Lord of the Frozen Winter: Starting with Daily Intelligence Reports

In the northern part of the Frost Dragon Territory, deep within a valley, snow lay thick, and white forests covered the sky.

In this neglected, snow-covered land of the North, a dwindling force was quietly awakening, preparing for a final counterattack.

Deep within the cave, dim yellow beast-oil torches flickered, their light elongating the shadows of dozens of figures.

They wore animal skins, wielded iron blades; some wore feathered bone helmets, others had ancient tattoos carved on their faces, and some, barely clothed, stood barefoot on the ice, as if the cold wind had never been able to drive them away.

These were the remaining chieftains and leaders of the Barbarian tribes.

To be precise, this was all that the Snowfield could gather in its final stand.

Wulu stood by the bonfire, silently watching the crowd, his figure cut into a dark shadow by the firelight. His title was Special Envoy, temporarily chosen by the various tribes to convey the Barbarian’s opinions to the Prince.

Outside the ice cave, several factions, including Black Rock, Snow Wolf, and Dirge, had gathered nearly six hundred Blood Boiling warriors.

They excelled at charges and close combat, were raiders trained from a young age with numerous battle achievements, the elite among the Barbarians, carrying the memory of blood.

These people were the remaining strength of the Barbarians.

They were gathered for only one purpose.

They would not confront Knight Regiment of the North directly; such a confrontation would be to gamble their lives for an uncertain outcome.

What they aimed to do was a decapitation strike, to overturn the long table at the time of the meeting, to let those nobles and decision-makers who were toasting and laughing taste fear amid fire and chaos.

If they succeeded, the North would fall into disorder, and they could seize grain, claim land, and secure a glimmer of hope for the future.

If they failed, it would be complete annihilation, and the name of the Barbarians might vanish from the memory of this land forever.

By the bonfire, the eyes of the crowd held both fear and determination.

Young warriors gripped their short axes, while elders softly chanted the names of their ancestors.

Everyone knew this was not simple revenge, but a final gamble.

This was the Snowfield’s last strike.

A gamble for survival, a raid that could change their destiny.

Wulu was actually somewhat flustered and at a loss; his original plan was merely to relay Asta’s orders back, allowing the various tribes to decide their actions independently.

According to his initial estimation, these tribal chiefs would at most send people to harass the Red Tide Territory’s outer perimeter a few times, just to give the Sixth Prince some face and get a few sacks of grain in return.

But the situation had completely spiraled out of his control.

When he learned of their plan to attack the Frost Dragon Territory during the meeting and wipe out all the nobles, he almost thought he had misheard.

“You’re mad,” Wulu whispered, sweat on his forehead frosting in the cold, “That’s the Frost Dragon Territory, not just any noble’s land! The Empire’s Knights are guarding it! If we act, it will be the end of our tribes!”

In the brief silence by the bonfire, several older tribal chiefs also began to hesitate.

“Perhaps he is right,” an old man murmured, “If we can get a little grain, it will be enough for the tribe to get through winter.”

Wulu thought that the voice of reason would finally overcome that momentary madness, and was preparing to gradually analyze and relay Asta’s intentions, letting his tribesmen weigh their options.

Then, the young Barbarian leader, who now commanded the most warriors, suddenly stood up, his toes scraping a faint sound on the ice.

Karke’s eyes blazed with a fervent intensity, and his voice abruptly rose: “We’ve come this far, are we going to retreat? Where else can we retreat to?

If we retreat, they will mock us, trample our thresholds, burn our hearths, and make our children beg. That is not survival, that is merely clinging to life; to wait any longer is a dead end.

This time, it is not for anyone’s command, not for a sack of flour, but for the future of our young, for the bones of our ancestors!

To overturn their council table, to make those in power taste fear—this is our correct choice!”

Karke spoke with powerful conviction, as if pouring decades of suppression into a single, desperate gamble.

When his words fell, there was a brief silence in the cave, followed by waves of whispers and echoes like an avalanche.

The young leaders almost instinctively stood up, their fists clenched, their eyes gleaming with a bloodthirsty excitement.

They had seen the Empire’s banners fly, and had returned bloodied in the dead of night. Karke’s words ignited their anger and longing.

The older generation remained silent for longer.

A white-haired elder finally whispered, “We cannot act rashly, but if we don’t resist, what else can we do?”

Another chief’s voice trembled: “All we want is to live.”

Wulu, caught in the middle, let his hands fall limply. He probably knew that this operation could no longer be stopped.

“If it’s just a harassment, and it can get us a few sacks of grain and some grazing rights, that would be enough for many to live the rest of their lives peacefully,” Wulu’s rationality made its final stand.

But Karke did not back down. He walked to the bonfire, bent down, and picked up a torch, holding it like a banner.

The firelight danced on his young face, casting a long shadow.

“You are all right, perhaps living is important. But what meaning is there in living if we must bow our heads every day?

We are not vassals of the Empire; we must make them remember that the Snowfield can also decide its own destiny.”

There was no resentment in his voice, only a resolve that transformed despair into determination.

The shouts of the young grew louder, the cave echoing like a wind-swept wilderness, the voices building in layers, finally overcoming the hesitation.

Several seasoned tribal chiefs exchanged glances. After a long silence, they slowly nodded.

It was not an active, passionate agreement, but rather a sense of helplessness.

Some softly chanted spells to protect their ancestors, while others clapped the shoulders of the young men beside them with rough hands, as if entrusting both their blessings and their fears.

Wulu closed his eyes, the coldness within him deepening.

He felt a crimson tide rising within the cave, hearing the clanging echoes of young footsteps.

His expression was complex. Seeing that all the tribal chiefs had silently assented, he finally compromised, able only to reveal all the intelligence he knew.

Wulu pointed to the crude map spread on the ground, his voice hoarse and cautious: “The Red Tide’s elite are guarding the south.

The East Gate is the camp of the old noble families. The North Gate, the only way into the main hall, is only guarded by the Fourth Prince’s troops. We have an inside man there who can open two secret passages.”

He paused, then added: “Moreover, the day after tomorrow there’s the Red Tide’s fireworks celebration, which is a type of Magic Bomb for show. It’s loud and can cover our movements. If we are to act, that will be the only opportunity.”

After hearing this, the chiefs began to discuss in low voices, their shadows intertwining and swaying by the bonfire.

“Then we act,” Karke concluded, “while the nobles are gathered in the main hall. First, when the fireworks go off, our inside man will open the North Gate’s secret passage.

Second, the Blood Boiling warriors will storm the main hall, using lamp oil to seal off the four gates. Third, I will personally lead the assault team directly to the important figures, targeting Asta and Louis, the two most powerful people in the North right now. If we kill one, we profit.”

The plan was crude, yet deadly enough.

Everyone understood that even if they couldn't destroy all the nobles, just killing the strongest few would throw the North into chaos.

By then, they could scatter and flee, plunder grain and goods, and rebuild their ~Nоvеl𝕚ght~ tribes.

The crowd dispersed, and Wulu sat alone on the ice cliff, gazing at the distant lights of the Frost Dragon Territory.

Wind and snow lashed his shoulders, ice shards scraped his cheeks, stinging like fine needles.

He looked up at that faint glimmer of light, unsure if it was their last chance or the prelude to true annihilation.

Camille had lived too comfortably this year.

The cold winds of the North were merely background noise outside the banquet hall for him.

The Fourth Prince Asta treated him as an honored guest; daily banquets, dances, delicacies, and beautiful women made him almost forget that he was merely a special envoy sent by the Censorate.

The people here called him the 'eyes' sent from the Imperial Capital, and he was happy to pretend he still wielded the authority of the Imperial Capital’s Censorate.

He drank the North’s wine, listened to the hypocritical laughter of the nobles, and slowly, even that terrifying memory faded.

But fate loved to play tricks. When the iron hooves of the Red Tide Knights entered the Frost Dragon Territory, Camille’s hands began to tremble again.

At today’s banquet, Louis was polite to him.

His smile was restrained, his etiquette perfect, without the slightest hostility, yet this only made him more afraid.

Because he didn’t know what Louis wanted him to do.

He knew Asta was no match for Louis.

This young prince’s talk of rebuilding and ideals seemed to him nothing more than a court joke.

The focus of the Frost Dragon Territory had already shifted the moment that Red Tide iron cavalry entered the city.

Moreover, Louis needed only one sentence to let the Imperial Capital know that he was a spy for the Emerald Federation.

The banquet ended, and Camille had too much to drink; he needed alcohol to drive away that maddening unease.

Returning to his residence, his steps faltered.

The candlelight was dim, the room so quiet that even his heartbeat could be heard, and a chilling aura assailed him.

On the bed lay a neatly placed letter, its envelope pristine white, the wax seal embossed with the Red Tide’s emblem.

The golden sun pattern shimmered faintly in the candlelight, as if mocking him.

Camille’s hand paused in mid-air, his breathing quickening.

His throat felt constricted, unable to make a sound.

He spun around, his gaze sweeping every corner of the room. The windows were tightly shut, the corners shadowed, and even the air felt normal.

He rushed out the door and asked the guard, “Did anyone come in just now?”

The guard looked bewildered: “No, sir. No one approached.”

Camille was silent for a few seconds, then slowly retreated back into the room.

He stared at the letter, his pupils trembling, his fingers shaking. After a long hesitation, he finally reached out his hand.

==========

The night banquet dispersed, and the halls of the Frost Dragon Territory still retained residual warmth and the scent of wine.

Asta August sat at the head of the table, his wine glass empty, yet he lingered, unwilling to put it down.

Outside, the snow rustled, and lights extinguished one by one, leaving him alone.

He recalled the scene just now: inside the banquet hall, the light from the crystal chandeliers swayed, and silk tapestries exuded the scent of warm wine and spices.

Those North nobles, old families, and envoys from the Imperial Capital, dressed in lavish robes, gathered in a circle around the young Count.

Laughter and the crisp clinking of silver cups were constant, servants offered aged strong wine, and the hems of maids’ skirts shimmered golden in the candlelight.

The whole place was as lively as an Imperial Capital banquet, only the center of attention was not him.

Asta sat at the head of the table, watching those people turn to Louis, complimenting, chatting, smiling deferentially.

At that moment, he felt like mere background, an superfluous shadow in that grand feast.

“That was my stage—” he murmured softly, a hint of bitterness in his tone.

Louis Calvin’s name was now like a nail hammered into his heart.

That fellow didn’t need to say much; just by standing there, everyone involuntarily looked at him.

Asta gripped his wine glass, his lips trembling.

If this reconstruction meeting was still dominated by the other party, the order of the North would completely belong to Red Tide, not to him, the so-called Royal Special Envoy. By then, he would never have a chance to rise again.

A suppressed anxiety churned in his chest; if he failed, he would be nothing.

Asta abruptly rose, put on his coat, and ordered Wulu to be brought to him.

Wulu arrived a good while later, bringing with him a chill.

Asta looked at him, saying with some anxiety: “How are the preparations for the attack on the Red Tide Territory coming along?”

Wulu stood still, his expression as calm as ever: “Everything has been arranged according to Your Highness’s command. The troops have re-infiltrated and are just waiting for orders.”

Asta’s finger tapped lightly on the tabletop: “Are they certain of the target?”

“The Red Tide Territory’s defenses are lax. We will choose the appropriate moment to strike, giving them no chance to react.” Wulu’s voice was dry but firm, his eyes never blinking.

Asta stared at him for a few seconds, an uneasy light flashing in his eyes.

His lips twitched slightly, as if suppressing something.

A moment later, he raised a hand and said calmly: “You may withdraw, Wulu.”

Wulu bowed slightly and turned to leave.

The door closed softly behind him, leaving Asta alone in the room.

The air seemed to solidify. His smile gradually vanished, leaving only a suppressed, almost twisted emotion churning in his eyes.

He wasn’t like this from the beginning.

From the moment the Emperor disappeared, Asta’s world seemed to collapse.

He suffered sleepless nights, filled with anxiety, always feeling an invisible hand gripping his throat in the darkness.

He feared waking up one day only to find himself forgotten, abandoned, or killed.

To survive, and to prove that he still deserved to be called a “Prince,” he began to frantically gather allies.

Courting Camille, bribing old nobles, even trading with the Barbarians—

He paid too much for this: wealth, reputation, power.

He even ceded the trade rights and mining rights most coveted by the southern nobles, just to gain resources and support.

All just to make himself stronger, and not an ant that could be crushed at will.

But there was always one person blocking his path: Louis Calvin.

That fellow was his inner demon.

“Very good,” Asta whispered, his voice laced with suppressed frenzy, “Very good—this time, it must succeed, otherwise—”

As he spoke, he repeated a dry, grating laugh, as if to dispel the chill within him.

But the laughter quickly broke off. He suddenly raised a hand to cover his eyes, his fingertips trembling slightly.

His breathing grew rapid, and he murmured softly: “If I fail—I will make everyone perish with me.”

At this moment, his expression was almost deranged.