Lord of Winter: Beginning with Daily Intelligence Chapter 706 - 397: Black Tide

The colossal black iron gates rose gradually, chunks of snow tumbling from the threshold into the abyss below.

Seconds later, a thunderous metallic bellow that rattled the chest boomed out.

From the gloom strode the iron-shod hooves of the Seventeenth Legion.

No trumpets blared, no drums beat, no rituals unfolded—just the earth-shaking clamor of their stomping advance.

Thousands of knights in full heavy plate armor surged forth from the gateway, as though the shadows had solidified into being.

Black steel plating encased them, studded with chill iron, shoulder pauldrons etched with storm-emblazoned spirals.

Each warrior resembled a blade hammered from steel and rage, while their mounts donned thick partial barding, snorting frosty breaths akin to savage wolves.

The earth trembled underfoot, snow ripped apart and pulverized, ice shards milled to dust by their ponderous hooves.

Across the endless snowscape, they formed not a mere line, but a vast, advancing bulwark of dark iron.

Unyielding, frigid, pitiless.

As thousands of lances lifted in perfect sync, the sharp "clang—" of butt-spikes clashing against armor thundered like lightning, dislodging snow from far-off mountainside firs.

Ackman Greer led from the front.

His ebony-scaled destrier towered like a mythical creature, mane lashed by icy gales, draped in massive armor, its cloak billowing in the blizzard like a battle banner on the verge of blazing.

Trailing him snaked a kilometers-long dragon of armored black, hooves thundering, plates scraping, spears bobbing, unleashing a spirit-crushing pressure through gale and flurry.

His pulse synced to this torrent of steel, the beat intensifying, propelling him onward, relentlessly onward.

This embodied might, this was his genuine assurance.

Upon reaching the Glacier Plain, a rival steel torrent materialized at the battlefield's far side.

To the left loomed the Fourteenth Legion·Iron Wall.

A phalanx of heavy cavalry arrayed with ironclad precision.

Their strides rang steady and weighty, each collective step mimicking a fortress wall grinding forward through the drifts.

Shields locked into an airtight barrier, lance tips aligned to flawless measure.

Snowflakes alighted on the plating, forming scant frost swiftly dislodged by the knights' lingering heat and motion, exposing the unyielding dark steel underneath.

To the right charged the Seventh Legion·Mad Wolves.

Their gear differed in design, yet bore the Empire’s standard emblems and rankings.

Shoulder guards and cloaks displayed trophies from the Northern Wastes: bleached beast bones, desiccated pelts, scarred hides of magical beasts.

These stood not as rough trinkets but as emblems of vanquished foes, marking the Seventh Legion’s long saga of valor against frontier monstrosities.

The three knight columns gradually merged across the immense frozen expanse.

Where the iron-hoof clamor of all three forces blended, it mimicked apocalyptic thunder ravaging sky and soil, drowning even the gale’s howl into feeble moans.

Though the Fourteenth and Seventh together fielded four thousand horsemen, before Ackman’s three thousand steel riders, they appeared leashed like hounds circling a sovereign lion.

Mid-march, commanders from all three exchanged swift, resolute tactical nods amid the storm.

The Seventeenth Legion’s shock cavalry would act as the primary bludgeon, smashing straight into Frost Halberd City’s portals and core barricades.

The Fourteenth Legion’s Iron Wall would anchor the left flank, erecting a dense shield front in the snows to foil any ambushes.

The Seventh Legion’s Mad Wolf riders would prowl the right flank, tasked with sealing off retreat paths, particularly for those nobles and guards slinking via slope trails.

To these three forces, the plan needed no elaborate drills; they faced not an impregnable bastion, but a war-weary Northern host.

Crucially, it was a stealth strike—those Northern lords in council could scarce anticipate the onslaught.

No soul anticipated deserters, for in their reckoning, routs demanded at least a true clash.

And this assault scarcely qualified as battle.

To these veteran Imperial legions, Frost Halberd City lay like fresh meat on the butcher’s slab, ripe for the carving.

All that remained was to press along the preset path, pulverizing all beneath iron hooves and lance points into splintered slush.

......

Ackman spurred ahead at the tip, gales slashing like blades across his visage, sharpening his alertness, igniting his fervor.

He reviewed the enemy strength once again...

Seven thousand knights pitted against a freshly restored city.

Throughout the annals of the Northern Territory, battles on such a massive scale had only broken out during barbarian invasions, but this time around, the one sparking it wasn’t the Barbarian Race—it was Ackman himself.

"Louis..." Ackman let out a sinister laugh, "You can only blame your rotten luck for running into me during this crucial moment."

Ackman’s intelligence reports delivered utterly lopsided good news:

The Red Tide’s main army isn’t present in Frost Halberd City; only roughly two thousand ragtag knights from assorted nobles remain behind.

The fresh defensive structures remain unfinished, with city walls barely covered by their final protective layer, resembling half-dried mud unable to endure a heavy cavalry assault.

No longer is this the unbreachable Frost Halberd City; it’s now vulnerable flesh that crushes easily beneath boots.

Ackman could already picture the triumph: Frost Halberd City seized, Northern Lords bending to his will, vital steel and coal resources clutched in his fist. As the crown changes hands, he’d emerge as the supreme champion.

Ackman Greer, Duke of the North!

Through the raging wind and snow, he thrust his lance toward the northern city: "Haha! Advance!"