Lord of the Frozen Winter: Starting with Daily Intelligence Reports

Late summer in the North never felt like summer.

The wind carried the chill of light snow, withered yellow weeds huddled close to the ground, and a thin first layer of snow was already visible on the high slopes, like winter extending an early probe.

Gareth rode on horseback, shrinking his neck.

He was originally a Formal Knight of the Molkan Family and the cousin of Baron Molkan. Because he was sharp-witted and good at handling social situations, the Baron selected him to specifically manage the trade route arrangements.

He understood etiquette and human relations, and was better than other knights at dealing with garrisons, outposts, and toll gates. Gradually, the entire operation of the caravan was handed over to him.

For more than a decade, he personally escorted every batch of goods, both to guard these lifelines that could be exchanged for grain on behalf of the Baron, and because he knew the rules of the North too well—if the goods weren't watched personally, they could disappear at any moment.

He had traveled this trade route for over ten years and believed he had clearly arranged things with every toll gate and every garrison.

Even Lord Ackerman of Greyrock Fortress received several batches of his Red-Black Iron free of charge every year.

Therefore, he believed that no accidents would happen this year either.

It was in this state of mind that Gareth saw the shadowed canyon pass.

The trade route ahead was completely blocked by crude chevaux de frise.

Twelve Black Armored Knights, all Elite Knights, stood in a line in the slush, like iron statues grown out of a blizzard.

Gareth's guards instinctively drew their swords.

"Don't move!" Gareth's voice cracked in panic. "Put your swords away! Do you want to die?"

He jumped off his horse and scurried over, as if afraid he would be decapitated if he delayed even a step.

His face was frozen in a stiff smile as he presented the heavy, pre-prepared money pouch with both hands.

"Sirs, thank you for your hard work! I am from the Molkan Family caravan. I have already made arrangements with Lord Ackerman. This small sum... is for the brothers to buy some wine and warm themselves."

The money pouch landed in the hand of the Black Armor Captain, "Broken Axe," emitting a dull, muffled metallic scraping sound.

Broken Axe weighed it, scoffed, and tossed the pouch casually to the person behind him, but showed no intention of moving even an inch.

"Sir Knight..." Gareth asked cautiously, "May we pass now?"

Broken Axe sat atop his tall horse, pointing down at the convoy: "The people pass. The goods stay."

Gareth's smile finally broke, and he felt as if he had been doused with cold water: "Sir, those are life-saving goods meant to be exchanged for winter grain... I have already paid the customary fee to the Legion Commander! According to the rules, payment means passage..."

Broken Axe repeated in a low voice: "Rules?"

He spurred his horse forward one step: "In the territory of the Seventeenth Legion, my hammer is the rule."

The next moment, a heavy long-handled war hammer, imbued with Battle Qi, smashed viciously onto Gareth's shoulder.

"Crack—"

The sound of bone shattering was sickeningly clear in the canyon.

Gareth was instantly knocked onto his knees in the slush, unable to make a sound from the pain, only his lips twitching.

The guard knights charged forward with red eyes, but instantly fell down as if they were wheat being harvested.

The Black Armored Knights were well-trained and ruthless, every strike precise, stable, and deadly, without any hesitation.

Gareth trembled all over from the pain, yet still struggled hoarsely: "You—you are violating Imperial Law which states that private property of nobles cannot be seized... in a non-combat zone..."

Broken Axe dismounted, grabbed his hair, and forcefully pressed his face toward the ground.

"The Empire?" he sneered. "The Imperial Capital is ten thousand miles from here. Ask it to come save you personally."

As his voice fell, he stomped and crushed Gareth's knee.

Gareth let out a tearing shriek, the sound echoing in the snowy valley, only to be swallowed by the continuously falling early snow.

Broken Axe casually pointed to the ground: "You few, dig. Hurry up."

The remaining Molkan Family knights turned pale, but could only kneel in the slush, hands and feet trembling, using short swords and gloves to scrape at the earth, which was frozen harder than stone.

Gareth was dragged aside. He was in so much pain he was nearly unconscious, but he forced himself to circulate Battle Qi, letting that faint warmth flow within his body like a last straw of hope.

However, under the torment of broken bones and cold wind, the Battle Qi flickered like a spark being blown out, dimming and brightening until it lasted less than a minute.

By the time the pit was finally dug by the guards, the pitiful Battle Qi inside Gareth had completely extinguished, and his body truly began to feel the bone-piercing cold of the North's late summer.

The Black Armored Knights pushed him vertically into the pit, allowing the mud and snow to cover his chest.

The icy slush compressed his internal organs, and every breath felt like swallowing rusty iron shards.

The wind and snow fell into his bloodshot eyes, stinging like needles, but his neck was frozen stiff, making it impossible to raise his head.

His consciousness repeatedly drifted between suffocation and lucidity. He tried to scream, but could only manage a faint whimper before finally sinking completely.

Broken Axe then found a young Apprentice Knight, who was so terrified his pants were wet and he couldn't even hold his sword.

Broken Axe grabbed him by the collar, dragged him to the mouth of the valley, and pointed toward Frost Halberd City: "Get out! Tell those big shots who are preparing for the Reconstruction Conference..."

He leaned down, fresh blood dripping from the gaps in his armor: "In the North, if you want to live, learn to kneel and deliver your goods."

The young knight scrambled away and disappeared into the wind and snow.

The Black Armored Knights drove the carts loaded with ore away, the deep tracks left by the wheels remaining in the slush for a long time.

In the canyon, only that head remained exposed above the snow, eyes wide open, as if still unwilling to believe that this late summer had become his grave... The wind and snow of early autumn in the North fell outside Frost Halberd City like white shattered blades slowly spilling from the sky, covering everything.

It was several days before the start of the Reconstruction Conference, and nobles and family representatives were arriving one after another, long convoys lining up in a grayish-white streak across the snow.

But the moment they stepped through the city gates, the world seemed to be cut in two.

Outside was a barren wasteland with biting cold wind and ankle-deep snow, but inside, steam rose, like an Iron City-State breathing on the snow plain.

The various lords, nobles, and family representatives froze in astonishment the moment they dismounted.

Underfoot was neither mud nor frozen earth, but a smooth, gray-black road surface that reflected shadows.

On both sides of the road, Mana Street Lamps were neatly lit, the Alchemical Light Cores inside the shades beating steadily, making the entire city seem awake and breathing in the night.

They were not the expensive crystal lamps found in noble halls, but reliable, cold-resistant civilian lighting mass-produced by the Red Tide Workshop. Yet, their sheer number caused many nobles to subconsciously swallow.

Farther away, a towering iron tower was slowly exhaling white mist.

Steam rose into the night sky, making people mistakenly believe a blurry white moon was suspended beneath the sky of Frost Halberd City. That was the Heating Tower. All the geothermal and steam circulation for the entire district flowed from there, keeping the harsh winter out.

"This... is Frost Halberd City?" someone gasped.

Frost Halberd City had been reduced to scorched earth after the Battle of the Brood Nest. Few believed it could be rebuilt in just a few years, and no one anticipated it would become such a... monstrous city.

The nobles from various regions instantly split into three groups, their reactions distinctly different.

The Red Tide Faction nobles walked at the very front.

Their clothing was made with the latest technology from the Red Tide Textile Mill, featuring soft luster and excellent warmth. The styles had even begun to imitate the urban trends of the Emerald Federation.

They walked with straight backs and light steps, as if they had finally entered their own territory.

Some quietly boasted about their recent Red Tide Stock dividends, others discussed the New Style Heater soon to be released, and most simply started every sentence with "Lord Louis," their tone filled with unconcealed pride.

They walked ostentatiously, not out of recklessness, but because every street and every lamp in this city reminded those around them that they had bet on the right person.

The other group appeared much more reserved.

These were the regretful ones. They also wore the most presentable clothes they could find in their territories, but standing next to the Red Tide Faction nobles, the coarseness of their fabrics, the poor fit of the tailoring, and the dullness of the colors were all exposed.

They huddled together, quietly discussing how to "re-establish contact with Red Tide."

Some secretly looked toward the castle, their eyes filled with hesitation and timidity, their steps neither too fast nor too slow, as if they were walking on thin ice.

The last group was silent as shadows—these were the old nobles who were still observing.

They came to Frost Halberd City with the intention of finding fault; some even wanted to see whether the so-called Red Tide Miracle was real or a sham.

But their journey showed them that the scale and warmth of Frost Halberd City were like repeated heavy iron hammers, shattering their arrogance.

A Gray-Haired Viscount looked up at the brightly lit, massive tower slowly exhaling warmth in the distance, his chest tightening.

"Duke Edmund... was nothing more than this back then," he murmured softly, but no one responded.

Because they all understood that this city was not a replica of the Edmund Era; it was larger and far more advanced.

Louis Calvin was not rebuilding the North; he was rewriting the North.

And these lords, accustomed to the Old Order, faced only two paths before this New Order:

Either integrate, or be crushed... Inside the high-end lounge of the Frost Halberd City Guesthouse, the air was warm like spring, though fine snow drifted outside the window.

The interior furnishings were luxurious, and Magic Crystal Wall Lamps cast a soft glow, creating a tranquility that seemed to isolate them from the North's bitter cold.

Molkan was half-reclined in a soft chair, looking very pleased with himself.

He was dressed exceptionally smartly today: a Black Sable Collar Cape, silver-buckled boots, and he had even applied Noble Balm.

All this was to show the confidence of the Molkan Family to the other few wavering medium and small nobles.

Three or four nobles around him held Red Tide Special Supply Black Tea, smiling outwardly, but their eyes held the same sour envy.

"Lord Louis's display is too exaggerated. We have to queue up just to verify our identity to enter the city. I, a dignified lord, was actually stopped by a guard," one noble complained in a low voice.

"Hmph, but he certainly has money." Another noble sipped his tea, mocking verbally but hiding envy in his eyes. "I heard that those who joined Red Tide... made a fortune this year. I'm thinking... maybe we should too..."

Before he finished speaking, Molkan slammed his teacup down, his tone carrying a hint of self-satisfied chastisement.

"Yield? If you want to yield, you can go queue up at the Lord's Manor right now and submit your Pledge of Allegiance." Molkan sneered, "But smart people don't offer their necks for someone else to chain.

That boy, barely twenty years old, even if he stumbled upon a territory and set up some fancy contraptions, it's just good luck. Does he really think he's the Master of the North? I reckon without those craftsmen, he couldn't even withstand the North's wind."

He raised his hand and pointed toward the wind and snow outside the window: "Right now, while we drink tea, my Molkan Family's large caravan is passing through the Birchwood Pass."

The nobles' spirits lifted.

That was a famously lucrative caravan in the North.

Molkan's lips curled up, and he leaned back more comfortably in his chair: "Those carts are loaded with high-purity ore. Once it safely reaches the South, the grain and gold coins I exchange for it will shock all of you sirs."

The nobles exchanged glances, all showing expressions of admiration.

Someone praised in a low voice: "To live so comfortably without joining Red Tide... the Molkan Family truly has confidence."

Flattered and elated, Molkan smiled even more smugly: "When my goods return, I will treat you all to real high-grade Southern tea. This Red Tide stuff... the taste is too crude."

The others immediately joined in the laughter, and the lounge was filled with a sense of ease that came from believing they were in control of the situation.

Until an urgent knock came from outside the door.

"Who is it? Can't you see I'm in a discussion?" Molkan frowned, his tone impatient.

The door was pushed open. The person who entered was not a maid, but the Molkan Family's accompanying Old Butler.

He was soaking wet, as if drenched by rain and snow, or as if he had run hard all the way and sweated.

His face was deathly pale, devoid of color. He had forgotten even basic etiquette, stumbling a few steps before rushing to Molkan's table.

The nobles were startled by the scene and sat up straight.

"Lord Molkan..." The Old Butler's voice trembled uncontrollably.

Molkan frowned deeper: "What is it? What's the meaning of this panic?"

Ignoring the others, the Old Butler leaned in close and whispered into his ear with a shaking voice.

The lounge suddenly became so quiet that only the faint humming of the wall lamps could be heard.

Molkan's expression crumbled before everyone's eyes... turning into shock.

Then his pupils contracted violently.

Finally, his entire face turned ashen gray.

"Clatter—"

The porcelain cup in his hand dropped to the floor and shattered.

Boiling tea spilled onto his boots, but he showed no reaction whatsoever.

Molkan looked as if he had been grabbed by the throat, managing to cough out a few broken words with difficulty.

"You said... everything is... gone? Even... he... too..."

His ✪ Nоvеlіgһt ✪ (Official version) voice fractured in his throat, sounding as if he were about to collapse onto the ground... In the center of the square, a ten-meter-tall Cold Iron statue stood silently.

That was the former Guardian of the North—Duke Edmund.

The statue, forged from Cold Iron, shone with a cold metallic light under the snow, rough and heavy.

The Duke was clad in War Armor, holding a Greatsword, his stance suggesting he could awaken from the iron and charge into battle at any moment.

Most striking was the terrifying scar on his face, stretching from the corner of his left eye down to his jaw. The texture of the rolled flesh was carved deeply by the Sculptor, completely unembellished.

Isaac gazed up at the statue, his face red from the cold wind, but his eyes were slightly warm.

He raised his hand, wanting to touch the pedestal of his father's statue, but just as his fingertips drew near, he seemed struck by a sense of reverence and silently withdrew his hand.

Louis stood beside him, quietly watching the scene.

"Brother-in-law..." Isaac's voice was hoarse. "The craftsmen asked me if they should soften Father's scar a bit to make him look more dignified. I refused."

Louis nodded: "You did right. That scar is worth more than any Medal."

He looked up at the iron sculpture. "Ten years ago, during the Bloody Battle of Black River, three Barbarian Tribes allied, claiming ten thousand War Axes, and stained the rivers of the North red."

The wind and snow howled across the square, but Louis's voice was clear.

"When the defense line was torn open, your father led the Personal Guard Team, fighting against the Tide of Barbarians. He faced three Boiling Blood War Kings alone."

Louis reached out and tapped the scar on the statue's face.

"This was left by one of the War Kings just before he died. But your father nailed all their heads to the walls of Frost Halberd City. That night, all the barbarians retreated."

Isaac's breathing was rapid, as if fire was pressing against his chest.

Louis pressed his shoulder, his tone steady yet forceful: "Remember, this scar is not pain, it is guardianship. That is the true glory of the Edmund Family."

Just then, rapid footsteps crunched across the snow.

Gray came before Louis and knelt on one knee: "Lord Governor, Baron Gareth... is kneeling outside the Lord's Manor begging for an audience. He is crying severely and says there is a major incident... very urgent."

Isaac snapped out of his heroic memories, but Louis's expression remained completely unchanged; he merely blinked faintly.

Louis did not answer immediately. Instead, he first adjusted Isaac's collar, which had been ruffled by the wind, and brushed a snowflake off his shoulder, his movements unhurried.

It was as if he cared more about his brother-in-law's appearance than Gareth's panic.

After a few seconds, he finally spoke lightly: "Tell him my schedule is very full... How about seven o'clock the night after tomorrow? I should have about ten minutes free then."