Dead. They were all dead.

Sif's heart hammered against her ribs. She gripped the horse with every ounce of strength she had, the warhorse thundering across the frozen snowfields, its hooves kicking up a white haze of powder.

Behind her, the sounds of slaughter echoed through the night—the snarl of hounds, the screams of warriors.

*Why? How did it come to this?!*

Just days ago, she'd been sitting in a warm tent, listening to her father recount the tribe's glories, her brothers laughing and roughhousing, her mother gently brushing her hair. She'd thought her future would be like her father's—leading their people in conquest across the snowfields.

But that banquet had destroyed everything.

Her father, Harold Frostmane, had collapsed mid-feast, convulsing violently, howling in agony. He'd died before everyone's eyes.

In the days that followed, her mother, her brothers and sisters—one by one, they fell. Executed. Or dead in "accidents" no one could explain. Their heads were mounted on stone pillars. Blood dripped onto the white snow, red and blinding.

Her brother Sigurd's final words still echoed in her skull.

"Sif. Listen to me." He'd seized her shoulders, his voice urgent. "Run south. Never come back."

She'd shaken her head desperately, tears streaming. "No! Brother, I—"

He'd grabbed the back of her neck and forced her to look at him. "Listen! Run south! Don't come back! Never think about revenge!"

Then, without another word, he'd lashed her horse with all his strength and drawn his battle axe, turning to face the pursuers.

*"Hah!"* His roar was low and guttural. His blood boiled. His eyes flared crimson. The totems on his body blazed to life, his muscles swelling like living rock. He became a raging god of war.

A Boiling Blood Berserker: burning his own life to trade for a moment of unstoppable power.

"Come on, you bastards! Let's all go to hell together!" He laughed madly, raising his axe to meet the tide of enemies surging out of the darkness.

Sif's heart felt like it was being torn apart. She wanted to charge back and fight at her brother's side—but the horse was already carrying her south, and there was no stopping it.

…

The chill of winter still clung to the air. The river on the western side of Crimson Tide Territory still ran with the icy breath of the season.

Every spring and autumn, this river welcomed the great fish migrations—schools swimming upstream to spawn in the shallow headwaters, their young later drifting back down to deeper waters.

The native people had known this cycle since ancient times, but their fishing methods had never advanced beyond wooden spears and bamboo traps. They scraped by, but compared to the river's true potential, it was a drop in the bucket.

So, under Louis's orders, a hundred fishermen mobilized to the riverbank for an organized fishery development initiative.

They erected a makeshift dock from timber and stone. Carpenters were called in and led the fishermen in a frantic push to build boats. Working day and night, they produced ten vessels capable of river operations within two weeks, ready for the coming fish tide.

In just a fortnight, the local fishery had undergone a complete transformation.

But no one expected the first large-scale catch to arrive so soon. The catalyst was an important piece of intelligence Louis had received from his system yesterday:

**[1: Tomorrow, the river on Crimson Tide Territory's western side will see a massive influx of fish.]**

The news electrified him. He issued the order immediately: "All fishermen, assemble at the river dock. Prepare for a full-scale catch."

And so, the next day, the riverbank swarmed with activity. One hundred fishermen stood in disciplined ranks, awaiting their lord's command.

From the crude but functional wooden dock, Louis addressed them from above.

"Everyone! Today, Crimson Tide Territory launches its first major fishing operation!

Do you remember what this place looked like a month ago? Barren. Empty. But look at it now—we have boats, we have nets, we have a dock. All of it, built by your efforts.

We are no longer waiting for fate to hand us scraps. We will seize our future with our own hands!

Today, everything is ready. All we have to do is reach out and take it. Let every soul in Crimson Tide Territory know—the days of hunger are over! May we return with full holds!"

The fishermen were ignited. They raised their nets and harpoons and roared in unison: "Full holds!"

But beside Louis, Fisheries Officer Luke couldn't hide the anxiety flickering in his eyes. *Will there really be fish?*

Over the past month, Louis's predictions had been validated time and again. Luke and the others had no choice but to trust him. But this was fishing. Fishing depended on luck. Even the most seasoned fishermen couldn't predict with certainty which day would bring a windfall and which day would leave their nets empty.

He'd been stunned when Louis notified him yesterday. Why was their lord so absolutely certain of a massive haul today?

What if there was nothing?

If the river gave them little today, that stirring speech would become a laughingstock. The fishermen had prepared for half a month, full of hope—only to get nothing. The blow to morale would be bad enough.

But more importantly… would the lord fly into a rage? What would happen to Luke then? Would he be stripped naked and thrown into the river as bait?

Luke stole a glance at Louis. The man was not nervous at all. He stood there with a faint smile, seemingly able to see the river already churning with fish.

*So this is a true lord's presence…* Luke was mesmerized.

"Everything ready?" Louis's voice cut through his spiraling thoughts.

"Ready!" Luke snapped back.

Louis nodded. "Then begin."

Luke drew a deep breath, climbed onto the raised platform, and bellowed the order: "Brothers—execute the plan!"

The fishermen, who had been waiting for this moment, sprang into action. Under Louis's design, today's operation would be divided into three groups to maximize efficiency.

The first group was the main force: ten fishing boats. The fishermen maneuvered with practiced skill, laying seine nets across the middle of the river to form a colossal net barrier.

The second group handled small-scale netting—a smaller crew working the shallows, casting nets to catch fish near the banks. Their motions were fluid, the nets' mesh perfectly sized for juvenile fish.

The third group used traditional tools. Harpoon men waded through the water, probing for schools, striking fast and hard at any fish that tried to flee. Further along the shallows, others quietly set traps—simple but effective devices that snared fish reluctant to approach the nets, further supplementing the total catch.