Winter Lord: Starting with Daily Intelligence

Chapter 260 Titus Frostfire

Deep within the Cold Moon Hall, pale blue ice flames flickered on and off like breathing.

Titus sat nestled in the silver-bone chair, his whole being as still as a rock in the snow.

A heavy wolf-cloak hung down to the bottom of the steps, and he held a pot of snow wine in his arms.

A warrior strode through the snow, knelt on one knee, his forehead still damp with cold sweat, but his voice was sharp as a blade piercing ice: "The Shattered Axe Tribe... has hung the head of our envoy on their north wall."

He paused, a hint of fear in his eyes, "There are also bloodstains of the Red Rock Clan on the skull... It is said that this is their consensus."

A cluster of blue flames suddenly leaped up from the fire altar, spiraling upwards as if trembling with rage.

Titus remained silent for a moment, as if he hadn't heard, and slowly stroked the flask of snow wine in his arms with his fingertips.

The firelight illuminated his silhouette, making him appear as cold and stern as if carved by a knife.

"...What did they say?"

The warrior lowered his head and said with difficulty, "They say you are... a traitor who murdered his clan and seized the throne in the chaos. They claim that even if you usurped the Frostmane Clan's position, you are not qualified to wield the power of the Eight Banners."

The generals in the hall were stunned.

But Titus did not respond for a long time, and then slowly exhaled a puff of white mist.

He slowly got up, put down the wine pot, and walked to the Frost Oath Monument.

That was the sacred oath stele left by the Cold Moon Ancient Clan, its mottled inscriptions long since eroded by wind and snow.

His gaze swept silently over the inscriptions that once represented "faith and righteousness," and he gripped the hilt of his sword, gently pulling it out.

"Chong-"

The ancient blade, cold as the moon, was drawn from its sheath, its whistling sound like howling snow, startling the entire hall.

The blue flames were forced to hunch over by the sword energy, and the generals were terrified.

He spoke in a low voice, but his words seemed to echo throughout the entire North: "I wanted to give them a decent future. But they only know brute force, not dignity."

He turned around, his gaze sweeping over the assembled generals like an icy spear, his tone chilling yet clear: "In that case, I will teach them what order is with my sword."

In an instant, an indescribable pressure arose from the Frost Lord, who was as calm as a snow rock.

He slowly plunged the tip of his sword into the icy flames: "Pass on my order: all eight clans and military units—assemble at White Frost Ridge within two days!"

…………

On White Frost Ridge, the cold wind was like a knife, and the snowy night was not yet over.

Titus stood atop the high altar, draped in a wolf cloak, its grey cloak fluttering like a banner in the gale.

Behind him stood a forest of Cold Moon warriors, surrounded by braziers, their blue flames rising and transforming into a sea of ​​fire where snow and flames mingled.

This is the night of the oath of frost and fire, a moment when the old alliance breaks and a new order begins.

He slowly walked to the center of the oath-taking altar, raised his sword to the sky, and spoke in a loud, barbarian voice that pierced the wind and snow and touched people's hearts like rolling thunder:

"The Shattered Axe Tribe disregards the alliance's etiquette! The Red Rock Tribe disrespects its oath!"

"I, Titus Frostfire, am not driven by family feuds or tribal shame, but solely by the desire for the children of this snowy plain to no longer wander or kneel in worship!"

His raised sword ignited a blue light in the firelight, as sharp as thunder and lightning.

"The barbarians of the past were dogs at the feet of the empire, slaves who fought amongst themselves! What we want now is land, a homeland, a snowfield kingdom where we can make fire and have children!"

He paused, gazing towards the unseen south at the edge of the night, his voice low, yet filled with a burning hatred:

"The empire has trampled our dignity and taken away our ancestral graves and bones. Stop begging them for a bowl of porridge and stop expecting them to leave us half a granary."

The snowfields don't breed cowards, nor should someone like Harold continue leading the way. His prostrate posture makes him only fit to be a whip-wielder for the Empire.

Before he finished speaking, a thunderous roar erupted from below the altar.

"The frost and fire will never be extinguished!!"

"Long live Titus!!"

The warriors brandished spears, axes, and bone shields, shouting wildly while shirtless. Those who knelt pressed their foreheads to the snow, sending up a layer of steaming heat.

But outside the circle of fire, those figures who had not knelt remained as stiff as iron pillars in the cold wind.

Several elderly generals, who had followed Harold Frostmane in battle for decades, no longer had the fanaticism illuminated by the blue flames in their eyes, but only suppressed anger and deep sorrow.

"He's crazy."

With a trembling white beard, Ortan gritted his teeth and whispered, his voice filled with a metallic stench: "That seat of the alliance was won by Harold himself. He trampled the old oaths underfoot before his body was even cold."

His voice was filled with hatred: "He poisoned the clan leader, killed Harold's three sons, burned Frostmane Hall, and now he wants to wash his hands clean with a few words?"

General Hegan, standing to the side, clenched his fists, bloodstains visible beneath his nails: "What he did was not just betrayal, but a patricidal usurpation of power."

Then another silent elder suddenly spoke in a low voice: "...We can't stop it anymore."

Everyone was startled.

The elder gazed at Titus's towering figure amidst the flames, his eyes filled with complex emotions. "Shattered Axe and Red Rock have torn apart the alliance. The Empire is eyeing us covetously from the outside. If Snowfield drags on any longer, there won't even be any bones left."

Moreover, the Frostmane tribe is wiped out; Titus has handled it so cleanly that we have no justification for a rebellion now.”

He said in a deep voice, "We hate him, but isn't it too late for revenge?"

Amidst the wind and snow, those young warriors who had initially hesitated had already had their hearts pierced by Titus's fiery, blade-like vow.

He wasn't asking them to die, but rather telling them: from now on, the snowfield is no longer a lowly place.

The blue flames burned even brighter.

Titus watched all this quietly, a barely perceptible smile playing on his lips.

He knew perfectly well that not everyone would submit to him, but he didn't need everyone to love him; he only needed everyone to fear him.

He murmured to himself, as if speaking to himself: "I want this land to no longer live on its knees."

The wind, carrying snowflakes, brushed against his cheek, as if stirring up a memory. He remembered that winter, when Harold knelt before the imperial envoys' tent.

That old warrior had led him through the valley, taught him to wield an axe, hunt wolves, and ward off snow; he was the most unruly old lion of the barbarians.

That day he knelt down, just to exchange for dozens of cartloads of old grain and a few barrels of salt.

The envoy from the empire, dressed in a silver-patterned robe, sat on a high seat and laughed as if he were feeding a dog.

He pointed to the brazier next to Harold and said, “You are not sincere enough—if you could put your hand in it, I would believe you are truly submissive.”

Titus witnessed Harold remain silent for a moment, then actually reach inside, without using any fighting spirit, just to please that lackey.

He didn't utter a single roar, but his eyes remained fixed on the distant mountains.

Later, that hand rotted and never grew back.

But what was worse was the laughter of the Imperials, which echoed outside the tent all night.

At that moment, Titus felt neither hatred nor anger, only profound indifference.

“He’s the kind of man who can tear a mountain lion’s spine apart with his bare hands,” Titus murmured, “but he’d kowtow three times for a few sacks of grain.”

So he sprinkled the powder into the pot of medicine and quietly left.

As the wind and snow swept through the camp, the animal-hide tents, illuminated by the campfire, were brightly lit, filled with songs and the aroma of wine, as if the Frost Tribe had finally gained a brief respite.

This was a banquet personally hosted by the old chief, Harold Frostmane, to celebrate the tribe's successful survival through the winter.

Everything proceeded smoothly at the beginning of the banquet, until the third round of medicinal wine was poured.

As Harold raised his glass, Titus stood at the back of the crowd, his expression as calm as a glacier.

His gaze passed through the crowd and landed on that rough, weathered hand, the hand that had once gripped the battle axe but ultimately bowed to the empire.

Harold didn't move as he tilted his head back to drink, but simply exhaled slowly.

Before dozens of eyes could even see what had happened, the elderly but still dignified tribal chief collapsed to the ground with a thud, his wine vessel shattering on the rocky floor with a crisp, mournful sound.

Some people screamed, some rushed forward to check, and some shouted the priest's name.

Titus did not move, nor did he even step forward.

He only turned his head slightly in the firelight to glance at his aunt, the matriarch of the Frost Tribe.

She stared in horror at her husband's corpse, her face deathly pale.

Titus remembered the expression on Titus's face for that instant, then turned and quietly left.

Tonight is just the beginning.

Three days later, Titus's mother died of poisoning in her tent. While her body was still warm, Titus's confidants had already taken control of her private guards.

A week later, his younger brother "accidentally" fell off his horse and died, while his younger sister "fell" and drowned in the Muxue Creek...

No one saw Titus make a move; there was no evidence and no witnesses.

But everyone understood that from the moment Harold fell to the ground, Frostmane's bloodline had died out.

He spent a full twenty-seven days proceeding step by step, under the guise of "purging the imperial lackeys from the tribe" and "investigating traitors," calmly and decisively eliminating all dissent.

The elders dared not speak, the soldiers gradually fell silent, and the youths began to shout his name.

A month later, he stood on the old council seat, draped in a blood-stained wolf skin, his gaze sweeping over the crowd like a frost-covered blade.

"From this day forward, Frostfire will no longer be my battle name, but the surname of this tribe." His voice was not loud, but it was louder than the wind. "Our Frostfire tribe will never bow our heads to beg for food again, and we will never lick the boots of our enemies again."

"How did Harold die?" someone asked in a low voice.

He replied with only two words: "Empire".

Thus, the blame for this coup shifted from his palm to the iron boots of the empire.

Hatred reignited among the barbarians, and the Frost Tribe's totem flag fluttered like flames across the snowfield.

Titus stood on the high ground of the north slope, his cloak fluttering in the wind, with the newly built walls of the Frost Barracks and the rough iron weapons forged day and night behind him.

He looked further southwest, into the territory of the Red Rock and Broken Axe tribes.

They were once allies, but now they are arguing fiercely over border conflicts.

Thus, the banner of the Frostfire tribe once again fluttered across the frozen plains, like the howling of a wolf, awakening the dormant warriors who had been asleep for many years.

Titus Frostfire personally led the expedition, his silver-gray battle armor forged like ice and rock, his snow wolf cloak fluttering in the wind, making him appear like a god of war.

His orders were like iron forged in the cold, restoring order to the remnants of the tribe, mending broken banners, and forming a new "Frostfire Legion".

His target was not just Shattered Axe, not just Red Rock, but the entire North.

Unify the barbarians and rebuild our glory.

Let these people trapped in the snow no longer bow down for food, no longer kowtow to the empire.

He wanted the entire North to swallow this humiliation and betrayal with him, and then retaliate against the Empire with frost and fury.

But he was not moved by bloodlust.

Titus was never a reckless man.

He severed the old alliance with his own hands, not out of anger, but because he had seen a further path ahead.

But he was not putting all his eggs in one basket.

The night before Harold Frostmane was poisoned, an ancient being answered his call.

Since that night, Titus has never admitted defeat again.

Moreover, even the oldest prophet of the old tribes dared not look him in the eye.

He harbors a secret that no one knows about, but which will surely overturn the entire world.

(End of this chapter)