Lord of the Frozen Winter: Starting with Daily Intelligence Reports

The morning sun pierced through the thin clouds high in the sky, casting a pale halo over the edge of Red Tide Territory.

Geothermal steam quietly rose along the cracks, intertwining in the air, making the entire land seem to be covered in a layer of hazy mist.

More than ten semi-circular wooden frame structures, covered with light stone coating, were arranged in a row of low hills, stretching endlessly.

This was the location of the greenhouse complex, one of the cornerstones of Red Tide's self-rescue system for this winter.

Lord Louis stepped steadily into this bustling greenhouse area.

His personal knights followed him like shadows, while Emily walked beside him, her light armor and cloak gently fluttering in the breeze.

The air was filled with a warm, humid scent of earth, wood, and steam, different from the cold of winter, and not quite warm either, but a smell close to life itself.

The craftsmen building the new greenhouses noticed the Lord's arrival and stopped their hammers, chisels, and hoes, rising to bow in greeting.

The refugees conscripted to participate in the reconstruction also looked back from the furrows and irrigation ditches, not daring to approach, but with complex expressions in their eyes, a mix of gratitude and an indescribable awe.

Most of them were refugees in ragged clothes, fleeing two months ago.

Now, however, they could work here, eat their fill, and possess a piece of land to survive on.

“It’s Lord Louis,” an elderly woman whispered, tugging at the corner of the child's clothes beside her.

The little boy widened his eyes, staring at the black-haired youth, his gaze shining.

Emily felt the surge of gazes from the crowd and turned her head slightly to look at Lord Louis beside her.

His expression was calm, his steps normal, as if he had long been accustomed to the weight of these gazes. He said nothing, only nodded slightly, responding to the respect and anticipation in those eyes.

As they approached the greenhouse complex, a thick stream of steam rose from the gaps.

The air became increasingly humid and warm, as if this were not the icy Northern Region, but the southern parts of the Empire.

“The greenhouse walls are made of thick canvas, animal hides, and compacted earth,” Emily murmured softly, her fingers tracing the mottled animal hide on the surface.

Lord Louis nodded; the outer layer of the greenhouse indeed used the multi-composite structure he had proposed.

It wasn't concerned with aesthetics but was extremely practical, sufficient to withstand Red Tide Territory's fiercest winter winds and snow.

The greenhouse entrance had double windproof doors, separated by thick wool curtains to prevent cold air from directly entering.

Rails and rollers were also laid at the entrance, facilitating the transport of fertilizer and harvested crops, ensuring that even if heavy snow blocked the roads, operations would not be paralyzed.

An elder wearing a coarse cloth cloak and a tool bag at his waist hurried to greet them, traces of mud and steam still on his face. He was, of course, Agricultural Affairs Officer Mick.

“Lord Louis!” His voice carried an irrepressible excitement, and the wrinkles on his face crinkled into a pile from his smile.

“This—this was modified based on the designs you left last year. We call it the ‘red tide second generation greenhouse,’ it’s an upgraded version of last year’s!”

“Good, show me,” Lord Louis smiled, his attitude not stern.

Mick immediately turned to lead the way, his steps quick but somewhat dragging.

As he walked, he eagerly introduced: “This time, we added a double-layer support structure, and also used those—those geothermal pipes you mentioned. It’s not easy to collapse, and it can maintain constant temperature and humidity. The roof is made of newly ground light stone slabs, which can reflect light and are warmer.”

“Slow down,” Lord Louis interrupted him with a smile.

“Yes, yes, apologies, My Lord.”

Lord Louis walked to a side wall of a greenhouse, gently tapped it a few times, then squatted down to touch the lower edge of the wall.

Beneath the layers of thick canvas and animal hides was a compacted mixture of straw and mud, rough but sturdy. His fingertips could feel the solid density and dryness, with no moisture seeping out.

“Hmm... the thickness and density are up to standard,” Lord Louis murmured.

Then they passed through the buffer passage. Upon entering the greenhouse, they were greeted by the rich, damp scent of soil and warm steam.

What met their eyes was a expanse of green.

Faint mist floated in the humid air, and light stone lamps hung high, their soft white light reflecting off the specially coated reflective walls, illuminating the entire greenhouse with a clear brightness.

The soil ridges were neat, the ditches clear. Several women in coarse clothes were weeding and transplanting seedlings, a few teenagers carried wooden buckets to water and irrigate, and the elders sat nearby counting seeds and fertilizer.

All of this, in the Northern Region in winter, was almost a miracle.

Emily stood at the entrance of the greenhouse, a rare hint of astonishment appearing in her eyes.

Inside the greenhouse, the air was warm. Mick carefully wiped the sweat from his forehead, turning to look at Lord Louis with a hint of pride.

“My Lord, do you still remember that time last winter when three greenhouses collapsed?”

“I remember,” Lord Louis said, looking at the arched ceiling, his tone flat.

“Ahem, this time, it’s changed,” Mick said, trying to suppress his excited voice, leading the way and pointing to the arched structure above his head. “Originally, we used a single-arch structure, and then when the wind blew and the snow pressed down—snap, it collapsed.”

Emily also looked up. The arch ceiling was divided into two layers, rough on the outside and soft on the inside, with distinct levels.

“This is the new design, based on your suggestion—and discussed with old craftsman Mike. Now we use a double-arch partitioned framework. The outer layer supports the snow pressure, and the inner layer provides cushioning. Even with heavy wind and snow, it won't collapse.”

As Mick spoke, he held up a thick finger to gesture: “The load-bearing capacity is increased threefold! And it’s ventilated, not stuffy.”

“It is indeed taller than last year,” Lord Louis glanced around. There was enough headroom, unlike the cramped feeling of last year.

Next, Mick led them through a central wooden plank corridor, pointing downwards: “This is our big improvement this year! Originally, each greenhouse drew its own spring water, and the efficiency—it was like burning a castle with matches.”

He patted the thick iron pipe embedded in the ground beside his foot, his eyes full of pride.

“Now it’s good! This is a connected hot corridor. We’ve connected the entire greenhouse complex. Hot water flows through the main pipe, all the way to the end. Plus, there’s a recovery port to divert excess heat to nearby storage rooms and workshops, providing warmth there too. And—”

Emily raised an eyebrow slightly: “You even considered heat recovery? Very professional.”

“It was all Lord Louis’s suggestion! ‘Heat is a scarce resource; not a single bit can be wasted,’ I remember it clearly!” Mick’s smile crinkled the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes.

Then Mick pointed to the pipe opening embedded in the corner not far away, his speech quickening: “Double-layer exhaust valves! No more fear of pipes bursting, really, last year’s incident scared me so much I couldn’t sleep!”

Lord Louis squatted on the ground, skillfully twisting a set of brass adjustment valves. With a gentle turn, a hiss of warm steam emerged, then quickly and steadily stopped.

“Pressure is stable, valve response is quick,” he muttered to himself.

The group continued forward, the sunlight becoming more abundant.

“Then there’s lighting!” Mick pointed to the roof. The material was no longer the heavy canvas of the past, but translucent oilcloth, woven with silver reflective mesh.

Both sides of the walls were also inlaid with large, smooth stone slabs, like natural mirrors, repeatedly reflecting the light emitted by the light stones, making the entire greenhouse so bright there were almost no shadows.

“Now, no matter how cloudy it is, we don’t fear insufficient light. Even if it snows, there’s enough light for the whole day,” Mick said, gesturing for the knights to watch their step.

“This time, we also hung ceramic pots and fabric nets to regulate humidity. The geothermal heat is too strong, and the humidity is also high. If water vapor drips down carelessly and freezes the young seedlings, all our efforts would be in vain.”

He then pointed to the top, “The top has a ‘downhill slide structure,’ you see—when snow falls, it slides off by itself, no need for manual sweeping. It’s convenient and safe.”

Lord Louis nodded silently: “This is what a greenhouse capable of surviving winter should be like.”

“And, and also—” Mick added somewhat eagerly, “Now there are reserved interfaces between the greenhouses, so if we need to expand in the future, we can just connect them directly. The hot pipes can also be connected, no need to open new ground fissures.”

Emily softly: “Like building blocks?”

“Yes, that’s the idea!”

Lord Louis looked into the distance. Dozens of greenhouses were neatly arranged, with connecting corridors reserved. Hot steam intertwined and rose like mist above the roofs, resembling a steaming underground village.

He patted Mick’s shoulder: “Well done.”

“Heheheh—” Mick grinned.

He wiped the mud from his hands and raised a hand to point deeper into the greenhouse: “Listen—My Lord, over here. What we’re planting now is no longer rye and potatoes.”

He quickly led Lord Louis and Emily through a low connecting corridor to a damp, warm greenhouse chamber.

There, on neatly arranged fields, seedlings that had just sprouted were densely spread.

Their leaves had an unusual pale greenish-white color, with slightly purplish tips, emitting a strange cold light under the illumination of the light stones.

A label beside them read: Snowbone Wheat Test Plot.

“This is Snowbone Wheat,” Mick’s voice held an uncontrollable pride. “It was cultivated from the seeds you gave me. After our test planting, we found that it truly is a crop naturally prepared for this kind of winter!”

He squatted down, carefully pinching off a sample stalk of wheat, and handed it to Lord Louis.

Lord Louis naturally knew that he had learned about these seeds from the Daily Intelligence System and had the knights retrieve them to give to Mick for cultivation.

It was said to be an ancient crop, very poor in taste, but highly suitable for cultivation in colder regions and yielding a huge harvest.

“You see, this stuff can mature in just thirty-five days, and it’s very high in calories; one bowl is worth three bowls of rye rice. The taste is indeed rough—and a bit bitter, but it can save lives. It can be eaten after simple processing.”

Emily gently stroked the wheat stalk, murmuring: “Its veins—they’re different from ordinary wheat.”

“Yes, and even the stalks are especially sturdy; they can be used as fodder for livestock. Not a single bit is wasted.”

“This crop—it would be despised by southerners, but now it has become the lifeline of our Northern Region,” Lord Louis said calmly.

Mick paused, then led them to another side.

“And this.”

They arrived in another low greenhouse, where the air was even more humid, and a faint earthy smell wafted, carrying a hint of bitterness.

Large, lumpy tubers peeked out from the partially buried soil, their skins dark brown and rough, their leaves drooping, looking quite unremarkable.

“Bitterfrost Potato,” Mick introduced. “Extremely cold-resistant. It has a natural numbing toxin, not fatal, but the taste will be very bad.”

“High in starch, and crucially, it yields a massive harvest.” He emphasized this point, “Do you understand? When there’s not enough food, this stuff can save lives.”

“Listen, it’s really bitter, and eating too much will numb your tongue, but in a year of disaster—even this is a luxury.”

He shrugged, “What’s a little numbness compared to starving to death?”

Louis slowly said, “The taste and variety of these crops don’t matter.”

His voice was very soft: “As long as we can survive the winter.”

Emily looked at him, an unspeakable respect unknowingly emerging in her eyes.

And Mick seemed to finally have the greatest pressure lifted from his heart, rubbing his hands and chuckling twice, then carefully adding, “We are still trying to improve it—. In the future, we might be able to produce varieties that are not so bitter. But this year—being able to get through it is the priority.”

Louis looked around, and in the steaming light, the displaced people were busy in the fields.

Old men were bending their backs, clearing weeds between the wheat rows one by one, and women were carrying pottery pots, carefully watering.

There were also a few children, their clothes ragged, but they tried hard to imitate the adults’ movements, forcefully inserting small shovels into the soil.

Further away, there were a few people with missing limbs; a one-legged strong man leaned on a wooden crutch, turning the soil while panting heavily.

An old woman held an iron rake with one hand, laboriously loosening the soil for a small patch of seedlings.

Their bodies were incomplete, but in their eyes, a nearly stubborn light burned.

It was the will to live, and even more, a cherish of being able to stay.

If these people were in other noble territories, they would have long been expelled as burdens, left to wander in the snowy wilderness to die.

But in Red Tide Territory, Louis not only didn't drive ❀ Nоvеlігht ❀ (Don’t copy, read here) them away but also left a way for them to live.

As long as they could still move, they had work, and they could receive a portion of flatbread and hot soup.

They understood that this was a grace bestowed by Louis.

What was even more rare was that this grace was not charity, but a way to live with dignity.

Not by begging, not by sympathy, but by their own hands to earn every bite of food.

This way of life made them feel at ease and filled them with a feeling of almost gratitude and reverence for the young Lord.

A little girl of about seven or eight years old squatted by the field ridge, staring at a snow bone wheat seedling that had just broken through the soil. Its stem was like a bone spur in the snow, thin yet tough.

The girl put her hands together, praying softly and devoutly in her heart: “Please, grow up quickly.”

Mick stood beside Louis, his eyes slightly red, his voice low but sincere:

“Lord Louis—if it weren’t for these greenhouses you designed, and the early mobilization of materials, manpower, and blueprints, half of the displaced people would have starved to death this winter.”

He looked towards the distant, misty cluster of greenhouses, where the last hope for this winter was being nurtured under those low, arched roofs.

Louis looked at the people in front of him, his voice as calm as frost: “This is not a miracle.”

He paused, scanning the crowd still laboring in the muddy water.

“This is the result of everyone’s hard work.”

Emily stood beside him, silent for a long time.

She looked at the people busy in the fields, at those weary but unyielding figures from the war, and then at the young Lord who had saved the Northern Territory.

Emily spoke softly, her voice as gentle as if it had melted in the hot mist: “They—will be grateful to you.”

She turned her head slightly, looking at Louis.

The sunlight fell from the mist, Just right shining on his shoulder, and a slight glimmer appeared on his grayish-white cloak.

His expression was calm, his gaze sharp, but the dark circles under his eyes spoke of his exhaustion.

But it was such a young man who, in the despairing mud of countless people, upheld a relatively complete order.

Louis had already stepped forward, his tone returning to its usual crispness: “All greenhouses, continue to expand. The second batch of planting, start as soon as possible—.”

With each command, the accompanying civil officials immediately recorded it, and Mick responded repeatedly, turning to urge people to allocate and arrange.

And as Louis turned to leave, he couldn't help but look back at the cluster of greenhouses.

Rows of greenhouses stood like low hills, quietly nestled in the fields where the morning mist had not yet dispersed.

Like silent warriors, guarding the front line of this cold winter,

“I hope these can yield a little more in winter.” He was silent for a long time, his gaze shifting from the greenhouses to the sky.

Dark clouds were still gathering, and the cold was still intensifying.

Louis and his entourage left the greenhouse area, walking on snow, heading north along the main road.

The wind grew fiercer, the sky slightly dim, and the distant mountains were already capped with thick snow, even the outlines of the forests began to blur.

The shadow of winter was slowly but irreversibly pressing down.

Red Rock Warehouse was close at hand.

It was a giant cluster of warehouses carved into the mountain, with warehouse doors like an iron castle nestled within the rock face, and layers of stone steps and ramps extending inward.

It naturally possessed the advantage of being windproof and snow-resistant.

Upon arrival, they saw two teams working in front of the warehouse.

One was a Calvin Merchant Guild grain transport team from the south; the caravan leader, wearing a heavy cloak, was loudly directing his men.

They were moving boxes of salted beast meat and high-calorie dry rations wrapped in coarse burlap from wooden carts, stacking them neatly by the warehouse's sliding track.

The savory smell of beast meat mixed with the cold wind assailed them, making Emily subconsciously swallow.

And almost at the same moment, another northern grain return team led by Red Tide Knights also arrived from the other side.

They were fully loaded with surplus grain sorted and recovered from abandoned villages and the warehouses of dispossessed nobles.

On the carts were moldy, filtered rye, hard carrots, and even some wild beans stored for too long, which could be made into feed.

The two teams crossed paths in front of the Red Rock Warehouse door; one brought “hope,” and the other recovered “remnants.”

At that moment, Louis stood on the high ground at the warehouse entrance, overlooking this scene, as if watching a fully operating supply artery.

The Red Tide supply line was flowing.

Bradley happened to be there, wearing a thick black cloak, his head bowed, examining a detailed ledger, his expression as usual, rigorous.

“You’ve arrived at a good time, Lord Louis.” He looked up and saw Louis, stepping forward to greet him, his tone as steady as usual, yet unable to hide a hint of relief after a long wait, “This is the consolidated list for the granary; I was just about to send it to you.”

Louis took it, glanced at the slightly thick ledger, then nodded.

Bradley introduced from the side: “Regarding staple foods, we have a rye reserve of ten thousand tons, mostly in Red Rock Warehouse, which is our main grain. Six thousand tons of potatoes are planned as the main food consumption for the first half of winter.

For protein, smoked fish is the most, three thousand tons; due to preservation limitations, it has begun to be prioritized for distribution. Salted meat is one thousand five hundred tons. Five hundred tons of side dishes, including pickled vegetables.

For emergency grain, one thousand tons of snow bone wheat and three thousand tons of bitter frost potatoes are new harvests from trial grains, mainly for emergency use.

There are also two thousand two hundred tons of military hard biscuits and bread transported from the south, and five hundred tons of honey and honey products, prioritized for the wounded and young children. Only two hundred tons of hay and medicinal herbs are left; if the winter plague recurs, it might become tight.”

After speaking, he added in a low voice: “The total amount of grain is maintained at over twenty thousand tons, which can stabilize us in the short term, but if the cold wave extends, the greenhouses will still need to accelerate the second batch of production.”

“Good.” Louis responded faintly, his gaze sweeping over the neatly stacked grain boxes, then looking at the warehouse door slowly closing in the distance, his eyes slightly darkened.

On the surface, he nodded in approval, but in his heart, he was not at ease.

Although the amount of grain was indeed sufficient to maintain operations, facing the nearly ninety thousand people in the entire Red Tide Territory and its affiliated territories combined, these reserves were actually only enough to barely get through the winter, reducing some deaths.

If an unexpected snow disaster, transportation delay, or epidemic outbreak occurred, the situation would immediately become tense.

He knew all this didn't need to be spoken aloud.

Bradley had done his duty, and what could change the situation was not anxiety, but the next steps in allocation and planting strategy.

Just then, a thin-faced porter in coarse cloth, his arm wrapped in coarse burlap strips, saw Louis during unloading.

He suddenly knelt down, his voice excited and trembling: “Lord Louis, thank you—we homeless people, who originally thought we would die this winter, now not only have food to eat, but also work, and—dignity.”

Louis glanced at him, said nothing, just nodded, then gestured for him to get up.

The porter wiped the corners of his eyes, his face full of seriousness and hope.

In addition to the moved porter who knelt in gratitude, many other workers and displaced people also gathered around.

Some bowed their heads in salute, some thanked him with tears, and some just stood in place, looking solemnly at their Lord.

“Thank you, Lord Louis, truly—thank you.”

“We are willing to work twice as hard and won’t complain.”

“As long as we can live and eat a hot meal, we’re not afraid of anything!”

Such voices rose and fell, making the atmosphere extraordinarily fervent and sincere in just a few breaths.

Facing this scene, Louis just smiled, and said softly: “The food is something you earned through your own work, not by anyone’s charity.

Don’t crowd around me; going back to work early is more important than anything.”

The crowd, hearing this, seemed to be ignited like dry tinder, responding in unison, “Yes, Lord!” “Understood, Lord!”

They returned to their work of transporting and counting with full vigor, and even the porter who had originally knelt stood up with red eyes, lifting a heavier load of grain than before.

Emily stood by, watching silently, saying nothing.

This was not an accidental scene, but the true daily life of Red Tide Territory.

Just as Louis was about to lead his team away to the next inspection point, a rapid hoofbeat came from afar.

A Red Tide Knight, covered in wind and snow, rode swiftly to the warehouse entrance, reined in his horse, dismounted, and quickly approached Louis, whispering a few words in his ear.

Louis frowned slightly, then his eyebrows lifted lightly, and a hint of unexpected joy appeared in his eyes.

“People from Magician Forest? They finally arrived?” He murmured to himself, unable to hide a trace of delight in his tone.

Then he turned to everyone and said, “Let’s skip the next point for now; we’re going back to Red Tide Castle.”

Emily looked at him curiously, but didn't ask anything, just nodded silently.

The group then reassembled and, braving the cold wind, turned back in the direction of Red Tide Castle.