Lord of the Frozen Winter: Starting with Daily Intelligence Reports

The aura of a mountain of corpses and a sea of blood surged through the valley, fire and gore mingling, congealing into a complete hell.

The bodies of five thousand barbarian knights lay strewn in mud and blood, the remains of giant demonic beasts crushing the surrounding rocks, and charred sinews and bones still emitted lingering smoke.

The Red Mist had not fully dispersed yet, thick like stirred old blood, shimmering with an eerie dark red in the light.

But the knights of Red Tide Territory steadily moved through it, their faces adorned with transparent masks encased in silver frames.

The edges of the masks were inlaid with patterns of a pale blue luster, which was a viscous medicinal agent extracted from Frostleaf Vine, slowly releasing into a fine misty curtain with the knight's breath, isolating all mental interference.

Through the masks, their eyes were clear and focused, showing no signs of being swayed by the Red Mist, their movements decisive.

The remaining out-of-control barbarian remnants were directly stabbed down, and Fire Oil was poured from bottles onto the piles of corpses, instantly igniting with a piercing crackle.

Flames leaped onto flesh and blood like wild beasts, devouring, carbonizing, turning into ash.

Vines and flesh flowers twitched and retracted in the fierce flames, and the moment their petals turned to ash, a nauseatingly sweet charred smell wafted through the air.

A knight bent down, their blade picking up a section of dark red vine that hadn't been burned, and a few flower centers that still retained a faint glow.

They were carefully placed into a medicinal jar wrapped in cold iron, sealed shut, and handed to the knight behind him.

Alchemists would dissect these items in the Red Tide City laboratory, attempting to understand their origins and weaknesses.

The fierce flames still burned, their light reflecting on the knights' silver armor, like a column of cold iron statues slowly advancing.

Louis stood on the scorched earth, his gaze penetrating the lingering Red Mist, falling upon the charred remains.

He did not consider this an easy victory.

If he hadn't known days in advance that this barbarian tribe would pass through here and meticulously set up traps, they might have already silently reached the outskirts of Red Tide City.

Even so, the cost of this battle still made his heart subtly clench:

Four steel beasts were destroyed, over thirty knights died in battle, several chariots were crushed in the onslaught of vines and demonic beasts, and nearly a third of the magic explosion reserves were consumed.

And these dead barbarians were merely the tip of the iceberg of the southern army, not even one-tenth of their total forces.

If forces of this scale could repeatedly break through the defenses, then the true disaster had yet to arrive.

The barbarians' push south might be even more terrifying than he had previously imagined.

“I hope this land—can truly endure,” he murmured softly.

Next, he must unite with the nobles in the Southeast to first clear out the surrounding barbarian invaders, ensure the safety of his own territory, and then consider whether to support other front lines.

At least until Duke Edmund's conscription, or until the Daily Intelligence System indicated a turning point in the war and he could take advantage of it, he would not rashly deploy his main forces.

Furthermore, this battle also made him realize the shortcomings of his own weapons.

For example, the design of the steel beast, pulled by Steel Mad Bulls, was indeed incredibly powerful on the battlefield, but it lacked flexibility and safety.

As long as the enemy precisely killed the pulling Mad Bulls, the massive steel beast would immediately become an iron coffin in place.

If this problem wasn't resolved, the next losses would likely be even more severe, so it seemed necessary to accelerate the development of fuel engines.

Louis withdrew his gaze, turning silently to leave.

Flames burned behind him, dyeing the night sky deep red; this was but a small victory in the long war throughout the Northern Territory.

Asta had only arrived in the Northern Territory a year ago.

But with the resources allocated by the royal family and the guidance of his mentor Seifer, he rebuilt this long-abandoned border town in Frost River Valley.

He raised the Silver Dragon banner, set up camps, and made this his seat of governance, once thinking this would be the starting point for his establishment in the Northern Territory.

Until two days ago, that barbarian army shattered everything.

They crossed the Ice Crack Gorge, which the Northern Territory people called “impassable,” surging directly into the heart of Frost River Valley like a black tide.

The outposts sent no warnings, and not a single scout team returned.

When the intelligence reached Asta, the enemy was only half a day away from the town.

He relied on the outer un-stoned defensive line, attempting to hold fast.

In the snowstorm, spears bristled, crossbows were drawn taut, and fires emitted faint warm light, the battle line like an isolated black fence in the white wilderness.

But soon, the first monster charged out.

It was a barbarian warrior with a bloated body and dark red vine veins bulging beneath his skin; the parasitic Blazing Pain Vine constantly twitched within his flesh.

It was like a living thing thirstily drinking blood.

Even when a javelin pierced his shoulder bone, he still roared forward, smashing through the fence, tearing open the defenders' breastplates like soaked parchment, hot blood spraying a crimson arc onto the snow.

Then more figures surged forward.

Crossbow bolts struck their chests and necks, only making them more frantic like stimulated beasts, their roars shaking eardrums painfully in the snowstorm.

In the snow mist on the horizon, several colossal dark figures slowly emerged.

These were five-meter-tall giants, their skin covered in vine armor, wielding massive stone axes capable of splitting roofs.

Each swing was accompanied by the sound of splintering wood walls and shattering human bones.

Further away, the screeching of demonic beasts pierced through the snowstorm.

A thick-armored Skull-Splitting Rhino charged directly into the crowd, tossing an entire row of soldiers like straw.

The parasitic vines wrapped around its back still flung thorns as it stampeded, raining down on the defenders' rear ranks.

In the sky, several bone-winged carrion crows circled low, diving down to peck out the eyes of struggling individuals with their beaks.

Alchemical firearms frequently jammed in the extreme cold and wet snow, gunpowder damp and unable to ignite.

Oil jars were thrown, only to be caught by the enemy with living vines and flung back.

Flames immediately consumed a °• N 𝑜 v 𝑒 l i g h t •° section of the wooden wall, and the defending soldiers screamed and fell in the firelight.

In less than an hour, the defense line was completely torn open.

The barbarians rushed into the town, their long axes chopping down wooden houses, and vines suddenly burst from the ground like poisonous snakes, climbing walls and rooftops, tearing entire houses down by their roots.

In the chaos of blizzard and flames, Asta watched his town slowly being ground into ruins.

It was no longer a battle, but an unstoppable slaughter.

Within two days, eight villages and towns on the outskirts of Frost River Valley successively fell.

Fires surged in the night and blizzard, reflecting off burnt beams and collapsed stone houses.

On the snow, charred wheat rolled, originally stored in granaries, now carried by the wind into the sky with a choking burnt smell.

Dried meat and pickled fish burst in the fierce flames, grease flowing down the granary steps, mixing with melted snow to form a foul-smelling brown stream.

Winter blankets, leather boots, and thick robes were dragged out of houses by barbarians, some thrown directly into bonfires, others trampled into mud and snow, then crushed by spiked boot soles.

They were not plundering, but rather erasing all conditions that would allow people to survive.

A retreat route? None existed.

The valley entrance had already been trapped, a barrier woven from living roots and black vines, with roots as thick as stone pillars intertwined.

A knight attempting to break out had just cut through a few tendrils when he was entangled by recoiling branches around his legs, instantly dragged back into the snow.

His scream echoed urgently in the snow mist, then was swallowed by the crisp sound of his throat bone being broken by the vine.

Of the original two thousand troops, only half remained.

Engineers, alchemists, construction craftsmen—these valuable technical personnel were almost completely wiped out.

The former wooden and stone fortifications, winter shelters, and neat streets were now all scorched earth.

Asta's achievements in governance, accumulated over more than a year, were completely erased by this snowstorm and fire; not even a clean patch of snow could be found, the ground was either blood, ash, or trampled corpses.

The wooden beams of the council hall groaned with a low crackling sound from the heat of the flames, the roof threatening to collapse at any moment.

Asta gripped his sword, stained with blood and snow, surrounded by his twenty-nine close guard knights.

Heavy footsteps and the rustling of vines came from the entrance; barbarian warriors, several times their number, were approaching, the air filled with the mixed scent of burning wood and flesh.

The next moment, the heavy wooden door was violently smashed open.

Wind and snow poured in, followed by a force of nearly a hundred Silver Dragon Knights.

They were clad in half-frozen armor, their shoulders and arms covered in battle damage and wounds, their long spears glinting with sharp cold light in the snow mist and firelight.

“Cover His Highness!” someone roared.

Long spears and blades thrust out simultaneously, the first row of barbarian warriors impaled directly onto the burning beams.

The narrowness of the battlefield meant every swing was accompanied by splintering wood, and vines writhed on the ground, emitting sharp crackling sounds when ignited by oil.

Asta, escorted by his guards, rushed out of the ruins, flames exploding behind him, illuminating the silhouette of a giant in the snow mist.

That colossal figure swung a bone great-hammer, striking down three covering knights; their armor plates and blood splattered onto the snow, quickly becoming buried.

Members of the rescue team continuously fell under the pincer attack of barbarians and parasitic vines.

Of the original hundred-plus knights, only fifty remained when they successfully broke through, their armor riddled with cracks and ice.

Asta looked back; that was the Frost River Valley territory he had personally established, now only flames, thick smoke, and charred ash carried by the wind remained.

And his remaining military strength was less than a third.

When he led the remaining guards through the gates of New Frost Halberd City, only the survivors who had crawled out of the ruins remained.

In the Frost Halberd City war council hall, the heavy doors and windows were sealed, leaving only flickering yellow oil lamps casting faint light, illuminating every weary and tense face.

Battle reports arrived by swift wind birds, landing on the long table, hastily opened and read aloud by the attendant.

And almost every one was bad news.

“The Northwest defense line was raided by barbarians at dawn; the enemy broke through the southern gap of Winterfort Ridge, the defenders suffered seventy percent losses, and Earl Hill died in battle.

The remnants of the Third Legion retreated south to the south of Stone Hammer River; the enemy did not pursue, suspected of a larger deployment.

To the Northeast, four cities lost contact; knights sent out failed to return, suspected complete annihilation of the cities—

As the last words were read, a heavy silence fell over the hall, broken only by the low hum of wind and snow beating against the city walls.

Just as the meeting grew increasingly silent, Duke Edmund signaled the attendant to convey another letter, sent by Louis.

As the letter unfolded, a strong scent of ink faintly wafted under the oil lamps, and the intelligence officer slowly read aloud:

“...Red Tide Territory knights, one-quarter losses—annihilated five thousand barbarian knights.”

In an instant, the entire council hall seemed to freeze.

Everyone paused, then collectively raised their heads, their gazes shifting from the letter to the Duke, then exchanging glances of disbelief.

In the past few days, all they had received were reports of defeats and fallings.

Defense lines collapsing, towns falling, knight orders being annihilated—

Almost every battle report was proof of the Northern Territory bleeding inch by inch.

And now, suddenly, someone in this desperate situation had routed a full five thousand barbarian knights.

“...How is that possible?” an old general with gray hair murmured softly, as if afraid his words would awaken a beautiful dream.

“That’s five thousand!” a count barely dared to breathe, “And it’s Red Tide Territory, Viscount Calvin’s troop size—”

He didn't continue, but everyone present knew that the standing army there was simply insufficient to directly clash with the main barbarian forces. A noble frowned suspiciously: “Could it be an exaggeration?”

Asta had also been silent: “How—how did he do it?”

The intelligence officer flipped through the copied report in his hand, his voice hoarse: “According to multiple investigations, this number should be true, but the specific battle damage has not yet been fully ascertained.”

Duke Edmund pondered for a moment, then said softly: “Louis is a genius of war. If he truly cut down five thousand barbarians, that is a remarkable achievement.

But I suspect he understated his own losses. More likely, it’s to reassure us.”

However, Louis had actually intentionally exaggerated the battle losses to prevent the loss ratio from being too extreme; in reality, only a little over thirty people had died.

At the end of the letter was a brief suggestion: those monsters are driven by rage, and one could try using mental weapons or spells to interrupt their berserk state.

Edmund sighed, then instructed the attendant: “Reply, tell Louis to continue holding the Southeast defense line of the Northern Territory.”

The subsequent discussion quickly devolved into arguments.

Some advocated dividing forces to rescue the vassal cities in the Northeast, to prevent the barbarians from further expanding their encirclement; others insisted on holding existing fortresses and waiting for imperial reinforcements.

Still others proposed a direct retreat to the Northern Territory, to preserve the nobility and core forces.

But this proposal, once made, drew fierce reprimands and ridicule.

“We can’t wait for reinforcements!” an old general slammed the map, “At this rate, the entire Northern Territory will be nothing but scorched earth!”

“What we need is a counterattack, not to cower!” another young viscount almost drew his sword and slammed the table.

“Counterattack? With what will you counterattack?!”

The shouts rose and fell, it seemed every plan had a fatal flaw.

Finally, Duke Edmund stood up, pressing heavily on the Northern Territory map on the long table.

Candlelight reflected on the saber scar on his face: “Enough. Since we can’t wait for reinforcements, then we will create our own opportunities.”

His finger pointed to a narrow valley on the map.

The mountains there were treacherous, easy to defend but difficult to attack, yet large enough to accommodate a large-scale decisive battle: “This place is suitable for a direct confrontation with those monsters.

We must fight with our backs to the wall! Before they spread, we must clear out all these monsters. Otherwise, the Northern Territory will be completely swallowed this winter!”

The entire council hall fell silent, the wind howled outside the thick city walls, as if sounding a death knell for the impending bloody battle.