Fifty li away from Blackwood Fortress, a massive human military camp squatted on the plains like a coiled steel beast, practically radiating the scent of blood and cold iron.
Isabelle von Adler was not playing around this time. Aside from her three thousand elite Night Kite Knights and a five-thousand-strong mob of slave-hunters, she had mobilized a five-thousand-man regular infantry regiment.
The luxury-addicted, silk-tented diva from their last encounter was gone. This field headquarters was pure, unadulterated military minimalism. We're talking temporarily erected sniper towers at the corners, deep trenches, and row after row of sharp spikes boxing the camp into a makeshift fortress. Soldiers in standard leather armor paced the perimeter with the uniform, robotic precision of a highly disciplined army.
At the dead center of this rugged setup was a massive command tent made of heavy canvas. And unlike the mud outside, the interior was kept in a state of absolute, obsessive neatness.
Isabelle hadn't even bothered to take off her armor.
The custom black Night Kite plate—handcrafted by a dwarven master—featured elegant lines resembling toxic flowers blooming in the dark, hugging her petite but terrifyingly explosive physique. Her silver hair was tied back with a utilitarian black ribbon, making her porcelain face look even sharper, colder, and deadlier under the flickering candlelight.
She looked less like a noble lady and more like a finely honed, unsheathed rapier humming with a faint blue aura.
Standing behind her like twelve steel statues were her core knights, clad in heavy, oppressive Gothic plate armor. These guys were the apex predators under the Grand Duke of Ice Peak. Their sheer, mountain-like presence in the enclosed space made the air feel as thick as soup. You could barely hear them breathe.
In front of a long table mapping out the terrain, a scout captain was currently on his knees, staring intently at the Countess's black combat boots. Cold sweat was dripping down his face, but he was actively flexing his neck muscles to keep it from hitting the floor. He knew his boss had an absolute phobia of dirt, and ruining her premium carpet would probably end worse for him than losing a battle.
"...So, let me get this straight," Isabelle's voice cut through the silence, soft as a lover's whisper and completely unbothered.
She extended a long, bare index finger to trace a red ink smudge on the map.
"Twenty of my well-equipped light cavalry were hunting *one* guy."
"And you managed to let him waddle back to his... little mouse nest entirely unharmed, carrying our exact coordinates?"
Every word fell like a thousand-pound boulder onto the scout's chest. He started shaking like a leaf.
"C-Countess... it was my incompetence!" the knight choked out, his throat tight with pure terror. "But that Sinner's mount... it was freakishly fast! Unbelievably fast! And it knew the woods better than our warhorses. It didn't even slow down for the trees..."
"Enough."
Isabelle didn't even look up from the map. Explanations from losers were just boring background noise to her.
"Go report to the disciplinary officer. Twenty lashes."
"And if there's a next time, don't bother coming back at all."
Twenty lashes with a military whip was enough to leave a grown man bedridden and crying for a month. Yet, hearing this, the scout's eyes lit up with sheer, euphoric relief. He'd kept his head.
"Yes! Thank you, Countess, for your immense mercy!" he bellowed, before practically scrambling out of the tent on all fours to escape the suffocating atmosphere.
The oppressive silence returned, broken only by the crackle of giant tallow candles.
"Harmon," Isabelle tapped the table.
One of the twelve "statues" stepped forward. His heavy metal boots made a dull, controlled thud on the carpet. He slammed a fist against his breastplate. "My Lord."
"At dawn, take three hundred light cavalry and 'babysit' the three thousand slave-hunters. Advance thirty li toward Blackwood Forest in a fan formation," Isabelle ordered smoothly. "Map out the terrain, check the water supplies, and look for any valuable mineral veins or big settlements. If you run into minor resistance, deal with it. Don't bore me with the details."
"Understood!" Harmon barked. He bowed and melted back into the line of steel statues.
Isabelle's eyes drifted back to the map.
The little black arrow representing Colin's scouts had finally stopped moving, dead-center inside a bright red circle she had drawn. Next to it, in elegant, chilly handwriting, she had written two words: *Mouse Nest.*
She traced her finger around that circle over and over, like a collector admiring a rare antique she was about to steal.
"Any thoughts?" she asked the remaining eleven knights.
The statues remained perfectly still. A blade's job is to cut, not to have an opinion.
However, after a long, awkward silence, the biggest knight in the room—a walking iron tower named Roland—took half a step forward. The other knights subtly glanced his way behind their visors.
"Countess," Roland's voice rumbled through his closed helmet like grinding gears.
Isabelle offered a tiny, surprised sideways glance. Roland rarely spoke unless it involved hitting something.
"The joint order from the Grand Duke and the King states we are here to secure the northern mineral reserves, build up our strength, and wait for orders from the Capital," Roland said, choosing his words carefully. "If the Grand Duke needs us on the front lines against the Rebels, and we get bogged down playing hide-and-seek with a minor tribe of Sinners in an uncharted forest... it might mess up your long-term plans."
He paused, then added a sharper truth: "Furthermore... if the young lords back in the Capital realize you're derailing a national military operation for a personal vendetta, they will absolutely use it to screw you over during the next land partition."
The air in the tent dropped to near-freezing. The other knights didn't move, but their breathing hitched. This wasn't just advice; it was a straight-up reality check.
Isabelle listened quietly. Then, she giggled.
It was a pretty, melodic sound, but it dripped with so much pure condescension and spite that the room felt even colder.
"Oh, Roland. My sweet, loyal knight. You always think so... 'thoroughly,'" she sighed, her silver hair shimmering.
"But you don't need to worry about my *dear* brothers at all."
"They're currently too busy sucking up to the crown prince in the capital. They're thrilled I'm out here in this frozen wasteland. They probably hope I stay here forever so I stop hurting their feelings. As for the front lines?"
A nasty, cynical sneer crossed her face.
"With my brothers' fragile egos and the backing of those old fossils on the council... do you really think they'd let me get another chance to farm military clout and drown them out?"
Roland went quiet. He knew she was right. The toxic infighting among the Grand Duke's kids was the worst-kept secret in high society. Isabelle was the only one who had forcibly dragged a "Countess" title out of her father through raw body count and military genius. To her brothers, she was a terrifying tumor that needed to be isolated.
"And as for the 'land partition'..."
Isabelle tapped the red circle over Blackwood Fortress with a playful, hungry glint in her ice-blue eyes.
"If I can lock down a 'Sinner's nest' that has a fully functional industrial forge, manufactures military-grade weaponry out of nowhere, and breeds giant war-wolves the royal family hasn't even dreamed of? If I control the tech, the blacksmiths, and those fascinating little species?"
She looked up at Roland like he was a toddler trying to explain math.
"Do you really think a few plots of frozen, barren dirt in the North are worth more than an independent, self-sustaining, private military industrial complex?"
Roland was completely shut down.
For the first time, he saw the terrifying, grand-scale ambition hidden behind her seemingly unhinged behavior. She knew her path to the top through normal channels was blocked by her family. So, she was going full rogue—building her own empire in the one garbage wasteland her brothers ignored.
And Colin's shiny new fortress was the shiny golden goose she wanted to cage.
*Though,* Roland thought, *she's getting awfully personally invested in this Colin guy. Is she underestimating him?*
He quickly killed that thought. He had seen the Countess fight. Her martial prowess was entirely freakish, moving well into the realm of supernatural horror. To her, this wasn't a desperate campaign. It was just a highly engaging video game.
"I... see," Roland bowed and stepped back into line. He'd done his job as her chief guardian. The consequences were on her.
Isabelle went back to her map, her silhouette stretching against the canvas wall like a sleek, hunting phantom.
"The game's just getting good... my cute little wolf-dog," she whispered to herself.
She ran her gloved finger down the dotted line representing her march from the pass toward Blackwood Fortress, her touch almost gentle.
But the twisted, eager smile on her face told a completely different story. It was the look of someone who already knew the punchline—someone who could already picture a tiny, laughable cavalry unit blindly sprinting straight into her trap.
"Show me what you've got," she purred. "Amuse me before I break you."