Lord of Winter: Beginning with Daily Intelligence - Chapter 558 - 336: Assault and Execution (Part 2)
Chapter 558: Chapter 336: Assault and Execution (Part 2)
“Retreat!” Sarik shouted out only to be swept by a force of Fighting Energy at the side of his leg, making him kneel in the snow.
The cold climbed up through the wound, he couldn’t feel the pain, just a numbness throughout his leg.
He looked up to see those Knights forming a semicircle, encircling him and his companions, blocking all paths of retreat.
The words “it’s over” surfaced in Sarik’s mind as he watched his companions being pushed into the snow one by one, like prey.
The last flicker of hope in his heart extinguished along with the blue Fighting Energy, leaving his heart like dead ashes.
It turns out they never had a chance.
Not far away, Cohen was also pushed to the snowbank by two Knights.
One spearhead knocked away the dagger in his hand, while the other directly shoulder-charged him in the chest, pinning him into the snow, flipping his arm and snapping his support.
Cohen suddenly realized they had been watched from the start, leading them step by step into a trap.
“You guys… had already…” his voice trembled, unable to finish.
The Knight did not answer, only cuffed his hands behind his back without any unnecessary motion, as if it was just a hunt.
The cold iron cuff clamped onto the bone of his wrist, and the intense chill crept up the chain; Cohen almost didn’t notice he was shaking.
He wanted to struggle but found his strength seemingly stripped away.
His mind started to rewind.
Ever since they entered the vicinity of the Border Guard Village from day one, those Red Tide patrol squads were extraordinarily systematic.
Those seemingly casual village officials were actually prying with every word.
Originally thought to have avoided Knight monitoring, now thinking back, maybe they were led here deliberately.
A Knight tore a piece of cloth from his cloak, stuffing it in his mouth, uninterested in hearing any nonsense.
Louis stood on the slope, overlooking the wreckage on the post road.
The fire had long been extinguished, leaving only the smell of tar wafting in the night wind.
He looked at the few scorched wooden carts and the dozen or so Barbarian Race adherents suppressed in the snow, faces full of ash, some still draped in Military Household cloaks slanting over their shoulders.
Further away, those three so-called “trade caravans” were also dragged out. Hidden signals in collars, documents, and that Magic Explosion Bullet were all found without exception.
Louis murmured, “I thought it would be a big catch… It turns out it’s just a few small shrimps.”
Then he turned his head to look at those Barbarian Race rebels, their expressions a mix of anger, fear, and hopelessness.
Before the implementation of the autonomous village system within the Barbarian Race, Louis had not anticipated today would come.
Keeping a community enclosed within the village, distributing food, clothing, sending firewood and medicine, appointing Knights to maintain order, setting up patrols and lessons.
It indeed saved their lives.
During that winter, had it not been for Red Tide’s allocation of granary, bringing these scattered Barbarians into the Border Guard Village, they’d have frozen to death on the snowfield, starved in the ruins.
Yet now it appears that mere survival was not enough.
Systems can suppress most people, but there will always be some trying to break free from the shackles, even if the attempt itself is futile.
Louis once asked himself, whether those adherent Barbarians truly accepted the Red Tide Territory’s order or had merely resigned themselves.
Now, he had an answer in his heart.
On his way to the Border Guard Village, he once discussed this matter with Sif on the road.
Sif said, “The Barbarian Race desires iron, not kindness.”
Her gaze was not at all gentle in the night, as if reminding him not to be naive.
And Louis responded with a relatively soft remark, “They obey us not because of fear, but because they are still alive.”
Yet at this moment, he suddenly felt that perhaps he had himself been at Red Tide for too long, overestimating his charm, and the conscience of the Barbarian Race.
Throughout this year, he indeed, through the system, turned the Barbarian Race into seemingly controllable manpower.
They trained, served, patrolled within the Border Guard Village, even learning the language, customs, and service systems of the Empire and Red Tide.
Louis thought that by doing this, within ten years, they could be gradually integrated into the order.
Unexpectedly, trouble arose within a year.
He neglected one crucial issue: systems can suppress actions, but they cannot change hearts, at least not in the short term.
And human hearts always grow, deform in unforeseen crevices, eventually tearing apart the thinnest layer.
Louis sighed, his gaze swept across those faces kneeling on the ground, muttering to himself, “I was too naive.”
Visa stood beside Sif, watching those Barbarian Race adherents captured on the post road, silent.
Her eyes reflected those kneeling figures and the already extinguished embers at their feet, with a wavering feeling inside.
Visa lowered her voice and asked, “Lady Sif… Our former enemies were indeed the Empire. But now Red Tide is different, letting them eat well, dress warmly, and survive, why do they still want to ignite?”
Sif didn’t look at her, just scoffing, “Overfed and restless.”
She spoke lightly, yet seemed to define the whole matter.
Visa did not respond; she understood this sentence but didn’t entirely agree.
For a brief moment, she almost comprehended the impulse within those people.
It wasn’t dissatisfaction with life but a deep-rooted obsession, which was the glory of the Barbarian Race.
She knew she had once had such moments.
But now she no longer wavered.
Visa fondled the Barbarian warrior’s sword attached to her waist.
Yet the wind blew from the side, lifting a corner of her cloak, revealing the Red Tide Emblem worn on her chest.
She was no longer a Barbarian warrior.
She was Visa, the leftover of Cold Moon Tribe, also the shadow guard of Lady Red Tide.
If one must say which side she belonged to, it would be alongside Sif.
That girl who had once been with her in the wind and snow, now Lady Red Tide.
That was the reason she chose to stay.
Regardless of race, regardless of revenge, merely because she found a home beside Sif.
And under Louis’s command, Visa lived a life she had never imagined.
She had her own house, a Red Tide-style Knight’s dwelling truly built with stone bricks, whose roof wouldn’t leak snow, with geothermal heating.
She had three meals, no longer relying on distributed food packs to gnaw on dried meat, but could sit down and eat hot soup and bread.
She was also addressed as Lady Visa.
Visa was grateful to Lord Louis.
A young man from the Imperial Nobility who was willing to offer someone like her trust, status, even the duty of protecting Sif.
Barbarian glory?
That thing shattered into pieces in that cell long ago, she no longer tangled with those past symbols and totems.
……
On the hastily erected wooden platform, Sarik’s feet were fixed with iron rings, a rough hemp rope already hung around his neck.
Standing beside him was the village chief, an elderly Barbarian elder, the proclamation paper trembling slightly in his hand from the wind.
The village chief’s voice was hoarse and slow, with every sentence, like cutting a layer of his own skin.
“Red Tide Military Household System, Article Three. All adherent military households, rebels will be sentenced to extreme punishment.”
Those few characters took him nearly half a minute to recite.
No one stood to defend Sarik and others, nor dared to.
Everyone knew the real judgment had long ended.
Beneath the platform, other dozen Barbarian convicts and three Silver Plate Guild spies were lined up.
Their wrists were forcibly tied behind with thick rope, shoulders forced forward, the noose around their necks hanging from the beam, pressing the skin pale.
They dared not move at all, as if a slight tremor would tighten the rope.
Some legs trembled, some had already collapsed, only to be dragged up by Knights.
The Silver Plate spy leader Cohen was still muttering something, tears streaming, yet no one paid him any mind.
Their expressions were no longer angry stares but hollow, numb, as if finally realizing that only death awaited them.
Four Red Tide Knights raised their long poles in hand, gently pushed forward, and the mechanism fell with a sound.
In an instant, beneath the coarse wooden plank was empty, bodies suspended.
No screams, no struggles.
Only the creaking of tightened hemp ropes echoed throughout the village square.
Sarik’s shadow swayed on the ground, not moving at all after a few seconds.
Among the onlookers, other representatives of the Border Guard Village, external patrol Knights, and even some uninvolved Military Household members stood motionless in the snow.
These Barbarians had no anger in their eyes, only an indescribable sadness and fear.
Then Sarik and others’ bodies were cut from the ropes, wrapped in burlap, transported one by one to the incineration pit outside the village.
Yet all who remained in the area dared not move because they knew it wasn’t over; the implication decree hadn’t been announced.
Red Tide law was clear: under the military household system, if anyone within the village participated in rebellion, the entire village bears the responsibility of supervision, with those who condone sharing the same guilt, and those who knowingly fail to report even more so.
