Rise of the Northern Warlord: Starting with Daily Intelligence-Chapter 57: Midnight Hunters

White Feather Canyon.

Wind howled from above, stirring up fine dust.

On a concealed high ground, John lay prone behind rocks, whispering quietly to Vaerik beside him: "Boss... are you sure Snow Swearers will really pass through here?"

They had set out before dawn today, bringing knights and soldiers, bypassing main roads to enter this terrain-complex canyon.

Then they had been busy all day.

Like laying barbed tripwire traps in narrow passages, burying steel cables and iron hooks among grass and rubble.

They also dug rockfall channels on both high grounds, securing boulders at cliff tops, ready to roll down the valley with just a push.

Vaerik personally checked every position, even arranging three retreat routes.

They wanted ambush, not death battles—preferably with no casualties.

Even if accidents occurred, they had to retreat intact.

But until sunset dyed the cliffs red, the canyon mouth remained empty.

Not even a bird had flown in to defecate.

John was getting restless, lowering his voice to mutter: "Boss, you didn’t receive fake intelligence, did you? If we’ve been deceived..."

"Shut up." Vaerik didn’t turn around, just said two words flatly.

"Oh." John wisely closed his mouth.

Vaerik stared at the pass below, adding: "Almost here."

Vaerik’s confidence wasn’t unfounded.

It came from the Daily Intelligence System update three days ago.

"Approximately thirty Snow Swearer warriors will cross White Feather Canyon’s northern pass in three days, around midnight."

John crouched behind a rock, looking at the empty canyon, idly clicking his tongue in boredom.

"Will they really come?" he muttered. "Maybe the boss got played..."

He secretly glanced at Vaerik standing on high ground not far away—composed expression, not nervous at all.

John was about to complain again when sudden faint hoofbeats came from the forest at the canyon bottom.

"...?"

He jerked his head up, frowning as he listened intently.

Another echo of hoofbeats came clearly—not just one horse, but a whole group!

John immediately perked up, almost jumping: "Holy... holy shit... there really are some?!"

He quickly lay back behind the rock, face full of disbelief: "Boss, you’re prophetic?!"

Vaerik paid no attention, staring directly at the canyon entrance.

At the canyon’s north mouth, a troop passed through silently.

They wore dark-colored leather armor and iron shoulder guards, most of their upper body muscles exposed, carrying various weapons—heavy axes, spears, even worn imperial cavalry lances.

But everyone’s eyes were like fierce beasts.

Silent, alert, full of killing intent.

These were elite warrior units under the Snow Swearers, though roughly equipped.

They weren’t ordinary Snow Swearer vagabond bandits, but well-trained vicious hounds.

Individual strength equivalent to middle-rank formal knights in the Iron Blood Empire’s power system.

The leading warrior reined in his horse, gaze sweeping the canyon terrain ahead, saying quietly: "This place... too quiet."

Another grinned: "What’s to fear? Those waste nobles’ forces just assembled—today we’re giving them a welcoming gift."

Their mission was to cut in from the north entrance and launch surprise attacks on assembling noble reinforcements.

Such swift, ruthless actions were Snow Swearers’ customary tactics.

In their eyes, this task was just another skilled decapitation operation.

They were accustomed to launching surprise attacks at dawn or dusk, trampling invaders’ territories under hooves.

Just then, the lead Snow Swearer warrior suddenly reined in, his horse’s hooves barely touching ground before tensing violently.

Click—the barbed tripwire hidden in the dirt snapped up.

Iron hooks coiled around horse legs like snakes, yanking with force, sending both rider and mount staggering forward.

"Whoa!" Surrounding warhorses whinnied and retreated; some riders even fell from horses, rolling in dust.

Metal barbs embedded in iron armor with harsh scraping sounds, blood seeping from horse legs.

Brief chaos erupted in the canyon—hoofbeats scattered, dust flying.

The Snow Swearers immediately reacted.

They leaped from horseback with swift, decisive movements—landing, rolling, drawing swords, turning, forming ranks in one fluid motion.

No screaming, no panic.

These people’s eyes were cold as beasts, almost instinctively sensing something wrong.

"Trap," the lead warrior said quietly.

From tripwire activation to restored order took mere seconds.

Atmosphere suddenly tensed, original steady marching rhythm severed by invisible blades.

They realized they’d fallen into a trap, though unsure who set it.

In formation center, several warriors drew longbows, quickly aiming at mountain cliffs on both sides, while others guarded the middle road—swords, battle axes, spears interlocked in circular defense.

Blade-clashing-armor sounds rose and fell throughout the group.

Without a single command, everyone silently switched states—as if they’d been traveling civilians one moment, then became hunters the next.

The Snow Swearer warriors’ leader slowly drew his greatsword, saying quietly: "Prepare for enemy contact."

Just then, a short command rang from above the valley: "Attack!"

Before the voice faded, atop the cliffs, stone wheels spun violently, crude slides releasing boulders.

Click—click—

Dull sounds shook the mountain as several boulders roared down from cliff tops with thunderous crashes.

They accelerated down preset slides, faster and faster, carrying terrifying oppressive force that tore through air, smashing toward Snow Swearer warriors at the canyon bottom.

"Watch overhead!" someone roared angrily.

However, as soon as the voice fell, the first boulder had already crashed viciously into the formation!

BOOM!

One warrior failed to react in time, struck by a cart-wheel-sized boulder—heavy armor instantly twisted and deformed as he was thrown out, slamming hard against canyon walls, blood splattering stone surfaces.

"Shit!" Another Snow Swearer warrior rolled desperately into comrades’ defensive circle.

More boulders fell like death’s scythe from above, crashing into formation with destructive roars. Stone fragments scattered, warhorses shrieked, sounds of cracking iron armor mixed in the chaos.

Rolling dust clouds rose as the entire canyon instantly fell into chaos.

"Formation! Hold formation!" the captain shouted harshly, voice penetrating dust and fog.

These Snow Swearer warriors weren’t rabble—even under surprise attack, they maintained discipline.

Several experienced warriors quickly assessed terrain, leading the group to avoid rockfall’s main attack direction, preventing complete collapse.

Though briefly suppressed, their focus intensified.

In the chaotic dust clouds, the captain narrowed his eyes, coldly surveying surroundings.

The ambushers definitely wouldn’t rely solely on rockfall to finish them—the real battle was just beginning.