Lord of the Frozen Winter: Starting with Daily Intelligence Reports

The heavy snow finally stopped.

Louis stood at the top of Red Tide Castle, looking out at the snow-covered mountains and ruins.

A sliver of early spring sunlight barely pierced through the clouds, illuminating the rooftops and fields that had not collapsed during the harsh winter.

The temperature was slowly rising, subtle cracks appeared on the frozen river, and the steam vents spewed more vigorously than in previous days.

But this did not mean that spring had arrived in the North.

The recent snow had lessened, but the number of displaced people outside Red Tide Territory was increasing.

They appeared in groups, wrapped in tattered blankets, their frostbitten fingers tied with hemp ropes. Some carried the sick, others dragged corpses, and even more were women cradling infants, kneeling by the main road leading to Red Tide. Their eyes were devoid of tears, only numbness and the instinct for survival remained.

“Please—we don’t ask to live, only let our children in—”

“My husband has frozen to death—. If we don’t get into the city soon, even his bones won’t be found—

Louis stood on the city wall, watching them in silence for a while, then turned and ordered:

“Open the East defense zone and establish a temporary shelter for displaced people. However, all incoming displaced people must undergo two rounds of disinfection and isolation, and no corpses are allowed inside.

Anyone whose body is not completely rotten and can still stand on their own will be assigned to labor teams, divided into temporary tent areas by the Post-Disaster Reconstruction Team, organized by family units.

The critically ill will be centrally transported to the makeshift medical camp. Let the doctors there do their best, but do not force it.

Whether they can survive depends on their own will, but at the very least, they will have a bowl of hot porridge here with us.”

Thus, rows of tents were erected on the open ground outside Red Tide City, hastily built with scrap wood, animal hides, and fuel cloth, to provide shelter for the displaced people from the night’s freezing air.

Every morning, convoys would deliver stewed bitter frost potato soup and snow bone wheat buns, distributed per person, one serving each, with clear rules.

It was not warm enough, nor stable enough.

But this was the North.

In other places, they would have long been dead.

In Red Tide Territory, they at least still had the ability to live.

Scout intelligence from the North was even more sobering; several remote small territories had completely disappeared.

Not swallowed by insect plagues, nor ravaged by war, but simply lost contact.

He looked down at the latest statistical report in his hand; Red Tide Territory had only lost 3,261 people this winter.

It seemed like many had died, but this was already the result of Louis’s utmost efforts, the most outstanding report card in the entire North.

And those places that Louis had some contact with in the autumn were now completely silent.

They had miraculously survived the insect ◆ Nоvеlіgһt ◆ (Only on Nоvеlіgһt) plague, escaping the monsters’ blades by relying on mountains or rivers, but they had not made it through this winter.

Perhaps the nobles had abandoned their people and fled, or perhaps they had not had time to escape, nor the chance to call for help.

Louis said nothing, simply picked up his pen and drew a thin line on the map, circling all those silent towns into the gray shadow of dead lands.

Then he turned and said, “No celebrations this year. After all, supplies are tight, and we need to reserve a quarter’s emergency food allocation.”

Bradley nodded, making a note.

“However, we can’t do nothing at all.” He paused, his eyes still clear, “Prepare a distribution ceremony, a simple one in the square. Everyone will receive an additional ‘Spring Ration’. New residents and old residents will be treated equally.”

So, on that morning, the first public smiles of this winter appeared in the square of Red Tide.

Carriages drove into the square one by one, and soldiers neatly stacked bags of food: potatoes, rye, cured meat, smoked fish, and some portions of durable stew packs, steamed and dried after mixing.

This was already the limit of Red Tide Territory’s current food supply.

Standing on the high platform, Louis surveyed the square.

He did not wear formal attire, nor did he give a long speech. He simply said a few brief words: “This is proof that you have endured the winter. May we, together, survive all future winters as well.”

The applause initially started sporadically, like fine snow falling on flagstones, but in an instant, it converged into a tide, roaring across the entire square, like spring thunder echoing in a valley.

The new residents were deeply moved, bowing their heads in gratitude. Many had red eyes and tears streaming down their faces as they received that portion of food symbolizing spring.

For them, who had escaped from the brink of death, this spring ration was not just food; it was the belief to live on.

And the original residents of the city, those who had followed Louis and started from scratch in the ruins two years ago, also had no complaints.

“We were the same before. Every bowl of hot soup and every blanket was brought to us by Lord Louis.”

“You’re new; you don’t understand. Lord Louis even buried our family members who died of illness and arranged for people to keep vigil.”

“The great Lord Louis still wants everyone to have a bite.”

After this ceremony, Red Tide Territory quickly returned to its usual rhythm.

There was no celebration feast, no fireworks, and no ball.

When Louis returned to his study, the night outside was deep, and the cold wind had not completely subsided.

He took off his wind-swept cloak and hung it by the stove, but he did not immediately sit down to rest.

In fact, the pressure was just beginning, not just the spring planning.

According to intelligence, the Sixth Prince, Asta August, who had long been marginalized by the Empire, had already arrived in the North.

And the North’s Post-Disaster Reconstruction Governor’s Conference would also be held within a month.

Time was simply not enough.

He walked to his desk and spread out his notebook, where he recorded intelligence in Chinese characters, along with a map.

These were the resource distributions and power shifts of various territories he had recorded over the years through the Daily Intelligence System.

In the past, his territory was too small, destined to be unqualified to participate in the struggle for these lands.

But now the situation had changed.

Most of the Northern nobles were severely weakened, some lords were completely annihilated, and large areas of land became vacant.

With the governance and survival miracle he had demonstrated during this disaster, Red Tide Territory would surely be rewarded with more.

To be precise, large tracts of wasteland that he needed to fill would be allocated to him.

He took a sip of cold tea, his eyes calm, but a quiet joy was already in his heart.

This was an opportunity to benefit from misfortune.

The map was spread before him, already marked with numerous circles and dots, dense handwriting overlaid with layers of tactical symbols and red and blue markers.

He held a silver pen in his hand, gently tracing along the mountains and river valleys on the map.

First objective: Southeast low-lying valley.

He circled that area with three thick lines.

“It also has some geothermal heat, suitable for greenhouse expansion, suitable for displaced people to settle, and suitable for food storage.”

He wrote three words beside it: Red Tide Granary.

As long as this valley was controlled, plus his greenhouse cultivation methods, and the existing grain from Red Tide Territory.

It would be possible to not only achieve food self-sufficiency within the next two years, but perhaps even export. By then, the entire North would have to rely on our rations to get through winter.

Second objective: Northern abandoned mines.

He marked several deep brown mountain ranges on the North map one by one, the lines winding like the unawakened veins of frozen earth.

That mining belt was scattered among the Northern mountains, with complex terrain and extremely high mining difficulty.

For many years, several generations of nobles had tried to excavate but gave up due to unstable rock layers and unclear resources, ultimately leaving behind mountains of abandoned mine tunnels.

It became a “failed mining area” registered by the Empire.

But Louis was different; he had a cheat—the Daily Intelligence System.

That intelligence told him that the mining belt was not exhausted, but had not truly begun.

Flint marrow oil, veinless stone, and even potentially deep magic marrow mine veins were still hidden beneath that frozen ground.

As long as he reached that territory, stabilized control, and slowly explored, it would sooner or later become Red Tide Territory’s most important resource backing.

The Empire’s magic energy development had always been slow and conservative; the true leaders were those in the Emerald Federation.

He had always wanted to use his memories from his previous life to advance magic energy technology, making it the future of Red Tide’s armaments and infrastructure, a stepping stone for technological leaps.

But in the past, he had no resources; a clever housewife cannot cook without rice.

Now he had them.

Even if Red Tide Territory itself could not fully utilize them in the short term, even just as a magic energy raw material export base, it would be enough to get rich.

Third objective: Frost Roar Fjord.

He marked a hypothetical shipping route on that white and blue coastal line, and also marked several pirate activity points around it.

“Where there’s a port, there’s trade; where there’s trade, there’s wealth.”

He gently tapped that harbor, his eyes sharp: “Even if it’s only open for a few months a year, as long as it can bring in spices, salt, wine, and intelligence from the South, I can change the strategic rhythm for an entire year.”

“As for those pirates,” he smiled faintly, not continuing to write, just gently tapping the edge of the coast.

As time passed, the map was gradually filled with dense annotations, red lines like veins, and the silver pen lay quietly beside the desk.

Louis leaned back in his chair, his fingers gently tapping the tabletop, his eyes clear and calm.

“These lands are not a question of whether they can be taken, but how to take them quickly, stably, and without drawing attention.”

A true hunter never makes a sound before biting its prey to death.

He pondered how to propose suggestions as “reconstruction assistance,” apply for land with the most reasonable excuses, and quietly incorporate key areas into his territory one by one.

By the time others noticed, he would have quietly taken root.

Louis knew he couldn’t be too strong, as that would make people wary, but he also couldn’t be too weak, as weakness would mean no leverage and would invite the envy of other nobles.

So he had to be “just strong enough.”

And at the upcoming Northern Conference, he would disguise this “expansion plan” as selfless dedication to post-disaster reconstruction.

And tonight, he had already secretly outlined the future development of Red Tide Territory and other territories for the next ten years in his mind.

What the red pen outlined was not just boundaries, but also a hidden line leading to true power.

When the snow melted, when the seeds were sown, he would have his own granaries, mines, ports, and troop sources.

He would make everyone believe that he was merely “trying to survive.”

Until one day, they would be startled to realize that the once weak Louis had become a sun capable of illuminating the North.