Rise of the Northern Warlord: Starting with Daily Intelligence-Chapter 65: Mission Assignments

Just after Viscount Webster finished explaining the distribution and risks of enemy strongholds.

The atmosphere in the large tent fell into brief silence, with everyone waiting for the next deployment proposal.

Viscount Webster spoke with a serious and grave tone:

"Based on current intelligence, the terrain around the Ice Fang Mine area is relatively gentle. We could consider prioritizing the elimination of this stronghold first, then use it as a starting point to advance and defeat them one by one. This is the most prudent approach."

Several old-school nobles nodded in agreement, clearly approving of this steady, methodical deployment.

But before he could continue in detail, a hoarse voice tinged with drunkenness suddenly interrupted him: "Old man, why are you being so slow?"

Everyone turned to look at the main seat in unison.

Earl Foss was supporting himself with one hand on the chair back, barely keeping himself upright, his face still heavy with intoxication.

He extended his hand, pointing at the three red dots on the sand table: "If we’re going to fight, let’s fight them all at once! These three rat nests... just clear them all simultaneously! We’ve assembled five thousand troops—what are we afraid of?"

The nobles present looked at each other, unsure what to say, falling into momentary silence.

The military advisor behind Foss coughed once and quietly added: "Lord Foss means we could dispatch three separate forces to clear out all three locations simultaneously. If progress goes smoothly, we could end the campaign early."

But this was clearly just finding a way to save face after Foss’s drunken rambling.

Viscount Webster’s brow furrowed: "You make it sound simple. Our forces are already limited—splitting up is tantamount to cutting off our own reinforcements. The Snow Swearers are accustomed to setting ambushes, and each location is dangerous territory. How can we treat this so carelessly?"

This statement completely ignited Earl Foss’s alcoholic fury.

He slammed the table and rose: "Am I the commander or are you? You’re just a vassal—how dare you openly contradict your liege?"

On any normal day, he would never dare speak to Viscount Webster this way.

This viscount had been his father’s right-hand man, an old retainer of the Foss family.

Even though he now held the complete title of earl, with higher rank and legal authority.

When it came to actual prestige and the ability to make decisive policies before these noble officers, it wasn’t himself.

But rather this old man who possessed extraordinary strength.

Foss understood this perfectly well.

Unfortunately, today he was drunk, so this pent-up frustration came spilling out with liquid courage.

Viscount Webster’s face immediately turned iron-gray, as if he’d been slapped publicly.

But he didn’t immediately retort, just stood quietly with his hands clasped behind his back, gripping them tightly to suppress his anger.

Because he was the vassal, and Foss was the liege.

Even if this liege was drunk and spouting nonsense, he couldn’t let him lose complete face in this setting.

The entire war room fell silent, the atmosphere extremely oppressive.

"Since you’re as timid as a mouse, I’ll decide!"

Foss stood up, staggered a few steps to the sand table, and tapped his fingertip heavily on those three red dots: "These three enemy positions—we’ll occupy them all simultaneously."

"We’ll select a few from the Southern Pioneer Army, plus those warlike nobles from the Northern Province. Let them serve as the vanguard. I’ll remain in Snow Eagle City, taking command from headquarters!

This way, with forces advancing on three fronts, we’ll display our military might!"

When he said "taking command from headquarters," his tone actually rose several notes, as if he truly saw himself in the position of a strategist who plans in the tent and wins battles a thousand miles away.

Silence filled the room.

No one spoke, only a few awkward coughs and the soft "crackling" of candles burning beside the sand table.

The nobles weren’t fools either—who couldn’t hear that this was clearly preparing to use them as cannon fodder?

Even the Southern nobles who had initially been nodding in agreement couldn’t help but change their expressions slightly.

Vaerik leaned back in his chair, coldly watching the drunken Foss’s rampage, recalling today’s second piece of intelligence.

He had only one thought—a corpse was speaking.

But this worked out well. He had originally been pondering what excuse to use to strive for a chance to join the expedition.

After all, a young noble suddenly requesting to join battle would be too abrupt and likely to arouse suspicion.

Now it was perfect—Earl Foss’s random troop deployments had instead given him a natural stepping stone.

"Lord Foss, Lord Webster." Vaerik suddenly raised his hand.

"If possible, I hope to lead my accompanying forces to Clear Feather Ridge first to scout the terrain and probe for enemy traces.

Clear Feather Ridge has complex terrain and narrow roads—it’s a standard mountain canyon. In previous campaigns, I’ve participated in combat in similar terrain and have some experience. I also understand how to set up perimeter guards and rapid retreat routes.

If we can confirm the enemy’s location, then decide whether to concentrate forces for advancement, our chances of victory will be more secure."

The large tent suddenly fell quiet.

Many turned to look at him, their gazes astonished.

They clearly hadn’t expected this young noble who was currently in the spotlight to voluntarily request assignment to venture deep behind enemy lines at such a time.

Couldn’t he see this was a suicide mission?!

"Huh?" John sat in the back and instinctively raised his hand: "I’ll go too! Wherever Baron Tudor goes, I’ll go!"

Several nobles behind them drew in soft breaths and whispered among themselves.

"Are these two crazy?"

"A place like Clear Feather Ridge... isn’t that suicide?"

"At this critical moment, daring to volunteer for expedition—can’t they see it’s a trap?"

In this situation, who couldn’t see the danger level of this mission?

This wasn’t vanguard duty—it was expendable material.

But Vaerik had volunteered anyway.

Viscount Webster stared at Vaerik silently, his expression inscrutable.

He was trying to determine: was this young man acting on impulse, or did he have ulterior motives?

Was he trying to flee?

Impossible, unless he was insane.

He could run away but couldn’t escape his obligations, especially with the Governor’s envoy watching.

Desertion meant losing his title and possibly execution.

Or was it youthful ambition?

Had killing Haskell gone to his head? Did he think himself invincible?

Regardless, even if he wanted to die, it would be beneficial.

If they could trade a few hundred men to get Foss to sober up, it would be worth it.

"In that case," Webster’s tone remained as steady as usual, "let Baron Tudor and Baron Harvey lead their forces to Clear Feather Ridge. Remember, reconnaissance is the priority—do not act rashly."

"Yes." Vaerik bowed his head in acknowledgment.

Then Webster casually named several Southern pioneer nobles with shallow backgrounds.

He had them each lead teams to conduct feint reconnaissance at the other two strongholds.

Those named immediately paled, wanting to speak but stopping themselves.

Everyone knew this wasn’t reconnaissance—it was mine-sweeping.

But no one dared disobey orders, and some even secretly resented Vaerik, thinking that if he hadn’t jumped forward, they wouldn’t have been named.

The meeting didn’t continue much longer.

Viscount Webster briefly arranged several logistical supply matters, then announced adjournment.

The nobles rose one by one, their expressions varied but all looking unhappy.

After all, the command authority of the entire Fifth Legion was in the hands of a very unreliable earl.