Rise of the Northern Warlord: Starting with Daily Intelligence

In the merciless howl of the northern wilderness, Vaerik Tudor cinches his wolf skin cloak tighter, a solitary silhouette against the twilight sky atop a glacier-carved precipice. Cast out by his own blood—Duke's son turned exile—his family sacrificed him to these eternal frost lands in pursuit of so-called "pioneering glory." The moment he resigned himself to death's embrace, unexpectedly, a daily intelligence system activated: [Thirty-seven frost-scarred dire wolves stalk the southeastern valley, muscles coiled and fangs bared, preparing to claim your territory under moonlight.] [When dawn breaks, an ancient deity's corpse will breach the frozen lake's surface, its heart still pulsing with primordial winter divinity.] [The Plantagenet Church has branded you a heretic, and their Holy Flame Knights already thunder northward, steel and righteousness burning equally bright.] [An unstoppable undead tide will devour the continent, leaving mankind's survival hanging by the most delicate thread—one survivor for every million souls.] ... While southern nobles drown in their petty power games, Vaerik's iron cavalry has already shattered the barbarian hordes beneath hooves and steel. Frost dragons shriek dominance above his impenetrable cold-forged bulwark. Winter is coming, and this storm will eventually engulf the entire continent. When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives. The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword.