Translator: CinderTL
The biting north wind, like a blizzard of icy blades, howled across the desolate northern frontier of the Golden Valley Kingdom.
A leaden sky hung low, and thick, goose-feather-like snowflakes swirled down, blanketing the endless mountain ranges and vast plains in a deathly, pure white. The bone-chilling cold seemed capable of freezing the very soul.
In this harsh, icy world, a massive military encampment sprawled like a crouching giant beast, stubbornly rooted in the wind and snow.
The fortifications were formidable, and banners snapped in the gale, yet the scene exuded a heavy, oppressive atmosphere that mirrored the grim weather.
A burly figure draped in a thick wolfskin cloak trudged through the deep snow, his footsteps sinking with each stride as he hurried toward the tallest tent at the heart of the barracks.
This was Enrique, the guardian of the Golden Valley Kingdom's northern frontier.
Even bundled in heavy winter gear, his pine-straight posture and broad shoulders were unmistakable. His face, weathered by years of harsh winds and frost, bore resolute lines.
But now, his usually steady eyes betrayed an unmistakable anxiety.
"Your Grace!"
The guard, his body covered in frost, recognized him immediately. He straightened his back, saluted respectfully, his voice trembling slightly in the frigid wind.
Enrique nodded curtly in acknowledgment, not even pausing to brush the snow from his shoulders before yanking open the heavy tent flap.
The next moment, a suffocatingly thick stench of blood mixed with the heat of burning charcoal slammed into his face, tightening his already anxious nerves.
His sharp gaze swept deep into the tent.
In the flickering lamplight, he saw a burly man with snow-white hair but a physique still as robust as a bear, grinning like a mischievous child as he blew repeatedly on his mangled left arm, trying to alleviate the clearly extraordinary pain.
Several army physicians stood around him, their faces etched with helpless terror.
But what truly made Enrique's pupils contract was the horrifying wound on the man's left arm.
This was no ordinary weapon's work.
The flesh wasn't simply torn; it displayed an unsettling, unnatural state, as if corroded by a powerful acid before being forcibly ripped apart.
The edges of the wound weren't bright red, but rather a sinister, dark purple, like clotted pus and blood. Faint black tendrils seemed to be spreading into the surrounding healthy skin.
Most disturbingly, a faint, ember-like crimson glow flickered intermittently from the depths of the wound, accompanied by a barely perceptible aura of malevolence—a chilling, soul-deep revulsion.
Even from a distance, Enrique could sense the wound's ominous presence.
It was a corruption that transcended physical injury, a corrosive force that struck directly at the soul.
Forcing down the turmoil in his heart, Enrique strode forward, his voice trembling slightly as he fixed his gaze on the grotesque wound on King Monen's left arm.
"Your Majesty Monen! This wound..."
Monen looked up at the sound of Enrique's voice. Despite his weathered, resolute face, a mischievous smile flickered across his lips.
He casually swung his injured left arm, wincing at the pain, but dismissed it with a nonchalant wave.
"No wonder the orcish assault was so ferocious and relentless this time. That old bastard Gersh's 'gift'—it turns out the remnants of the Bloodhowl Clan have secretly reestablished contact with the abyss... Truly a bunch of troublesome bastards."
He paused, his tone light, but a flicker of solemnity crossed his eyes before quickly giving way to a more carefree expression.
"Still, I didn't let him off easy. That bastard will probably never wield a weapon again in his life."
With that, he turned to the group of helpless physicians and said heartily, "There's nothing more for you here. You can leave now. These old bones can still hold out."
The physicians, as if granted a pardon, respectfully withdrew from the tent.
Once only the two of them remained, Monen turned his gaze back to Enrique.
Though his face was pale from blood loss, his eyes remained sharp and full of vitality.
"Now, tell me, what urgent matter brought you here in such a hurry?"
Enrique took a deep breath, forcing his gaze away from the dark blood seeping from the King's arm, and reported in a grave tone.
"Your Majesty, all confirmed spies in the barracks have been executed according to military law—not a single one remains."
He paused, his throat dry, and added with difficulty, "According to the interrogations... their mastermind was Duke Arno."
Upon hearing the name "Arno," King Monen's silver-white eyebrows arched slightly.
Instead of showing surprise or anger, he chuckled softly, as if he had heard something amusing.
"Ah, Arno... It seems those old fools in the royal capital are growing impatient."
Enrique continued his report, his voice still tinged with an indescribable worry.
"Furthermore, Your Majesty, thanks to the months-long snowfall finally easing, the main western passages blocked by snow have been largely cleared."
"Oh?"
King Monen's eyes lit up, and he clapped his uninjured right hand in delight.
"Finally, some decent news! It seems our supply problems might finally ease."
As he spoke, he gestured disdainfully with his chin toward a rough earthenware bowl on the table. It contained hard, dry rations that appeared to be a mixture of rye and some kind of root vegetable, baked into hardtack.
"I've truly had enough of this stuff," King Monen grumbled. "If I eat any more, I fear my teeth will retire early."
However, Enrique didn't follow up on the king's complaints. Instead, he carefully observed Monen's expression, cautiously interrupting the king's rare moment of levity.
"Your Majesty... there's another matter. Some... unusual information has arrived from the royal capital."
Monen raised an eyebrow, still somewhat dismissive. "Information? Has another noble made a fool of himself at a banquet? Is the finance minister crying poverty again for next year's budget? Or perhaps..."
The Old King's tone suddenly shifted, tinged with amusement. "Have the rats finally shown their faces?"
"No, Your Majesty," Enrique replied, taking a deep breath as if gathering all his strength. His voice was unusually grave. "The situation... is likely far more serious than you imagine."
He paused, finally revealing the heavy news he had been suppressing.
"Duke Arno has privately mobilized his troops and launched an attack on the River Domain Nations... Moreover, just moments ago, a grim report arrived from the royal capital... Several imperial prince and Princesses... have tragically perished."
The air in the tent seemed to freeze solid in that instant.
The stillness lingered, broken only by the occasional crackle of the charcoal fire.
Finally, a low, mocking laugh shattered the silence.
King Monen shook his head, a cold smile twisting his lips, while a tempest seemed to brew in his eyes.
"Interesting... truly fascinating."
His voice carried a hint of amusement, yet each word was as sharp and brittle as ice carved from the northernmost glaciers.
"Arno... I underestimated his audacity. And Lucius, that fool—nearly seventy years alive, yet his mind has been hollowed out by his lust for power?"
"Still... it's for the best. When the blade is at their throats, they won't be able to cry 'injustice,' will they? Frankly, their wailing has become quite tiresome..."
He paused, his knuckles unconsciously tapping the table in a rhythmic, suppressed rhythm, as if restraining some primal force about to burst free.
"What's the situation within the country now?" he asked, his tone regaining its superficial calm.
Enrique carefully reported that Gloria had joined forces with the Duke to suppress Arno, improve relations with the River Domain Nations, and was currently purging the remaining rebel forces in the Eastern Lands.
As Monen listened, his fingers stilled, and he nodded slightly.
"Gloria... she's done well. Far better than her good-for-nothing siblings. That sly Duke knows when to place his bets."
His assessment was brief, revealing little emotion.
"Your Majesty, what are our next steps?" Enrique ventured.
Monen slowly rose, flexing his injured left arm. His gaze seemed to pierce through the tent, fixed on the south.
"Gersh's forces are utterly depleted. He won't be stirring up trouble anytime soon. The Northlands' defenses are secure for now."
His tone was flat, yet carried an undeniable air of authority.
"It's time to return. I've had enough of this frozen wasteland."
He strode to the tent flap, lifted a corner, and gazed out at the swirling snow. His silhouette stood as steady as a mountain.
After a moment, he spoke again, his voice casual yet sending a chill down Enrique's spine.
"It seems... some fools in the capital have grown too comfortable by their warm hearths. They've completely forgotten how this land was drenched in blood during the Blood Moon Rebellion."
His words were light as a feather, yet colder than the blizzard raging outside.
The instant his words fell silent, a guard's clear announcement rang out from beyond the tent.
"Your Majesty, a messenger claiming to be from Princess Gloria requests an urgent audience to deliver an urgent letter!"
(End of the Chapter)
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