Lord of Winter: Beginning with Daily Intelligence Chapter 680 - 388: Red Tide’s Blade (Part 3)

"I need you to make sure that when our moment to attack arrives, the blade strikes with perfect accuracy."

Lambert rose to his feet, ready to depart. He cast one final look at the youthful outline near the window.

The boy who had once been weak and cast into the Northern Territory now dominated the snow-covered plains, as though addressing the whole continent.

Lambert offered few words, merely approaching the table, placing his right fist lightly against his chest in a formal, almost stiff salute.

"Lord." His tone remained deep and firm, "Wherever you direct your blade, the Red Tide Legion will never let you down. I’ll handle the arrangements right away."

Louis shot him a sidelong glance and gave a nod, staying silent.

As the door shut, wind whistled through the gap, plunging the room into utter quiet.

Just the flames crackling in the fireplace persisted, beside the Empire’s full map hanging on the wall.

Louis returned to the table, his eyes sweeping south from the Northern Territory’s icy peaks to a tiny spot marking the Imperial Capital.

The red mark there clung silently to the parchment.

Louis extended his hand and tapped softly between the Imperial Capital and the Northern Territory.

"Come on," he murmured, "let’s see who cracks first."

......

Gray Stone Fortress lodged like a choke point between the Northern Empire and Graystone Province, resembling a dark iron barrier, vigilantly overseeing the lands to north and south.

Here marked the edge of civilization.

To the south stretched a realm of wealth brimming with gold and fine wines. Northward lay the frozen wasteland of banishment and wild desolation.

Within the fortress hung a choking air of grim discipline.

Every five meters along the corridor, torches illuminated walls decorated with magical beast trophies and seized barbarian arms. Despite cleaning, the metallic tang of blood persisted.

Innumerable iron boots had worn the stone floor to a gleaming shine over the years.

The office door of the Seventeenth Legion’s commander stood ajar.

Commander Ackman Greer occupied the space behind a huge ebony desk.

No armor clad him; instead, a finely made silk shirt draped his form, collar casually undone.

As a knight who had stepped into the transcendent realm, northern gales felt to him like a gentle zephyr.

Built like a towering grizzly on its hind legs, even in relaxed repose, his high-tier transcendent aura dominated the chamber.

Footsteps echoed at the entrance, yet Ackman kept his gaze down.

His attention fixed on the military map before him, fingers tracing red lines with intense, haughty focus.

"If you’re supply auditors from the military department, wait in the side room. I’ll meet you when my mood suits."

"I’ve come to deliver wine, General Greer."

The reply came calm and unshaken by the transcendent’s weight.

Sorel positioned himself at the threshold, gracefully shedding his cape speckled with snow, passing it to a quivering servant trailing him.

A sleek dark hunting attire fitted him perfectly, with a longsword emblazoned with the Remont family emblem at his side.

Ackman lifted his eyes at last. A sharp glint sparked in those deep brown depths, akin to a lion sizing up a bold hound trespassing its turf.

"Rarely does anyone hold so steady beneath my aura." Ackman set down the crystal goblet with a sharp clink, "From the Royal Knight Order?"

"Third Legion, former deputy commander." Sorel inclined his head faintly, delivering a flawless military salute, "I was privileged to observe the general’s might on the training fields."

"That was ten years back." Ackman slouched into his seat with lazy ease, "Take a seat. You know protocol, so I won’t eject you. The Second Prince dispatched you; what does he expect from my Seventeenth Legion?"

"It’s less about what he wants you to do, more about what he wishes you to avoid."

Sorel wasted no time, seating himself opposite Ackman. He ignored the wine the servant offered, locking eyes with the commander instead.

"General, you’re the Empire’s blade. Yet now, this blade freezes in the permafrost—what use beyond frightening barbarians? To rust away?"

"Watch your tongue." Ackman’s eyes slitted, thickening the air in the room instantly, "I defend the Empire’s threshold."

"Defending the threshold brings glory, but just standing guard falls short of the Greer family’s grand visions."

Sorel pressed on through the crushing pressure, his voice unwavering, "I’ve looked into it—your eldest son fell as a hero in battle.

"Your second son, though... he excels in commerce, running two covert smuggling lines to the Jade Federation. Rather than punish him, you dispatched your own guards to shield those convoys."

Ackman’s murderous vibe eased slightly, a sly grin creeping in: "What? Does the Second Prince care to interfere in such petty trade?"

"No, His Highness views it as squandered potential," Sorel leaned in closer, "A legion commander’s son smuggling? Undignified. He ought to lounge in a southern estate, sipping tea with the Finance Minister over provincial trade limits."

Ackman grew quiet.

He twirled the ruby ring on his thumb slowly.

Money wasn’t the issue; over a decade as commander had amassed no small fortune.

What he craved was “foundation”—the key to the Empire’s inner elite.

To those ancient noble houses, Ackman remained merely a capable sentinel.

"Go on." Ackman spoke curtly.

Sorel drew a wax-sealed paper from inside his coat and slid it across.

"The Second Prince offers the prime winery in Valencia Valley and a Viscountcy." Sorel’s words dripped temptation.

"Not mere coin, but a stake in power. Your son gains entry to the Southern Nobles’ circles as an equal."

Ackman grasped the document, sensing the parchment’s substantial weight under his fingers.

This pact would elevate the Greer family beyond Northern warriors to genuine landed nobility.

His lineage would shed the stain of new money.

"And the cost?" Ackman shut the paper, his stare piercing like steel, "The Second Prince isn’t known for free gifts."

"Straightforward enough." Sorel opened his palms, "Should Northern Territory banners show at the pass, we trust the Seventeenth Legion’s sight grows sharp.

And... should upheavals stir in the Imperial Capital at key junctures ahead, we count on the General honoring today’s bond with dignified restraint."

Ackman fixed Sorel with a prolonged stare, then erupted in booming laughter that rattled the shelf-bound tomes.

"Dignified restraint... well said."

Ackman rose, strode to the liquor cabinet, fetched a prized southern red personally, and filled a glass for Sorel.

"This forsaken spot chills to the bone; even I tire of it somewhat." Ackman slid the glass toward Sorel, lifting his own crystal one, "My blade serves the Empire, but my kin are mine alone."

Sorel lifted his glass; they chimed softly in midair, "Agreed, General Greer."

...

Thirty minutes passed.

The fortress’s massive iron portal ground upward. Sorel’s carriage emerged from Gray Stone Fortress’s looming shadow.

Winds and snow bit fiercely, yet the carriage interior bloomed with springlike warmth.

"My Lord, Ackman proved tougher than anticipated." The servant murmured nearby, wiping lingering cold sweat, "Back in the office, it felt like facing a savage predator, poised to rip me to shreds any second."

"Naturally he’s a predator. How else does one command the Seventeenth Legion?"

Sorel reclined against the padding, easing his sword grip.

A faint sweat filmed his palm too; their exchange had waged war on words and wills alike.

"His arrogance stems from strength. His unrest from glimpsing his limits." Sorel gazed at the blurring snowy vista outside, remarking coolly.

"Money he has aplenty; what he needs is a path upward. We provided it, and this lion sheathes its fangs for now."

"Returning to the Imperial Capital, then?"

"No."

Sorel’s eyes shifted north, piercing the storm, as if peering into the endless frozen expanse.

"Ackman’s merely the watch-lion; sate him, and he dozes. But the figure beyond the gate intrigues me more."

"Red Tide Territory?" The servant faltered slightly.

Sorel smirked: "To seize the whole Northern Territory amid such peril, even unnerving Ackman... that one’s either insane or a fiend dwarfing Ackman in terror."

The carriage wheels carved deep ruts through the snow, veering not south but plunging into the northern gale’s heart.

"Onward. We’ll face Louis Calvin and uncover his true designs."