Lord of the Frozen Winter: Starting with Daily Intelligence Reports

On the eve of early spring, gray snow fell like rain across the desolate wilderness, a vast plain outside a canyon defense line north of the Empire.

At this moment, on this uninhabited snowfield, a fierce army was quietly completing its assembly.

Dark silhouettes circled in the sky.

These were not ordinary birds, but infected variant reconnaissance units—the Vine-Feathered Crows.

Their wings trailed tendrils as they circled silently in the air, the snow falling on them instantly shaken off, revealing gray-white, bone-like feathers.

From the ground came dull, heavy rumbles.

Those were drums, ritual war drums made from the bones of enemies, their sound muffled, like the labored breathing of some wild beast.

With each drumbeat, the massive army formation ahead surged forward by an inch, like an organic life form slowly breathing. The arrangement of this army was strict and eerie.

Standing at the very front were the wild and violent enslaved beast packs.

They were mutated Ice-Digging Apes, Icefield Wolves, Snowfield Boars...

These demonic beasts differed from ordinary ones; their skin was covered in intertwined vines, their eye sockets glowed with green phosphorescence, some had wooden vascular tubes embedded in their shoulders, others had vine thorns growing from their limbs, but all were fierce and deranged.

In the center was the largest contingent of mutated barbarian soldiers.

These barbarian warriors were no longer human in form; their exposed skin was covered in the patterns of “Scorching Pain Vines,” as if flames burned beneath their skin.

They wielded great axes and massive hammers, their pupils blood-red, their arms unnaturally swollen, a fury within them seemingly ready to explode at any moment.

On both flanks stood hundreds of Frost Giants.

Each was over four meters tall, with a deep purple floral crown mark carved into their foreheads, signifying their complete subjugation.

Behind them was the command and priestly corps, clad in gray cloaks.

They stood silently behind the drum formation, vines wrapped around their wrists, murmuring incantations.

And the towering sacrificial war platform, like a throne risen from hell, stood majestically upon the desolate snowfield.

It was constructed from stacked vines and white bones, resembling a temple built from the remains of sacrifices, both eerie and sacred.

Standing at the peak of this altar was Titus.

He wore a deep crimson cloak that reached his ankles, billowing in the wind like blood-red wings unfurled in the night.

His eyes were deep red, without visible pupils, as if the Scorching Pain Vine itself resided within them, shimmering with a certain light.

His right hand was bare, his wrist bones slender, and beneath his skin, tiny tendrils slowly writhed and crawled like parasites.

Yet he seemed oblivious, as if these things had long become a part of him.

Titus’s voice, initially a low murmur, echoed in the snow: “From tonight onwards—”

He slowly surveyed his surroundings, his gaze penetrating the snow curtain and the army formation, as if piercing through the very territory of the Empire.

“Let the northern border of the Empire become our garden!”

A silence fell over the entire field, followed by the roar of ten thousand soldiers.

It was not a uniform military shout, but a primal roar like wild beasts and raging winds.

Amidst this fervent emotion, the expedition ritual slowly began.

A vine altar stood in the center of the formation, woven from intertwined vines, its peak adorned with a “Rage Flower” not yet fully bloomed.

Its blood-red petals were slightly parted, as if awaiting some crimson catalyst—

Three mutated giant wolves knelt before the altar, their eyes blood-red, their breathing heavy.

The priest stepped forward, abruptly slit their throats, and columns of blood sprayed forth, their silent howls turning into gasps. The fresh blood flowed down the vine altar, seeping into the roots of the Rage Flower.

Moments later, the Rage Flower abruptly bloomed.

The entire flower slowly unfurled amidst violent pulsations, its core releasing rings of red light pulses, enveloping the entire formation like a heartbeat.

This was “Rage Sharing.”

It was a resonance mechanism among the infected, a ritual to initiate emotional synchronization and the spread of fury.

Wherever the red light reached, the barbarian army fell into a frenzy.

The barbarian soldiers in the front rows violently pounded their chests as if on fire, some even drawing short daggers to stab their own shoulders, backs, and arms, using the intense pain to ignite their enraged state, their faces flushed with blood, their eyes filled only with murderous intent.

Behind them, enslaved beasts roared as they burst from their cages. A Snowfield Bear knelt on its front paws, roaring skyward at Titus on the altar, then suddenly rose, thundering towards the front lines, vine thorns trailing behind it like whips.

The colossal Frost Giants also advanced slowly with the drumbeats, each step shaking the ground, cracking the ice, and causing vines to proliferate wildly.

This was not the deployment of an army; it was a terrifying awakening from hell.

Titus stood at the peak of the vine altar, silently observing it all.

He could no longer tell if he was conscious or lost at this moment.

The aura of the Rage Flower had long permeated his bones.

He could not resist, nor did he wish to resist.

As long as it brought him this endless power, he was willing to sink into it.

He slowly closed his eyes, then leaped down.

His cloak unfurled in the air like a blood curtain, landing on the shoulder of a Frost Giant. In the wind and snow, he stood like a king, becoming the core of the entire raging army.

The vine drums thundered, and war banners rose, their red flags emblazoned with an inverted Rage Flower and intertwined vine crown patterns, red as evening blood, flapping fiercely.

Titus raised his staff high, entirely wrapped in Scorching Pain Vines, its tip a Rage Flower opened like a malevolent eye.

He roared the command that shook the entire battle formation: “Let them tremble in fury!”

Immediately, the Frost Giants took the first steps, their vine-like legs crushing the icefield, cracks spreading like spiderwebs, the booming incessant.

Following closely were the stampeding enslaved beast packs, each stomp causing the snow to churn and vine thorns to pierce the ground, as if the entire snowfield had transformed into a fleshy organ of vines, writhing southward.

The sky gradually turned red, the snow continued, and red mist ascended.

A tide of blood and fire swept down from the north, like a raging flood of Rage Flowers.

The scene slowly zoomed out, revealing the figure in the red and black cloak, standing on the giant’s shoulder, his eyes burning, bathed in snow like a deity.

From this moment on, the northern border of the Empire would usher in its darkest spring.

As early spring arrived, the edges of the continuous snowfield began to loosen, ice and snow melted, and mountains revealed their mottled rock bones.

Deep within the valley, a babbling stream flowed over a stone bed eroded by ice and snow. Occasionally, remnants of ice from higher up would break and fall, their shattering sounds echoing eerily in the canyon, as if whispering a premonition.

This was the vital passage leading to the heartland of the Empire's northern border—the Windflame Canyon.

Along the valley path, a large-scale military camp was built according to the terrain.

Watchtowers stood tall, chevaux de frise were meticulously arranged, catapults and ballistas were properly distributed, and five fortresses formed a complete defensive line, with a main fortress at the center and two high towers on each flank, integrated with the mountainsides.

A regular army of nearly ten thousand, including about three thousand Formal Knights, along with artisans, archers, and beast-powered transport teams.

By all accounts, this should have been an impregnable defense line, but the atmosphere in the camp was far from as tense as its layout suggested.

Sentry patrols were mostly perfunctory, and guards often chatted in groups of two or three while on duty.

Knights leisurely sunned their armor and fed their horses outside the fortress, some even gathered to play dice and compete in drinking.

Inside the main fortress, nightly revelry continued, with incessant music and the pervasive scent of wine.

Rather than a defense line for «N.o.v.e.l.i.g.h.t» the Empire's northern border, it resembled a tourist attraction grown fat on comfort and military funds.

And the central figure of all this was the commanding general of the Seventh Legion.

Rudolph was tall and slender, always standing as straight as a pine, with a silver-rimmed monocle perched on his nose, paired with his deep purple military uniform and gold-embroidered epaulets.

From a distance, he looked more like a conductor of the Imperial Capital Symphony Orchestra than a military general.

He was a highly experienced high-ranking extraordinary Knight, from an old noble family, and in his youth, he was known as a battlefield artist.

Unfortunately, these reputations had now been replaced by decadence and extravagance.

At this moment, he was leaning back in a high-backed chair on the main fortress's terrace, a warm brazier beside him, a fine fur blanket covering his legs, and a cup of warm wine at hand.

Nearby, several dancers in light gauze skirts spun to the rhythm.

These dancers were specially brought from the Imperial Capital, and it was said that one of them had even performed in the Imperial Palace's noble hall. They were invited tonight specifically to celebrate the arrival of spring in the north.

Rudolph said slowly, “Slower, slower. We are not northern barbarian wild dogs who warm themselves by howling and dancing.”

He chuckled softly, his gaze occasionally drifting towards the canyon outside the fortress, his eyes filled only with lazy disdain.

“Northern barbarians?” He snorted, then turned to his adjutant with a laugh, “They should all have frozen to death in the winter, shouldn’t they?”

The adjutant, Serian, was also a young Knight of noble birth, his face still holding a youthful innocence.

He held a rolled-up secret letter, his expression slightly tense, as he stood in front of Rudolph and whispered a reminder:

“Sir, this is a secret report personally sent by Duke Edmund. He says there have been unusual movements among the northern barbarians and suggests immediately strengthening patrols in the valley. I think at least—”

“Enough.” Rudolph looked up, as if at a child: “Edmund, that old fossil, starts shouting ‘The barbarians are coming’ every spring.

He’s more annoying than a crow. How many letters has he sent this month? Has anything happened?”

Then he raised his wine cup and took a sip, jesting, “This secret report would make a perfect bookmark for me, quite fitting to tuck into ‘Secret Arts of the Palace.’”

The dancer also chuckled softly, whether in agreement or flattery, it was unclear.

Rudolph continued, “My dear Serian, you should learn to enjoy garrison life. It’s rare to have this snowscape, warm wine, and beautiful dancers—it’s just guarding a canyon, don’t be too tense. You see, it’s been peaceful all year, why be so serious?”

Serian opened his mouth, wanting to say more.

But he saw Rudolph lazily extend his hand, pulling a dancer into his embrace, his fingertips lightly tracing her chin, whispering teasingly.

Illuminated by the hearth fire, his smile was quite lewd.

The young adjutant finally just lowered his eyes, silently put away the secret report, and withdrew.

For the next half month, nothing happened, as if it truly was, as Rudolph had said, “peaceful.”

Soldiers lazily sunned their armor, fed their horses, and gambled with dice, occasionally even joking about “the northern barbarians coming.”

Until that evening.

The light was dim, the mist had not dispersed, when suddenly, a rapid hoofbeat sounded from below the terrace.

A Knight galloped in, his armor bearing scratches from the wind and snow, his face as pale as paper, his eyes filled with unbelievable terror.

He practically lunged into the main fortress gate, rushing to the terrace below Rudolph, screaming: “Report!! The barbarians! The barbarians are marching south!! They are 600 miles outside the canyon!”

Rudolph frowned and looked up, his wine cup trembling slightly.

Serian suddenly turned, quickly stepped forward, and grabbed the Knight’s shoulder: “How many people?!”

The Knight trembled all over, as if trying to make himself clear, but ultimately only managed to squeeze out a few words: “...endless stream.”

Fortunately, this time, Rudolph hadn’t drunk too much.

He merely paused for a few breaths, then abruptly rose, donned his cloak, his voice as sharp as winter iron: “All hands to battle stations, form ranks at the valley entrance, immediately!”

Windflame Canyon quickly entered a state of emergency.

War drums sounded, horns blared continuously, and the entire camp completed its defense deployment within a mere two hours.

Three thousand Formal Knights were dispatched to the valley entrance, forming a triple cavalry formation, armed with long spears and shields, distributed across the east, center, and west flanks.

Nearly ten thousand soldiers arrayed behind the cavalry formation, grouped and reorganized. Archer teams ascended the arrow towers and cliffs, while engineers urgently erected anti-charge spike arrays. Six “Demonblast Projectors” were deployed atop the cliffs on both sides, their circular tracks adjusted to aim at the valley exit.

Rudolph donned his armor, ascended the main fortress, and gazed at the rising dust in the distance, his eyes calming, regaining the old-fashioned, iron-blooded composure of an Imperial officer.

“I have three thousand Knights, ten thousand soldiers, and six Demonblast Projectors. The advantage is mine.”

He muttered to himself, his tone regaining its arrogance, even tinged with mockery, “Want to cross? Dream on.”

Windflame Canyon has been known since ancient times as “easy to defend, difficult to attack.”

Seventy years ago, three hundred Imperial Knights held off five thousand barbarian troops here for two days and nights, a battle still taught as a case study in the Imperial Capital’s military academy.

And as long as they held out, endless reinforcements would arrive.

He was the commander of the Imperial Seventh Legion, the main general of the Third Legion branch, a high-ranking extraordinary Knight. How could he lose?

But when the first wave of “vanguard troops” appeared, even the battle-hardened Rudolph couldn't help but hold his breath.

Amidst churning snow mist, dozens of five-meter-tall mutated beasts first burst out of the valley mist, their fangs exposed, their spines covered with writhing vines.

Then came hundreds of thousands of barbarian “cavalry,” not traditional light cavalry, but shock troops riding mutated beasts and half-vine parasitic mounts.

Their ranks spread like a beast tide, including swift two-meter-class predatory beasts, and seven to eight-meter-tall heavy assault beasts with bone spikes and floral vines growing from their shoulders and backs, crushing forward like living walls.

Circling high above were infected war eagles, “Vine-Feathered Crows,” with crimson vine tendrils hanging from their wings, emitting unsettling whistles.

Most shocking were the dozens of Frost Giants appearing on the mountain path on the flanks.

But these were different from ordinary Frost Giants; their bodies were more twisted, some arms mutated into vine-like tendrils, their bodies embedded with Rage Flower tumor nuclei, and pale floral crowns growing from their tops.

They advanced slowly, each step shaking the canyon.

The war banner had appeared, red with black vines, an inverted blooming Rage Flower at its center.

When the soldiers saw the mountain-like giants and beasts approaching, they involuntarily gasped, their weapons trembling slightly in their hands.

“They’re truly monsters,” Serian murmured.

But a faint smile appeared at the corner of Rudolph’s mouth; as a commander, he could not panic at this moment.

He slowly put on his gloves, raised his command flag, and shouted coldly: “Form ranks! Let’s see what these beasts are truly capable of!”