Lord of Winter: Beginning with Daily Intelligence

Chapter 439: Chapter 281: Barbarian Race Marches South (Part 2)

The tide of blood and fire descends from the north like a flood of enraged flowers sweeping in.

The scene slowly draws away, revealing a figure draped in a red-black cloak, standing on a giant’s shoulder, eyes burning and bathed in snow like a divine statue.

From this moment on, the Northern Territory of the Empire will greet its darkest spring.

……

As early spring arrived, the boundaries of the endless snowfield began to loosen, ice and snow melted away, and the mountains exposed mottled rocky bones.

Deep in the valley, a babbling stream trickles over the stone bed eroded by ice and snow, occasionally, remnants of ice from high above collapse, shattering and echoing in the canyon like whispered portent.

This is the critical passage leading to the heartland of the Northern Empire—Windflame Valley.

Above the valley, a large-scale military camp is built along the terrain.

Watchtowers stand densely, chevaux de frise neatly arranged, catapults and crossbow carts distributed suitably, five fortresses form a complete defense line, the center being the Main Castle, with a tall tower on each wing, integrated with the mountain body.

A regular legion of nearly ten thousand people, including about three thousand Knights, along with craftsmen, crossbowmen, and beast-powered transport teams.

By rights, this is a defense line as solid as gold and stone, but the atmosphere in the camp is far less tense than its arrangement.

Sentinel patrols mostly go through the motions, standing guard while often chatting in pairs or groups.

Knights leisurely sun their armor, feed their horses outside the fort, some even gather to play dice and compare who can drink more.

Inside the Main Castle, the revelry goes on night after night, music never ceases, and the air is rich with the aroma of wine.

Rather than being the defense line of the Northern Empire, it seems more like a tourist spot made fat by complacency and military expenditure.

And the central figure of all this is indeed the commander of the Seventh Legion.

Rudolph, tall and thin, always standing upright like a pine, with a silver-rimmed monocle on his nose, paired with a deep purple military uniform and gold-embroidered epaulets.

Viewed from afar he looks more like a conductor of the Imperial Capital’s symphony orchestra, rather than a general.

He’s a highly seasoned High-tier Extraordinary Knight, hailing from an old noble family, once known as a battlefield artist in his youth.

Unfortunately, his reputation has now long been supplanted by decay and decadence.

At this moment, he’s lounging in a high-backed chair on the Main Castle’s balcony, a brazier warming by his side, a fine wool blanket draped over his legs, a cup of warm wine resting at hand.

A few dancers nearby, in gauzy dance dresses, spin to the rhythm.

They were specially summoned by him from the Imperial Capital, one of them said to have performed in the palace’s noble hall, here tonight specifically to celebrate the opening of spring in the Northern Territory.

Rudolph lazily remarked, “Slower, slower. We’re not Northern Barbarian wild dogs, dancing and warming by yelling.”

He chuckled softly, occasionally casting a look towards the canyon outside the fort, his gaze filled with lazy contempt.

“Northern Barbarians?” He snorted, glancing with a sneer at his adjutant beside him, “They all should have frozen to death in the winter..”

The adjutant named Sarian, also a young knight from nobility, still retaining youthful innocence on his face.

Holding a roll of secret dispatch, he stood with a slightly nervous expression before Rudolph, quietly reminding:

“Sir, this is a secret report personally sent by Duke Edmund. He says the Northern Barbarians have made a move, suggests immediately strengthening valley patrols. I think at least…”

“Enough.” Rudolph raised his eyes, as if looking at a child: “Edmond, that old conservative, every spring starts yelling ’the Barbarian Race is coming.’”

More annoying than a crow, how many times has he sent this month already, and hasn’t anything actually happened?”

Then he raised his cup and took a sip, jokingly said, “This secret report I’ll just use as a bookmark, fitting to clip in ’Secrets of the Palace.’”

The dancers chuckled lightly, whether in agreement or flattery.

Rudolph continued: “My dear Sarian, you should learn to enjoy garrison life. Rarely do we have such snow scenery, warm wine, and beautiful dancers… Guarding a canyon is no big deal, no need to be so serious, haven’t you seen it’s been ’calm and quiet’ this entire year?”

Sarian opened his mouth, wanting to say more.

But seeing Rudolph lazily reach out and bring one of the dancers into his embrace, his fingertips playfully touching her chin, he whispered jestfully.

The firelight reflecting on his lecherous smile.

The young adjutant ultimately only dropped his eyes, silently put away the secret report, and withdrew.

In the following fortnight, nothing happened, seemingly truly as Rudolph said, “calm and quiet.”

Soldiers lazily sun their armor, feed horses, gamble dice, occasionally even joke about “the Barbarians are coming.”

Until that dusk.

The light dimmed, fog lingered, suddenly a rush of hooves sounded from below the balcony.

A knight galloped in, his armor bearing traces of wind, snow, and scratches from Vine Thorns, his face pale as paper, eyes full of incredulous terror.

He almost plunged into the Main Castle gate, rushing to the balcony where Rudolph stood, shouting hoarsely: “Report!! Barbarians! Barbarians coming south!! Already six hundred miles outside the canyon!”

Rudolph frowned and lifted his eyes, his wine cup trembled slightly.

Sarian turned sharply, quickly stepped forward, grabbed the knight’s shoulder: “How many?!”

The knight’s whole body trembled, as if struggling to speak clearly, but finally squeezed out only a few words: “…endless.”

Fortunately, this time, Rudolph hadn’t drunk much.

He only paused for a few beats before suddenly rising, wrapped his cloak, his voice sharp as winter steel: “All hands on battle readiness, line up at the valley entrance, immediately!”

Windflame Valley rapidly entered emergency status.

War drums beat, horns blared, the entire camp completed defensive arrangements within two hours.

Three thousand Official Knights were deployed to the valley entrance, forming three-tiered cavalry formations, armed with long spears and shields, positioned on the east, center, and west wings.

Nearly ten thousand soldiers arrayed behind the cavalry formations, reorganized by groups, crossbow units ascended the arrow towers and precipices, engineers urgently erected anti-charge stake arrays.

Six “Magic Burst Catapults” were deployed atop the mountain cliffs on both sides, their disc tracks adjusting angles, aimed at the valley entrance exit.

Rudolph donned armor, ascended the Main Castle gazing at the distant rising dust, his gaze calm, regaining the old-school blood-and-iron steadiness of an Imperial Army officer.

“I have three thousand Knights, ten thousand soldiers, and six Magic Burst devices… the advantage is mine.”

He muttered to himself, his tone restoring to arrogance, even carrying mockery, “To turn the tide? Dream on.”

Windflame Valley has long been known for being “easy to defend, difficult to attack.”

Seventy years ago, three hundred Imperial Knights here held off five thousand Barbarians for two days, still a textbook battle example at the Imperial Capital’s military school.

And as long as they hold on, there’ll be endless reinforcements coming to support.

He’s the commander of the Empire’s Seventh Legion, the branch general of the Third Legion, a High-tier Extraordinary Knight. How could he be defeated?

But when the first wave of “vanguard troops” appeared, even the battle-hardened Rudolph couldn’t help but hold his breath.

In the swirling snow fog, dozens of five-meter-high Exotic Beasts first rushed out of the valley fog, tusks exposed, their spines covered in writhing vines.

Next came hundreds of Barbarian “cavalry,” not traditional light cavalry, but charging troops riding on mutated beasts, semi-vine parasitic mounts.

Their ranks spread like a beast tide, with swift, two-meter-level predator beasts, and seven to eight-meter-high heavily armored collision beasts covered in bone spikes and flower crown vines on their shoulders and back, like living walls crushing forward.

In the sky circling were infected battle eagles “Vine Feather Crows,” red vine filaments dangling from their wings, emitting uncomfortable whistles.

Most shocking were those appearing on the mountain trails on the flanks.

Dozens of Frost Giants.

But they were different from ordinary Frost Giants, their bodies more twisted, some arms mutated into vine-like tendrils, their bodies embedded with anger flower nodules, white flower crowns growing at the top.

They advanced slowly, each step trembling the valley.

The battle flag had appeared, red background, black vines, a blossom of enraged flower hanging inverted at the center.

As soldiers saw those mountainous giants and beasts closing in, they couldn’t help but gasp, their weapons trembling slightly.

“Truly… monsters.” Sarian muttered.

But a faint smile curved on Rudolph’s mouth instead, as a commander he must not panic at this moment.

He slowly donned his gloves, raised the Command Flag, shouted coldly: “Form ranks! Let me see just how skilled these beasts truly are!”