Chapter 355 - 342: Northern Domain

A bitter north wind, like a gale of icy blades, howled across the desolate northern border of the Golden Valley Kingdom.

A lead-gray sky hung low as thick snowflakes drifted down, blanketing the rolling mountains and vast plains in a deathly pure white. The bone-deep chill felt as if it could freeze the very soul.

In this harsh world of ice and snow, a massive military encampment, like a crouching beast, clung tenaciously to the wind-blasted landscape.

Its fortifications were imposing, and banners snapped in the gale, yet the entire camp exuded a heavy, oppressive atmosphere that mirrored the weather.

A burly figure, draped in a heavy wolf-pelt cloak, was trudging through the deep snow, making his way quickly toward the largest tent in the center of the camp.

This was Enrique, Guardian of the Golden Valley Kingdom’s Northern Domain.

Even bundled in heavy clothing, his pine-straight posture and broad shoulders were apparent. His face was etched with resolute lines, carved by wind and frost.

But now, his normally steady eyes could not conceal a deep-seated anxiety.

"Your Grace!"

The Guard at the tent’s entrance, covered in a layer of white frost, recognized him and immediately straightened his back, saluting respectfully. His voice trembled slightly in the cold wind.

Enrique merely gave a hurried nod in response, not even taking the time to brush the snow from his shoulders before throwing open the heavy tent flap.

The next moment, the thick, cloying stench of blood, mixed with the heat from a charcoal brazier, assaulted him, making his already anxious heart clench.

His sharp gaze immediately swept toward the back of the tent.

There, in the flickering lamplight, a man with graying hair but a body still as burly as a bear’s was acting like a mischievous child, wincing as he blew repeatedly on his own mangled left arm, trying to soothe the obviously extraordinary pain.

Several army medics stood nearby, their faces filled with helpless panic.

What truly made Enrique’s pupils constrict, however, was the horrifying wound on the burly man’s left arm.

It was no injury that could have been caused by an ordinary weapon.

The flesh wasn’t simply torn; it had a disturbing, bizarre appearance, as if it had been corroded by a strong acid and then violently ripped apart.

The edges of the wound were not bright red but a sinister, dark purple, like bruised and festering blood. Faint black tendrils were visibly creeping into the surrounding healthy skin.

Most bizarrely of all, a faint, ember-like, dark red light flickered intermittently from deep within the wound, accompanied by a subtle, evil aura that inspired a chilling revulsion deep in one’s soul.

Even from a distance, Enrique could feel the malevolence radiating from the wound.

It was a corrupting, erosive power that transcended physical injury, striking directly at the soul.

Enrique suppressed the tempest raging in his heart and strode forward. His voice held a barely perceptible tremble as his gaze locked onto the ghastly wound on King Morne’s left arm.

"His Majesty Morne! Your wound..."

Morne looked up at the sound of his voice. Seeing it was Enrique, a nearly mischievous smile appeared on his weather-beaten, yet still resolute, face.

He casually shook his injured left arm, which made him wince again, but he spoke nonchalantly.

"A ’gift’ from that old bastard Gersch. No wonder the Beastman offensive was so fierce and determined this time. Turns out the remnants of the Blood Roar Clan have been secretly reconnecting with the Abyss... What a bunch of troublesome bastards."

He paused. Though his tone was light, a grave look flickered in the depths of his eyes before he became nonchalant again.

"But hey, I didn’t let him off easy."

"That bastard probably won’t be able to pick up a weapon for the rest of his life."

With that, he turned to the helpless medics and said breezily,

"You’re not needed here anymore. You can go. These old bones of mine can still take it."

Looking immensely relieved, the medics respectfully withdrew from the tent.

Once the two of them were alone in the tent, Morne turned his gaze back to Enrique.

His face was a little pale from blood loss, but his eyes were still sharp and full of life.

"So, what’s so urgent that you came rushing to find me?"

Enrique took a deep breath, forcing his gaze away from the King’s arm, which was still oozing dark blood, and reported in a low voice.

"Your Majesty, all confirmed spies within the camp have been dealt with according to military law. None were spared."

He paused, his throat feeling a little dry, and added with difficulty,

"According to the interrogations... the one behind them is Duke Anno."

Hearing the name "Anno," King Morne’s white eyebrows raised slightly.

He showed no surprise or anger. Instead, as if he’d heard something amusing, he let out a soft, scornful laugh.

"Hah, Anno... It seems those old fools in the Royal Capital are getting impatient."

Enrique continued his report, his tone still tinged with an unspeakable worry.

"Additionally, Your Majesty, thanks to a lull in the months-long blizzard, the main passages in the West that were blocked by snow have been mostly cleared."

"Oh?"

King Morne’s eyes lit up, and he happily slapped his uninjured right hand.

"Finally, some decent news! Looks like our supply problems will finally ease up."

As he spoke, he gestured disdainfully with his chin toward a coarse clay bowl on the table. It held what looked like rock-hard military rations, seemingly baked from a mix of rye and some kind of root vegetable.

"I’ve had more than enough of this stuff. If I eat any more, I’m afraid my teeth are going to retire early."

Enrique, however, did not follow up on the King’s complaint.

He carefully observed the expression on Morne’s face and cautiously interrupted the King’s rare moment of ease.

"Your Majesty... there is one more thing. Some... unusual information has arrived from the direction of the Royal Capital."

Morne raised an eyebrow, still looking somewhat unconcerned.

"Information? Did some noble make a fool of himself at a banquet again? Or is the Financial Officer crying poor over next year’s budget? Or perhaps..."

The old King’s tone suddenly shifted, taking on a mocking edge.

"Have the rats finally shown their faces?"

"No, Your Majesty..."

Enrique took a deep breath, as if gathering all his strength, and his tone became graver than ever before.

"The situation... is likely more serious than you imagine."

He paused, finally delivering the bombshell he had been holding back.

"Duke Anno has unilaterally mobilized troops and launched an attack on the River Domain... And, not long ago, terrible news came from the Royal Capital... Several of the Princes and Princesses... have all tragically perished."

The air inside the tent seemed to freeze solid in that instant.

The stillness lasted for a long time, so long that the only sound was the occasional soft crackle of the charcoal fire.

Finally, a low, scornful laugh shattered the dead silence.

King Morne shook his head, the corner of his mouth twisting into a cold arc. His eyes, however, looked as if an Ice Storm was brewing within them.

"Interesting... How very interesting."

His voice even held a playful quality, but each word seemed carved from the ice of the far north.

"Anno... I seem to have underestimated his audacity. And that fool Lucius, has living for nearly seventy years rotted his brain with the lust for power?"

"But... that’s fine too. This way, when the blade is at their necks, they won’t be able to cry and scream about being framed, will they? To be honest, that kind of wailing is so terribly grating..."

He paused, his knuckles tapping unconsciously on the tabletop, creating a rhythmic, suppressed sound, as if holding back some ferocious power about to break free from its cage.

"What is the situation in the Kingdom now?"

he asked, his tone returning to a superficial calm.

Enrique carefully reported how Gloria had joined forces with Duke to fight Anno, eased tensions with the River Domain, and was currently wiping out the remaining enemy forces in the East.

As Morne listened, his fingers stopped tapping, and he nodded slightly.

"That girl, Gloria... she’s done well. Much better than her worthless siblings. And that crafty bastard Duke certainly knows when to place his bets."

His assessment was brief, betraying little emotion.

"Your Majesty, what should we do next...?"

Enrique asked tentatively.

Morne rose slowly to his feet, flexed his injured left arm, and his gaze seemed to pierce through the tent, looking toward the south.

"Gersch’s power is spent; he won’t be able to stir up any trouble for a while. The Northern Domain’s defensive line is secure for now."

His tone was flat, yet it carried an unquestionable finality.

"It’s time to go back. I’ve had enough of this godforsaken, frozen wasteland."

He walked to the side of the tent, lifted a corner of the flap, and gazed out at the still-swirling snow, his back as steadfast as a mountain.

A moment later, in a tone that was almost conversational yet sent a chill down Enrique’s spine, he spoke slowly.

"It seems... some fools back home have been sitting by their warm hearths for too long. They’ve completely forgotten how this land was once soaked in blood during the ’Blood Moon Rebellion’."

His words were light, yet they were more piercing than the freezing wind outside.

The moment he finished speaking, a Guard’s clear report came from outside the tent.

"Your Majesty, someone claiming to be a messenger from Her Highness Princess Gloria says they have an urgent letter for you!"