And surrounding the carriage is the true embodint of Red Tide’s force.
The Vanguard Knight Order led by Lambert, draped in silver-red cloaks, and their red-black battle armor perfectly aligned in five columns, resembling the scabbard of a blade.
More than three hundred knights from Red Tide’s main force are arrayed solemnly, their hooves steady like war drums, their spears like forests, and their armor reflecting light like rcury spilling over, symbolizing the Northern Territory’s sharpest military power.
Behind the carriage, the carriages of the Red Tide’s Economic Office, Council Hall, and Military Affairs Office are orderly incorporated into the procession, each one a moving administrative hall.
Scribes, political envoys, and Council Hall observers each in their positions, uniformly dressed, with solemn expressions.
Also accompanying them are representatives of the nobility from the Southeast who have pledged allegiance; they are not re followers, but witnesses and disseminators of Red Tide’s power.
Eight frost stallions lead the way, their iron hooves pounding the snow like war drums, the clashing armor forming a symphony of austerity.
The streets of the Frost Dragon Territory have long been cleared.
Civilians were temporarily driven to the outskirts, so their emaciated shadows wouldn’t tarnish the view and dirty the noble lords’ eyes.
Above the city wall, beneath the welcoming banner, the nobility of the Northern Territory have been waiting for a long ti.
Leading them stands the Sixth Prince, Astha August.
He struggles to maintain a welcoming smile at the corner of his mouth, yet his gaze involuntarily follows the approaching iron torrent, growing increasingly stagnant.
Astha had thought he was well-prepared, having long heard of Red Tide’s soldiers and supplies, weapons and systems; but seeing it with his own eyes brought a surge of fear unbidden.
The Red Tide’s procession is like a fortress arriving from the South, advancing with relentless yet emotionless force, crushing the old Northern Territory order into the slushy snow, inch by inch.
It makes Astha’s plans for the reconstruction eting seem like a superficial court maneuver, a decorative curtain unable to block the tempest rolling in from the South.
His throat moves slightly, his voice unable to erge, while inside he feels cold, even afraid to clench his fist lest his palm’s cold sweat betrays his composure.
Next to Astha stands Camille, the inspector envoy from the Imperial Capital, whose expression has dramatically changed.
As he sees the main carriage with golden-edged sun wheel slowly approaching, the mory of the dinner where Louis presented the al box resurfaces in his mind.
There were no accusations, just a raised glass of wine and those unswayed eyes.
Now reunited, he looks at the young lord’s procession again, feeling only terror in his heart.
Camille understands that he has lost the initiative and can only comply. Whatever Louis says, he dares not refuse.
He tries hard to maintain his posture, yet his spine bends slightly, his gaze instinctively lowering half an inch as the Red Tide’s main carriage passes before him.
Further away, the old noble alliance faction of the Northern Territory, Hols, Klan, Bolton, and others sit uneasily.
They once symbolized the discourse power of the Northern Territory, preparing to unite with the prince to suppress Red Tide.
But at this mont, watching the advancing procession, their spirits are suddenly hollowed out.
So clutch their staffs, faces pale, so curse under their breath, grinding their teeth.
Before the agenda has even begun, they have lost their position, with varying thoughts, even reconsidering their stance internally.
In contrast, the nobility pledging allegiance from the Southeast at the end of the procession show overflowing pride.
"Lord Louis seems to be coming to take over the territory, allowing us to share in the glory." A young baron gives a disdainful glance at the mottled walls of Frost Dragon Territory, "This shabby place isn’t even as good as my domain."
A lady baroness wrinkles her nose, covering it lightly with a handkerchief, "The air slls damp, the gate’s paint chipping off, like a countryside village that has never seen a carriage."
Her gaze follows the Red Tide’s main carriage, "This is what nobility should look like."
The pledging nobility hold their heads high, looking at the Frost Dragon nobility on both sides with undisguised contempt and disdain.
"What do these people have left besides their bloodline?" A viscount from the Southeast sneers quietly, "Compared to them, we are the ones truly standing in the future."
The cities here are completely crushed by Red Tide City.
At this mont, all eyes are focused on the main carriage roaring past like a castle.
Louis doesn’t need to speak; his re appearance has trampled all opponents underfoot.
The Frost Dragon main stage slips from the Sixth Prince’s grasp to the Red Tide procession led by the young lord.
Louis’s carriage cos to a steady stop before the nobility, and all conversation halts, eyes fixed on that carriage.
In the silence, the armored door slowly opens, a hand wearing a silver-patterned leather glove holding the edge, a young man steps out calmly from inside.
He is draped in a long red cloak, his figure upright like a spear, without saying a word, yet his presence already dominates everyone present.
This is the true master of the Northern Territory, most of the nobility thought.
Astha turns his head, seeing the amazent, hesitance, indignation, and speechlessness on the nobility’s faces.
A burning humiliation arises within him, finally realizing he can no longer remain silent.
No, he can’t let him continue to lead.
Thus, Astha suppresses his emotions, using his signature gentle smile, stepping forward and loudly saying: "Welco, Lord of the Red Tide, the glory of the Northern Territory, Count Louis Calvin."
All eyes focus on the two individuals, beginning to assess the situation.
Astha continues smiling, gesturing to all the nobility: "This is the most important eting of the Northern Territory, and the mont for , the Ironblood Empire’s Sixth Prince, Royal Reconstruction Envoy, to discuss the future with all of you. Today, Frost Dragon Territory hosts you in the na of the royalty, wishing we can work together to build a new order in the Northern Territory."
He intentionally emphasizes the word "royalty," asserting his identity.
As long as this identity remains, he hasn’t lost.
Louis smiles faintly, maintaining elegance as he performs a standard yet noble aristocratic gesture.
His tone is gentle and fitting: "Being summoned by Your Highness is the fortune of the Northern Territory. Red Tide is willing to contribute our humble efforts, to work with all of you in planning grand sches and crafting a new map for the Northern Territory."
Louis’s words are sincere, his choice of words polite, his tone soft, each word perfectly embodying the respect and humility expected among nobility.
To an outsider, this may seem like standard formal pleasantries, even evoking a sense of Louis’s deference to the prince.
But to Astha, the words weigh heavily on his heart.
The tone was too natural, too composed, as if he was the host of the eting, not a summoned participant.
More irkso was the phrase "humble efforts," subtly reminding everyone that he was not obeying orders but attending out of cooperation and goodwill.
Each sentence was flawless, each word impeccable, yet Astha felt like needles pricking him uncomfortably.
He maintains his smile but feels tightness in his throat, needing to cough lightly to hide his discomfort.
"Though the army won’t enter the city, they can station outside Frost Dragon Territory." Astha adds with a smile, trying to sound natural as if it’s just a routine eting arrangent.
"Of course." Louis nods lightly, seeming to have anticipated, "Lambert."
"Yes, my lord." Knight Lambert bows to receive orders, leading the knight order quietly to turn their horses around, circling to the south side of Frost Dragon Territory.
Iron armor grinds, hooves move in unison, over three hundred knights in the morning light, like a retreating iron dragon into the snow-laden woods, silently yet pressing heavily on everyone’s hearts.
"This knight order might be the most elite in the Northern Territory..." A noble observes closely with a low voice of exclamation.
"Even each vanguard is an extraordinary knight..." Another noble’s face turns pale, unable to believe what he sees.
Silence prevails, conveying not fear of Red Tide, but profound awe for Louis himself.
Under the city gate, no one dares whisper.
In the air, only the distant echoes of hoofbeats and the rustling sound of the Red Tide banner remains.
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