In the next second, a few crows swept past the branches, startling a sharp screech through the air.

The neck of the leading warhorse in front exploded, blood gushing like a fountain, and it fell heavily to the ground with a whinny.

"An ambush!!"

"Grab your weapons!"

But they had only half-drawn their short swords when the attacks from the forest swept in like an ice storm.

Several figures shot out from the underbrush like arrows, glints of blades flashing continuously.

Someone hadn't even reacted when they were pierced from behind by a spear, falling into the leaves, still twitching.

One tried to jump off his horse to escape, but a flying rope caught his ankle, dragging him into the trees, leaving only a bloodstain.

"Ahhhh!"

"Don't kill me!"

The screams of horses and humans mingled chaotically.

In just two minutes.

The ground was littered with Baron Vira's "brothers", dead or unconscious.

Baron Vira hid behind a pile of saddles, trembling and muttering to himself, "Nobility... I am nobility... You cannot kill nobility..."

A scar-faced Snow Swearer walked over, dragging a large sword, mocking, "Hehehe! It's the nobility we want to kill!"

Another Snow Swearer chimed in, "This bastard... just kill him, for Barnes' sake!"

"Wait." A voice, as cold as snow, said.

It was the leader of the Snow Swearers, wearing a black cloak, bow still in hand, eyes sharper than blades.

She was incredibly beautiful, but with no warmth, like a meticulously carved ice sculpture: "We're not here for revenge; we're here for a sacrifice."

"Can't we just catch a few commoners? Why go to so much trouble?" someone retorted.

"You don't understand." The leader's gaze swept over them, "Only the blood of the damned can awaken the Ancient God."

She approached Baron Vira.

He was so scared he wet himself, a puddle of yellow water between his legs, stuttering, "Don't kill me... I have money... I have land... I can..."

"Let's make a deal." Her voice suddenly softened, yet it sent chills down the spine even more.

"Find us five iron-blooded nobles, and I'll let you go."

Baron Vira, as if receiving a pardon, kowtowed while scrambling, "That's easy! I know! I know where lots of nobles are! I'll take you there!"

His face was full of obsequiousness and the greed to survive, like a dog seeing a bone.

The Snow Swearers laughed again.

But this time, they looked more like they were watching a pig awaiting slaughter.

......

The battle at Snow Eagle City swept through the entire upper echelon of Snow Peak County.

Almost all of Snow Peak County's old nobility perished.

And the few who were lucky enough to survive were mostly executed on Duke Edmund's orders, along with their families.

What was left were just scraps.

Side branches, married-off daughters, and a few heirs whose mouths were barely fully grown were hastily pushed to the position of Patriarch.

They inherited the lands, but most lacked real power.

But soldiers? Defeated.

Grain? Running out.

Power? Ha, a joke.

Some fiefdoms were experiencing famine, with subjects so hungry they were eating iron pots, while others were occupied by refugees, with the city gates manned by them.

There's even talk of some secretly defecting to the Snow Swearers.

Strangely, these new nobles weren't too panicked.

Instead... they seemed a bit excited.

Not being the legitimate heirs and now becoming Lords was no loss.

As long as they held the Northern Territory titles, there was a chance to rise again.

A single war turnabout could transform dogs into wolves.

Yet there was one thing they just couldn't swallow.

The order for Snow Peak County's new Prefect had arrived.

The new Prefect was named Louis Calvin.

He indeed had merits, which everyone acknowledged.

But a Prefect? A young Baron from the South? Ruling all of Snow Peak County?

This meant that all these newly appointed Patriarchs would be under the control of this Southerner.

And become his vassals?

What a joke, they'd been taught since childhood that these Southerners were all sneaky and cowardly wimps.

But no one dared to speak their mind.

Because at the bottom of the appointment letter was a heavy Fire Lacquer Seal.

That was Duke Edmund's authority seal.

Everyone understood the implication: even if you were displeased in your heart, you had to smile as if you were congratulating your own father on becoming the Prefect.

So before officially visiting the "New Prefect", the new nobility of the Northern Territory secretly gathered to discuss how to face this new Prefect.

The one who convened this secret meeting was Viscount Fos.

He was the nephew of the late Count Fos, and although the Governor stripped away the Count title, the Viscount title naturally fell to him.

And from bloodline to seniority, to former prestige, he remained the most significant among this group of "new nobility."

Even though the Forrester Clan was now severely weakened, other nobles still showed him some respect and fear.

After all, many of them had benefited from the Forrester Clan, some even being vassals of it.

Viscount Fos, draped in a dark gray cloak, sat in the main seat, his expression solemn.

"The numbers are about right." He surveyed them, his tone low, "Except for Baron Vira, no one else came yet?"

"He said he would come with us before setting off, but then vanished, probably held up on the way."

"Ha, maybe he's off enjoying himself somewhere." Someone sneered, a tone of disdain.

"He got really lucky," another young noble squinted, "Originally not even qualified to be in the family registry, now he's a legit Baron... luck can be so enviable sometimes."

The crowd laughed, but the laughter quickly turned cold.

No one continued the conversation.

The atmosphere of this little gathering was awkward and somewhat oppressive.

They all knew the real purpose of this meeting.

Before officially visiting the new Prefect, Louis Calvin, to unify their stance and band together.

"Let's all say something." Viscount Fos finally spoke, his voice hoarse, "The current situation is clear to all of us."

He looked at them, his gaze icy, "If we don't unite, we'll just be left to be picked off by the Southerners one by one."

After a moment of silence, the first to speak was a baron with a slightly yellow complexion and thin frame.

"First, how should we deal with this 'Southern Prefect'? Show respect? Or maintain our stance?"

He tapped his fingers on the table from time to time while speaking, his eyes carrying a hint of probing: "We are the true masters of Snow Peak County; we have been for generations."

Another newly appointed Viscount sneered: "But according to the appointment letter, he's the Prefect of the entire Snow Peak County, meaning, theoretically, we're all under his jurisdiction."

With these words, awkwardness filled the room once more.

No one wanted to admit this reality, but that document bearing Duke Edmund's seal was like a thorn, piercing everyone's heart.

At this point, Viscount Fos slowly stood up, surveying them, "Precisely because of this, we need to unite our stance even more."

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