As the heavy doors of the hall shut behind Zhao Liang and Zhao Min, a thoughtful silence settled over the room. The patriarch, Zhao Wenhai, remained seated, his eyes lingering on the closed entrance before he finally turned his attention back to the two elders seated beside him.

  "What do you both think of them?" he asked quietly, his voice carrying the weight of a father’s concern hidden beneath the veneer of a leader’s duty.

  Elder Ming, the more reserved of the two, stroked his long, white beard thoughtfully. His eyes, sharp despite his age, reflected a mix of pride and caution. After a moment, he sighed deeply and spoke.

  "Both of them possess the qualities needed to lead this clan," Elder Ming remarked, his voice slow and measured. "Rui, as the eldest, is naturally domineering—firm in his commands and unyielding on the battlefield. His strength lies in his ability to inspire and lead soldiers with unwavering confidence." He paused, his gaze shifting to the door where Zhao Liang had exited. "But Liang… Liang is different. He is gentle, composed, and wise beyond his years. His calmness in the face of uncertainty and his ability to see the broader picture make him equally suited to become the next head of the Zhao clan."

  Zhao Wenhai nodded slowly, his expression unreadable. "That is what I have long believed as well," he admitted. "It is why I assigned them each a leadership role. I want to see how they handle not only the responsibilities but also the unexpected challenges that come with them. This will reveal who among them truly has the heart and mind to lead this family into the future."

  Elder Qian, who had been quietly listening, finally spoke up, his tone laced with concern. "While I understand the importance of this test, Patriarch," he said carefully, "war is a dangerous crucible. We do not know how the northern barbarians will behave this time. The stakes are higher than mere leadership. You risk not only their futures but their lives."

  Zhao Wenhai’s gaze hardened slightly, though there was a flicker of pain in his eyes. "I am aware of the risks, Elder Qian," he replied solemnly. "But the world does not spare the unprepared. If they cannot withstand the trials ahead, they will never be fit to lead this clan. Our family has endured for generations not because we shield our heirs from danger, but because we forge them in the fires of responsibility."

  Elder Ming gave a quiet nod of agreement, though the weight of the decision hung heavy in the room. Elder Qian sighed, realizing that the patriarch’s mind was set, yet his concern lingered.

  "Let us hope the northern winds are kind," Elder Qian murmured, "and that fate does not test them beyond what they can bear."

  The room fell into a contemplative silence once more, each man lost in his thoughts, as the Zhao clan prepared for the trials that lay ahead—both on the battlefield and within their own hearts.

  The Northern Mountains stood tall and imposing, their jagged peaks cloaked in a perpetual shroud of snow and ice. Even during the fleeting reprieve of other seasons, when the cold slightly relented, the region remained an unforgiving expanse of frostbitten terrain. But in the heart of winter, the cold was merciless, biting into the very marrow of one’s bones. Yet, it was here, amidst the relentless snowstorms and frozen winds, that the northern barbarians thrived—a people forged by the harshness of their homeland.

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  Nestled in the vast, snowy blizzard plains, clusters of dwellings broke the monotony of the white landscape. The homes were a mix of rugged, dome-shaped snow huts and sturdy tents fashioned from thick animal hides—primarily the pelts of wolves, bears, and other beasts native to the region. These hides, layered over wooden frames, provided insulation against the unforgiving cold. The snow huts, on the other hand, were expertly crafted from compacted ice and snow, their interiors surprisingly warm, heated by small fires and the shared body warmth of families huddled together.

  The barbarian community bustled with life despite the brutal climate. Men and women, their faces weathered by years of exposure to the elements, moved with purpose, their steps sure on the icy ground. Their physiques were strong and rugged, a testament to a life of constant struggle against both nature and rival clans. Their clothing reflected the need for both warmth and mobility—thick furs draped over broad shoulders, with underlayers of leather and wool. Heavy boots made from animal skins were laced tightly to their legs, and fur-lined hoods framed faces marked by battle scars and tribal tattoos.

  Children, too, bore the markings of a warrior's upbringing. Even at a young age, they wore simplified versions of adult garments—tight-fitting leather to keep in warmth, layered with lighter furs for protection. Small daggers or wooden practice weapons were strapped to their sides, a constant reminder that in this harsh world, one had to be ready to fight from the moment they could walk. They played rough games in the snow, mimicking battle formations or hunting techniques under the watchful eyes of their elders.

  The center of the encampment was marked by a large communal fire, its flames flickering brightly against the backdrop of the endless white. Here, the clan gathered to share meals, exchange stories of hunts and battles, and discuss matters of survival. The air was filled with the scent of roasted meat—game caught from the surrounding forests—and the rhythmic beat of drums, used to communicate over vast distances or to accompany tribal rituals.

  Around the periphery, wolf cavalry units could be seen preparing. These were the pride of the northern barbarians—elite warriors who rode massive, fearsome wolves, creatures nearly as large as horses but far more agile in the snow. The riders wore hardened leather armor reinforced with bones, and their weapons were simple yet brutal: axes, spears, and heavy swords designed to cleave through both man and beast. Their wolves, with thick fur and piercing eyes, snarled restlessly, eager for the hunt or the coming battles.

  At the center of the barbarian settlement stood the chieftain’s tent, built from sturdy animal hides and wooden supports. Despite the persistent snowfall, it remained firm, a simple yet commanding structure. Inside, the tent was modestly furnished—just a few furs for warmth and a large stone table in the middle, where two strong barbarians leaned over a map.

  Across from them stood their chieftain, dressed in plain but authoritative barbarian attire. His expression was calm, his eyes sharp as he studied his men.

  “We will attack the border fortress tonight,” he said firmly, his voice steady and direct.

  He glanced back at the map and continued, “By now, they’ve likely noticed our movements and may have sent reinforcements. But that doesn’t matter. If we take the fortress before they arrive, we’ll have the advantage. We can negotiate terms—or continue pressing the attack.”

  One of the men looked up from the map, his brow furrowed. “Our scouts say the patrols are weak at night. The snow will help cover our approach, but none of that will matter if we can’t get the gates open.”

  The chieftain nodded thoughtfully. “I’ve already considered that. We’ll send in a team skilled in concealment to infiltrate the fortress while we launch a direct assault.”He pointed to different parts of the map, outlining the plan. “We’ll divide our warriors into three groups. The first will engage the enemy and distract them, giving our infiltrators time to slip inside. The Shadow Wolves will handle that.”

  The men exchanged quick, understanding glances at the mention of the Shadow Wolves—the elite warriors known for their stealth and precision.

  “Once the gates are open,” the chieftain continued, “the Frostfang Riders will charge through and secure the entrance. The rest of our foot soldiers will follow, overwhelming the fortress from within.”

  The men nodded, their expressions serious but confident. The plan was clear, and each knew their role.

  The chieftain gave one final look around the tent, his voice firm but calm. “Prepare yourselves. By morning, that fortress will be ours.”