Louis watched the Snowsworn being dragged away for execution in the distance, while Yorn chattered excitedly beside him. The man's eyes shone with admiration, like a loyal pup greeting its owner, as he circled Louis.
"Boss! If it weren't for you, I'd likely be dead by those desperate outlaws!" Yorn exclaimed, grinning obsequiously. "You're truly my benefactor. Back in the Imperial Capital, I knew you were no ordinary person. Now, you've proven it!"
"Enough of the flattery," Louis said, frowning. "Why are you here?"
"Huh? Didn't I come to be a pioneering lord?" Yorn replied, puffing up with self-importance.
Louis stared in surprise. "With your background, you shouldn't be assigned to the Northern Region."
Yorn pouted. "I volunteered."
"What?" Louis was momentarily speechless.
Yorn shrugged. "I wouldn't inherit much from my family, so I thought: why not go far away?"
"And you came to join me?"
Yorn nodded. "Following the Boss is better than being some boring younger son at home."
Louis raised an eyebrow. "Your father agreed?"
"Of course not! But I submitted the application to pioneer—and the Emperor approved it quickly," Yorn snorted. "So I couldn't withdraw."
Louis paused. Why would Yorn volunteer for the Northern Region—a place few dared to go?
Yorn slapped Louis's shoulder. "I've already chosen territory next to yours. From now on, we brothers will conquer the North together! Let those who looked down on us regret it!"
Louis smiled despite himself. "Fine. How many resources and people did you bring?"
Yorn straightened up. "Over six hundred—artisans, soldiers, serfs. We're basically self-sufficient. And Father will send more soon."
Then Yorn leaned closer, his voice low. "Also… I have ten thousand gold coins."
Louis froze. Ten thousand? That was twenty times his current family's wealth.
"Truly befitting a newly rich noble," Louis managed.
Yorn beamed with pride. He handed Louis a heavy gold pouch. "A small token, Boss. You must accept it—or I'll feel bad."
Louis gazed at the pouch, estimating more than a hundred coins. He looked up at Yorn. "Do you think I'm your mercenary?"
"Not at all! This is respect, Boss!" Yorn waved his hands emphatically. "You saved my life—how could I repay you with anything less?"
Unable to refuse, Louis accepted the gold. He was indeed short on funds. "Come to my place later for a meal."
Yorn shook his head. "Not yet. I must settle my people first."
"Alright. Come over when you're ready."
They chatted a bit more before Louis returned to lead his team back to Red Tide Territory.
"Boss, take care," Yorn called out, laughing and waving. "I'll come for a drink once I'm settled!"
Louis smiled and nodded, then rode away with his knights.
Yorn watched their figures disappear into the mountain path. Once they vanished, he retracted his gaze and yelled to his knights, "Full speed ahead! Let our conquest begin!"
The knights exchanged glances and reluctantly took off.
The cold wind howled over the Snowsworn's hidden camp, nestled deep in the Northern Region's mountains. Several nobles of the Iron‑Blood Empire were hung upside down on a strange altar. Their faces were gagged, eyes wild with panic, bodies lacerated and dripping blood.
"Cold Abyss ancient god, grant us the blessing of revenge…" A priest intoned lowly.
Suddenly, a nauseating, subterranean squelch responded. Chilling cold seeped up through the cracks beneath them. The nobles' bodies began to wither; flesh rotted away as unseen forces consumed them. Blood poured from their mouths, eyes, and noses, collecting in the altar's carved runes. Within moments, they were husks.
Shiro, standing on a raised platform, watched in silence. His expression was as cold as the dark night. His gaze dropped to the pool of blood below, and memories flashed: his mother, sprawled in blood decades ago.
Forty years earlier, Iron Cavalry had stormed their homeland, burning their royal court. As a boy, Shiro had watched from the shadows as his mother was dragged out and impaled. The horror—her agony, the metallic flash—had been burned into his mind forever.
Shiro tensed, clenching his fists as killing intent flared within him.
Elder Grom, draped in a heavy gray cloak, approached slowly, his cloudy eyes shimmering with worry. "Shiro, a team of men hasn't returned."
Shiro withdrew his gaze from the altar. "I know."
Grom hesitated. "If this continues, something bad will happen to us."
Shiro looked coldly at him. "Blood for blood."
Grom sighed. "That Northern Barbarian Witch has ill intentions. She's only using our hatred as a tool for her tribe!"
Shiro's voice remained low and icy: "If she gives us weapons and a chance for revenge, what does it matter?"
Grom's frustration broke. He slammed his staff. "And what will we gain? Our warriors are slowly being worn down!"
"Enough!" Shiro's face darkened.
Grom opened his mouth to speak further, but Shiro waved him silent. "Take him away."
Two Snow‑Oath Warriors seized Grom, dragging him backward. Grom didn't resist; he cast a piercing glare at Shiro. "You will regret this."
Shiro ignored him and turned back to the dying bonfire. His mother's final moments surfaced in his mind: blood, her cries, the merciless sneers.
"Blood… for blood," he murmured, voice echoing like the wind.
The fire extinguished completely. Shiro stared into the night, his gaze lost in dark resolve.
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