The first snow came like a thief.
One morning, the valley woke to silence. Fields blackened by fire were covered in white sheets, as though the land itself wished to forget the smoke of autumn. Icicles clung to the half-burnt granaries, and the streams slowed to a crawling whisper beneath frozen skin.
The Takeda host had not retreated, but they had drawn their banners back from the valley floor. Instead, Ishida established winter camps along the ridges, their fires burning in a hundred red dots across the snowy dark. It was a standoff: Eugene within his crescent fortress, Ishida circling like a wolf beyond the walls.
Supplies ran thin. Every handful of rice mattered.
Lady Aiko stood beside Eugene in the council chamber, her breath misting in the cold. "If the snow traps us, hunger will slay more than swords. We must prepare for famine."
Hiroshi struck the floor with his spear butt. "Then let us strike before famine strikes us! Ishida thinks to starve us, but wolves grow lean in winter too."
Masanori frowned. "A desperate attack in snow will cost more men than we can spare. The fortress walls are our shield. We cannot squander it."
The arguments circled, tense as the wind outside. Eugene let them speak, then raised his hand. The voices stilled.
"We are not farmers cowering in winter," Eugene said evenly. "We are the forge. Snow is not our enemy. It is our hammer. If Ishida believes hunger will break us, then hunger will break him first."
[System update]:Enemy winter rations: stretched. Takeda relies on extended lines through mountain passes. Weather hazard increases transport attrition.Probability of starvation: higher for enemy if interdiction is applied.Recommendation: target supply convoys under cover of blizzard events.
Eugene's lips curved faintly. "Yes," he whispered. "We'll let the snow fight with us."
The Winter Raids
The Spears became ghosts.
When snowstorms thickened to white veils, Hiroshi led detachments out the western gate. Wrapped in gray cloaks, moving with snowshoes made from bound willow, they slipped across ridges and struck at Takeda supply convoys trudging through mountain passes.
Horses collapsed in drifts; pack carts toppled. Spears struck swiftly—seizing sacks of grain, scattering the rest into the snow. They carried little home, but they denied Ishida much more.
At night, villagers peered down from the walls and saw sparks of fire in the distant camps. It was the sight of Takeda men burning their own dead—frozen stiff before swords even touched them.
The raids became whispers among the people: The Crescent Lord fights even the snow. He bends winter to his will.
Morale steadied. Hunger remained sharp, but the sight of Ishida suffering too gave strength to weary arms.
Ishida's Fury
Far beyond the ridges, Ishida's temper cracked. He stormed through his winter camp, his breath steaming, his generals shrinking from his glare.
"They bleed us like wolves picking bones!" he roared. "Every convoy stolen, every cart overturned. And you—" he jabbed a finger at a supply officer, "—cannot even keep the roads clear?"
The officer bowed low, trembling. "My lord, the snows bury the roads as soon as we clear them. We—"
The whip of Ishida's scabbard silenced him.
"I will not hear excuses!" Ishida thundered. "If Crescent thinks snow will save him, then let us remind him the wolf hunts even in blizzards."
He ordered night patrols doubled, scouts spread wide, and an assault prepared despite the weather. His fury was not strategy—it was desperation.
And desperation, Eugene knew, was the ally of cunning men.
The Feast of Ashes
By midwinter, hunger gnawed within the fortress. Rice bowls shrank; even warriors ate barley gruel thinned with melted snow. Yet Eugene ordered a bold move: a feast.
He gathered his Spears, the villagers, even the wounded, and prepared one great fire in the central square. From hidden stores—small caches none had known existed—he brought rice, dried fish, pickled plums. A meager banquet by summer standards, but in winter famine, it was a miracle.
Children laughed for the first time in weeks. Old men wept at the taste of real food.
Eugene raised a cup of hot sake, his voice cutting across the flames.
"Ishida burns our homes. He scorches our fields. He thinks we are ash. But look around you—do you see ash? No. You see fire. You see life that even snow cannot smother."
The cheer that rose from starving throats was not weak but thunderous. The feast was not about food—it was about defiance.
And Ishida's spies carried news of it back to their master. When he heard that his enemies feasted while his own men gnawed on frozen millet, Ishida's rage deepened into a wound he could not conceal.
A Visitor in the Snow
One evening, when the snow fell soft and silent, a cloaked figure arrived at the fortress gate. His horse was half-dead, his lips blue with cold, but he carried a banner of truce.
He named himself a messenger of the Hojo.
Inside the council chamber, he bowed low before Eugene. "My lord Hojo watches your war with keen eyes. He sees Takeda weakened. He sees Crescent endure. He sends this message: If you survive the winter, perhaps we speak of alliance."
Hiroshi bristled. "They wait like vultures, only to swoop when we bleed."
Eugene silenced him with a look. "Vultures they may be. But vultures follow the living, not the dead. If Hojo extends a hand, it is because we have proven too strong to ignore."
He dismissed the messenger with courtesy, then turned to his council.
"This is the edge of winter. If we endure these final storms, we will rise in spring not as survivors, but as contenders. And Ishida will face not a starving valley, but a kingdom in birth."
The Silent Night
That night, Eugene walked the walls alone. Snow fell like ash, soft on his shoulders. The AI whispered calculations in his mind—percentages, probabilities, lines of attrition. Yet beneath the numbers, Eugene felt the thrum of something deeper: destiny.
He was not merely fighting for survival. He was carving the shape of a new order in blood and frost.
From the ridges came the howl of wolves. Real wolves, not Ishida's banners. Their voices mingled with the wind, a chorus of hunger and defiance.
Eugene looked toward the enemy camps, their fires dim and faltering in the distance. Then he looked down at his fortress, where even in famine, laughter still lingered from the feast.
"Winter is our ally," he murmured. "Let Ishida learn that no fire can smother the crescent moon."
The snow fell thicker, hiding both armies under a white shroud. The war was not paused—it was only waiting.
And Eugene was ready for the thaw.