Louis reached out to take the tray, smiling at her with his eyes: "Isn't it because someone got up early to prepare this for me?"

"Hmph, sweet-talking." She pouted, sitting next to him, and picked up a piece of jam bread, taking a bite and chewing it seriously.

The two ate silently, the atmosphere warm and leisurely for a moment.

"By the way," Louis suddenly spoke midway through the meal, "the Barbarian Race area has started fighting again."

Sif's hand, holding the fork, paused, her expression slightly somber.

"...Mm." She responded softly, lowering her eyes.

Louis looked at her, his expression unmoving, yet he was carefully observing every nuance of her reaction.

Two years ago, she had already told him about her identity, the last princess of the Cold Moon Tribe.

She still hated those enemies who killed her father and destroyed her clan, but even now she hadn't discovered who had made the move or which blade had taken her father's head.

At that time blood flowed like a river, and the truth had long been buried in the chaos of tribal war.

This hatred had no target, no way to exact revenge, it could only be sealed in her heart, like a blade that never left its sheath, silently cut down every day.

"...I know someone among them harmed my father," she said softly, her eyes gazing out at the misty forest beyond the carriage window, "but specifically who, I still do not know."

She paused, her voice dropping a few tones: "No one remembers the name 'Cold Moon' anymore."

Over the years, she had stepped by step assisted Louis in managing Red Tide, from a mere secretary to a de facto ruler. In state affairs, mining, defensive scheduling, she involved herself personally—those hatreds had been layer over layer buried by these trivial matters.

But it wasn't that she forgot, she just tried hard not to think about it.

"If possible..." she bowed her head, feeling a bit shy, yet still spoke frankly, "I just want to stay with you now, give you a son, and earnestly remain by your side..."

Inside the carriage, silence reigned for a moment.

Louis slightly raised an eyebrow, a trace of a sigh and pity glimmered through his gaze.

"This doesn't seem like the you from two years ago who was always gnashing her teeth."

"Do you want me to be that way? Are you a pervert?" She lightly glared at him, softly retorting.

"No." Louis reached out and stroked her hair, smiling gently, "But since they have surfaced again, sooner or later we will still have to face them."

Sif said nothing, just nodded slightly.

......

This scout team numbered no more than a dozen, yet each one was cloaked in heavy fur, their eyes sharp.

Their appearance differed somewhat from typical Barbarians—more silent, more restrained.

Their beast-hide war robes were not adorned with extravagant bone ornaments, rather muted in color, better to blend into the Snow Forest.

At the very front walked a woman.

She was tall, carrying a double-edged spear, a circle of white wolf fur wrapped around her shoulder guard, and a Feather Bone Hairpin tucked by her temple.

It was a traditional ornament from the old Cold Moon Tribe, symbolizing the "undying fire beneath the cold frost."

Her face was sharply defined, her gaze like a blade's edge beneath the ice, though she did not speak, it made the rough men behind her instinctively restrain their flirtation.

Her name was Visa, the temporary leader of this small team.

They were originally from the old Cold Moon Tribe, forced to submit after Frost Fierce's grand conquest of Cold Moon, now reduced to mere remnants within the Frost Fierce Clan, barely able to be listed as official soldiers.

Visa and her team belonged to the loyalist faction of Cold Moon, sent by Titus to scout the Northern Territory, nominally as the vanguard, but in reality, just marginalized pawns.

They knew true trust had been buried with the blood in the snow the day Cold Moon fell.

But if they could establish themselves here with meritorious deeds, perhaps they might regain some initiative.

For themselves, for that shattered old banner long past.

So they journeyed southward.

The first sensation after crossing the border was desolation.

Withered grasslands, dilapidated camps, half-rebuilt villages burned after rebirth, along with the wind-scattered, uncleared white bones along the way.

The Nest catastrophe nearly plunged the entire Northern Empire into Hell.

After all, the Nest had initially established its Desperate Witch plantation base within imperial borders, and the first wave of impact crashed entirely upon Frost Halberd City.

Ironically, the clans outside the Northern Territory were barely rippled due to their distance from the Nest's center.

Thus the current situation became extremely ironic—the wildlands intact, the Northern Empire heavily damaged.

They began murmuring among themselves: if Frost Fierce truly could unify the clans and push southward, the presently broken Northern Territory might indeed be swallowed in one bite.

One scout licked his cracked lips: "When that day comes, we won't have to beg the Empire for winter grain anymore."

Visa stayed silent, but her gaze grew more resolute.

For the clan, this was a turning point, for these marginalized individuals, it might be the only upward path.

They marched on, observing all the way.

The desolate scenery numbed one's senses.

Occasionally they'd see functional nobility territories, but be it personnel or farms, facilities or roads, everything seemed to be struggling on its last breath, gloomy and death-like.

Yet at the end of these wastelands, they finally encountered an unexpected scene.

When the mountain path opened up, a whole cluster of cities appeared before them, even the well-traveled Visa couldn't help but tighten her reins.

Red Tide Territory.

The city walls were well-repaired, towers stood in great numbers, carts and carriages flowed in orderly fashion.

Sunlight reflected faintly off the spires, and orderly plumes of white smoke rose from distant workshops.

Passersby hurried, yet without a trace of panic.

Even the patrolling cavalry wore unified armor, their discipline alarmingly unlike what the Northern Territory should have been.

"How can this be? In the Northern Territory, there's a place like this?" a young scout murmured in disbelief.

"Even Frost Halberd City isn't this good," another quietly added.

Visa said nothing, only stared at the markers outside the city, the sentries, the road layouts, as her expression gradually darkened.

This wasn't an ordinary defense line, it was a meticulously designed, continually expanded, long-maintained war machine.

And evidently, it still operated or even grew stronger.

They exchanged glances. No one spoke.

In the broken Northern Territory, this stable, complete, even bafflingly flourishing domain stood out glaringly.

This wasn't a refuge for survivors, it seemed more like a sign of new order.

"Camp nearby," she eventually spoke, her voice low but unwavering, "let's not alert them for now, we need to take a closer look first."

This was the most prosperous Northern Territory land she'd seen, and also the most dangerous one.

They found a concealed place to camp outside Red Tide Territory amid a canyon.

This was a natural ravine terrain, the canyon long and narrow, surrounded by rugged cliffs, providing windbreaks and cover, as well as ease for night sentry placement.

Visa and her team set up camouflage overnight, reducing smoke, switching sentry duties, doing their utmost not to alert any patrols.

She was meticulously careful, even if an unowned hunting hawk flew over, she would not take her eyes off its path for a moment.

Because she sensed something profoundly wrong here.

In the days following, they deployed in turn, repeatedly infiltrating the outer mountains and approaching the fortification routes, even trying to document the daily changeovers and formations of the guards.

"This couldn't have been built in just a few years," Visa muttered gravely as she gazed at the outlines on the drawing board.

"A few years ago this was wasteland," an old scout beside her whispered, "I remember, that year we sneaked along the southern line and camped overnight here; there was nothing but marsh grass and bones then."

"But now," the young scout lowered his telescope, his voice hoarse, "it's city walls, streets, workshops... it's like this place just dropped from the sky."

The most disturbing wasn't the prosperity, but the discipline.

Red Tide's guards showed no sign of slacking.

Sentries remained post, patrols switched on schedule, each squad cooperated with messenger hawks and light signal flags, everything as precise as if conducted by an imperial central military drill template.

More bizarre, they saw almost no "post-war reconstruction" traces.

No ruins, no fire scarring, no traces of migrating refugees, and hardly any victims of the Nest.

"...Did the Nest not sweep through here?" someone whispered a guess.

Visa said nothing, repeatedly mulling over the questions.

How had they accomplished all this within a few years?

And at dusk on the fifth day, winds and clouds changed dramatically.

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