Winter Lord: Starting with Daily Intelligence

Chapter 206 The Oath Ceremony
Winterfrost Canyon.

This deep valley, located in the frigid north, is perpetually shrouded in darkness, where the wind is biting cold.

The ice was so thick that it seemed to have frozen the entire earth into a desolate graveyard.

Deep within the canyon lies the refuge of this remnant heretical army—the "Frost Abyss Camp."

The so-called camp was actually just a series of narrow caves carved into the ice and rocks, with extremely rudimentary living conditions, cold, slippery, and without fire all year round.

Behind the curtain made of coarse cloth was a tattered felt blanket and an iron can filled with snow water.

There is no warmth here, nor is there any need for warmth.

They live for "revenge".

At this moment, in the center of the Cold Abyss Camp, a huge altar stood amidst the snow and mist.

Like a bone pillar rising from a glacier, covered with black ice and snow patterns, the central depression is engraved with ancient inscription lines, twisting and entwining, extending and spreading like veins.

Several human figures hung upside down on the altar.

They wore tattered Imperial uniforms, their badges torn off, their mouths gagged with rags, and their wide-open eyes filled with terror and pain.

Blood dripped from their fingertips, slowly gathering along the grooves of the altar.

Those lines are not merely decorations, but rather the path of a memorial inscription.

Blood flowed along the engraved totem lines, seeping into the ground, as if some awakened will was whispering.

Beneath the ice, the inscriptions faintly emitted an eerie blue light, as if breathing from another world.

All around, the Snow Oath warriors knelt in neat rows.

They wore long, icy white robes, shattered armor, and their masks were as cold and sculpted as sculptures.

But in each pair of eyes burned a scorching flame—fanatical faith and obsession.

A dark figure slowly stepped forward; it was the Cold Abyss Priest.

Dressed in a robe sewn from black snow eagle feathers, the feathers trembled slightly in the wind, and holding an ice-blue scepter, the top of which was inlaid with a cracked ancient ice crystal, within which some kind of writhing light seemed to emanate.

He slowly opened his mouth, and the ancient Xueyu chant flowed from his lips, like an ancient glacier awakening:

“We, our people, were driven out, abandoned, and perished in the burning of our country… The iron hooves of the empire seized the tombs of our gods and burned the lamps of our snow shrines. Today’s blood will repay their debt; ice and blood will open a new path for our people.”

The chanting grew louder and louder, as if the wind and snow were stirring up with it.

Ice fog began to rise.

At first, it was just a few wisps of white vapor rising from the cracks in the altar.

However, in the blink of an eye, it spread across the entire area like a tidal wave, with extremely cold mist rolling and churning as if it would swallow the entire Frost Canyon.

The air became thick and sluggish, as if even breathing was frozen.

A low rumble, "thump...thump...", came from deep underground.

That wasn't wind, nor was it an earthquake; it was a more eerie sound, like the flesh of a creature crawling against a rock face.

“…It’s moving.” A Snow Oathsman murmured, his eyes burning even more intensely beneath his mask.

At this moment, the bodies of the imperial nobles and knights hanging upside down began to convulse violently.

Their already exhausted and withered limbs suddenly tensed, and their blood accelerated, gushing out from the ruptured blood vessels, yet surging upwards against gravity, as if drawn by an invisible hand into the core of the altar.

"Uhhhhhh-!"

The captive, his mouth gagged, let out a suffocating scream, black blood seeping from his seven orifices, his pupils dilating.

Their bodies began to collapse, their flesh and blood like drained water sacs, shriveled and cracked, until only a layer of grayish-brown skin and an empty skeleton remained, swaying slowly in the cold wind, like dried-up offerings.

At the very center of the altar, the blood-red eye suddenly burst into flames.

"Click—click-click-click—!"

Blue flames ignited at the top of the totem pole, burning silently yet emitting a piercing low sound as if bones were being crushed.

On the ice, ancient god runes lit up one after another, radiating like a complex neural network, connecting the entire Snowsworn camp.

"They responded..."

"They responded!!"

In an instant, the silence was shattered.

The Snowsworn warriors erupted in a frenzied cheer, their eyes beneath their masks seeming to devour flames.

They knelt down heavily, pounded the ground with their palms, and shouted in unison:

"The ancient gods respond! The Snow Kingdom will awaken! Blood debts must be repaid! The Snow Kingdom will live on!!"

The priest of the Cold Abyss, standing high on the altar, suddenly raised his scepter, his feathered robes fluttering wildly in the cold wind, his voice hoarse yet impassioned:
"Listen! The Ancient God of the Frost Abyss has opened his eyes! Blood awakens the wrath of the icy plains, and the flames of vengeance will rise from the extreme cold! The day of the Empire has come to an end, and the Snow Kingdom will return to the stars!"

As if in response to his shout, the ice and rock beneath the altar began to crack, and from the bottomless fissures, something enormous slowly awoke, writhing and crawling, emitting a low, somber drumming sound.

That was not wind, that was not fire, that was the breath of God.

Some believers pressed their foreheads to the ice, tears mingling with wild laughter, repeatedly chanting:

"The Ancient Gods have awakened... The Ancient Gods have awakened... The Ancient Gods have awakened!"

The flames of heresy have been ignited, and the silence of the icy plains is being torn apart.

Before the fervent prayers had faded, a figure slowly emerged from the shadows on the other side of the altar.

He stood quietly, his cloak draped like the night, and the ice and snow within three feet of him melted silently, making people dare not approach.

It was a "mysterious person" dressed in a long black robe and wearing a half-mask.

The mask appeared to be half-crying, yet it couldn't conceal the hint of mockery in her eyes.

He gazed at the group of Snow Oath members trembling with excitement over the "sacrifice," and slowly curled his lips into a low, cold laugh: "It's truly remarkable that they can act so convincingly."

The voice was soft yet cold, like a fingernail gliding across ice—light and airy, yet sending chills down your spine.

It was indeed the "Witch of Despair." He tilted his head slightly, looking at the several "imperial nobles" hanging upside down.

They convulsed, struggled, bled from all seven orifices, and eventually shriveled and cracked, looking extremely "realistic"...

But in his eyes, they were nothing more than insignificant illusion puppets.

"The original body was thrown under the altar to feed the mother nest long ago, these substitutes don't even have many bones left."

"But for these poor wretches whose brains have hardened from the cold, they will only believe that the gods have awakened if 'nobles' bleed."

He shook his head, his eyes filled with amusement and indifference, like an adult watching a group of children dancing around a puppet.

For him, the entire sacrifice was nothing more than an experiment that proceeded on multiple fronts.

On the one hand, it did indeed "feed" the mother nest under the altar.

A parasitic germplasm that he modified specifically for cold-climate environments.

On the other hand, this "miracle" was enough to ignite a new wave of religious fervor among the Snowsworn.

This makes them more willing to sacrifice their physical bodies and faith in exchange for so-called "divine grace."

Meanwhile, the Despair Witch was in a bad mood. Not long ago, the last remaining signal transmitted from the brain core of a "lost mother nest" was weak, disordered, and broken.

No explanation is needed.

The second mother nest was destroyed.

His fingertips trembled slightly, as if brushing against a net he had painstakingly woven over the years.

And that net is now being sliced ​​open piece by piece by some invisible blade.

“The first time, I could say it was a coincidence, but this time…” he murmured, a rare hint of wariness in his voice.

"Could it be that someone in the Empire... has already mastered the method of 'tracking the Mother Nest'?"

He had been planning in the North for years, deciding to use the Mother Nest and the Snowsworn as seeds to spread chaos in order to achieve his goal.

It's very likely that it was detected beforehand...

So he decided to start his plan ahead of schedule, though not too far in advance.

While starting in the depths of winter would be more effective, it's worthwhile to begin a few months earlier to avoid any unforeseen circumstances.

…………

Inside the main tent, the oil lamp flickered, its flame dancing restlessly like the heart's anxieties.

Hiro sat quietly in the center of the tent, with a tattered Snow Kingdom military flag hanging in front of him, already scorched by flames and stained with blood.

His eyes were as deep as a well, and the corners of his mouth twitched from time to time, as if he were having a low conversation with some unseen being.

The air suddenly tightened.

A strange, cold wind swept by, and the tent flaps rose silently on their own.

He has arrived.

Stepping into the lamplight was a figure draped in a dark cloak, with long, silvery-white hair flowing like snow, and skin so pale it almost gleamed with a cold light.

A half-mask covered the left half of his face, revealing only his right eye, which was a cold silver color. The other half was a near-perfect female face, with exquisitely detailed features that seemed to have been meticulously sculpted.

His eyes were slightly upturned, carrying a lazy yet dangerous smile that seemed to pierce through bone marrow and see into the soul.

"Still waiting for the dream to end... How pathetic." He chuckled softly, his voice slowly drifting into the tent.

It was a deep, feminine male voice, yet it was so tender it was almost like a woman's whisper, sending chills down one's spine.

Hero instinctively drew his sword and rose to his feet, but the next moment he trembled and put it down.

He recognized the voice, he recognized the figure.

It was the "messenger of the gods" who guided him on his path of sacrifice.

The Witch of Despair slowly approached him, like a phantom wandering in the night.

"The ancient gods awakened faster than I expected. Your revenge... can begin sooner rather than later."

As he spoke, he gently lifted a corner of Hiro's cloak, his fingertips icy cold and carrying a chilling excitement.

Hiro was stunned.

At first, he was momentarily stunned—his eyes widened, as if he hadn't yet clearly heard the phrase "revenge brought forward."

Immediately afterwards, his cheeks began to twitch, his brows furrowed, and his lips parted slightly.

He was like a raging fire that had exploded from frozen soil—fiery and twisted.

"...Revenge...earlier...?"

He murmured, his voice hoarse and trembling, as if a shattered soul were speaking again.

Suddenly he knelt down, his knees slamming heavily on the cold ground, his fists pounding the earth, tears and saliva flying everywhere, his expression as ferocious as a wild beast.

"Finally!!! Finally!!!"

Those bastards in the Empire... they're finally going to pay the price!!!

He roared and frantically tore at his cloak, gritting his teeth and pounding his chest, as if he wanted to dig out all the hatred etched in his heart and offer it to someone.

Before him, the Witch of Despair stood silently.

He didn't speak, and his expression remained unchanged.

The silver eyes held an indescribable coldness and pity, like watching a dog that had been raised for too long grow old and was about to be slaughtered for meat.

With a gentle wave of his hand, his black cloak billowed like the night, and he uttered a single sentence: "Summon the Snowsworn warriors... Your ancient god will be resurrected."

As soon as he finished speaking, his figure vanished in the wind like mist, leaving only the crazed Hero.

(End of this chapter)