Lord of Winter: Beginning with Daily Intelligence

Chapter 438: Chapter 281: The Barbarians March South

Night before spring begins, gray snow falls like rain upon the barren wilderness.

And this vast plain lies just outside the canyon defense line north of the Empire.

At this moment, a ferocious army is quietly assembling on this desolate snowfield.

In the air, dark silhouettes are circling.

They are not ordinary birds, but mutated scouts infected long ago—Vine-feathered Crows.

Their wings drag tendrils, spiraling silently through the air, as snow lands on them and is instantly shaken off, revealing feathers gray and white as bone.

A series of heavy, dull resonances rise from the ground.

It’s the sound of drums, ritual war drums made from enemy bones, the sound heavy and reminiscent of some beast’s panting.

With each drumbeat, the massive battle array before us swells like the tide, as if it were a living organism slowly breathing.

This army’s formation is strict and bizarre.

Standing at the front are the wild and savage battle-slave beast packs.

They’re mutated beasts such as ice-digging apes, ice wolves, and snowfield boars…

These magical beasts differ from ordinary ones; beneath their skin are tangled vines, their eye sockets glow with green phosphorescence, some shoulders are embedded with wooden veins, some limbs bear vine thorns, yet all are fierce, all insane.

In the center is the largest contingent of mutated barbarian soldiers.

These Barbarian Race warriors are no longer human in shape, their exposed skin crawling with the pattern of “Torment Vine,” as if flames burn beneath.

They wield large axes and giant hammers, their pupils are red, their arms unnaturally swollen, their entire being seething as if ready to erupt any moment.

On either flank stand hundreds of Frost Giants.

Each towering over four meters, with deep purple Flower Crown marks on their foreheads representing complete domination.

Behind them are the command corps and priest corps draped in gray cloaks.

They stand silently behind the drum formation, vines entwining their wrists, murmuring softly.

And that towering ritual war altar seems like a throne risen from Hell, standing upon the lifeless snowfield.

It’s built from stacked vines and white bones, grotesque yet holy as if constructed from the remains of sacrificed souls, a temple.

Standing atop this altar is Titus.

His cape deep red, reaches to his ankles, billows in the wind like wings unfurling in a bloodstained night.

His eyes deep red, pupil-less, as though the Torment Vine itself resides within, shimmering with a certain radiance.

His right hand bare, wrist bone slender, beneath the skin small vines creepily wriggle like parasitic worms.

Yet he seems unconscious to this, as if these things have long been part of him.

Titus’s voice rises amidst the snow, initially low as a whisper: “From this night onward…”

He slowly surveys the surroundings, his gaze piercing the snow curtain, the battle array, seemingly penetrating the Empire’s very land.

“Let the Northern Territory of the Empire! Become our garden!”

Silence prevails, followed by a roar from the army.

It’s not a uniform military shout, but a beastly, gale-like howl.

Amidst this fervent emotion, the marching ritual unfolds slowly.

The vine altar stands at the center of the battle array, formed by entwined vines, atop which rests an as-yet-unopened “Rage Flower.”

Scarlet petals slightly spread, as if awaiting some crimson catalyst…

Three mutated giant wolves crouch before the altar, their eyes crimson red, breathing heavily.

The priest steps forward, slashing the throat abruptly, blood spouts in silence, transforming into gasps, the fresh blood flows along the vine altar, seeping into the root of the Rage Flower.

Moments later, the Rage Flower suddenly bursts open.

The entire flower expands amidst intense pulsations, its core emitting ring upon ring of red light pulses, enveloping the whole battle array like a heartbeat.

This is “Rage Sharing.”

It’s the resonance mechanism among the infected, the initiation of emotional synchronization and anger diffusion.

Where the red light reaches, the Barbarian Army falls into a frenzy.

The front-row barbarian soldiers pound their chests as if on fire, some even draw short knives and stab into their own shoulders and arms, using searing pain to ignite their rage state, their faces reddened by blood, eyes filled solely with killing intent.

In the rear, battle-slave beasts roar as they rush out of their cages, a snowfield bear kneels with forepaws on the ground, looking up at Titus on the altar and roaring to the sky, then suddenly rising, charging to the front lines, trailing vine thorns like whips.

The massive Frost Giants also march with the drumbeat, each step trembling the ground, ice layers fissure, vines grow rampant.

This isn’t a military departure; it’s an outbreak from Hell’s stasis.

Titus stands atop the vine altar, silently overseeing it all.

He’s unable to discern whether he’s awake or lost in this moment.

The aura of the Rage Flower has long seeped into his very marrow.

He can’t resist, nor does he wish to resist.

As long as it brings this limitless power, he’s willing to succumb.

He slowly closes his eyes then leaps downward.

The cape unfurls in mid-air like a blood curtain, landing on the Frost Giant’s shoulder, amidst the wind and snow he stands like a king, becoming the core of the entire Rage Army.

Vine drums shake heaven, war flags rise, their banner bearing inverted Rage Flowers and entwined Vine Crowns, red as evening blood, rustling fiercely.

Titus raises his wand high, wrapped entirely in Torment Vine, its top the Rage Flower opened like an evil eye.

He shouts the command that shakes the entire battle array: “Let them tremble in the fires of rage!”

Instantly the Frost Giants step forward, their legs like pillars shatter the icefield, cracks extend like spider webs, rumbling endlessly.

Pursuing them are the rampaging battle-slave beast pack, each strike on the ground sends snow flying, vine thorns piercing the earth, as if the entire snowfield has become a flesh organ of vine thorns, writhing southward.

The sky gradually reddens, snow refuses to stop, red mist rises.