child from her arms.

The child was sleeping soundly, a bit of dried milk stain still on his lips, his small fists curled against his chest, soft as a ball of cotton.

Edmund looked down at him, his rough knuckles gently touching the child's forehead.

He smiled, a rare gentle expression.

But the smile lasted only a moment before quietly fading into the deep grey in his eyes.

Elena leaned against him and sat down: “You walked with your back straight when you left today—now it's slumped again.”

He didn't respond, just slowly exhaled.

The final battle of the Brood War, those monsters nearly took his life, and combined with his old injuries, he knew his time was limited.

Perhaps a few years, perhaps even less.

But he couldn't bear to fall.

He looked at the child in his arms, that small life unaware of the dangers of the world, his flesh and blood, the next generation of the family.

He also saw Elena's tired yet still gentle eyes.

And that unfinished city in the wind and snow, hundreds of thousands of broken yet unyielding commoners, the pervasive cold wind, ruins, and wails...

He couldn't fall yet.

He had to drag himself forward, even if it was just one more step, bleeding all the way.

“Just hold on for a few more years,” he whispered, as if to himself. “If I'm not here, what will happen to them?”