Lord of Winter: Beginning with Daily Intelligence Chapter 745 - 415: The Demon of the Northern Territory

The command car was thick with a medley of odors.

The acrid tang of cheap tobacco, the rank smell of wet sheep wool sodden from the rain, and the damp chill carried in by iron-shod boots on the muddy earth all mingled in the confined space, making one’s chest feel heavy.

Several seasoned Northern Territory commanders rested against the carriage walls, their heads bowed as they smoked their pipes.

Wisps of smoke curled lazily under the dim glow of the oil lamp, like an unyielding fog.

The relentless drumming of the rainstorm on the car roof was a continuous roar, a dense, urgent patter, as if countless fragments of stone were being hurled down from above.

Suddenly, the car door was thrust open from the outside.

A blast of cold wind accompanied by sleeting rain surged in, and a soaked scout staggered into the compartment, leaving a trail of muddy water behind him.

He could barely remain upright, yet he clung on forcefully. Forgoing a salute, he simply managed a few quick breaths.

His fingers were numb and pale with cold, but his actions remained swift.

The scout removed the waterproof oilcloth tube from his back, roughly broke the seal, and extracted a hastily sketched drawing made with a charcoal pencil, alongside a report saturated and crumpled by the rain, laying them out on the table.

The paper landed on the oak tabletop with a muted thud.

"Report," his voice was shaky. "Blackstone Gorge... the road is blocked."

A momentary hush fell over the compartment as several commanders simultaneously leaned forward.

The sketch was crude, its lines a jumble, yet its meaning was instantly clear.

The narrow canyon entrance was depicted as choked with a dense mass of human figures, charcoal lines aggregated into a chaotic dark form.

These individuals wore no armor, clad only in old garments, deliberately drawn small and indistinct.

Behind them were several heavy strokes indicating chevaux de frise and hastily erected sentry posts.

Further back, a few silhouetted figures, noticeably taller, stood scattered, clutching knives.

The scout gestured to that section, speaking rapidly: "Their numbers exceed fifty thousand. Kael Remont has ordered the refugees herded into the canyon, claiming it's to arrange winter shelters for them."

He faltered, his Adam’s apple visibly bobbing. "Once everyone is crammed inside, the road will be sealed. The supervisory team is right behind; anyone who attempts to retreat will be killed."

After a beat of stark silence, a loud noise shattered the quiet.

"Bang!"

Count Albert slammed his fist onto the sheepskin map spread across the oak table, causing the surface to vibrate violently. The ink bottle teetered precariously, nearly toppling over.

This veteran noble, who had dedicated his life to warfare in the Northern Territory, rose to his feet, his beard quivering with the force of his emotion, his eyes bloodshot.

"Beast!" His voice, though deep, was stifled with rage. "Kael Remont is a skinless beast!"

He drew a deep breath and continued his tirade: "We Northerners are harsh. We're accustomed to not treating serfs as fully human, and we're ruthless in our grain collection because survival demands it!

But we have never used the old, the weak, women, and children as cannon fodder! That isn't warfare, that's..."

The old man’s words trailed off, unable to find a descriptor for such depraved conduct.

A burly Northern Lord could not restrain himself, interjecting with an urgent and harsh tone.

"I've fought the Barbarian Race for territory, spilled blood in countless battles, but never have I committed such heartless acts!"

"Driving tens of thousands into a dead-end passage? What kind of nobility is that?" He spat, his expression one of profound distaste. "That is throwing the very dignity of nobility into the dirt to be trampled!"

A low murmur of assent rippled through the compartment.

These men, typically gruff and acting with ferocity, governed by the law of the jungle, still adhered to an unspoken code: never to use the old, weak, women, and children as shields.

Kael’s strategy directly violated this principle, crushing it mercilessly.

Someone clenched their jaw and whispered, "Gray Rock Province professes to be the pinnacle of civilization. Yet, their hearts are blacker than ours, the 'savages'."

Following his statement, silence returned, the heavy sound of the rain once again filling the void.

Lambert exhaled slowly, his own face etched with gloom, yet his emotions were consciously restrained.

He reached out, picked up a pen, and drew a stark red line across the unfolded map, bisecting Blackstone Gorge.

"Charge through," he stated, not looking up, but his voice exceptionally clear. "If our steam war vehicles roll over them, it won't be a push; it will be a slaughter."

The charcoal pencil landed emphatically upon the red line.

"With an additional fifty thousand souls. Beneath the tracks will be people, and within the track seams, all will be minced meat, making it financially unviable."

He then raised his head, addressing everyone present: "Furthermore, the Northern Army's reputation for refraining from harming civilians will be utterly ruined within fifteen minutes."

No one voiced any objection.

Lambert’s fingers gestured towards the map, its surface intricately etched with contour lines.

"We must circumvent it," he stated, "utilizing the winding mountain trails on the western flank. Heavy war machines cannot traverse these paths; they would require disassembly and separate transport, adding at least ten days to our journey."

He paused, his voice dropping slightly in volume.

"Within these ten days, Gray Rock Castle will have finalized its defensive perimeter. If we attempt an assault then, we won't be breaking through defenses; we'll be crashing into an insurmountable wall. Furthermore, winter is fast approaching, and our supply lines will be stretched to their breaking point..."

With a decisive click, the pen was returned to the table. A heavy silence descended upon the command tent, broken only by the drumming of rain against the canvas and the strained breaths of those present.

A stalemate. This was the grim reality they faced.

Kael had, in essence, placed a moral dilemma directly in their path, forcing each individual to confront their own conscience.

Count Albert’s hand tightened around his sword's hilt, his knuckles turning stark white. He took several deep, heaving breaths before finally loosening his grip.

Yet, even if Kael were to be dismembered, it would not resolve the strategic quagmire they found themselves in – this inescapable canyon.

At that very moment, the wooden door of the command tent was thrust open once more.

A gust of chilling wind, laden with the sting of rainwater, swept inside, causing the oil lamp to flicker erratically.

Louis entered the confined space. He was impeccably dressed in a neat, black military dress uniform, its collar fastened tightly, and his boots bore barely a speck of mud.