Deep within the Cold Moon Hall, pale blue ice flames flickered like breathing.

Titus sat curled on the silver-bone-studded chair, as still as a rock in the snow.

The heavy cold wolf cloak hung down to the steps, cradling a jug of snow brew in his arms, the wine not yet chilled, the spirit already sinking.

A warrior rushed over the snow, kneeling on one knee, cold sweat not yet dried on his forehead, his voice like a blade piercing the ice: "The Broken Axe Clan... hung our envoy's head over their northern wall."

He paused, his gaze faintly fearful, "On the skull, there was a blood mark from the Red Rock Clan... they say, it's their consensus."

The fire altar suddenly leapt with a cluster of blue flames, spiraling upwards as if trembling with anger.

Titus was silent for a moment, as if he hadn't heard, gently rubbing the jug of snow brew in his arms with his fingertips.

The firelight outlined his profile, cold and stern like carved from stone.

"...What did they say?"

The warrior lowered his head, speaking with difficulty: "They said you are... a rebellious son who murdered his clan, a thief who seized power amidst chaos. They claim even if you usurped the position of the Frostmane Clan, you have no right to wield the power of the Eight Banners."

Everyone in the hall was stunned.

But Titus did not respond for a long time, then slowly exhaled a breath of white mist.

He slowly stood, placing down the jug, and walked to the Frost Vow Tablet.

It was the sacred monument of alliance left by the ancient Cold Moon Tribe, the mottled inscriptions long eroded by wind and snow.

His gaze quietly swept over the carvings that once represented "faithfulness," gripping the sword hilt, he gently drew it.

"Chang—"

The ancient Cold Moon blade unsheathed, its blade sounding like snowstorm, echoing throughout the hall.

The blue flame was pressed low by the Sword Energy, everyone was apprehensive.

He spoke softly, but his voice seemed to reverberate throughout the Northern Territory: "I wanted to give them a dignified future. But they only know brute strength and not dignity."

He turned, his gaze like icy spears sweeping over the seated generals, his tone chilling yet clear: "If so, I will teach them with the blade, what order means."

In an instant, the Frost Lord, calm like a snowy rock, exuded an indescribable pressure.

He slowly plunged the sword's tip into the ice flame: "Transmit my order, assemble the Eight Banners and all military divisions within two days at White Frost Ridge!"

......

On White Frost Ridge, the cold wind like a knife, snow night not yet ended.

Titus stood atop the high altar, draped in a great cold wolf coat, the blue-gray cloak flapped like banners in the fierce wind.

Behind him were Cold Moon warriors standing like a forest, encircled by fire basins, blue flames rising, transforming into a fiery sea intertwined with fierce snow.

This was the night of the Frost and Fire Oath, and the moment of old alliances breaking, new orders arising.

He stepped slowly to the center of the oath altar, raising his sword toward the sky, speaking in Barbarian tongue, his voice like rolling thunder piercing wind, snow, and hearts:

"The Broken Axe Tribe, does not keep alliance! The Red Rock Tribe, does not respect the snow oath!"

"I, Titus Frost Fierce, neither for family vengeance, nor for clan shame, but for the children of this snowfield, no longer wandering, no longer kneeling!"

The sword he held high ignited with a blue radiance in the firelight, like lightning and thunder.

"In the past, the Barbarian Race were dogs under the Empire's feet, were slaves grappling each other! But now, we want territory, we want homeland, we want a Snowfield Nation—where fire can burn, where children can grow!"

He paused, looking toward the invisible southern end of the night, his voice low yet filled with all-consuming hatred:

"The Empire trampled our dignity, stole our ancestral snow bones. Don't beg them for a mouthful of porridge, don't hope for half a granary from them.

The snowfield does not breed cowards, nor should it be led by someone like Harold. His posture groveling only suits carrying the Imperial People's whip."

Before his words fell, from below the oath altar came a roar like mountain and thunder.

"Frostfire will not die!!"

"Long live Titus!!"

Warriors waved spears, axe blades, and bone shields, shouted wildly with bare chests, those who knelt pressed their foreheads into the snow, steaming with heat.

Yet outside the circle of fire, those not kneeling stood firmly like iron pillars in the cold wind.

Some elderly generals who had followed Harold Frostmane in battle for decades had no fervor lit by the blue flames, only suppressed anger and deep sorrow.

"He's mad."

With trembling white beard, Orton gritted his teeth, murmuring full of bile: "That was the alliance seat Harold single-handedly carved out, his bones not yet cold, and he tramples the old vow."

His voice mixed with hatred: "He poisoned the clan lord, killed Harold's three sons, burned the Frostmane Hall, and now wants to cleanse his hands with a few words?"

Beside him, General Heigen clenched his fist, blood apparent in the cracks between armor: "What he's done is not only rebellion, but father-killing usurpation."

Another silent elder suddenly spoke: "…But it can't be stopped."

All were startled.

The elder watched Titus's upright figure like a monument among the flames, his gaze complex, "Broken Axe, Red Rock tore the alliance, with the Empire eyeing fiercely from outside, delay any longer in the snowfield, even bones will have nothing left.

Moreover, there's no one left in the Frostmane Tribe, Titus did a thorough job, even if we want to revolt, we have no legitimate cause now."

He whispered the last line, "We hate him, but the grudge might already be too late."

Among wind and snow, those once hesitant young warriors were already pierced through the heart by Titus's fiery sword-like oath.

He wasn't asking them to die, he was telling them: from now on, the snowfield shall no longer be humble.

The blue flames burned fiercer.

Titus quietly watched it all, a barely noticeable curve at the corner of his mouth.

He knew clearly not all people were loyal to him, but he didn't need them to love him, he only needed them to fear him.

He murmured softly to himself, as if speaking only to himself: "This land, I want it to no longer live kneeling."

The wind swept flakes of snow across his cheeks, as if brushing out a certain memory.

He remembered that winter, Harold half-kneeling in front of the Empire's emissary camp.

The old warrior who had once guided him through valleys, taught him to wield the axe, hunt wolves, and brave the snow, was the most unruly old lion of the Barbarian Race.

That day, he half-knelt just to exchange for dozens of carts of old grain and a few barrels of salt.

The messenger from the Empire wore a silver-patterned ceremonial robe, sitting high above, smiling as if feeding a dog.

He pointed to the fire basin beside Harold and said, "You're still not sincere enough—if you can put your hand inside, I'll believe you are truly submitting."

Titus witnessed with his own eyes, Harold was silent for a moment, then really reached in, without using any Fighting Energy, just to please that lapdog.

He didn't utter a sound, but his eyes kept gazing at the distant mountains.

Later that hand rotted away, never to grow back.

But even more rotten was the laughter of the Imperial People, echoing outside the tent all night.

At that moment, Titus felt no hatred or anger, only profound indifference.

"He is a man who can tear a mountain lion's spine with his bare hands," Titus murmured softly, "yet for a few bags of grain, he's willing to bow thrice."

So he sprinkled the powder into that kettle of medicinal soup and quietly left.

The wind and snow swept through the camp, yet inside the beast pelt tents illuminated by the bonfire, there was light, singing, and the mingling scent of alcohol, as if the Frost Clan finally welcomed a brief respite.

This was a banquet personally set by the old chieftain Harold Frostmane, to celebrate the tribe's successful passage through winter.

The banquet began in an orderly fashion until the third round of medicinal wine was poured.

And when Harold raised his cup, Titus stood at the end of the crowd, his brows and eyes serene like a glacier.

His gaze traversed through the crowd, landing on that rough and aged hand, the hand that had once tightly gripped the War Axe yet ultimately bowed to the Empire.

When Harold tilted his head back to drink, Titus didn't move; he only exhaled slowly.

Tens of eyes hadn't processed what had happened yet when the elderly yet still imposing clan leader suddenly collapsed, the wine vessel in his hand shattered on the rocky ground, letting out a crisp wail.

Some were shocked, some rushed forward to check, some called out the Priest's name.

Titus didn't move, nor did he step forward.

In the firelight, he gently turned his head and glanced at his aunt, the clan mother of the Frost Clan.

She was staring in terror at her husband's corpse, her face ashen.

Titus remembered that moment, then turned and quietly left.

Tonight was just the beginning.

Three days later, the clan mother was poisoned to death in her tent, and before her body turned cold, Titus's trusted men had already seized control of her personal guard.

A week later, his younger brother "accidentally" fell from a horse and died, and his sister "accidentally" drowned in the Musnow Creek...

No one saw Titus make a move, there was no evidence, nor were there witnesses.

But everyone understood that from the moment Harold fell, the Frostmane bloodline of Frost Clan was entirely obliterated.

He took exactly twenty-seven days, cautiously advancing, in the name of "purging the clan's Imperial dogs" and "investigating traitors," decisively eliminating all dissenters.

The elders did not dare to speak, the warriors gradually fell silent, and the young men began chanting his name.

A month later, he stood at the old assembly's main seat, draped in bloodstained wolf pelt, his gaze like a frost blade sweeping over everyone present.

"From this day forth, Frost Fierce is no longer just my war name, but the surname of this clan." His voice wasn't loud, yet it drowned out the wind, "We, the Frost Fierce Clan, will never bow for grain again, nor will we lick the boots of our enemies."

"How did Harold die?" someone asked softly.

He just replied with two words: "The Empire."

Thus, the blame for this coup shifted from his hands to beneath the Empire's iron boot.

Hatred reignited among the Barbarian Race, and the totem flag of the Frost Clan flapped like Fireworks across the Snowfield.

Titus stood on the northern slope, his cloak billowing, behind him were the newly built walls of the Frost Camp and the endlessly forged crude iron weapons.

He looked to the further Southwest, the territory of the Redrock and Broken Axe Clans.

They were once allies, now quarreling fiercely over border disputes.

So the military banner of the Frost Fierce Clan rose once more over the Frozen Tundra, like the howl of a gray wolf, awakening the long-slumbering war bones.

Titus Frost Fierce donned armor and personally led troops, his silver-gray battle armor as if forged from ice rocks, the snow wolf cloak flapping in the wind, like a god of war.

His orders were like Cold Iron cast, bringing order to the fragmented forces of the clan, stitching together shattered banners, forming the new "Frostfire Legion."

His targets were not just the Broken Axe, not just the Redrock, but the entire Northern Territory.

To unite the Barbarian Race and rebuild their glory.

To ensure that these people trapped in the snow would no longer bow for grain or kneel to the Empire.

He wanted the entire Northern Territory to swallow this humiliation and betrayal with him, then spit it back at the Empire, with frost and flame of wrath.

But he was not moved by mere emotion.

Titus was never a reckless person.

He severed old alliances with his own hands, not out of anger, but because he had seen a path farther ahead.

And he was not staking everything on a single chance.

On the night before he poisoned Harold Frostmane, some ancient presence responded to his call.

Since that night, Titus no longer considered defeat.

And even the oldest prophets among the old clans dared not look him in the eye.

He hid within himself a secret trump card that would overturn the entire world.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.