King of the North: My Lord's Diary Weekly Summary

Wayne lay prone behind a low wall, holding his breath.

The afternoon sun slanted down, casting long shadows on the snow.

He chose a good spot—he could see the dirt road extending from the west entrance of the village, and also barely hear any movement at the north entrance of the alley.

The frost crow's glands slowly contracted in his chest cavity, bringing a chilling sense of clarity. Combined with the energy restored from ample rest, this also made his senses sharper than usual.

Time passed second by second.

Wayne gripped the sword in his right hand, constantly recalling and simulating all the sword moves he remembered.

Waiting is not a pleasant experience.

Wayne was actually very conflicted.

On the one hand, he certainly hoped that the bandits would arrive as late as possible—every moment the bandits' offensive was delayed, their main force would also arrive a moment later, and his chances of holding the line would increase.

But on the other hand, a certain urgency was churning in my chest.

This was the first time he had truly commanded a battle independently, and the first time he had put his own tactical designs into practice.

He needed a victory, even if it was just wiping out a few spies, to prove that his judgment was correct and that he had the ability to lead these people to survive.

Wayne lacks confidence in his combat and tactical abilities—but paradoxically, this will determine the life and death of himself and those he cares about.

This anxiety made his throat dry.

"Calm down."

Wayne said to himself.

"The external environment will not change because of my worries."

Wayne mentally encouraged himself—being a lord isn't easy. If you can arbitrarily execute others based on your plans and judgments, and weigh the lives of your subjects on a scale, then you have to bear that weight.

He must become a perfect and powerful person.

In order to survive.

In order to live a better life.

Thinking of this, Wayne closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

Then, he suppressed his worries and carefully concealed himself during the patrol.

Finally, he heard a series of cautious, somewhat chaotic footsteps.

Wayne's muscles tensed instantly as he nimbly climbed onto the low roof of a wooden cabin to observe from a corner.

Three figures slipped in through a gap in the wooden fence at the western entrance of the village.

They walked slowly, their steps light, their bodies slightly bent, their eyes scanning their surroundings warily—like wild dogs searching for carrion.

They were in a loose triangular formation, with two people in front and one person behind.

A typical reconnaissance formation.

Wayne carefully observed the three bandits:

They wore haphazardly patchwork winter clothes made of fur, held machetes and short spears in their hands, and had filthy faces, but fierce appearances—the kind that looked like they had killed people before.

Sure enough, they arrived.

Based on Ronald's previous defenses, the bandits would typically send out five to eight men per wave, divided into two teams, one to the west and one to the north, to scout simultaneously.

Their tactics were clear: once they saw Ronald, they would signal to retreat.

Conversely, when Ronald deliberately didn't show up, hoping to lure the main force of the bandits to a head-on confrontation, they started setting fire to the house.

Although the cold weather in the North makes it difficult for the fire to spread, this is still an unacceptable loss for Ronald.

Because he didn't have enough manpower, he could only engage in close-quarters street fighting—and these wooden houses were the foundation of that street fighting.

Because of the lack of manpower, Ronald was also overwhelmed by the bandits' attrition tactics—he couldn't kill them on horseback, as the bandits were too sensitive to the sound of horses' hooves.

So, in desperation, Ronald resorted to the most rudimentary method: every time the bandits came, he would personally go and chase them away.

This clumsy method protected the house, but it also reflected Ronald's poor strategic thinking.

The bandits have likely figured out Ronald's defensive style, so they may be particularly sensitive to changes in defensive positions—this short-sighted approach has brought Wayne a lot of trouble and risk.

Wayne has already subtly formed an encirclement with Hank's squad—he has no choice but to bite the bullet and go for it.

The three bandits continued to explore the village.

They had already passed the few empty houses on the outskirts and were approaching Anke's defensive line.

However, just as Wayne had expected, the three bandits stopped some distance from Anke's defensive line.

Facing the house, they pulled out fire starters that resembled matches from their pockets.

Wayne's heart skipped a beat, but he didn't move.

To wipe out the mountain bandits, we must catch them off guard. Now is not the time—the moment we light the fire is when they are most vigilant.

The weather was cold, so the fire didn't spread quickly. They could at most burn down one wooden house, and the losses were still manageable—he had to wait, wait for a better opportunity.

Wayne observed them, his heart pounding so hard he was practically trembling all over!

The three bandits huddled together, one on guard, while the other two began trying to set the wooden house on fire.

The cold wind made the movement difficult, forcing them to bend over with their backs to the wind, using their bodies to shield themselves from the flames.

It's now!

Wayne bent over, then sprang up from behind the low wall like a spring, charging forward!

He charged forward with his head held low, his footsteps barely making a sound on the snow—the agility of the Frost Raven bloodline didn't just make him faster, but more importantly, it gave him greater control and coordination over his muscles.

Fifteen meters.

five meters.

Their distance was rapidly decreasing.

The bandit on the outermost guard post seemed to sense something and suddenly turned his head—

Too late.

Wayne's sword has been handed over.

With a flick of his wrist, the sword blade slashed upwards at an angle!

This sword move, combining the control amplification of the Frost Raven bloodline with the feeling he had reviewed and simulated countless times, was executed even more smoothly and neatly than he had imagined!

"Pfft..."

The sword tip pierced the bandit's jaw with precision, penetrated his mouth, and exited from below the back of his head.

Before the bandit could even scream, his body convulsed violently, the fierce light in his eyes quickly faded, and his pupils dilated.

Ignoring all of this, Wayne simply let go of his sword and used the momentum of his forward charge to lunge to the left!

His left hand took on a claw shape during the attack, moving as he focused his mind—

Swish!

Four pale blue icicles instantly shot out from the fingertips, each about half a finger long, with fine ice crystals condensed on the edges.

The second bandit had just turned his head when his pupils reflected the figure rushing towards him and those eerie icy claws.

His expression changed from bewilderment to horror. He opened his mouth to scream, but the crampons had already sliced ​​across his throat.

"laugh!"

When the crampons grazed the second bandit's throat, Wayne didn't feel that metallic, cutting sensation...

Instead, it was as if a thin layer of ice had been sliced ​​through—the sharpness of the crampons far exceeded Wayne's expectations.

The bandit clutched his bleeding neck and collapsed backward with a hoarse sound.

At this moment, the third bandit finally realized what was happening.