Free Web NovelThe heavy oak door slowly closed behind him, completely shutting out the clamor and arguments from the meeting hall.
The long corridor was silent, with only Duke Edmund’s boot steps echoing steadily and heavily in the empty space.
In his mind, the words of the battle report still churned, every unit forced to retreat South, every fallen town, felt like a cold block of ice pressing on his chest, making his breathing heavy.
Then he walked back to his room, pushed open the heavy wooden door, and the warm firelight from the fireplace flickered inside, casting a soft golden glow on the stone walls. A faint scent of flowers and herbs, Elena’s favorite holly and dried lavender, drifted in the air.
Duke Edmund tried to put away the heavy thoughts that had accompanied him, forcing a benevolent smile onto his face.
The large scar on his face made the smile seem somewhat strange, but he had tried his best to look less like someone who had just returned from the battlefield.
Elena sat by the fireplace, holding their one-year-old child in her arms, gently patting the small back and humming a lullaby.
Hearing the door open, she looked up, a glimmer of light in her eyes.
On the table lay a letter from the Red Tide Territory, sent by Emily, with a few tiny snowflakes still clinging to the envelope.
Edmund stepped forward, bent down, and took the child.
He tried to gently rock the child, but the child looked at him with curious eyes for a few seconds, then reached out a soft little hand, grabbed his beard, and pulled hard. The pull was not light, making him tilt his head back slightly.
The child giggled, like the clear sound of wind chimes.
Edmund simply lowered his head, gently touched the child’s forehead with his own, eliciting a joyful gurgle.
Seeing this, Elena couldn't help but smile, gently tapping the little one’s nose with her finger.
“He’s much more energetic today than usual,” she said, “he even insisted on grabbing the curtains and trying to climb up before his nap.”
Edmund raised his eyebrows: “With that kind of energy, he might follow me to the battlefield someday.”
“He should make a good Knight.”
“Hmm, he’ll have to learn not to pull beards first.”
Then they talked about the venison stewed in the kitchen today, about the trees in the flower room bearing fruit, and even mentioned Elena recently having servants try to grow mushrooms in the cellar.
The fire crackled, the wind and snow still howled outside, but inside, it was warm like a small island isolated from the war.
It was only then that Elena seemed to remember something, raising her hand to point at the envelope on the table: “Oh, Emily’s letter, it arrived this morning.”
She sat back in the chair by the fireplace and opened the letter.
“Emily almost won the Knight exhibition match at the Red Tide spring sports festival—only, in the end, her horse was attracted by a candy stall by the arena and ran off to munch on candied hawthorns.”
Edmund couldn't help but laugh when he heard this.
The smile was a bit stiff at first, as if unaccustomed to such an expression during wartime, but it was quickly softened by the vivid image.
He seemed to truly see Emily pulling the reins in exasperation, while the horse contentedly chewed on candied hawthorns.
“Isn’t that girl pregnant? This is too reckless,” he shook his head, but his tone carried an undisguised fondness.
Elena casually picked up a warm, sliced honey cake and gently placed it in his palm.
Edmund’s fingertips slightly relaxed in the warmth of the honey cake, its sweetness seeming to dispel the chill that had accompanied him all the way.
Outside, the wind and snow still howled. Inside, however, there was the faint fragrance of flowers and herbs and soft lamplight, keeping the cold night at bay.
The warmth of this moment almost made one forget the Northern Territory outside, consumed by blood and fire.
After a while, Edmund’s gaze fell deep into the fireplace, and he said in a calm yet heavy voice: “You should take the child South for a while.”
Elena’s expression tightened, and uneasiness and questions flickered in her eyes.
She understood what this meant; Edmund would not let her leave Frost Halberd City without reason, nor would he send her far to the South.
But she took a deep breath, suppressing these thoughts, and in the end, only nodded gently.
After sitting for a while longer, Edmund rose and gently placed his hand on his wife’s shoulder.
He said nothing, only looked at the child sleeping peacefully in her arms for a moment, then straightened his cloak, hiding the last trace of a smile on his brow, and walked towards the door.
“I’m going to check on the patrol line arrangements again,” he said in an understated tone.
Elena did not stop him, only softly said: “The wind is strong outside, wear your cloak properly.”
The door closed softly.
The moment the heavy door shut, it seemed to lock the warmth of moments ago inside the room.
The moment he stepped out of the room, Edmund’s smile also faded, and the grimness of a seasoned warrior returned to his features.
He looked around the corridor, and immediately an armored personal guard stepped forward quickly, kneeling on one knee.
Edmund’s voice was low and icy: “Ensure their safe delivery.”
Then he slowly took out several letters, already sealed, from his embrace.
The wax seal on each was pressed by his own hand, and the edges of the letter paper were slightly yellowed, clearly written days ago.
He handed out the letters one by one, his tone leaving no room for doubt: “Give them to the Lady only after they arrive in the Southern Territory.”
The personal guard bowed his head and accepted them without a word, his hands trembling slightly from the pressure; he knew what these letters meant.
“At the fastest speed, bypass the main road, go South from the treeline, do not use the trade route. You and your men—return together only after the war has subsided.”
The personal guard merely bowed deeply: “Understood.”
He turned and left, his boots clattering on the flagstones, the sound growing fainter and fainter.
The corridor fell silent again, leaving only Edmund standing amidst the interplay of shadow and firelight.
He leaned against the cold stone pillar and slowly exhaled.
At this moment, he wore no armor, no helmet, he was just a middle-aged man, a father who knew his fate.
He muttered softly, as if to himself: “This is my only selfishness.”
This was his only selfishness. Generations had guarded the Northern Territory for the Empire, and the bloodline of the Edmund Family had long permeated this ice plain.
From grandfather to father, from elder brother to eldest son, cold gravestones stood on the snow-covered hills.
He did not want his child to witness the end of the family again.
With loyalty as their sword, they eventually found their graves in the snow.
At this moment, his daughter’s smile appeared in his mind.
Emily, that stubborn, persistent daughter, more like him than anyone else.
She was in the Red Tide Territory, not far from the front line, and had only recently become pregnant.
Thinking of this, Edmund’s chest tightened slightly, thinking: “I hope they can survive.”
However, Edmund slowly raised his eyebrows, and a nearly self-mocking smile appeared on his lips.
Louis, that young man, seemed delicate, but in reality, he was decisive in killing, yet possessed a rare calmness and ruthlessness.
Much calmer and more ruthless than he was in his youth.
Perhaps he really could protect Emily.
The night hung like a tattered beast hide over the ruins of the shattered fortress, where blood and mud mingled, flowing into a putrid, stinking river.
A headless Knight’s body hung from a broken trebuchet, his silver armor shattered, his chest cavity ripped open by some massive creature, his internal organs swaying in the night wind.
His spear was still stuck in the ground, its tip broken, but its butt was tightly gripped in his exposed finger bones.
That was Ravento, the vanguard commander of the Empire’s Sixth Legion, an extraordinary Knight.
He had once led hundreds of elite Knights to break through beast tides and defend Northern Wilderness Ridge for three days and nights.
Now his head hung on a flagpole, impaled through its eye sockets with a crude iron nail, nailed beneath a blood-stained battle flag.
Footsteps shook the ground.
The giant’s heavy hooves cracked the flagstones as it stepped into the center of the ruins.
It was ten meters tall, its skin like cracked black ice, and vines sprouted from its shoulders and elbows, coiling around its limbs, dragging countless blood-stained severed limbs.
And on its shoulder was Titus, the King who conquered the Northern Barbarians.
But now he was merely a vessel of rage.
Rage burned behind him, like an inextinguishable crimson vine flower, its ✧ NоvеIight ✧ (Original source) roots growing from his spine, arm bones, and the depths of his eye sockets, pulling at his bones and muscles like insects, compelling him to take the next step of slaughter.
His pupils no longer existed, only two burning points of blood-red light, scorching this world.
“Kill—!” A low roar erupted from his throat, like the panting of some wild beast.
He gave no commands, and none were needed.
The resonating rage of the vines had already connected him with all his demon warriors.
The next moment, the nightmare army from the Northern Territory surged out like a tide from the ravines and valleys.
These non-human things ran and shrieked, each wrapped in vines, their bodies swollen and deformed, holding broken swords, axes, and shields snatched from the bodies of their enemies.
Some dragged unhealed broken legs, still running like the wind under the scorching “shared rage,” while others had hollow chests and exposed ribs,
yet still charged forward with laughter.
“Ah! Kill! Kill, kill, kill!!”
Shouts like the howling of wild dogs rose from the blood of the dead.
The elite Imperial Knight regiments attempted to organize a defensive line, six heavy-armored Knights charged through the ruined street, their spear tips like silver snakes cutting through the night sky.
But the barbarian warriors in their rage did not avoid the sharp points; they spread their arms, even meeting the spears with their bodies, knocking warhorses to the ground.
Even as their internal organs splattered on the ground, their hands still gripped the Knights’ throats, fighting to the death.
Titus stood on the giant’s shoulder, quietly overlooking the land he had burned.
He felt no joy, no pain, no exhilaration of victory,
only a deeper emptiness.
A mindless beast does not cheer for victory.
He was merely a vessel driven by rage.
The King seed of the Rage-Burning Thorns Garden had completely controlled his will. His soul, like the bones of the dead, was devoured inch by inch by crimson roots, completely submerged in this endless slaughter.
And this was merely the beginning of the “rage” surge.
In the afternoon, the wind from the Southeast Valley carried the scent of mountains, forests, and blood, sweeping past the battle flags of the Red Tide Army and the allied forces of various noble Knights, flapping loudly.
The mop-up operation had been ongoing for three hours, and the last remnants of the barbarian forces in the small valley were routed under the charge of the Knight regiments.
Traces of the rage ritual still lingered on them, their eyes still blood-red, but they had no organization or reinforcements, like fish stranded after the tide receded, struggling, roaring, and then falling silent in the dust.
At Louis’s suggestion and under his pressure, the Lords of the Southeast had long since concentrated and organized the Knight regiments under their command that were still able to fight, with the Red Tide personal guard leading the front, forming a temporary but highly efficient “Southeast United Knight Regiment.”
These nobles were initially wary of this young Lord.
But after several cleansing battles, whether in strategic deployment or battlefield rhythm, they had to admit that this Red Tide Lord was currently the most reliable military and political core in the Southeast of the Northern Territory.
Now, the Knight regiments no longer acted independently, and no one tried to contend for command anymore.
Everyone was clear: after the collapse of the situation and the disintegration of the vassal system, only this young man’s almost terrifyingly accurate judgment could pull them out of the disaster.
Now, the entire Southeast had tacitly agreed: the Red Tide Lord was the Lord of the Northern Territory’s Southeast.
Louis sat on horseback atop a rocky hill, his battle robe stained with fresh blood, his eyes as calm as snow.
He gazed in the direction where smoke columns rose in the distance, remaining silent for a long time.
Sif approached on a white horse, her gaze already fixed on Louis’s face: “What’s wrong with you today?”
She couldn’t contain her impatience and had followed him, but Louis had only allowed her to participate in the mop-up phase.
Louis was silent for a moment before saying: “I just didn’t sleep well last night.” freewёbn૦νeɭ.com
Sif narrowed her eyes at him, not believing the perfunctory excuse, but didn’t ask further. Louis pondered for a while longer, then raised his hand and beckoned Lambert over.
“Tell Silco,” Louis’s tone was low but unyielding, “except for the three pairs of Soul-Devouring Lizard Beast that must be kept for breeding,
slaughter all the rest to make Frost Halberd Soul-Shaking Bombs.”
“Also,” he continued, “gather half of the army’s elite Knights or higher, and they will come North with me.”
“Yes.” Lambert didn’t ask any questions, bowed, and left, leaving Louis alone on the mountain rock. The wind lifted his cloak high, like a burning crimson banner.
The reason he did this was a piece of intelligence he received this morning from the Daily Intelligence System.
That brief premonition contained only a few words, yet it was as cold as biting ice: 【Ten days later, the Northern Territory allied forces’ encirclement and suppression will fail, Duke Edmund will die in battle, the Rage-Burning Thorns Garden will sweep across the entire Northern Territory, and only one in a thousand of the Northern Territory’s population will survive.】
Louis knew that this intelligence would surely come to pass as before. If he chose to stand by, the outcome would inevitably be irreversible.
He was not a saint, but if the entire Northern Territory collapsed, the Red Tide Territory would certainly not be spared, and everything he had created and protected would be destroyed in an instant.
“If there’s a glimmer of hope, I’ll take the gamble myself.”
He had the “Daily Intelligence System,” and this was his trump card.
Others couldn’t see the future, but he could glimpse fragments of it; others could only wait for fate to arrive, but he could make moves in advance.
If he could obtain crucial tactical intelligence at critical junctures.
Perhaps the outcome would not be as grim as the cold prophecy stated. He thought of Edmund, the old man who had supported him when he first came to the Northern Territory and married his daughter to him.
He thought of Emily, and the unborn child in her womb.
If he lost, he would retreat to the Red Tide Territory, taking Emily, Sif, and the unborn child in her womb, and flee South.
But if he won, the Northern Territory still had a chance to be saved.
