Deposed Crown Prince: After three years of service on the frontier, the entire court knelt and begge

Sion nodded slightly, sat back on his throne, and spoke in a slightly softer tone, but with a deeper meaning: "Gentlemen, the will of the Illuminati cannot be defied, and the future of the Alliance City is closely related to our fate."

Those who follow the will prosper, those who oppose it perish! I urge you all to unite and work together to overcome these difficult times. When the Empire is stable and order is restored, you will all be heroes of the Illuminati's new order, and the Alliance City will not forget your contributions!

A slap followed by a sweet treat. The final promise of "heroic service to the Alliance City" painted a distant and tempting pie in the minds of those fearful nobles.

The ropes of fear and greed, skillfully woven by Sion's use of Atie's intimidation and control over the resources of the Alliance City, were firmly bound to the crumbling power structure of the British Empire.

The meeting ended amidst a subdued chorus of "Yes, sir!"

The ministers filed out, and Lord Vito, unsteady on his feet, was almost helped out by his attendants.

Only when the heavy palace doors closed behind him, separating him from the figure on the throne and the cold iron man beside him, did he dare to take a deep breath; his back was already soaked with cold sweat.

He knew that Zion Capo, whom they had once thought was just a fence-sitter, had completely changed.

Iron Man A-Tie and the support of the Illuminati gave him unprecedented power and ruthlessness.

The world in Britain is truly changing. And he must carefully navigate the treacherous waters under this king, an envoy wielding both the sword and the sweeteners, to find his own way to survive. He too must reconsider his beliefs...

Therefore, they dared not disregard the orders given by Zion Capo.

The cold imperial edict was delivered by weary messengers to two of the most unruly and dangerous places in the British Empire!

The Frostwolf Keep in the North, where the winds are biting cold and sharp all year round, and the Seacliff Territory in the East, where the sea breeze is salty and the cliffs are steep.

Frostwolf Castle in the north of the British Empire.

The biting wind howled mournfully between the towering towers of Frostwolf Keep, whipping up tiny ice crystals that lashed against the thick granite walls, making a rustling sound like countless wolves grinding their teeth.

In the main hall of the castle, a whole piece of cedar wood burned fiercely in the huge stone fireplace. The orange flames dispelled the biting cold, but could not dispel the heavy atmosphere of gloom in the hall.

Lord Horton Wolfgang, Lord of Frostwolf Keep, sat like a true northern wolf on his throne, which was covered with a complete snow bear skin.

He was extremely burly, with muscles that seemed to burst through his thick fur-trimmed iron armor. The crisscrossing scars on his face were medals for countless battles with wild beasts of the ice plains and border raiders. His gray and messy beard was as hard as steel needles.

His thick fingers gripped the parchment edict from the capital, the thin paper a stark contrast to his calloused hands, capable of easily crushing a wolf's throat.

"Hmph!" A muffled, thunderous laugh erupted from his nostrils, causing the frost and snow on the helmets of the standing warriors beside him to fall in a flurry.

He slammed the edict down on the sturdy oak table beside him, the force so great that the heavy table shook. "Disband the private army? Hand over the mines? And I, Horton Wolfgang, am expected to...apologize to that lackey of the Alliance City?"

"That opportunist, that sycophantic scoundrel? Does he even deserve the title?"

He slowly raised his head, his wolf-like green eyes sweeping over all the northern vassals and generals loyal to him in the hall.

These men were all fierce and valiant, their faces etched with the marks of hardship and arrogance, their expressions filled with defiance...

Unlike the civilized areas of the British Empire, Frostwolf Castle in the north has maintained a relatively primitive state!

The main issue is that people generally feel that the north is covered in cold weather year-round and has little value...

Although there are mineral veins, the harsh environment makes mining extremely difficult.

The development cost here is several times, or even more than ten times, higher than the normal development cost in other places.

When effort and reward are mismatched, this is always the last choice when given a choice.

Therefore, this area became a strategic location that military strategists were unwilling to contend for...

That's what the Duke of Houghton Wolfgang said.

His generals chimed in, "Yes, Your Highness, I think Sion Capel has really gone mad! Even that Targaryen girl didn't dare speak to our Duke like that before. The Targaryens were considered legitimate before! The Sion family? Hmph..."

"I've heard that Zion Cabo didn't dare to be arrogant before. But he only managed to sit on that cold chair by licking the boots of the Easterners! What does he think he is? A piece of paper stamped with the seal of the weakling king, and he thinks he can make the wolves of Frostwolf Keep bow down? He thinks he can take away the mines that our ancestors have protected with their blood and wolf fangs for generations?"

"That's right, we northerners will not give in!"

Listening to what everyone was saying, they all chimed in with their own comments.

Houghton Wolfgang stood up abruptly, his tall figure almost blocking out the light from the fireplace and casting a huge, oppressive shadow.

"The wolves in the mountains only recognize the laws of the snowfield! They only recognize fangs and blood!"

He grabbed the edict from the low table and, in front of everyone, tore it in half with a tearing sound, then in half again!

He casually tossed the snow-white fragments into the air, where they were swept away by the cold wind blowing through the room, swirling as they fell to the ground, and even drifting into the flames of the fireplace, instantly turning into blue smoke and ashes.

"The leash of the Alliance City can't hold the Frostwolf by the neck!" Horton Wolf's roar echoed through the hall!

“Tell that Capord who only knows how to plot and scheme in the capital! The gates of the North are always open, but they only welcome enemies who bring swords and courage! Want to take my things? Let him come and take them himself, with his Eastern master, over the corpses of the warriors of Frostwolf Keep!”

He surveyed the crowd, his eyes burning with a savage fighting spirit. "Give the order! All vassals, assemble your warriors! Inspect every inch of the city walls! Let our wolf banners fly higher in the cold wind!"

"We Northerners have never been afraid of the Illuminati! We don't now, and we certainly won't in the future!"

Those present were so moved by Horton Wolfgang's words that they raised their arms and cheered.

"For Frostwolf Castle! For Wolfgang!"

A deafening roar erupted in the hall as warriors pounded their breastplates, drew their swords, and a chilling killing intent instantly filled the air.

Horton Wolfgang grinned, revealing a sinister smile, and growled at his trusted warrior.

"Go! Catch me the oldest, ugliest, lame stray dog! Chop off its tail and dye it... well, with the blood of those gossipy spies you catch on the road! Send it back to my 'envoy'! Tell him this is my only return gift to the royal decree and Capo himself!"

The eyes of those present were filled with fanatical and contemptuous mockery...

On the other side, Sea Cliff Territory - Eagle's Beak Fortress.

Compared to Frostwolf Keep's raw ruggedness and savagery, Eagle's Beak Keep, perched atop a seaside cliff, exudes a sinister and cunning charm.

The castle resembles the head of a giant eagle with its wings folded and its gaze fixed on the sea, its sharp towers piercing the leaden sky.

The damp sea breeze, carrying a strong salty smell, pounded against the solid stone walls.

Inside the castle's warm study, the fireplace burned quietly. Lord Moros, the Marquis of Cape Cliff, master of the Sea Cliffs, was slowly and methodically peeling an apple with a silver knife inlaid with sapphires.

He was thin, wearing a well-tailored dark blue velvet coat, with long, slender fingers and a well-maintained face, exuding a pale and shrewd air that suggested a long immersion in power and scheming.

Those deep-set, grey-blue eyes, like the sea before a storm, appear calm on the surface, but harbor undercurrents and treacherous intentions within.

The messenger from the capital stood bowing on the luxurious carpet, not daring to utter a sound.

The decree from Zion Capo was casually placed on a corner of the desk covered with nautical charts, with an exquisite brass sextant on top of it, as if its importance was less than that of the tool used to measure the nautical route.

Moros peeled off the last intact strip of peel, put the tender, juicy flesh into his mouth, and chewed it slowly.

After a long while, he elegantly wiped his mouth and fingers with a silk handkerchief, and his gaze finally fell on the imperial edict.

He let out a very soft, cold sneer, the sound like a venomous snake slithering across a withered leaf.

"Inspecting territories? Opening ports? By sending 'assistance' from the Alliance City... oh, I mean, Your Excellency Sion Capote?"

Moros's voice carried a deliberately drawn-out, unsettlingly sarcastic tone!

"While the Illuminati's rich president, Victor King, is busy hunting down rebels, our beloved special envoy is already reaching into my pocket to slack off again? How... diligent."