Lord of the Frozen Winter: Starting with Daily Intelligence Reports

A mixed scent permeated the command vehicle.

The pungency of low-grade tobacco, the stench of wet wool soaked through by rain, and the damp cold brought in by iron boots stepping on muddy ground pressed down layer by layer in the narrow space, making one's chest feel stifled.

Several older Northern generals were leaning against the sides of the carriage, heads bowed as they smoked pipes.

Smoke rolled slowly under the dim yellow light of the oil lamps, like a lingering fog.

From the roof came the constant sound of torrential rain crashing down, a pitter-patter that was dense and hurried, as if countless crushed stones were being poured down from a great height.

The door was suddenly pushed open violently from the outside.

Cold wind wrapped in rain poured in as a soaking wet vanguard scout stumbled into the carriage, his boot soles bringing in a trail of muddy water.

He was almost unable to stand steady, yet he forced himself to brace upright; he did not salute, merely gasping for air twice in a hurry.

His fingers were white with cold, yet his movements did not stop.

The scout untied the waterproof oilcloth tube from his back, roughly tore open the seal, pulled out a sketch hastily outlined in charcoal, and spread a crumpled urgent report soaked by rain onto the table as well.

The paper slapped against the oak tabletop with a dull thud.

"Report." His voice trembled. "Blackstone Canyon... the road is blocked solid."

The carriage fell silent in an instant, and several generals leaned in at the same time.

The sketch was drawn crudely with messy lines, yet its meaning was understood at a glance.

The narrow entrance to the canyon was filled with dense figures, charcoal lines layered into a chaotic black mass.

Those people wore no armor, only tattered clothes, deliberately drawn small and disorganized.

And behind them were several heavy straight lines representing chevaux-de-frise and temporary checkpoints.

Further back were several dark silhouettes holding blades; though their positions were scattered, they were clearly much taller.

The scout raised a finger to point at that area, speaking quickly: "The number exceeds fifty thousand. Kyle Remont ordered the refugees to be driven into the canyon, saying he was arranging a Winter Shelter for them."

He paused, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down. "Once everyone is squeezed inside, they block the road. The supervising squad is right behind them; whoever retreats, dies."

After a brief, dead silence, a heavy sound broke the stillness.

"Bang!"

Count Albert slammed a fist onto the oak table covered with a sheepskin map; the tabletop jolted violently, and the ink bottle wobbled, nearly toppling over.

This old noble, who had fought in the North his whole life, stood up straight, his beard trembling with exertion and his eyes bloodshot.

"Beast!" His voice was low, yet suppressed with fury. "Kyle Remont is a heartless beast!"

He took a sharp breath and continued cursing: "We Northerners are rough people. In the past, we didn't treat serfs like humans and were harsh with grain requisitions, but that was because everyone had to survive!

But we have never used the old, the weak, women, or children to fill the gap of a blade! That's not war, that's..."

The old man's words stopped because he didn't know how to describe such bestial behavior.

A burly Northern noble couldn't help but chime in, his tone hurried and harsh.

"I've fought barbarians for territory before, fighting until blood was shed, but I've never done such a godforsaken thing!"

"Driving tens of thousands of people to their deaths? What kind of fucking noble is that?" He spat, his expression extremely ugly. "This is throwing a noble's dignity into the mud to be trampled!"

A low murmur of agreement rose in the carriage.

These men usually spoke crudely, acted tough, and believed in the law of the jungle, yet they all had a default bottom line—never use the old, weak, women, or children as shields.

Kyle's actions were stepping right on this line and grinding down hard.

Someone ground their teeth and whispered, "Grey Rock Province prides itself on being a center of civilization. I didn't expect their hearts to be even blacker than us'savages'."

As the words fell, no one else in the command vehicle spoke, and the heavy sound of rain filled the gap once more.

Lambert slowly exhaled; his face was equally grim, but his emotions were deliberately suppressed.

He reached out and picked up the pen, drawing a striking red line on the spread-out map, tracing it all the way along Blackstone Canyon.

"A hard charge." He didn't look up, but his tone was exceptionally clear. "If our steam tanks roll through, that won't be an advance; it'll be a massacre."

The charcoal pen tapped heavily on the red line.

"And fifty thousand people. There will be people under the tracks, and the gaps in the tracks will be filled with minced meat; we won't be able to enter at all."

He looked up at everyone. "Furthermore, the Northern Army's reputation for not killing civilians will be completely destroyed within fifteen minutes."

No one refuted him.

Lambert's finger pointed to the flank of the map, where contour lines were densely drawn.

"Detour. Take the narrow mountain paths to the west. The heavy tanks won't be able to pass and will have to be disassembled for transport. It will take at least ten more days."

He paused, his voice dropping a bit lower.

"Grey Rock Fortress will have these ten days to complete its defensive lines. By then, we won't be attacking; we'll be crashing into a wall. And winter is coming; we have no supplies left..."

The pen was placed back on the table, and the carriage fell completely silent.

Only the rain drummed on the roof, accompanied by the suppressed breathing of the crowd.

This was a stalemate.

Kyle had simply placed conscience in the middle of the road, forcing you to crush it yourself.

Count Albert's hand remained pressed on his sword hilt, his knuckles white. His chest heaved a few times, but he eventually let go.

But even if Kyle were torn into ten thousand pieces, it wouldn't solve the problem of this canyon.

At that moment, the wooden door of the command vehicle was pushed open again.

A damp, cold wind wrapped in rain surged in, making the oil lamp flicker.

Louis walked into the carriage.

He wore a neat black military dress uniform, his collar buttoned meticulously, and his boots were hardly even stained with # Nоvеlight # mud.

Compared to the smoke, anger, and moisture filling the carriage, he appeared excessively clean.

In his hand, he even carried a cup of freshly brewed black tea.

White steam rose slowly from the rim of the cup, appearing particularly striking in the cold air.

He scanned the group, his gaze sweeping over several tense faces before finally landing on the crumpled charcoal sketch on the table.

"What's wrong?" his tone was casual. "Early in the morning, and everyone looks like frost-bitten eggplants."

He looked at Albert, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly. "Count, your beard is almost curling up to the sky."

Albert immediately stepped forward, his voice unable to hide his anxiety.

"My Lord! Have you seen the scout's report? That madman Kyle... he's using refugees to block the road!"

Louis raised a hand, signaling him to stop.

He looked down and blew on the froth in his teacup as if checking the temperature, his tone as flat as if he were commenting on the day's weather. "I've seen it. Isn't it just tens of thousands of people and a bit of explosives?"

The carriage became terrifyingly quiet for a moment.

Several generals instinctively looked at each other, even thinking they had misheard.

Louis walked to the main seat and sat down, placing the teacup on the table, his fingertips tapping twice. "There's no need to discuss the detour anymore."

Lambert frowned and couldn't help but speak up.

"My Lord, that's tens of thousands of people... we can't actually roll over them."

Louis looked up.

His gaze went past the carriage, as if already piercing through the rain curtain to look at Blackstone Canyon dozens of kilometers away.

"I know. So you don't need to worry about it." He paused, his tone still steady. "While you were slamming the table, I already sent people to handle it."

Once these words were spoken, no one else made a sound.

If it had been anyone else saying "it's settled" so nonchalantly in this situation, anyone here would have questioned them on the spot.

But the person speaking was Louis, the lord who had walked out of the bitter winter step by step and had never tasted defeat.

And Louis did not keep them in suspense any longer; he leaned forward slightly and whispered a few words of his plan.

Yet the carriage felt as if someone had held their breath.

Several generals instinctively stood up straight, sucking in a breath of cold air, but no one spoke.

They suddenly realized that this stalemate didn't exist at all.

Louis finished speaking and picked up his teacup again. "Prepare as I've said."

...The people crowded into Blackstone Canyon came from different places.

Three large northern towns and over a dozen villages had been pushed here layer by layer by the torrential rain and cold wind.

Some dragged handcarts with broken wheels, some carried unconscious elderly on their backs, and some brought nothing at all, left with only tattered clothes soaked white by the rain.

Before retreating, Kyle's army had destroyed everything that could sustain life.

Houses were set ablaze, their beams collapsing into the fire.

Granaries were smashed open, and grain was trampled into the mud.

Water wells were either sealed shut or filled with rotting meat and poisonous ash.

With winter approaching and the torrential rain continuous, the civilians were left in the wild.

And before the driving began, another voice had already spread ahead.

Propaganda Officers were sent to various towns and village entrances, wearing neat armor and standing on wooden crates or well rims to read announcements.

They repeatedly emphasized one thing: the Northerners were heading south.

Those people were depicted as monsters.

They ate people, left no survivors, and specifically targeted women and children.

They claimed with certainty that they had seen Northern tanks roll through villages, with nothing but crushed bones under the tracks.

They said Northern knights would nail living people to door panels for amusement; every word was spoken as if they had seen it with their own eyes.

Immediately following that, another path to life was presented to them.

Behind Grey Rock Fortress, a Winter Shelter had already been established.

There was hot soup, tents, and doctors there.

As long as they evacuated their original homes as quickly as possible and crossed Blackstone Canyon together, they could escape the Northern Army's butcher knives.

To make it seem real, the Propaganda Officers distributed paper certificates stamped with insignias on the spot.

"Gray Rock Civilian Certificate."

They told everyone that this was the only proof for entering the shelter and the mark to distinguish good citizens from Northern spies.

Anyone without this paper would be treated as an accomplice.

Fear and hope were stuffed into the hands of the crowd simultaneously.

That thin piece of paper was repeatedly rubbed and smoothed by countless hands, then hidden close to the body.

It was worthless, yet more important than life itself.

Thus, the crowd was driven forward like sheep into a pen, squeezing bit by bit into this sole passage toward a "way out."

Blackstone Canyon was not wide for tens of thousands of people.

By the time the first group reached the middle section, the ground beneath their feet had completely turned into a quagmire.

sewage rose above their ankles, mixed with excrement, rotten food, and bloody water.

Every step required effort to pull out a foot; once someone stopped, they would be pushed off balance by those behind them.

The rain was bone-chillingly cold, yet the heat squeezed out by the crowd huddled together steamed into a layer of grayish-white mist in the canyon.

That mist carried a sour stench and clung to their faces; with every breath, it felt like dirty water was being poured into their lungs.

They thought it was just a temporary congestion and that they only needed to wait a day or two to enter the so-called Winter Shelter.

There was a checkpoint ahead, said to be verifying identities.

To prevent Northern spies from slipping in, they had to check everyone one by one.

But as time passed, the line barely moved.

Every hour, only a very few people were allowed to pass.

Those in the back didn't know what was happening at the front; they only saw people occasionally disappearing into the rain curtain, so they squeezed forward even more desperately.

People in the middle of the canyon were squeezed so tightly they could neither stand straight nor fall down.

There was no shouting.

Only a continuous low drone.

The sound of teeth chattering, suppressed sobbing, and the wheezing of the dying mixed together, echoing in the canyon.

In the dim rain curtain, people were pressed against people.

Some elderly had already died but had not fallen; their corpses were sandwiched between the living, swaying with the tide of people, heads tilted and eyes open, yet long since out of focus.

Martha was trapped among them.

She was originally a tailor in a small town with some reputation, but now she couldn't even stand steady.

One hand desperately shielded the three-year-old child in her arms, while the other was clenched at her chest.

It held a "Gray Rock Civilian Certificate" soaked and ruined by the rain.

She remembered she had exchanged her family's last bag of grain for it.

That officer hadn't even looked up while writing, only saying casually: "With this, the child can drink milk."

Martha lowered her head, putting her mouth to the child's ear, repeating it over and over.

"Just hold on a little longer, the checkpoint is right ahead. Once we pass the checkpoint, there will be milk."

She seemed to be telling the child a bedtime story, yet also using these words to tether herself.

She didn't dare look at the child's face, nor did she notice that the tiny body had already become unnervingly light.

A commotion suddenly broke out at the front of the line.

An old blacksmith with a face full of stubble squeezed to the very front; he stood tall and could see clearly.

That wasn't a verification at all.

Chevaux-de-frise were laid out horizontally, shields were raised one by one, and behind them were soldiers with bowstrings already drawn taut.

"You aren't checking!" the old blacksmith roared, his voice tearing through the canyon. "You're not letting us through! Liars! There is no shelter at all!"

A crossbow string vibrated.

*Thwack.*

A bolt entered from the side, piercing his throat.

Blood sprayed into the rain, quickly washed away.

The old blacksmith's body was kicked aside, rolling into the ditch by the road, face down, never moving again.

The Supervising Officer on horseback looked down at the crowd, his tone cold and devoid of emotion.

"Attempting to storm the checkpoint! This man is a Northern spy! Everyone back up! If anyone dares to speak again, the outcome will be the same!"

Those in the front row were forced back by blades.

Those in the back row, however, squeezed forward even harder because they believed they were "about to pass."

At that moment, the earth began to vibrate.

*Thump, thump...*

Heavy and rhythmic.

Like some gargantuan object slowly approaching.

Panic exploded from the rear.

"The tanks..."

"The man-eating tanks of the North are here!"

Ahead were the blades and blockades of their own army.

Behind were the legendary steel monsters that crushed everything.

In the middle, there were only bodies squeezed so tightly they couldn't breathe, and stomachs that were completely empty.

Finally, some people understood.

The so-called hot soup never existed from the beginning.

Duke Kyle had never prepared a place for them to spend the winter.

He had simply stuffed them into this narrow canyon.

To serve as human sandbags in front of the monsters.

And now, they didn't even have the space to run away.