Winter Lord: Starting with Daily Intelligence

Chapter 70 Escape

Late the next night, a series of urgent horn calls came from the direction of the southern city.

Then came screams and flames.

Viscount Webster had never gone to sleep; he immediately donned his armor and rushed out of his tent, his face grim.

The area was garrisoned by a small, poorly equipped knightly order of a minor nobleman. He had thought they could hold out for a few days, but he hadn't expected things to go wrong so quickly.

By the time he arrived with his men, the entire section of the city wall had become a slaughterhouse.

Blood flowed down the stone steps, and the remains of armor and severed limbs were mixed together.

The body was hanging upside down on the arrow sack, its eyes still open, its face showing lingering terror.

Not a single one survived.

"Kill!" Webster roared, personally charging forward with his sword.

His battle blade was heavy and fierce; with a single strike, he cleaved several Snow Oath warriors who had surrounded him to the ground, his fighting spirit burning like raging flames.

The knights followed closely behind, fighting desperately, and gradually recaptured the city walls amidst the chaos.

As dawn approached, the embers were still burning, and the air was filled with the smell of burnt food and blood.

Webster leaned against the broken crenellations, his armor splattered with blood, a gash on his forehead from which blood dripped down his chin.

His eyes were fixed on the front, his chest heaving violently.

If it's already this difficult to hold out on the second day, what are we going to do next?
As dawn broke, the news spread throughout the city.

"The entire garrison in the south city has been wiped out."

"The Snowsworn have broken in."

"They say that the minor nobleman deserted during the battle and defected to the enemy long ago..."

Rumors spread, panic gripped the streets, and morale began to waver.

Viscount Webster wasn't allowed to rest for long; that very night, the main force of the Snow Oathmen pressed forward.

Instead of immediately launching an attack on the city, they aimed their catapults at the north gate.

"call out--"

The first black projectile streaked across the sky, trailing thick smoke as it fell.

It exploded with a loud bang.

A cloud of black mist exploded, spreading a putrid stench that enveloped half of the watchtower.

"Ahhh!!"

The soldiers on the city wall covered their mouths and noses and retreated, but some still screamed and fell to the ground.

"Don't touch it! That's a curse bullet!"

The soldiers panicked. The black mist clung to their armor, making a sizzling, corrosive sound, and even caused festering holes to appear on the wooden planks.

Then came the second and the third.

The Snow Oath Warriors seemed to have come prepared, firing dozens of cursed bullets at the North Gate in succession, and thick fog rolled in, enveloping the entire defensive line.

The archer collapsed from poison, the city walls rotted, and even the corpses began to melt.

"Withdraw! Get out of here first!"

"We can't retreat, or the door will be gone!"

Command was chaotic, and morale collapsed.

An elite knight shouted, "Put on a wet cloth! Cover your mouth and nose! Taking one step back will mean certain death!"

Only a few knightly squads from the Old North remained on the city walls.

Clad in tattered armor, their eyes bloodshot, they endured the poisonous fog at its edge, even as the water beneath their feet flowed with toxic fumes, and as their comrades fell one after another.

Viscount Webster also arrived immediately.

He arrived at the city wall, his wounds still not healed.

Standing atop the arrow tower shrouded in poisonous fog, he gritted his teeth and ordered, "Send half of the knights from the east and south walls to reinforce us! The north gate can't hold out any longer!"

Messengers rushed out, one after another heading in all directions.

Less than half an hour later, they returned one by one, their expressions stiff.

"Reporting to the Viscount, the so-and-so family refused to provide support, citing the need to hold their own lines of defense."

"The lord said that the casualties were too heavy and he was unable to mobilize any more troops."

……

Webster stood motionless, staring at the swirling black mist ahead. The wind ruffled his cloak and tousled the blood-stained strands of hair on his forehead.

A brief silence fell over the city wall, with only coughs and groans echoing in the air.

He got it.

These nobles had already been planning their escape route; they had no intention of holding out until the very end.

Just then, a guard stumbled up the city wall, his face covered in blood, his voice trembling:

"Your Excellency, there's been a breach in the West Gate area..."

Webster turned his head sharply: "What?"

"They say someone saw there were no enemies over there and thought they could escape..."

Before he could finish speaking, another messenger came galloping in, practically tumbling off his horse, screaming at the top of his lungs:

"The West Gate is a trap! They let people out to lure deserters, while their own troops lie in ambush outside!"

"Hundreds of people were surrounded as soon as they stepped outside! They were all killed!"

"Those idiots!" Webster roared, his voice hoarse. "Not only did they throw their lives away, but they also caused the entire defensive line to collapse!"

He slammed his fist into the stone wall, and blood trickled down between his fingers.

Half an hour ago, someone reported from the west gate that a gap had appeared in the defense line there.

The pioneering nobles from the south immediately had an idea.

They secretly assembled their own knightly order, bypassed the battle lines, and headed straight for Westgate.

No one tried to stop them.

"If we don't escape now, what are we waiting for?"

"These people from the north don't consider us one of their own. What business is it of ours whether the city falls or not?"

They spoke with absolute certainty.

Preserving our own strength is the most important thing.

Nobles are taught this way from a young age.

So several hundred men set out overnight, their horses' hooves and armor clanging rapidly on the stone slabs, rushing out of the west gate.

The dark wasteland in the distance was silent, seemingly devoid of any enemies.

The moment they rushed over the protective wall and stepped into the cold wasteland, rows of red dots suddenly lit up in the darkness.

Those were the eyes of the Snowsworn, gleaming with the light of a nocturnal beast.

The next second, horns sounded from all sides, the snow exploded, and countless ambushers jumped out of the snow, surrounding and attacking from all directions.

"Enemy attack!"

Before he could finish shouting, the knight at the front was shot through the helmet by a hail of arrows and fell straight off his horse.

A commotion erupted behind them, and the warhorses that tried to turn around were knocked off their feet.

But the Snowsworn didn't give them any chance to react.

They charged into the crowd, their fighting spirit erupting, their swords and axes flashing like the wind, and noble guards fell one after another in the melee.

The leaders were clad in heavy animal armor, their eyes flashing red, and their bodies surrounded by deep blue battle aura, surging like ocean waves.

Each swing of the axe left a trail of afterimages, cleaving the man and his armor in two.

Some of them are wolf riders among the elite Snowsworn.

They rode on giant wolves with snow-white fur and fierce eyes, rampaging across the battlefield, their claws tearing through armor and their fangs crushing throats.

These people had just broken free from the fleeing crowd and hadn't even had a chance to line up before they were torn to pieces.

The blood quickly stained the ground red, and the blood vapor rose into the air, looking like mist.

Some knelt down and begged for mercy, some shouted their surrender, but there was no pity in the eyes of the oath-breakers.

They just kept killing, as if they wanted to wash these people clean with blood and wipe away all the shame.

The warhorse neighed and fell, crushing the men beneath it; spears pierced through the iron armor, drawing blood and bits of flesh.

The shouts quickly grew fainter and fainter, eventually disappearing into the wind and snow.

This breakout attempt turned into a massacre.

Fewer than ten people escaped.

(End of this chapter)