On the fifth day at dusk, the snowstorm had not yet arrived, but a chilling anxiety spread throughout the canyon, as if even the air had lowered its voice.

Deep within the camp, a few wisps of cooking smoke had just risen, and the scouts' low-voiced reports echoed between the rocks.

Visa crouched in front of a map behind a rock, frowning at the updated frontier defense map.

"... The scout positions change slightly every day, hard to find a pattern, but there's definitely a planned adjustment." A scout chewed on dried meat, speaking in a low tone.

"It's the best defense scale I've seen in the Northern Territory." Another veteran frowned.

Visa's gaze grew more solemn; she could sense that this border defense was not merely for protection.

The rhythm and layout resembled a wartime scenario, crafted by a highly professional military core, rather than the usual style of an Empire's territorial lord.

This meant that the owner of this territory was not simple.

Just as she was about to speak, a slight sound of something cutting through the air reached her ears.

"Boom!"

A cloud of ice-blue smoke exploded at the mouth of the canyon, the medicated scent quickly spreading.

Visa had no time to react; her body suddenly went limp.

Suddenly, dozens of Red Tide Knights sprang out from both sides of the mountain path.

They launched their assault silently, their coordination so precise it was almost chilling.

Their tactics were clear, coordination precise; one threw explosives, one managed the field, one captured, like a finely tuned machine.

In just a few heartbeats, more than a dozen scouts were hit and fell into the forest, unconscious.

Visa gritted her teeth, wielding her spear in defense, trying to protect the last few comrades, as agile as a snow fox.

But just as she struck, she heard a soft sound behind her, a subtle, cool scent wafting her way as another magic explosion bullet detonated beside her.

She felt her knees buckle, her strength quickly draining away as if drawn out.

"Gulp..."

Before her, the rocks, forest shadows, battle flames, and shouts blurred in violent tremors, as if the entire world were being torn apart.

Her last thought before she fell was: We've been watched for a long time.

The last image before unconsciousness was the knights neatly charging into the camp, moving like mirror reflections, silently and cooperatively subduing and disarming all surviving scouts.

The cold clink of metal clasps, heavy breathing, and practiced footsteps wove together.

Then came the plunge into cold, dark nothingness.

......

Consciousness returned in a cold, damp air.

Visa opened her eyes to feel not light first, but the chill on her back.

It was the stone wall pressed against her back, rough and hard, with the dampness of underground moisture.

A movement of her wrist immediately led to the sound of chains clinking.

She was bound and fixed to the dungeon wall, her ankles shackled, her movement confined to a few steps.

She struggled to lift her head, realizing she was in an orderly constructed, gray-black stone-walled underground prison cell.

The iron door was heavy, the gap narrow, letting in only a sliver of light.

This was the dungeon of the Red Tide Territory.

Not a crude makeshift cage, but a standardized, long-term detention facility.

She could even smell the lingering stench on the walls, mixed with rust and blood.

Footsteps approached.

Steady, rhythmic, neither fast nor slow, the steps of a long-trained soldier.

The iron door opened.

Four guards in Red Tide Standard armor filed in, followed by a man in a black robe.

The interrogator, expressionless, stood before Visa without wasting words, his tone cold and direct: "Name, clan affiliation, mission objective."

No one answered him, so over the next few hours, the Red Tide Territory began its interrogation in a most imperial manner.

They separated everyone.

Each interrogation room consisted of one chief inquisitor, one recorder, and two guards.

The questions were almost entirely consistent, and any scraps of information revealed were quickly recorded, filed, and cross-referenced.

Even deliberate lies were swiftly uncovered by overlapping information.

Visa was left until the last.

She spent most of the day in the black stone cell before being taken to another relatively bright interrogation room.

She wasn't tortured or humiliated, just escorted into a small black stone interrogation room, sitting on a fixed iron chair, her hands chained to the armrests.

Before her sat a middle-aged man, neatly dressed in black, his face devoid of extra expression.

"Visa," he said without preamble, getting straight to the point, "Your accomplices have admitted their barbarian race bloodline and unauthorized border entry, constituting military espionage suspicion."

Visa's gaze was indifferent, silent.

The man stared at her, continuing: "The feather bone hairpin you wear is only worn by former members of the Cold Moon Clan."

This sentence was like a small knife, slicing open a line in her heart.

Visa remained silent, her jaw clenched tightly.

The interrogator stared at her silently for a long time, expressionlessly closing the record file.

He stood up, walked to the desk: "You won't talk, then listen well."

We will pull out your nails, one by one. We will drill into your leg bones, pour ice water inside, letting you hear the sound of your marrow cracking while conscious.

We will burn your skin, piece by piece. Not to force you to speak, just to see when you'll start to cry.

He leaned closer, his voice extremely light, but each word like an awl: "Then drag you into the snow, strip you naked, throw you into a snow pile not letting you die, freeze for a few hours then bring you back to continue asking."

Then he stared straight into Visa's eyes, but those eyes did not show fear; they met his gaze fiercely.

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