Lord of the Frozen Winter: Starting with Daily Intelligence Reports

The night before the meeting, Frost Dragon Territory was ablaze with lights. The snow-covered ground glowed warmly as if it were daytime, illuminated by candlelight and flames.

Asta August's manor was lavishly decorated, with gold-threaded tapestries hanging on the walls and ruby chandeliers casting a cool light.

The Northern nobles stood in the hall, holding goblets, flattering each other about their fiefdoms and bloodlines. The air was thick with the scent of spices and insincere laughter.

All of this was to welcome the Red Tide fireworks from Lord Louis.

At the banquet the day before, Lord Louis had made a small suggestion: "The Red Tide fireworks are a new craft. Perhaps they can add some color to the Northern night. You can watch them at the banquet then."

These Northern nobles, with the exception of a few from the Southeast Red Tide system, had never seen anything called "fireworks" before.

At the time, this remark was just casual chatter, but all the nobles brightened up. After all, who wouldn't want to try something new?

"Fireworks? What are those?"

"I heard they're a marvel from Red Tide Territory, capable of making the night sky burn!"

Thus, this Red Tide fireworks celebration became the focus of the evening.

"Boom!"

When the first firework bloomed in the night sky, all the nobles held their breath.

The purple-gold interwoven light burst like a flower in the firmament, illuminating the entire Frost Dragon Territory.

The explosions echoed through the valley, and the nobles' exclamations rose and fell.

"My goodness—is that fire? It can actually bloom like a flower?"

"These colors—gold, purple, and even blue! How is it done?"

"Is this Red Tide's technology? How grand it would be if I could buy some to set off at a family banquet!"

Exclamations rose and fell.

Each time a firework ascended, it drew a round of praise and applause.

The music of the banquet grew more fervent.

Servants moved through the crowd with silver trays, the scent of spiced wine permeated the air, and golden candlelight shimmered in every crystal glass.

The nobles laughed loudly, drank unrestrainedly, as if no storm would arrive tomorrow.

Except for two people.

Asta August sat at the head of the table, a standard smile on his face, but his knuckles were digging into his palms.

In the reflection of the lights, he saw faces full of flattery.

He watched the nobles, one after another, surround Lord Louis, smiling ingratiatingly, fawning over him shamelessly.

"Lord Louis, the North truly owes you its gratitude!"

"Your Excellency's territory is truly a miracle of the age."

These words should have belonged to him.

He was the Sixth Prince, the bloodline of the Empire, the leader of this reconstruction meeting.

But now, no one looked at him.

Lord Louis simply sat there, smiling, nodding, raising his glass, speaking few words.

Yet the space around him seemed to be drawn by an invisible gravity; all light and gazes involuntarily turned towards him.

Asta August's smile began to stiffen, only one thought swirling in his mind: "It doesn't matter. Once tomorrow's meeting is over, everything will be mine again."

He reassured himself again and again in his heart: after tomorrow's meeting, Red Tide would be stripped of its power, and Lord Louis would fall from his high position.

Then everyone would look at him again.

He needed victory, he needed Lord Louis to lose power, only then could he prove that he was not the Empire's joke.

On the other side, Wulu stood among the crowd, robed and with his head bowed.

He attended the banquet as Asta August's advisor, standing in a corner, a docile smile on his face, yet he couldn't suppress the surging anxiety in his chest.

At this very moment, beneath the North Gate's secret passage, the barbarian warriors were already fully prepared.

Tonight, they would break in and drench the Frost Dragon Territory's banquet hall in blood.

If they succeeded, the barbarians would gain the Empire's recognition and winter provisions; if they failed, it would mean the annihilation of their tribe.

He held his wine glass, his fingers trembling.

He secretly turned his head to look out the window. Fireworks bloomed one after another in the distance, but in his eyes, he only saw the deathly glow beneath them.

What unsettled him even more was that his wife and daughter had been secretly sent out of the city last night—this was his last selfish act.

"If I succeed, I'll bring them back. If {N•o•v•e•l•i•g•h•t} I fail—let them never return," he repeated this phrase in his mind.

And just as he was lost in thought, a gentle breeze brushed past his ear, and a young voice whispered to him:

"Just say Asta August ordered you to do this. Lord Louis will ensure your wife's safety."

Wulu's blood froze instantly. He whirled around.

The banquet hall was still a scene of clinking glasses, servants bowing as they served, nobles laughing heartily, no one looking at him.

Everything was as usual: splendid, noisy, innocent.

But that voice was truly etched in his mind.

His hands trembled, his breathing was rapid. That short sentence contained so much information that it almost made him collapse.

The barbarian's plan—exposed?

Lord Louis knew?

Even—his wife and daughter, were they also in that person's hands?

"How could this be—how could this happen—" he murmured, beads of sweat sliding down his cheeks.

He wanted to flee, but he couldn't even lift his feet.

At this moment, he finally understood: whether it was the barbarians, the Sixth Prince, or himself, they were all caught in the same whirlpool.

This was a whirlpool woven by the Red Tide Lord himself.

He looked up and saw Lord Louis gently raising his glass, a faint smile on his lips.

That smile held no malice, yet it was colder than the biting wind.

Flames shot into the sky, and Wulu's eardrums were almost shattered. The sound was like thunder, exploding into a chaotic mass in his mind.

The air itself trembled; he could only instinctively raise his hands to cover his ears.

At that moment, his vision blurred, his heart raced, and only a roaring sound filled the world, as if the entire night sky had been overturned.

"Boom!"

Deafening explosions echoed continuously above Frost Dragon Territory, swallowing all the laughter and chatter in the manor.

The nobles had to lean close to each other to talk, their words whispered into ears. Laughter, the clinking of wine, and music blended into a single cacophony.

The harpist's music was intermittent, servants moved through with wine trays, and the crisp sound of silver cups colliding resonated in the firelight.

One firework after another bloomed in the sky, illuminating every upturned face.

Just as the third round of fireworks ascended, the North Gate of Frost Dragon Territory quietly opened.

Wind and snow swept in through the gap, carrying a deathly chill.

From the shadows, over a hundred barbarian warriors slowly emerged.

They were clad in wolf skins, their bodies adorned with metal fragments and bone ornaments, their iron axes glinting in the snow.

Just before their appearance, a squad of soldiers in Frost Dragon Territory knight armor appeared at the secret passage. These were Wulu's secretly arranged inside men, also of barbarian descent.

Their eyes flickered, silent, only using slightly trembling fingers to point forward, indicating for the barbarians to follow the agreed-upon route.

One of the inside men whispered, "To the left, then turn up—pass through the garden's ditch."

Another couldn't help but swallow, "Remember, you only have about ten minutes."

Karke nodded, letting out a cold snort, "That's enough."

The squad of inside men exchanged glances, their eyes filled with both fear and greed, then quickly retreated into the shadows.

After a brief hesitation, the barbarian assault team followed the direction they pointed, passing through the frozen stone gate and entering the internal corridors of Frost Dragon Territory.

In each person's eyes burned the same kind of fire, a light mixed with hatred, excitement, and a desire for death.

These were the last remaining elites of the barbarians, the Blood Boiling warriors.

Their blood could burn in extreme cold, their rage enough to transform into a snowfield storm.

The two guards at the North Gate had just looked up when their throats were slit by sharp blades.

As blood splattered, several Blood Boiling warriors quickly rushed towards the second row of guards. The brief clash of metal was swallowed by the fireworks in the night wind.

A knight, unable to draw his sword, was struck on the helmet by an iron axe, his brains splattering.

Another soldier had just shouted half a warning when he was cut down by a diagonal axe, his body and armor colliding with a dull thud. Even if someone screamed, it was completely masked by the exploding fireworks overhead.

Blood blossomed into two dark red flowers on the snow, breaths swallowed by the cold wind.

The bodies were swiftly dragged into the shadows, their footsteps undisturbed.

Karke walked at the forefront.

He was young, the nascent beard on his face stiffened by the cold wind, but his eyes shone like a beast's, a smile on his lips.

"Tonight," he whispered, as if swearing to himself and to his entire tribe, "we will make the Empire remember our name."

The warriors thumped their chests with their fists, producing a low, rhythmic sound.

The secret passage was narrow, damp, cold vapor clinging to the stone walls. The air was mixed with the smell of blood and iron.

The torchlight flickered on their faces, casting distorted shadows.

The team advanced, iron boots thudding on the rocky ground.

With each step, it seemed they could hear their hearts pounding in their chests.

The stone door ahead was pushed open, and an even colder wind rushed in.

They had arrived at the underground wine cellar on the outskirts of Frost Dragon Territory's manor.

Through the cracks in the stone, they could see light filtering down from above.

There was music, fragrance, and fireworks exploding in the firmament.

"All of you, die—" Karke bared his teeth, his voice a low growl.

The warriors behind him collectively bowed their heads, beginning to pray for the death that was about to come.

"The snow of the North will remember us," he said, then gripped his battle-axe tightly and violently pushed open the stone door.

Cold wind poured in, and flames also rushed into the night sky.

The first dozen warriors who rushed out were like beasts crawling out of hell.

They reeked of blood, charging into the garden, cleaving the first knight who came into view.

The sound of clashing steel was drowned by the roar of the fireworks; no one noticed.

The light of the flames danced on their armor, the axe blades gleaming with an eerie red light.

The distant musicians were still playing, the laughter had not ceased, but not far from the manor, blood was already spilled on the snow, becoming new fireworks.

Karke raised his battle-axe, his gaze fixed on the manor interior.

His laughter echoed in the night wind, he cried out maniacally, "Charge into the main hall! Let them see the flames of the barbarians!"

A horn sounded, deep and wild.

The remaining hundreds of barbarian warriors poured out of the secret passage like a flood, heading towards the manor.

Their roars mingled with the explosions of the fireworks.

The firelight from the sky illuminated the blood on the ground.

Tonight, Frost Dragon Territory burned simultaneously amidst fireworks and slaughter.

When the first alarm bell rang, Asta August was still conversing with the nobles, assuming it was a servant's dereliction of duty or a false alarm from a patrol guard.

But then the wind swept in from outside the manor, carrying the scent of blood and tar. He was about to frown when the second alarm bell rang, followed by a third that suddenly exploded, its sound as urgent as a war drum.

Before he could react, he heard the distant sounds of chaotic hooves and shouts of killing, interspersed with the crackling of burning grease.

Shadows of running figures and fluttering banners vaguely appeared at the end of the street. The barbarians were advancing towards the manor, setting fires. Tongues of flame climbed along the eaves, illuminating half the night sky.

Asta August's smile completely froze.

"It's—an attack! Barbarians! The barbarians have invaded!"

A guard burst through the door, covered in blood, and rushed into the hall.

Outside the windows, firelight spread along the street, shouts of killing drew closer, and the air was filled with the smell of char, soot, and rust.

The sound of collapsing roof tiles came from afar; flames illuminated the street corner. The barbarians were setting fires with oil to create chaos.

Asta August's face was ashen, and he slumped into the main seat.

Wine from his cup spilled onto his boot, like a pool of blood.

The nobles rose in panic, chairs overturned, silver platters crashed to the ground, the sounds of impact and screams interwoven into a chaotic mess.

Some shouted to flee, others rushed towards the door, only to be blocked by the guards' long spears.

"Calm down!" Seifer roared, drawing his sword, his battle qi shining with a golden light around him.

That light cut an arc through the hall, forcefully suppressing the panicked atmosphere.

At this moment, the manor's defenses were sparse. Each noble had brought only one personal guard, totaling no more than thirty people. The true defensive line consisted only of Asta August's hundred knights.

They hastily assembled in the outer courtyard, their battle qi flickering in the night—golden, silver, and a few faint blue glows, intertwined like burning embers.

The fireworks above continued to bloom, covering the screams and clashing steel on the ground.

Meanwhile, the roars of the barbarians were approaching from the North Garden.

It was a low, tearing beastly roar, accompanied by a deafening wave of air.

Leading the charge was Karke's assault team.

The battle qi of every barbarian warrior was deep blue, like a frozen cold night, yet it transformed into a blazing stream of flame in their fury.

They smashed through the garden's stone gate and rushed into the manor's outer corridor.

Two Frost Dragon Territory knights met them head-on; they had just raised their swords when they were swallowed by the blue light. Axe blades ripped through the air, a dull thud, and two heads flew into the air.

At this moment, the fireworks in the sky happened to bloom, sparks falling like golden rain, illuminating the mingling blood and flames.

"Stop them!" Seifer roared, swinging his sword to meet the enemy.

Several golden-glowing Imperial knights charged forward, their battle qi colliding with a thunderous impact.

Golden and blue lights intertwined, the air blast overturned tables and chairs, splintered wood and blood splattering simultaneously.

The explosions overhead repeatedly drowned out the screams, as if contrasting two grand feasts of heaven and earth: above was the nobles' celebration, below was the carnival of death.

After a brief clash, the barbarians advanced again.

The deep blue current of light was like a surging tide, leaving a sea of blood in its wake.

Even if there were screams, they were all covered by the explosions of the fireworks, turning into a silent rout.

Camille's face turned pale, his wine glass falling to the ground, wine splashing and spreading like bloodstains.

He hid in a corner, looking around, only to see nobles fleeing and servants lying in pools of blood—

Asta August sat dumbfounded in the main seat, his lips bloodless, countless questions flashing chaotically in his mind:

Why? How could barbarians appear here? How did they get in? Who leaked the city gate information?

His heartbeat was chaotic like a drum, his thoughts scattered into a blank space.

"This—this is impossible—this is my manor—my North—" he murmured softly, his eyes filled only with fear and disbelief.

But the intermittent roars reminded him that the dream was over.

Karke was already killing with relish, his axe covered in blood and fire, his laughter echoing between the firelight and screams.

Each swing was accompanied by sparks and a mist of blood, as if dancing in a burning hell.

The fireworks above illuminated his blood-covered face.

As he turned, he casually split a fleeing knight in half with an axe, hot blood splattering on his face, yet he showed an almost intoxicated expression.

Suddenly, his gaze was drawn to a figure at the end of the crowd.

That person still stood in place, his expression calm, the surrounding chaos seemingly unrelated to him.

His black hair took on a cool hue in the light, his figure tall and slender, his posture composed.

Karke narrowed his eyes, a chill crawling up his spine to his head. He recognized him at a glance; it was the man whose portrait Wulu had shown him.

He immediately recognized him as Lord Louis, whose portrait Wulu had shown him.

"That guy! It's him! The Red Tide Lord!" Karke roared, his voice like thunder, especially piercing in the chaos.

He gestured, leading four barbarian warriors with extraordinary battle qi to pounce on Lord Louis.

The deep blue battle qi on the four men was almost tangible; the flagstones beneath their feet shattered, and the air blast of their charge swept up the light, rushing straight down the corridor.