Dead. All dead.
Sif's heart pounded like a war drum.
She clung tightly to the reins, digging her heels into the flanks of her warhorse. The beast surged forward across the snowy expanse, hooves kicking up fine mist from the frozen ground. Behind her, the chaos of battle still raged—metal clashing, hounds baying, warriors screaming their last.
Why?
Why did it all fall apart so quickly?!
Only days ago, she had been in a warm tent, nestled between laughter and love. Her father had been recounting tales of the tribe's glory, her brothers boisterously sparring, and her mother gently braiding her hair. Sif had believed—naively, perhaps—that her future was set. She would one day become like her father, Harold Frostmane, the fearless chieftain of the northern snows.
That illusion shattered during a single, cursed feast.
Her father had collapsed mid-toast, convulsing violently. His mighty roars turned to choking cries as life drained from him before everyone's eyes.
What followed was a slow, cruel unraveling.
Her mother, siblings, cousins—one by one, they died. Some executed in broad daylight under trumped-up charges, others falling to mysterious "accidents." Their heads were hung like trophies on stone pillars, blood staining the white snow red—a grotesque contrast that haunted her even now.
Sif's mind replayed her last moment with her elder brother, Sigel.
"Sif, listen to me."
He gripped her shoulders with trembling hands, urgency burning in his eyes. "Run south. Never look back."
Tears welled up in her eyes as she shook her head. "No! Brother, I—"
Sigel grabbed the back of her neck, forcing her to meet his gaze. "Listen to me! Run south! Never return. And never—never—think of revenge."
Before she could protest further, he slapped the horse's rear, sending it thundering away.
Then he turned.
He drew his battle-axe, planting his feet firmly into the snow as shadowed figures closed in. With a hoarse, guttural cry, Sigel roared:
"Hah!"
In that moment, the tribal totem etched into his skin ignited with crimson light. His muscles bulged unnaturally, veins glowing like molten steel. His eyes turned red—furious, blood-fueled.
A Bloodboil Berserker.
It was a forbidden transformation, one that burned life itself for a short burst of overwhelming power.
"Come on, you scum! Let's go to hell together!"
With maniacal laughter, Sigel swung his great axe and met the enemy head-on in a blaze of red fury.
Sif's soul screamed.
She wanted to turn, to ride back into the bloodshed, to die beside her brother. But the warhorse obeyed its last command, carrying her away—southward—toward survival.
The chill of winter still lingered in the land of the Red Tide Territory. Though spring had begun, the river to the west still exhaled cold breath with every ripple.
This river held a secret known only to the locals: each year, in the cusp of spring and fall, massive schools of fish would migrate upstream. They came to spawn in the shallows, and once their fry hatched, they returned downstream.
For generations, the indigenous people lived off this cycle. But with crude tools—wooden spears and bamboo baskets—their yield barely sustained them. Their methods were outdated, and what they gathered was only a tiny fraction of the river's bounty.
All that began to change under Lord Louis's leadership.
A hundred fishermen, working under his orders, gathered at the riverbank. There, they began constructing a rudimentary fishery operation. Wooden stakes and stones were used to shape a temporary dock. Carpenters led teams, working through freezing nights, hammering together boats and building what infrastructure they could.
In just two weeks, ten fully functional fishing boats stood ready.
The changes were drastic. From a desolate wasteland, the Red Tide fishery had transformed into a beacon of progress.
But no one expected their first major harvest would come so soon.
Louis had received crucial information the day before via his 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 read it, Louis acted.
"All fishermen," he had ordered, "gather at the riverbank. Prepare to fish with all your might."
Now, on the day of reckoning, the riverbank bustled with anticipation.
A hundred fishermen lined up in orderly rows, tools in hand, facing the gently swaying river. Louis stood atop a makeshift platform on the dock, looking over them with calm confidence.
"Everyone! Today marks the beginning of a new chapter in the Red Tide Territory!"
His voice rang out strong and steady.
"Do you remember what this place looked like just one month ago? Desolate, hopeless. But now—look around you. We have boats. We have nets. We have this dock. This is your doing—your labor!"
His words struck deep.
"No longer shall we wait for fate to feed us. From now on, we shall seize our future with our own hands!"
He raised his fist, eyes gleaming.
"Today, we fish. And we shall return with a full catch!"
The fishermen erupted in a unified cheer:
"Return with a full catch!"
However, not all were entirely convinced.
Standing beside Louis, Luke, the fishery officer, concealed his anxiety behind a stiff smile. Doubt gnawed at him.
Will there really be fish?
Time and again, Louis's predictions had proven accurate, earning the absolute trust of his people. Yet this time felt different. This was fishing—inherently unpredictable. Even seasoned fishermen sometimes came back empty-handed.
The intelligence Louis relied on—how reliable was it for something so random?
What if the river was quiet today?
Would Louis's rousing speech fall flat? Would the morale of the people, painstakingly built over weeks, crumble? Would he, Luke, be blamed?
Would the Lord throw me into the river as bait?
Luke dared a glance at Louis. The man seemed completely unfazed. He stood still, serene, as though he already saw the shimmering silver of fish just beneath the surface.
Is this what true leadership looks like? Luke wondered.
His thoughts were broken by Louis's voice:
"Are we ready?"
"Yes, Lord," Luke replied immediately, standing straight.
"Good," Louis nodded. "Let's begin."
Luke inhaled deeply and stepped forward, raising his voice:
"Everyone, follow the plan—begin operations!"
The fishermen surged into motion.
Following Louis's detailed plan, the entire operation was divided into three groups for maximum efficiency.
The first group: the main fleet—ten fishing boats.
Their task was to cast vast surrounding nets into the central channel, forming a large barrier to trap fish midstream. The boats moved in tight formation, expertly coordinated.
The second group: the shore team.
They worked the shallows near the bank. Though fewer in number, they deployed fine-mesh nets ideal for catching smaller fish close to land. Nets were cast with speed and precision, the rhythm of their work a practiced dance.
The third group: the traditional hunters.
Armed with harpoons, they prowled the water's edge. The moment they spotted a glint beneath the surface, they struck—quick and brutal. Some of them set primitive traps, weaving bamboo cages and building fish fences from logs and stones.
Their purpose wasn't just to catch fish, but to sweep up what slipped past the larger operations.
All teams moved like clockwork, executing their duties with calm determination. The atmosphere along the river was electric—a strange harmony of hope, tension, and silent prayer.
Would the prophecy hold?
Would the Red Tide truly surge today?
Luke stood beside Louis, watching the water.
Minutes ticked by.
Then—ripples. One boat called out.
"Movement! North side—big shadows!"
Fishermen leaned overboard.
Suddenly, fish began leaping from the river in silver arcs.
They came.
Thousands—no, tens of thousands—of fish churned the water, swimming against the current.
Chaos erupted—joyous, triumphant chaos.
Nets strained under the weight. Boats rocked violently as fishermen hauled in wriggling masses. Shouts and laughter mixed with splashes and thuds. The traps snapped shut, the harpoons struck true.
They were everywhere.
Luke stared in awe. "By the gods…"
Louis smiled faintly.
The river had answered.
The Red Tide Territory's first large-scale fishing operation was a resounding success.
And it was only the beginning.