Lord of Winter: Beginning with Daily Intelligence

Chapter 556: Chapter 335: The Remaining Barbarians Prepare for Rebellion (2)

He glanced at her, “Do you want to come along?”

Sif didn’t answer immediately.

She lowered her head, pulled the blanket down a bit, revealing an old scar on the side of her neck, left during her escape.

However, the identity of being the Princess of the Cold Moon clan was no longer mentioned, even Visa had stopped bringing it up because she disliked it.

She had grown accustomed to others calling her “Lady Sif” or “Madam.”

But it didn’t mean she was entirely detached from that segment of history.

If they insisted on bringing hatred back into reality, then she must stand there herself and tell them: All the enemies are dead, don’t become the next one.

Sif remained silent for a while, and Louis also didn’t speak, merely waiting.

Eventually, Sif looked up at him with an unyielding expression, “I will go with you.”

Louis nodded slightly, not saying much.

He understood that this matter was far more complex for Sif than it seemed on the surface.

But she agreed, and that was enough.

……

Three months ago, outside West Ridge of Border Guard Village.

In Border Guard Village, a whole team of Red Tide Knights was dispatched to the northern section to support the construction of trade routes.

This news was unintentionally disclosed by a hasty-talking Red Tide merchant on the post road three days prior.

The person didn’t know the specifics of the Gray Band caravan, assuming them to be fellow salt traders.

The next morning, Cohen ordered them to detour through the snow path, to take the southern exit, for they found a real window of opportunity to penetrate.

At this time in Border Guard Village, was a period of complacency among the people.

Some knights were deployed elsewhere, leaving only a few knights and local officials inside the village, and night patrols decreased from twice to once.

More importantly, no incidents had occurred, so no one was truly vigilant.

“Action.” With just this word, they set off.

Three people, one cart, and an old ox.

The cart was covered with gray cloth, bearing the vague marks of the “Southern Territory United Free Merchants.”

Cohen sat at the cart’s end, one hand resting on a cloth bag, the other holding an old mission manual, wearing a solemn expression.

Recently, the entire line of the merchant guild in the Northern Territory seemed cut off.

Cohen didn’t know what happened, no one informed them of any incidents, nor did anyone notify them whether they had been exposed.

They were just one group on the periphery, responsible for remote supplies, initial contact, propaganda, and have never been the center.

For this reason, they weren’t swept up by the Red Tide Territory.

The two subordinates beside him knew nothing of these matters either.

Cohen had no plans to inform them.

All he knew was that the mission itself wasn’t terminated yet.

“Stage Objective Three: Engage the retired Barbarian Race military household in Border Guard Village, implant identity deviation emotions, and prompt them to break away from the Red Tide order.”

He had read this sentence more than ten times.

Cohen muttered to himself, “No one has signaled the end, which means it’s not over.”

The cart jostled a bit; the sacks of dry rations under the cart collided, emitting a muffled sound.

Inside were salted cakes, dry rations, old Barbarian totems, petroleum packets, and a small wooden box containing several Magic Explosion Bullets.

……

Returning from night patrol, Sarik, as usual, hung his short crossbow behind the storeroom door, took off his belt, intending to stash away the day’s ration bag into a corner.

He lived in a side room of the storeroom sentry, a small room shared by three people.

At this moment, the other two hadn’t returned, and the room was unlit, only the ash of the stove glowed red in the stone-brick hearth.

He tossed the bag into the corner, casually picked up a kettle, but noticed from his peripheral vision that the bag seemed a bit different.

It wasn’t the usual burlap sack from the military supply depot, nor did it have the Red Tide Standard seal.

It was a gray-line cloth bag, well-used, with frayed edges.

The stitching at the bag’s mouth was somewhat loose, the sewing technique… it was the traditional tribal craft of winding three circles before locking the stitch.

The person who delivered this was a member of the caravan he met at the post station this morning, a tall, skinny man.

He didn’t report it, nor did he feel obligated to do so.

Sarik sat by the window of the storeroom, breaking the dry cake into pieces, chewing slowly.

The next day, he intentionally took a detour through the small sentry path, wandering to the other side of the snow slope, pretending to be on patrol.

Under the gray cloth canopy, the man was still there, sitting by a wooden box, whittling dry fish, nodding slightly at him when he looked up.

“The weather has improved,” the man spoke in the Barbarian language, his tone casual, like an old friend unseen for many years.

“Not bad,” Sarik replied with just two words, not getting closer.

“Red Tide controls you quite strictly,” the man smiled, “But… you don’t seem like someone who wants to be leashed by them.”

Sarik didn’t respond.

Their contact became more regular.

Every three days, the caravan would bring a small bag of salted cakes or dry rations, along with some other supplies, and engage in small talk.

“You, having Barbarian bloodline, patrol for Red Tide?”

“They have you guarding the warehouse, but they don’t trust you.”

“You think you are a military household? They will just mold your children into another you.”

“We can take you out.”

Sarik didn’t argue, nor did he agree.

Until one day, when Sarik detoured to the back of the storeroom, he saw that figure already crouched by the fence, holding a long package, seemingly waiting for a long time.

“The items tonight are not edible,” the man said in a low voice.

Sarik didn’t approach, standing three steps away, watching the man slowly place the long package on the snow, loosening the belt.

The layers of cloth unfolded, revealing the outline of a longsword.

The blade was broad and double-edged, with engravings in old Barbarian script, the hilt wrapped in animal sinew, and the end had a piece of dried bone feather hanging.

It was a standard longsword passed down through the tribe, issued only to the noble’s eldest son upon coming of age or setting out for battle.

Sarik’s pupils slightly contracted.

The runes on that sword, he recognized as the style used in his father’s generation.

“This isn’t something you’d see in the Red Tide,” the man raised an eyebrow, fingers lightly tracing the sword’s engravings, “.

Sarik remained silent, still staring at the sword.

“You think you’re a military household? Just their servant.” the man’s tone turned colder, his voice lowering bit by bit, “When your father wielded this sword, they didn’t dare step onto the snowfield. And now you guard their warehouse.”

Sarik’s fingertips slightly clenched.

The man noticed this and decisively plunged the sword into the snow, its tip embedding halfway into the ice, “Do you have the courage to pick it up? Or have you gotten used to days without a sword?”

This statement jabbed into Sarik’s chest like a spike.

He stared at the sword for a few seconds, instinctively reaching out his hand, hovering it in mid-air.

“We are the remnants of the Frostblood, the embers still unfanned,” the man enunciated slowly, “We want to restore the glory of the Barbarian Race. Not through words, but by reclaiming what’s ours. Now, do you want to?”

Only the sound of the wind in the snowfield.

Sarik gazed at the longsword, his breathing became slow, something stirring little by little inside his chest.

He recalled the sight of his father leaving the tribe with his sword, remembered the sword’s glow beside the ritual fire.

He finally took a step forward, gripping the sword hilt.

“I am willing,” he said softly.

The man smiled but didn’t say more, only nodded.

“Then let it begin with you. Find someone you trust, tell them we’re still here.”

Sarik’s hand held tightly on the sword hilt, knuckles tightening, yet he didn’t immediately pull it up.

He looked down at the familiar engraving, mind conjuring a belated doubt: “Do I truly hate the Red Tide?”

The answer was unclear.

He remembered when he shivered with cold and hunger, it was the Red Tide’s grain convoy that entered the village.

Recalled the day his father’s remains were missing, it was the Red Tide Knight who helped erect a stone.

Even now, he wore the cotton clothes they provided and ate their allocated rations.

There was no hatred, but certainly no sense of belonging either.

After all, the fate of being kept watch over for a lifetime was suffocating enough.

Sarik finally moved, wrapping the longsword back into the animal hide, clutching it to his chest.

He glanced once more in the direction of the storeroom, where the Red Tide flag was still flying.

In that moment, he knew he had stepped past that line.

Sarik didn’t have to put much effort into gathering people around him.

The ones he reached out to were all well-known “problematic” individuals in Border Guard Village.

Some had refused to remove their hats during training and got beaten, some were detained for three days for privately holding tobacco, and another was recorded for violating orders twice by the interpreter officer for speaking the Barbarian language too frequently.

Sarik only said one thing: “We’re planning something; if you don’t want to be a guard dog forever, then come.”

No one refused; they didn’t hold gatherings, just said a few words leaning against the wall during shift changes.

Gradually, other villagers began to notice.

Who was getting close to whom, who frequently went to the broken warehouse to the west, who always took a detour during shift change…

It was not something that could be concealed.

But no one spoke, nobody interfered, nor did anyone report it upwards.