North of the Frost Dragon Territory, deep within the valley, the snow was heavy, and the white forest shaded the sky.
In this forsaken land of lingering snow overlooked by the Northern Territory, an endangered power was quietly awakening, preparing for its final counterstrike.
Deep in the cave, dimly lit by animal fat torches, the firelight stretched the shadows of dozens of figures.
They wore beast skins and wielded iron blades. So wore feathered bone helts, so had ancient tattoos on their faces, and so stood barefoot on the ice, barely clothed, as if the cold wind had never driven them away.
These were the remaining leaders and chiefs of the Barbarian Race.
To be precise, this was all that the Snowfield could muster.
Wulu stood silently beside the fire, watching the crowd, his shadow cast by the firelight as a dark outline.
His title was Special Envoy, temporarily elected by the various clans, sent to the Prince to convey the opinion of the Barbarian Race.
Outside the ice cave, branches such as Black Rock, Snow Wolf, and Lant had gathered nearly six hundred Blood Boiling Warriors.
They excelled in charges and close combat, trained from a young age, battle-proven raiders, the elite of the Barbarian Race, carrying the mories of blood.
These people were what remained of the Barbarian Race’s strength.
They were gathered for one purpose only.
They would not engage in a head-on clash with the Northern Territory’s Knight Order; such a confrontation was a gamble of lives for an uncertain outco.
What they planned was a decapitation strike, to overturn the long table at the mont of the eting day, allowing those nobles and decision-makers who raise their glasses and laugh to taste fear amidst the firelight and chaos.
If they succeeded, the Northern Territory would plunge into disorder, and they could seize supplies, land, and a slim chance for the future amidst the chaos.
If they failed, it would an total destruction, and the na of the Barbarian Race might disappear from the mory of this land.
By the fire, the eyes of the people were filled with both fear and determination.
The young warriors gripped their hand axes tightly, and the elders whispered the nas of their ancestors.
Everyone knew this was not a simple act of revenge but a final gamble.
This was the Snowfield’s last strike.
A gamble for survival, a raid that might change fate.
Wulu was actually a bit flustered and at a loss; his original plan was just to convey Astha’s orders, letting each clan decide their course of action.
According to his initial plan, these clan leaders might at most send people to harass the borders of the Red Tide a few tis, to give the Sixth Prince so face, in exchange for a few bags of grain.
But the situation had completely slipped out of his control.
When he learned that everyone intended to use the opportunity of the eting to attack the Frost Dragon Territory and wipe out all the nobility, he almost thought he had heard wrong.
"You’re crazy," Wulu said in a low voice, sweat at his temples crystallizing in the cold air, "that’s the Frost Dragon Territory, not so minor noble’s land! The Empire’s knights are all there guarding it! To act would an genocide!"
A short silence fell by the fire, and so of the older clan leaders began to hesitate.
"Perhaps he’s right," an elder murmured, "if we can get so grain, that’s enough for the clan to make it through the winter."
Wulu thought that reason would finally surpass the montary madness, and he prepared to analyze and convey Astha’s intentions gradually, letting the tribesn weigh their own choices.
Then the young Barbarian leader, who now commanded the most warriors, stood up suddenly, his toes scraping a slight sound on the ice surface.
His eyes showed a growing fanaticism, his voice suddenly rising: "We’ve co this far, and should we retreat now? Where else can we retreat to?
If we retreat, they will laugh at us, crush our doorsteps, burn our hearths, and send our children begging. That’s not living; that’s rely surviving, and waiting is a dead end."
This ti, it’s not for anyone’s command, not for a sack of flour, but for the future of the young, for the bones of our ancestors!
Overturn their eting table, let those in power taste fear, that is our correct choice!"
He spoke forcefully, as if staking the repressions of decades.
Once his words fell, the cave was first t with brief silence, then wave after wave of whispers and responses rolled in like an avalanche.
The young leaders stood almost instinctively, fists clenched, eyes filled with the excitent of blood.
They had seen the Empire’s banners flying, had returned drenched in blood at midnight; Carl’s words ignited their anger and desire.
The elder generation was silent for much longer.
Finally, a white-haired elder said softly, "We can’t act blindly, but if we don’t resist, what else can we do?"
Another clan leader’s voice trembled, "All we want is to live."
Wulu, caught in between, let his hands fall powerlessly; he realized he could no longer stop this action.
If re harassnt could exchange for a few bags of grain and so grazing rights, that would be enough for many to spend their remaining years peacefully." Wulu’s rationality made its last resistance.
But Carl stood his ground, walking to the fire, bending down to pick up a torch, holding it like a flag in his hand.
The firelight danced on his young face, casting a long shadow.
"You are all right, perhaps living is important. But to live while bowing daily, what aning does that have?
We are not the Empire’s vassals; we want them to rember that the Snowfield can decide its own fate too."
His voice carried no resentnt, only a determination that turned despair into resolve.
The shouts of the young grew ever louder, the cave like a vast field swept by the wind, voices advancing layer by layer, ultimately overwhelming hesitation.
Several senior clan leaders exchanged glances, after a prolonged silence, they slowly nodded.
It wasn’t a proactive fervor, but felt more like helplessness.
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