Astha smiled, a coldness in his smile: "What a vain man. The lifeline of the Northern Territory will not be held back by such a person."
He looked at the map on the table, his gaze sliding across the snowfield between the Frost Dragon Territory and Red Tide: "No matter how many knights he brings, it’s useless. As long as the eting starts, he’ll have to sit in front of and listen."
"You seem very confident," Sai Fu probed.
He nodded confidently, a hint of satisfaction playing at the corners of his mouth. He was not boasting idly, but fully aware of his advantage.
This year, he was no longer the penniless prince he once was.
Several Southern nobles had extended a helping hand to him, with gold coins, tals, salt, supplies, and even so knights.
These people wanted a share of the Northern Territory’s mines and trade routes, and also wanted to use him to suppress the young Louis of the Calvin Clan.
They were willing to spend money and resources, as long as their families could get involved in the Northern Territory; after all, the expenses were not high, and now the Empire’s situation was treacherous, making the Northern Territory a last resort.
In addition to that, the Inspector from the Imperial Capital was also on his side, and he had not hesitated to send him money.
The authority from the Imperial Capital allowed him to surpass all the lords on paper.
Astha knew that as long as he raised the imperial decree at the eting, no one could directly oppose him.
Many of the old nobles in the Northern Territory were already dissatisfied with the Red Tide system; they preferred to rely on the emperor, and he himself had paid a great price for it, conceding many rights to these greedy old nobles.
On the side of the Barbarian Race, he also had things arranged. They wanted grain, he gave them titles; they wanted land, he promised them an unclaid area.
This allowed him to have so control over these hidden barbarians, and now was the ti to put it to use.
All these factors combined were his confidence.
He who is supported by many is powerful, and that young lord is ultimately alone.
Astha reached out and closed the window, cutting off the wind, and the room fell silent once more.
......
Several Barbarian Race envoys were led into the side castle of the inner fort.
It was a secluded stone hall, dimly lit by oil lamps, the door closing heavily behind them, with a few knights standing coldly on either side, watching them.
The young prince stood in front of the fireplace, his cloak still on, his posture straight.
When he turned around, the firelight reflected on the badge on his chest, like a bright blade.
"Sit." He spoke, his words in the Empire’s language, articulated clearly, almost like a command that instinctively compelled them to obey.
Wulu sat down, his gaze sweeping around. The knights’ armor glinted under the lights, hands on the hilts of their swords, yet unmoving.
Astha walked to the table, unfurling the parchnt map, his gaze sweeping over them with unquestionable certainty.
He spoke softly, "Ti to fulfill the promise."
His words were brief, yet carried a cold hardness, causing Wulu a ripple of discomfort, though he didn’t dare ignore them.
Astha slowly moved around the table corner, his tone dropping a notch: "What I offer you is not just a fantasy. Over the past two years, I’ve given you many benefits, and you should know in your hearts, it’s ti to reciprocate."
He had the knights bring a few bags to the table. A tallic clink echoed as they poured out of coarse burlap, a few silver-embossed badges and pouches filled with grains glimring under the light.
"These are the promises of the Frost Dragon Territory," he said, "As long as this task is accomplished, your pastures, your valleys, will be recorded in the Empire’s ledger, and the Frost Dragon Territory will send a large batch of grain."
Wulu watched the hand moving in the firelight and the badges on the table, his eye twitching slightly.
He understood the weight of these words, this wasn’t a plea for help, but an order, not charity, but a temptation.
Astha continued: "I don’t need you to die, just to exert a bit of effort. If done well, the Empire will rember your nas. The next batch of grain and weapons won’t have to wait until the snow lts."
Then he pulled out a wooden rod engraved with the Barbarian Race totem.
Wulu stared at the short staff, silent for a long ti. It was sothing he had given to this prince in exchange for grain before, engraved with the Barbarian Race oath, signifying the Barbarian Race owed him a favor.
He weighed it in his heart, the Empire’s promises seed hollow, but this prince indeed helped them significantly last winter — not by painting a picture, but with actual grain and supplies.
If leveraging this prince’s montum could bring more benefits, it wouldn’t be a bad thing, at least more people could survive the winter.
Astha saw that he didn’t refuse, turned to the map, and said briefly: "Listen, I want you to move in twenty days, head to Red Tide’s territory to cause disruption.
If conditions allow, you may sneak into Red Tide City by night, destroy the city gates, burn granaries, slay the garrison, and take whatever benefits you find; I will not take a share, it’s all yours."
Wulu remained silent for a long ti, his eyes showing complex emotions, but eventually stood up, walked to Astha, and bowed his head to kiss the back of Astha’s hand.
"We will comply, Your Highness," he said, his voice raspy with respect.
Astha withdrew his hand, his expression unchanged: "Very well. The Empire will not forget the obedient ones."
Wulu did not return to the main camp; he knew clearly that ti was too tight, and going back and forth would only miss the opportunity.
The Gale Bird delivered the ssage, relentlessly, deep into the snowfield.
Several hours later, the firelight revealed many faces.
The chieftains with frost-bitten beards, warriors cloaked in wolf skin, scouts carrying longbows, silently gathered around the fire, all notable figures within the tribe gathered, without greetings, only mutual gazes.
"Astha wants us to move," the people’s chieftain stated simply as he spread the parchnt on the ground, "Harass Red Tide, light fires, create montum. He says this can be exchanged for grain."
Silence spread in the air.
An elder coughed lightly and said: "Last winter, he sent salt and grain, saving quite a few of us."
"A show, and we can survive the next winter," another old chieftain echoed, "No need for real fighting, a few fires, a few shouts, it’s a profitable trade."
"But we’ve suffered when facing Red Tide head-on," soone sneered.
"We’re not the Empire’s dogs," said the man wearing a worn iron helt, a veteran of many battles. "A show still requires life. They drink in castles while we charge the tower?"
"The people of Red Tide are not easy to provoke. Do you really think you can get away unscathed after setting a fire?" another middle-aged warrior said coldly.
Before the words fell silent, a mocking laugh ca from the campfire side.
A young voice chid in, without respect, without hesitation.
"Rather than following orders, why don’t we just go and kill."
Everyone turned their heads, and Carl stepped out.
He was only in his early twenties, the scars on his face still fresh, his left arm bandaged with a sheepskin guard, his eyes bright like blades under the snow.
"Frost Dragon Territory," he said slowly, "Nobility are there, lords are there. They are eting, discussing how to divide our remaining lands."
He took a step closer to the fire, his voice steady but not lowered: "We’re not going to fight Red Tide, we’re cutting off their roots."
A chieftain frowned: "You want to fight Louis?"
"I want to fight everyone sitting at that table," Carl said coldly, "Whether they are Calvin or August, it’s all the sa."
He extended a finger, pointing to a spot on the map, "Here, kill them all overnight, and no one in the Northern Territory will command others to die."
So began to whisper.
"You want to instigate a full-scale war?" the old chieftain asked angrily.
Carl gazed at him: "They drove us for three generations, forcing us to live in the wasteland, and now they even want to assign our positions. You call this war?!"
The fire in his eyes flared up: "Endure for another generation? There might be no next generation!"
The night wind swayed the flas, reflecting the hesitation and desire on each face.
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