Lord of the Frozen Winter: Starting with Daily Intelligence Reports

The massive Black Iron gate was slowly raised, and shattered snow slid off the threshold, falling into the darkness.

Moments later, a metallic roar that shook the chest cavity sounded.

The iron hooves of the 17th Legion stepped out from the shadows.

There were no horns, no drums, no ceremony, only deafening stomping sounds.

Thousands of heavily armored knights poured out from the gate, as if darkness itself had been cast into physical form.

They were covered head-to-toe in Black Steel plate armor, edged with Cold Iron, and their shoulder guards were engraved with swirling patterns symbolizing the storm.

Each knight was like a weapon forged from steel and fury, and the warhorses beneath them were clad in heavy half-body barding, their breath rising in white mist, like ferocious wolves exhaling.

The ground trembled beneath their feet; the accumulated snow was torn apart, crushed, splashing ice shards, and pulverized by their heavy hooves.

On the vast snowy plain, they were not a troop, but an entire moving black iron wall.

Oppressive, cold, ruthless.

When thousands of long spears were raised in unison, the “clang—” of the spear butts hitting the armor exploded like thunder, shaking the snow off the distant cedars on the mountainside.

Ackerman Grell rode at the forefront.

His Black Scale Warhorse was as tall as a magical beast, its mane lifted by the cold wind, clad in heavy armor, its cloak snapping open in the snowstorm, like a battle flag about to be ignited.

Behind him, a black-armored serpentine line several kilometers long moved with him. Iron hooves rolled, armor scraped, and spears swayed, creating a soul-shaking sense of oppression in the wind and snow.

He felt his heartbeat being driven by this iron torrent, the rhythm becoming increasingly rousing, as if urging him forward, and further forward.

This was power; this was his true confidence.

As they stepped onto the Glacier Plain, an iron torrent also appeared at the other end of the battlefield.

Left Flank: 14th Legion - Iron Wall.

That was a square formation of heavy knights, strictly ordered and disciplined like iron.

Their steps were steady and heavy; every time they advanced shoulder-to-shoulder, it was like a city wall slowly shifting across the snow.

The shield wall was so tight that barely any gap could be seen, and the spear formation was as uniform as if measured.

Falling snow settled on the armor, leaving only a thin layer of white frost, which was quickly shaken off by the residual heat and the knights' movements, revealing the cold, hard Black Steel underneath.

Right Flank: 7th Legion - Mad Wolf.

Although their armor styles varied, they all maintained the insignia and sequence of the Imperial Regular Army.

However, on their shoulder guards and cloaks, one could see many trophies from the Northern Barrens: bleached animal bones, dried manes, and mottled magical beast hides.

These were not crude decorations, but symbols left by powerful enemies they had defeated, representing the 7th Legion's meritorious service in years of bloody fighting against magical beasts on the border.

The three torrents of knights slowly converged on the vast ice plain.

When the sound of the three armies' iron hooves layered together, a heavy thunder seemed to boom between heaven and earth, suppressing even the shriek of the wind, turning it into a wail.

Although the 14th and 7th Legions combined totaled four thousand cavalry, in front of Ackerman's three thousand iron riders, they were restrained, like two packs of hunting dogs surrounding a lion king.

During the march, the officers of the three sides completed a brief and stern tactical confirmation in the wind and snow.

The heavy cavalry of the 17th Legion would act as the main hammer, striking directly at the gates and central defensive line of Frost Halberd City.

The Iron Wall formation of the 14th Legion was responsible for holding the left flank, becoming a thick shield wall in the white snow, preventing any surprise attacks.

The Mad Wolf Knights of the 7th Legion were assigned to roam the right flank, responsible for cutting off any potential escape routes, especially those lords and accompanying guards attempting to slip away via the hilly paths.

In the eyes of these three legions, this tactic required no complex deduction; they were facing not a fully prepared fortress, but a Northern Army crippled by years of warfare.

More importantly, this was a surprise attack. The lords of the North, currently holding a meeting, would never expect a sudden strike.

No one expected routed soldiers, because in their logic, a proper battle would be required to produce routed soldiers.

And this time, it hardly counted as war.

In the eyes of these battle-hardened regular troops, Frost Halberd City was merely a piece of fat meat placed on a cutting board, waiting to be sliced open.

All they had to do was follow the predetermined route and crush everything into shattered snow beneath iron hooves and spear tips... Ackerman rode at the vanguard; the wind cut like a knife, but striking his face only made him feel more awake and excited.

He recalled the troop strength again... seven thousand knights against a city that had just finished reconstruction.

Historically in the North, battles of this scale only occurred during Barbarian invasions, but this time, the initiator was not the Barbarians, but he, Ackerman.

“Louis...” Ackerman chuckled deeply. “Blame your bad luck for meeting me at this specific time.”

According to Ackerman's intelligence, it was all overwhelmingly good news:

The Red Tide main force wasn't in Frost Halberd City at all; what remained in the city were merely two ✪ Nоvеlіgһt ✪ (Official version) thousand or so cobbled-together noble cavalry.

The new defensive works hadn't been fully installed yet, and the city walls had just received their final protective layer, making them like semi-dry mud walls that couldn't withstand a charge from heavy cavalry.

This wasn't Frost Halberd City; that once impregnable fortress was now soft flesh that would crumble with a stomp.

Ackerman could already imagine the future: Frost Halberd City captured, the Northern nobles all falling into his grasp, and the lifeblood of steel and coal controlled by him. When the imperial power changed hands, he would be the foremost meritorious official.

Ackerman Grell, Duke of the North!

In the wind and snow, he raised his spear and pointed toward the northern city: “Haha! Advance!”

The iron tide roared, and the earth echoed.

The largest military mobilization in the North in thirty years, like an awakened behemoth, crushed towards Frost Halberd City. Ackerman was certain: the outcome was decided... The wind and snow in Frost Halberd City still howled, as if trying to remind all visitors that this place was once the North's most desolate ruin.

However, the Grand Conference Hall was warm and welcoming, as if two worlds were separated by a single door.

Heavy crystal chandeliers cast bright golden light, and the newly installed steam heating on the walls slowly breathed out warmth, making the air as mild as a southern spring night.

Outside the window was bone-chilling cold wind, but inside, one could smell the sweetness of pastries and the spicy aroma of strong liquor.

The long table was covered with high-grade velvet tablecloths, and the craftsmen from Red Tide Territory had made the plating exquisite, like works of art.

Pastries, black tea, strong liquor, honey-preserved fruit flesh... piled high, making it almost possible to forget that this place was once the focal point of war.

This session of the Northern Reconstruction Conference was the most complete gathering in decades.

Besides the greater nobles, even the pioneering minor barons were seated in the outer rows.

The room was filled with constant chatter, mostly casual conversation.

Some discussed the year's grain prices, others exchanged hunting experiences, and some joked about how hard the dancers worked last night.

It was as if the North had truly welcomed stability and prosperity.

Only no one mentioned Gareth Morcan, as if he had vanished from everyone's memory.

No one wanted to bring bad luck into such a lively occasion.

However, beneath all the relaxed conversation lurked a shared anxiety: Louis had not yet arrived.

The high-backed main seat at the end of the conference table was empty. The higher-ranking the noble, the more frequently they glanced towards it.

Ten minutes passed, then twenty minutes... Some long-established nobles began to grow impatient, deliberately lowering their voices to complain: “Just a young brat, forgetting etiquette after being a lord for a few years.”

“Making all of us wait for him, who does he think he is?”

Yet, no one dared to speak too loudly.

After all, Frost Halberd City was currently the territory of the Red Tide Territory, and the Red Tide Territory's strength made everyone wary.

Just as the discussion began to spread, the main door was pushed open from the outside.

Everyone reflexively stopped talking and looked up in unison.

Unsurprisingly, Louis Calvin walked in.

Today, he was completely different from the nobles in the hall wearing formal attire. He wore Red Tide standard light battle armor; the Black Steel gleamed coldly under the light, and the edges of his shoulder guards were still stained with snow-mud that hadn't been fully wiped clean.

He did not pretend to be a respectable noble by changing into formal wear, but strode into the conference hall openly.

His steps were steady, as if he could turn and rush to the battlefield at any moment, as if using this gear to remind everyone that peace in the North was never maintained by etiquette.

Bradley and Isaac followed behind him.

The Old Butler was deferential but strictly adhered to etiquette.

Isaac held his head high, his eyes carrying the nervousness and pride unique to a youth, entering to observe as the Duke of Edmund, and the future master of the North.

Louis walked to the main seat, not rushing to sit down, but resting his hand on the edge of the table, speaking politely yet casually: “Apologies for the wait, everyone. I was dealing with a small matter and was slightly delayed.”

His voice wasn't loud, but it instantly silenced the entire conference hall.

“You've worked hard, My Lord!”

“Lord Louis is too kind!”

“It is our honor that you could attend.”

The nobles rose one after another to greet him, as if welcoming a grand banquet. Louis smiled in acknowledgment and took the main seat.

But he did not open the conference agenda detailing commercial cooperation. Instead, he lightly tapped the tabletop with his fingers, creating a sense of unease.

“Gentlemen,” Louis continued, “before we discuss how to make money, I must first tell everyone a... small piece of bad news.”

The phrase “bad news” did not cause much commotion in the hall.

Some slightly frowned but merely offered a casual response. More nobles took this as Louis's usual dry humor, waiting for a joke or gossip.

After all, with such a lighthearted tone, how bad could it be?

Louis paused for a second, his tone still level: “Right now, the 17th Legion, the 14th Legion, and the 7th Legion, totaling seven thousand fully armed knights, have crossed the Birch Forest Defense Line.”

He gently raised his eyes and added: “If the roads are clear, they will likely arrive at Frost Halberd City in about a day, and... begin a massacre.”

The air froze instantly.

Three seconds later, the noise exploded like ignited gunpowder.

“Seven thousand knights?! Are you crazy? How can we fight that?!” The legs of a minor baron, thin as a stick, gave way, his backside hitting the floor with a dull “thud.”

On the other side, a white-haired old count slammed the table, making the silverware jump an inch high: “Louis! Did you drag the entire North into this?! Do you know what this means?!”

“It's over... it's all over...” a noble muttered, slumping against the chair back as if his bones had been removed.

Others completely collapsed, jumping up and knocking over the chair behind them: “Quick! Send envoys! Send them now! Open the city gates! Tell Ackerman we weren't involved, that we know nothing!”

Fear spread like a plague; everyone's voice rose uncontrollably.

The entire conference hall was like a shipwreck hitting a reef—screaming, arguing, running around—all elegance was shredded by fear.

Amidst this chaos, Louis sat quietly, showing no anger, no panic, and even took a calm sip of red wine.

The noble who shouted “surrender” was the loudest, even trying to rush and push open the main door.

Louis put down his wine glass, his tone so calm it was as if he were scolding a misbehaving child: “Surrender? Negotiation? Are you certain Ackerman will spare your lives?

When Morcan went to demand the return of the requisitioned goods, he was beheaded on the spot. Now his head hangs on the battlements of Greyrock Fortress."

As he spoke, he pulled a scroll of parchment from his breast pocket and tossed it onto the table.

The parchment unrolled, revealing dense red markings.

“Gentlemen, you have two choices.” Louis extended one finger. “First: fight individually. Be defeated one by one. Your entire families wiped out.”

He extended a second finger: “Second: immediately and unconditionally hand over the private soldiers and guards you brought, along with the complete military command authority of your territories, to me. Command will be unified under Red Tide.”

He leaned back in his chair, his tone still gentle but sending chills down spines: “Vote now. Those who agree, remain seated. Those who disagree, the door is over there. You may go welcome Ackerman.”

That door suddenly became as terrifying as the entrance to death.

No one moved.

Including the noble who had just shouted for surrender, he was nailed to the spot as if his legs were filled with lead, cold sweat beading on his forehead.

A few seconds later, the first noble tremblingly raised his hand.

Then the second, the third... More people silently nodded, more people dared not look up, and more people expressed submission through silence.

There were no objections.

Louis nodded with satisfaction, revealing that gentle smile once more.

“Very good.”

Louis stood up, straightened his cuffs, and spoke in a light tone, as if concluding an ordinary afternoon tea party: “Since everyone is in agreement... the meeting is adjourned. Now, it is time for war.”

Louis dropped this sentence, his coat hem fluttering slightly in the breeze, and headed straight for the main door.

The hundreds of nobles in the hall stood frozen, as if their souls had been extracted, only their wide eyes vaguely following his retreating figure.

Isaac followed behind, his small steps almost requiring a jog to keep up.

Although he forced himself to remain calm, his tightly pressed lips betrayed his anxiety.

Not until they exited the hall did he finally pull on Louis's sleeve and whisper, “Brother-in-law... is it really okay? There are seven thousand knights outside...”

Louis stopped, looked down at the little fellow trying hard to appear mature, and the coldness in his eyes instantly softened.

He reached out and ruffled Isaac's hair.

“It's fine.” His tone was as casual as if answering about the weather: “No matter how many people Ackerman brought, he has already lost.”

Isaac was stunned: “But aren't we... aren't we in great danger right now?”

Louis smiled, that smile carrying the certainty of someone who controls everything: “I came today simply to make them hand over military authority to me personally. Without this threat, they would never willingly comply.”

He patted Isaac's shoulder: “As for Ackerman... truly great wars don't begin when the enemy arrives; they end before the enemy even acts. This meeting was also part of the battlefield.”

Having finished speaking, he continued walking forward, his steps steady and relaxed, as if the threat of seven thousand knights was merely a piece he had already placed on his chessboard.