Lord of the Frozen Winter: Starting with Daily Intelligence Reports

A north wind blew from the Cold Mist River, sweeping past the temporary wooden palisade outside the camp, sending chills down one's spine.

Pal Calvin stood on an ice-covered rocky hill, clad in a silver-trimmed long cloak, his expression grim.

He looked into the distance, at the uncultivated, snow-covered iron mine where a prosperous mining town should have risen.

But reality was far from the plans he had drawn up.

The frozen ground beneath his feet was still as hard as iron, tents had been torn three times by the strong winds, the firewood pile was long gone, and even charcoal had to be rationed at night.

Two days ago, a craftsman froze to death at night due to lack of fuel, a smile on his face as if he had “seen his grandmother”.

Of course, the worst was the hunt a month ago.

That night, the silence of the snowy forest on the southern edge of the camp was shattered by a low roar.

Several warhorses neighed and bolted, and the night sentry only managed to shout, “Something’s here!” before being ripped into a bloody mist.

Pal put on his armor and personally led men to encircle it. He didn't think much of it at the time, only assuming it was a common Snow Tyrant of the North, but as soon as he stepped into the forest, a dark shadow, wreathed in cold mist, swiftly swept over the snowy ridge.

“Quick, form up!” he shouted, but the creature’s speed was faster than the wind.

The snow beneath the trees was torn into deep gouges, and some soldiers were directly flung away by its tail, their bones shattering upon impact with dead trees.

Torches flickered in the strong wind, illuminating half the monster’s face—it was an adult “Rift-Tooth Snow Lizard.”

It shouldn't have appeared in spring, nor should it have appeared in such a densely populated area.

But it did appear, and it was exceptionally cunning.

Pal ordered an encirclement and personally charged forward, delivering a sword strike. Red Battle Qi flared, but only severed one of its side scales. The monster roared and leaped up.

Its tail swept away two warriors, and it leaped into an icy gully in the mountain hollow, vanishing instantly.

Although he had many strong knights under him, the monster’s speed was simply too fast.

The entire pursuit lasted less than a quarter of an hour. By the time everyone relit their torches, bodies lay scattered amidst the bloody snow, and the air was filled with a charred, bloody smell.

Twenty-seven men were killed, three severely wounded, and five warhorses crashed into rock walls during their escape, breaking their necks.

Pal was silent for a time.

He stood by the icy gully, gazing for a long time in the direction the lizard beast had fled, his eyes bloodshot.

“Just a lizard—it could tear my knights apart like this?”

That night, after returning to camp, he didn't go back to his tent. Instead, he sat alone by the brazier until dawn, repeatedly stroking the rift-tooth scale in his hand all night.

He didn't close his eyes until dawn.

Back in reality, Pal gripped the parchment manuscript in his hand. It rustled crisply in the wind, pulling him from his memories.

He frowned, carefully tucking the manuscript back inside his cloak.

It was his letter to Duke Calvin.

Of course, it wasn’t a report of difficulties, but a triumphant dispatch stating that “the Cold Mist Territory has taken shape, requiring only a small amount of supplies to advance the grand scheme.”

“A mere bit of cold wind, can it stop the ambition of Pal Calvin?” He snorted lightly, “It’s just the North, after all.”

A steward, panting, rushed up the hill, his face panicked: “Your Highness! The south side of the camp was attacked by a monster again! We lost three horses and a bag of flour.”

Pal’s eye twitched slightly, then he slowly nodded: “Is that so? That’s—that’s because their sentries were negligent. It’s not a problem.”

“But that monster came up from beneath the icy gully; the camp wall didn’t stop it at all.”

“It’s not a problem,” he interrupted, his voice colder than the wind. “This shows the terrain is complex. I chose this place precisely because it has enough ‘change.’ Change means potential.”

The steward lowered his head with a strange expression and quietly left, leaving Pal alone at the peak of the rocky hill.

He gazed at the rows of crooked tents in the camp, some of which had been overturned by the wind before they were even fully erected, lying like corpses on the ground.

The Cold Mist River, which should have thawed, remained frozen.

Along with it, his dream of a “trade hub” was frozen outside of spring.

“When my second brother sends the supplies—it will be different.” He muttered to himself, as if to confirm, and as if to comfort himself.

But somewhere deep in his heart, the shadow of that person couldn’t help but appear—Louis Calvin.

“Hmph, he just got lucky.” Pal suddenly swung his hand, shaking off the accumulated snow. “And I am the one truly expanding territory in the North.”

He told himself this, over and over again.

But every time the wind and snow struck at night, beasts roared, and tents swayed,

He would huddle in his cloak before the brazier, and that chill in his heart, named “reality,” would always quietly creep in.

Perhaps the North is a little more difficult than I imagined.

“No, it’s not my problem.” He repeated in a low voice.

In early spring, residual snow still clung as thin frost deep in the pine forest, but the sun was already shining into the central plaza of Willis’s fief.

Unlike Pal’s frozen land, which was “full of ambition but barren,” Willis’s territory was completely different.

It was a neatly compacted piece of land, surrounded by newly erected fences and semi-subterranean houses with grey wooden tiles on their eaves, from which cooking smoke gently rose.

“Morning, Lord!” A sturdy craftsman carrying firewood wiped his forehead and grinned at Willis.

“Mm, keep up the good work, and don’t forget to check the water barrels at the border outpost again in the evening,” Willis nodded, his tone gentle.

Who would have thought that just a month and a half ago, he was standing in the snow, bewildered, not knowing where to start digging the “frozen ground”?

He had brought family officials and craftsmen, as well as some supplies.

But if he had relied only on those, he would probably be at a loss now, still debating the thickness of wooden beams, or arguing about “where to nail the tent.”

But now, not only was the main house foundation laid,

It adopted the semi-subterranean collective structure common in the Red Tide Territory, with sunken foundations, mud-packed walls, and earth-covered roofs, making it warm in winter, cool in summer, and extremely energy-efficient.

The communal dining hall and outpost were also built, and even by the small “plaza,” a few dwarf pine saplings brought from the Red Tide Territory were planted.

Children would chase each other beneath them, their laughter particularly clear in the early morning, still touched by ice and snow.

Willis knew better than anyone that all these changes were due to the aid sent by his younger brother, Louis.

Twenty craftsmen, almost every one capable of working independently; three permanent medical personnel, solving the problems of the elderly and infirm among the entourage;

Ten logistics officials, managing everything more orderly than the family mansion itself;

The young scribe sent by the Red Tide Territory was like half a teacher, explaining the “Red Tide Establishment Handbook” page by page to him,

From civilian regulations and food distribution to patrol schedules, every item was taught hand-in-hand until he understood.

He kept all this help in his heart.

As night deepened, the camp fell silent.

Inside the main house, the brazier was warm, casting a soft glow on an unsealed letter on the desk.

Willis sat at the wooden table, personally built by a Red Tide craftsman, his pen tip paused on the paper for a moment before finally descending again.

He had originally thought this letter was to be sent to his father.

In his draft, he had carefully chosen many beautiful words: how the terrain was uniquely blessed, how the planning was orderly, how the people were initially settled and carefree.

But when he actually put pen to paper, he found that what he most wanted to write was another letter entirely.

It was for his younger brother, that familiar stranger.

“What was this aid for?” Willis had repeatedly asked himself.

But now, sitting in the warm house, listening to the laughter of children outside the camp, he suddenly understood that the question simply didn’t matter.

Regardless of the motive, Louis had indeed given him the strength to survive.

That was not charity.

It was skill, judgment, coordination, the magnanimity and spirit that a true noble should possess.

“A truly respectable noble.”

This is how he described Louis in his letter to his father.

The letter to his brother was more personal. He didn’t use many °• N 𝑜 v 𝑒 l i g h t •° fancy words, only seriously wrote at the end:

“Your kindness, I cannot repay for now. But please believe that one day I will repay it. Whether it is in my personal capacity or in the name of my territory.”

Willis gently blew the ink dry, sealed the envelope, and placed it in the supply cart that would depart for the Red Tide Territory the next day.

That night, in the main castle of the Red Tide Territory, Louis sat at his desk, flipping through a thick military preparedness atlas, a stack of newly delivered official documents piled beside him.

The charcoal in the brazier crackled, making his profile appear even more resolute.

“This one is from Lord Willis.” Sif handed him a letter. Louis nodded slightly, his expression unchanged as he took the letter, though his fingertips paused for a moment.

He picked up a small knife nearby and slit open the seal.

It was a very short letter, not discussing family or achievements, but only one thing:

Gratitude.

He read it slowly, weighing each word, as if searching for Willis’s emotions when he wrote those words between the lines.

It wasn’t written elegantly, even with a touch of a young noble’s stiffness, but the subtle sincerity within it could not escape him.

“Indeed—” he murmured, “I was not mistaken.”

Louis’s gaze fell on the last sentence, “One day I will repay it.”

A faint smile spread across his brows and eyes.

It wasn’t relief, nor joy, but the calm satisfaction of a chess player seeing a crucial piece fall into place.

Willis Kaerwen should be a good lord, and a grateful person.

That was enough.

To him, this letter was far more than just emotional affirmation; it was a validation of the results of a three-pronged strategy:

First, politically, Willis’s rapid stabilization represented the first successful export of the “pro-Red Tide faction.”

In the future, if a county governor’s meeting were held, he would not be alone in advocating within Snowpeak County, but would have an ally with actual “governance achievements.” Second, militarily, Willis’s territory was located on the northern outer edge of Snowpeak, beside a river valley pass, making it a natural defensive node.

Now that the camp had taken shape, it was equivalent to quietly driving a “wedge” into the buffer zone between the North and the Snowsworn.

If war were to break out again in the North in the future, this place could serve as a supply relay, a Vigilance outpost, or even the first node of a retreat corridor.

Third, institutionally, he subtly exported the Red Tide Territory’s construction model through aid: from subterranean collective housing to the “Simplified Civilian Regulations,” from material coordination to ledger registration.

All aid was, in fact, a complete exercise and pilot replication of the Red Tide governance system.

If the governance model needed to be promoted elsewhere in the future, this would be the best reputation.