They were dead.
All of them.
Sif's heart pounded so violently it felt as if it might burst from her chest.
She clenched her legs tightly around her horse's flanks, urging it forward with all her strength. The warhorse galloped across the frozen snowfield, its iron hooves striking the ice with thunderous force and kicking up clouds of white frost that scattered into the night air.
Behind her, the sounds of slaughter echoed endlessly.
Steel clashed against steel. Warriors screamed in rage and agony. The savage howls of hunting hounds pierced the darkness, blending with dying cries that were abruptly cut short.
Why?
Why had everything turned out like this?
Just a few days ago, she had been sitting inside a warm tent, wrapped in thick furs. The fire crackled cheerfully as her father spoke proudly of the tribe's long history and glorious conquests. Her brothers laughed nearby, wrestling and boasting about their future feats, while her sisters whispered and giggled among themselves. Her mother had gently combed her hair, fingers warm and familiar, her eyes filled with quiet affection.
Back then, Sif had believed that her future was already written.
She would grow strong like her father. One day, she would lead the Frostmane tribe across the snowfields, carving out even greater glory beneath the cold northern sky.
But everything had been destroyed by that single banquet.
Her father—Harold Frostmane, the proud chieftain of the tribe—had collapsed without warning in the middle of the feast. His body convulsed violently as he clawed at his throat, his face twisting in unbearable pain. Terrified cries filled the tent as he let out hoarse, inhuman roars before dying right there, in front of everyone.
That had only been the beginning.
In the days that followed, her family fell one by one.
Her mother.
Her brothers.
Her sisters.
Some were publicly executed under false charges. Others died in sudden "accidents" that no one dared to question. Their severed heads were mounted on stone pillars at the center of the territory, blood dripping slowly onto the pristine white snow below, staining it a glaring, hateful red.
That crimson color burned itself into Sif's mind.
Even now, as she fled through the night, her brother Siegel's voice echoed painfully in her ears.
"Sif, listen to me."
He had gripped her shoulders with desperate strength, his fingers digging painfully into her fur cloak. His voice was tense and urgent, as if every word might be his last.
"Run south. Never come back."
She had shaken her head wildly, tears streaming down her face.
"No! Brother, I—I can't—"
Before she could finish, Siegel grabbed the back of her neck and forced her to look straight into his eyes. His gaze was fierce, burning with a resolve she had never seen before.
"Listen to me!" he shouted. "Run south! Don't come back! Don't even think about revenge!"
Then he acted without hesitation.
He lashed the horse's flank hard, sending it surging forward, and shoved Sif away. At the same time, he drew his massive battle-axe and turned to face the pursuers who were closing in from the darkness behind them.
"Hmph!"
Siegel let out a low, savage growl as his blood began to boil.
His eyes turned a terrifying crimson, like a rising tide of red. The tribal totem carved into his flesh flared with blinding light, and his muscles swelled grotesquely, bulging like solid stone beneath his skin. In that moment, he no longer looked human—he looked like a berserk god of war.
Blood-Boiling Berserker.
By igniting his own life force, he exchanged his future for a brief moment of overwhelming power.
"Come on, you scumbags!" he roared, laughter wild and unhinged. "Let's go to hell together!"
With his great axe raised high, Siegel charged into the enemies pouring out of the darkness.
Sif's heart felt as if it were being ripped apart.
She screamed his name, trying desperately to turn back, to leap from the horse and fight at his side. But the warhorse, driven by Siegel's final command, carried her relentlessly southward, farther and farther away from him.
She never looked back again.
The lingering chill of winter had not yet fully retreated.
On the western edge of Red Tide Territory, the great river still carried the breath of ice, its dark waters flowing steadily beneath a pale sky. Thin sheets of frost clung to the riverbanks in the early morning, and a cold mist hovered above the surface like ghostly breath.
Every spring and autumn, this river welcomed vast migrating schools of fish.
They swam upstream against the current, driven by instinct to spawn in the shallow shoals along the banks. After the eggs hatched, the young fish would drift back downstream into deeper waters, completing a cycle that had repeated itself for countless generations.
The indigenous people of the region had known this natural law since ancient times.
Unfortunately, their fishing methods remained primitive.
They relied on little more than wooden spears, crude forks, and bamboo baskets. At best, these tools allowed them to catch enough fish to barely survive. Compared to the river's true potential, their harvests were no more than a single drop from an endless sea.
That was why everything had changed under Louis's command.
One hundred fishermen had been assembled and sent to the riverbank to begin organized fishery construction. Under careful planning, they drove wooden stakes into the riverbed and stacked stones together, creating a temporary but sturdy pier.
Carpenters were summoned from the territory, working side by side with the fishermen day and night. Blisters formed and burst, hands grew calloused, and exhaustion weighed heavily on everyone—but no one complained.
Within two weeks, ten fishing boats were completed.
They were simple but functional, capable of operating on the river and supporting large-scale net fishing. Though rough in appearance, they represented hope—hope for full stomachs and a future no longer ruled by hunger.
In just half a month, the fisheries of Red Tide Territory underwent earth-shattering changes.
Yet no one had expected their first true test to arrive so soon.
The reason lay in the intelligence Louis had received the previous day from the Daily Intelligence System.
[1: Tomorrow, the river on the west side of Red Tide Territory will welcome a large number of fish schools.]
The moment he saw the message, Louis felt his heart surge with excitement.
Without hesitation, he issued his orders.
"All fishermen are to assemble at the riverbank pier," he commanded. "Prepare for full-scale fishing."
And so, early the next day, the riverbank buzzed with activity.
One hundred fishermen stood in neat rows on the shore, faces weathered and tense, eyes filled with anticipation as they awaited their lord's command.
At the center of the pier, a crude wooden platform had been erected. Lord Louis stood upon it, hands clasped behind his back, surveying the crowd before him.
"Everyone," he began, his voice clear and steady, carrying easily across the riverbank, "today marks Red Tide Territory's first large-scale fishing operation."
The fishermen straightened instinctively.
"Do you remember how desolate this place was just one month ago?" Louis continued. "Back then, we had nothing—no boats, no nets, no pier. Hunger stalked us like a shadow."
He gestured broadly toward the river.
"But look at what stands here now. Boats. Fishing nets. A pier built by your own hands. These are not gifts from fate. They are the result of your hard work."
His voice grew firmer.
"We will no longer wait for fate to decide whether we live or starve. From today onward, we will seize our future with our own hands."
The fishermen's breathing grew heavy.
"Everything is ready," Louis declared. "All that remains is for us to reach out and take what the river offers. Let everyone in Red Tide Territory know—those days of hunger are over."
He raised his fist.
"May we return with a full load!"
The fishermen erupted as one, raising their nets and harpoons high.
"Return with a full load!"
Their shouts echoed across the river.
Yet amid the excitement, unease flickered in the eyes of Luke, the fishery official standing beside Louis.
Will there really be fish?
Over the past month, Louis's decisions had been proven correct time and time again, leaving Luke with no choice but to trust him. Still, fishing was different.
Fishing depended heavily on luck.
Even the most experienced fishermen could never say for certain when the river would yield a great harvest and when it would give nothing at all.
When Luke had received Louis's notice the day before, he had been shocked.
How could His Lordship be so certain?
What if the fish didn't come?
If today's harvest was poor, that inspiring speech would become a joke. Worse still, the fishermen—who had worked tirelessly for half a month with such high expectations—would be crushed by disappointment.
Luke swallowed nervously.
If morale collapsed, would the lord become enraged?
Would he punish someone to vent his anger?
Luke stole a glance at Louis, only to find the man calm and composed, a faint, confident smile on his lips—as though he had already seen the river boiling with fish.
Is this… the lord's composure? Luke wondered.
Louis turned his head slightly. "Is everything ready?"
"Yes!" Luke answered quickly. "Everything is ready."
Louis nodded. "Then begin."
Luke took a deep breath, stepped forward, and shouted, "Brothers! Proceed according to plan!"
The fishermen, who had been waiting impatiently, sprang into action.
According to Louis's plan, the fishing operation was divided into three groups to maximize efficiency.
The first group was the main force.
Ten fishing boats pushed off from the pier and moved toward the center of the river. The fishermen worked in perfect coordination, casting massive seine nets that spread out beneath the water's surface, forming a colossal barrier across the channel.
The second group focused on shallow-water fishing.
They operated along the riverbanks, skillfully casting nets designed with mesh sizes ideal for catching smaller fish that lingered near the shore.
The third group relied on traditional methods.
They carried fishing spears and traps, probing the water with practiced eyes. When a fish school appeared, spears were hurled with deadly precision. Along the banks, simple but effective traps were set to catch fish that avoided the nets.
All eyes turned toward the flowing river.
Now, everything depended on whether Louis's intelligence was true.
The Bloody Cold Moon hung silently above them, watching.
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