Lord of the Frozen Winter: Starting with Daily Intelligence Reports

Inside the inner castle of Frost Dragon Territory, the northern wind was blocked by thick drapes.

Asta August stood by the map, a deliberate smile on his face: "I am grateful that you all would honor me with your presence."

There weren't many guests, all were the foremost old nobles of the North: Holmes, Crane, Bolton, Harloff, Seaman.

The door closed, and the attendants withdrew.

Asta raised his cup, his posture slightly lowered: "As the Royal Reconstruction Envoy for the North, I first toast to you all. This meeting would not be possible without you."

Holmes spoke first: "We came because the North cannot be left to a young man to dispose of as he pleases. He's done well in the Southeast, but he doesn't value us."

Crane echoed: "I heard he established some kind of council, and even grain has to be purchased according to ledgers. Red Tide provided funding, but no privileges. Old nobles like us are treated like new money."

Bolton grumbled: "And this year's funding has to be purchased, and if my territory wants to buy grain, I have to use his vouchers. Ridiculous!"

Asta quickly responded: "I understand everyone's concerns. Although Lord Louis has made significant contributions to the reconstruction of the North, the North cannot solely listen to the Calvin Family. It is precisely for this reason that I have come to invite you all to set the rules together."

He opened the small casket he carried, and several precious magic stones gleamed coldly under the lamp.

"This is just a greeting gift," he said, his tone softening. "What's truly important are the things you deserve: priority allocation of reconstruction resources, trade privileges—written on paper, signed by me and submitted to the Imperial Capital's council."

Harloff looked down at the magic stones but didn't reach for them: "What we want are goods from the South, good salt, winter grain, and tax exemptions."

Asta immediately nodded: "All negotiable. Your requests, I will send back to the Imperial Capital and report on them item by item."

Seaman looked up: "That young lord—"

Asta smiled: "As long as he needs the Imperial Capital's recognition. Rest assured, as long as you stand behind me, I will not let him suppress the old nobles of the North."

The room was silent for a moment.

Crane put down his cup, lowering his voice: "If he only reigns in the Southeast, we can pretend not to see. But now, he's preparing to extend his hand into our territory—he is not Duke Edmund."

Just then, Seifer spoke from the shadows: "I understand your concerns. You are not in the Southeast, so naturally, you won't be constrained by his council. But once that young man's influence expands, you'll have to fill out forms even for the wine you buy for banquets."

Several people showed unpleasant expressions.

Holmes snorted: "Then don't let him in."

Asta quickly agreed: "Precisely the meaning of my coming. What we want is cooperation, not conquest. The reconstruction council is not about deprivation, but about ensuring that the voices of the North, including yours, are heard."

He pushed the dossiers over: "I will propose three items: resource priority order, trade priority list, and oversight authority to the reconstruction council. You all have voting rights on the council. Reconstruction starts with you, with your priority."

Bolton looked at the wax seal: "Can you protect us?"

"I am of the Imperial Family."

Harloff slowly said: "We don't want to resort to bloodshed, but we also don't want to be treated like slaves by him. We are old families of the North."

"I understand." Asta smiled slightly. "Your dignity, I will guarantee."

Crane closed the casket of magic stones and pushed it back to Asta: "We want ship tickets, customs passes, winter grain seals, and your written word in the Imperial Capital."

Asta took them with both hands, his tone gentle: "You will have them all. I only ask for your support."

He placed his hand back on the map, his fingertip resting on the red mark in the Southeast corner: "He's doing well there, but the North is more than just the Southeast. You should not be overlooked."

Bolton said in a deep voice: "Then please, Envoy, speak for us."

Asta smiled: "This is what I should do."

Wind seeped through the cracks, the lamp flame flickered. Seifer stepped forward and fastened the window, and the room became quiet again.

Harloff raised his wine: "To respect."

Crane followed: "To autonomy."

Holmes raised his cup to Asta: "To the North, may it not fall into one man's hands."

Asta clinked glasses with them, his smile gentle: "And to the future of the North."

The wine in their cups was drained cleanly. The nobles exchanged glances, nodded, and each took a magic stone.

Before they dispersed, Asta handed each of them five letters: the seating arrangement for the meeting, the order of speeches, the timing for standing, and even the deployment of knights for the meeting as a last resort. Doors opened and closed one after another, snow air surged in and was then blocked out. Only Asta and Seifer remained in the room.

Seifer said: "They won't die for you."

"I know." Asta looked at the map, his tone lighter. "I didn't intend to buy their lives. I just need them to nod under the light. The rest, I will handle through my operations."

"As for that young lord—it's not too late to talk about being the Lord of the North once he understands what imperial power means."

Asta looked up and asked towards the wall nearby: "Has he departed?"

Seifer, who had been in the shadows of the room, took a few steps and placed a roll of letters on the table: "The Red Tide banner has almost left the Southeast of the North, heading towards Frost Dragon Territory. The contingent—there are seven hundred people."

"Seven hundred?" Asta raised an eyebrow, a hint of disdain in his voice. "He certainly knows how to put on a show."

Seifer whispered: "Not an entourage, but a real escort force. Three hundred Red Tide Knights, an entire set of civil officials, and some nobles who followed him. Along the way, there were commoners welcoming them; it was a grand scene."

Asta picked up his wine glass, his envy barely concealed: "He enjoys pomp."

Seifer continued: "Like a celebratory march."

Asta smiled, a coldness in his smile: "What a vain person. The lifeblood of the North will not be tied to such a person."

He looked at the map on the table, his gaze sweeping across the snowfield between Frost Dragon Territory and Red Tide: "It doesn't matter how many knights he brings. As soon as the meeting starts, he'll have to sit before me and listen."

"You seem very confident," Seifer probed.

He nodded confidently, a satisfied curve on his lips. He wasn't exaggerating idly; he knew what he was doing.

In this year, he was no longer that penniless prince.

Several nobles from the South had already extended their help to him: gold coins, metals, salt, supplies, and even a few knights.

Those people wanted a share of the North's mines and trade routes, and they also wanted to use him to suppress Louis, the young lord of the Calvin Family.

They were willing to provide money and goods, only asking that their families be allowed to interfere in the North. After all, the expenses wouldn't be large, and with the current treacherous situation in the Empire, the North was a last resort.

Besides that, the Imperial Capital's inspector was also on his side, and he had given him no small amount of money.

That authority from the Imperial Capital placed him above all lords on paper.

Asta knew that as long as he raised that imperial decree at the meeting, no one could directly oppose him.

Many old nobles in the North already disliked the Red Tide System. They would rather align with the Imperial Family, and he had paid a huge price for this, ceding many rights to these greedy old nobles.

On the barbarian side, he had also made arrangements: they wanted grain, he gave them legitimacy; they wanted land, he promised an uninhabited area.

This gave him some control over these hidden barbarians, and now was the time to put it to use.

All these reasons combined were his confidence.

The righteous receive much help, and that young lord, after all, was alone.

Asta reached out and closed the window, the sound of the wind was cut off, and the room fell silent again.

Several barbarian envoys were led into the side castle of the inner fortress.

It was a secluded stone hall, dimly lit by oil lamps. The door closed with a heavy thud behind them, and several knights stood on either side, watching them with cold eyes.

The young prince stood before the fireplace, his cloak still on, his back straight.

When he turned, the firelight struck the emblem on his chest, like a bright blade.

"Sit," he said, speaking in the imperial language, his words clear, like a command, which they instinctively obeyed.

Uru sat down, his gaze sweeping around. The knights' armor reflected the lamplight, hands on sword hilts, yet unmoving.

Asta walked to the table, unrolled a parchment map, and swept his eyes over them with an undeniable /N_o_v_e_l_i_g_h_t/ gaze.

He said in a low voice, "It's time to fulfill the agreement."

His words were brief, yet carried a cold, stern aura that made Uru feel a surge of displeasure, but he had to listen.

Asta slowly walked around the corner of the table, his tone a notch lower than before: "What I can give you is not just an illusion. In the past two years, I have given you many benefits. You should know in your hearts that the time for repayment has come."

He had a knight bring several cloth bags and emptied them onto the table. The clinking of metal spilled from the coarse sacks; several silver emblem badges and leather pouches filled with grain gleamed under the lamp.

"These are the promises of Frost Dragon Territory," he said. "As long as this matter is handled well, your pastures, your valleys, will be written in the imperial records, and Frost Dragon Territory will send out a large batch of grain."

Uru watched the hand moving in the firelight, and the emblems on the table, his eye twitching.

He understood the weight of these words; it was not a plea, but a command, not charity, but temptation.

Asta continued: "I don't need you to die, only to exert a little effort. If you do it well, the Empire will remember your names. The next batch of grain and weapons won't have to wait until the snow melts."

Then he took out a wooden stick carved with barbarian totems.

Uru stared at the short staff, silent for a long time. This was what he had given to the prince before to obtain grain, and it was carved with a barbarian oath, signifying that the barbarians owed him a favor.

He weighed it in his heart. The Empire's promises were often false, but this prince had indeed helped them a lot last winter, not with empty promises, but with real grain and supplies.

If they could use this prince's momentum to gain more benefits, it wouldn't be a bad thing. At least more people would survive the winter.

Seeing that he did not refuse, Asta turned to the map and said, lowering his voice: "Listen, I want you to act within twenty days. Go to Red Tide's territory and disrupt them."

"If circumstances permit, you can raid Red Tide City at night. Destroy the city gates, burn the granaries, kill the defenders, and bring back visible spoils. I will not take a single coin; it will all be yours."

Uru was silent for a long time, a complex light flashing in his eyes. Finally, he stood up, walked to Asta, bowed his head, and kissed Asta's hand.

"We will do as you say, Your Highness," he said, his voice hoarse with respect.

Asta withdrew his hand, his expression unchanged: "Very good. The Empire will not forget those who obey."

Uru did not return to the main camp. He knew clearly that time was too tight, and traveling back and forth would only miss the opportunity.

Swift-wind birds delivered messages, non-stop, into the depths of the snowfield.

Hours later, the campfire was surrounded by people.

The clan leaders with frosty beards, warriors draped in wolf skins, scouts with longbows on their backs, silently gathered around the fire. These were all well-known figures within the clans; there were no greetings, only mutual gazes.

"Asta wants us to move," the clan leader said concisely, spreading a sheepskin on the ground. "Harass Red Tide, light fires, create a stir. He says this can bring us grain."

Silence spread in the air.

An elder coughed softly and said: "Last winter, he sent salt and grain, saving many of us."

"Putting on a show can get us through the next winter," another old clan leader agreed. "No need for a real fight, just light some fires, shout a few times. It's a good deal."

"But we've suffered losses going head-to-head with Red Tide," someone immediately sneered.

"We are not the Empire's dogs." The man wore an old iron helmet, clearly a seasoned warrior. "Even a show costs lives. They sit in castles drinking wine while we charge their towers for them?"

"The Red Tide people are not to be trifled with. Do you really think you can light fires and get away unscathed?" another middle-aged warrior said coldly.

Before his words finished, a scoff came from by the campfire.

A young voice interjected, without deference or hesitation.

"Instead of obeying orders, why don't we just attack?"

Everyone turned. Kark stepped forward.

He was barely in his early twenties, the scars on his face still fresh, his left arm bound with a sheepskin brace, his eyes bright like blades under the snow.

"Frost Dragon Territory," he said, enunciating each word. "The nobles are all there, the lords are all there. They are holding a meeting, discussing how to divide our remaining land."

He took a step towards the campfire, his voice steady but not lowered: "We are not going to fight Red Tide; we are going to cut off their roots."

A clan leader frowned: "You want to fight Louis?"

"I want to fight everyone sitting at that table," Kark said coldly. "Whether they are Calvin or August, it's all the same."

He extended his finger, pointing to a spot on the map, "Here, kill them all overnight, and no one in the North will command anyone to die again."

Some people began to whisper.

"You want to start a full-scale war?" the old clan leader roared.

Kark stared at him: "They have driven us for three generations, forced us to live in the wasteland, and now they even want to assign our positions. You call this a war?!"

The light in his eyes burned brighter: "Endure another generation? I fear there won't be another generation!"

The night wind stirred the flames, reflecting the hesitation and longing on every face.