Lord of the Frozen Winter: Starting with Daily Intelligence Reports

In the early autumn afternoon, the sun gently bathed the valley, and the air was filled with the fragrance of ripening green wheat, mixed with a hint of damp earth and the lingering scent of cooking smoke.

In the distance, the mountains still retained some of summer's green, but more areas had turned golden.

Louis and Emily shared a finely decorated carriage, its body reinforced with cold iron, draped in a dark red pattern and the Red Tide emblem, moving steadily along the newly built dirt road.

On either side of the carriage, several squads of Red Tide Knights escorted them, each knight with a standard military sword at their waist, their capes fluttering, their expressions solemn, their steps and hoofbeats in unison—this was a well-trained army of elite iron.

The banners unfurled with the wind, the Red Tide's sun fluttering in the wilderness.

The carriage crossed a gentle slope, and the full view of the valley unfolded before them.

Vast fields of wheat undulated in the sunlight.

The green wheat was already ripe, its heavy heads bowed, swaying with the wind, like surging golden waves.

By the potato fields, a group of workers were wielding hoes, digging up thick tubers, and coarse cloth bags were piled row after row, extending all the way to a nearby wooden granary.

The greenhouse area presented a different scene.

The geothermal greenhouses were neatly arranged, glowing faintly white in the sunlight, like rows of silver waves stretching to the horizon.

Farmworkers pushed out full wheelbarrows from the sheds, loaded with freshly cut wheat and newly harvested vegetable leaves.

The 'swish-swish' sound of sickles cutting through wheat stalks, the 'thump-thump' of threshing, children playing and laughing on the field paths, different sounds mingling together on the road.

The carriage rumbled over the gravel road, but its noise was drowned out by the busy yet orderly sounds of the harvest.

Emily had been leaning by the carriage window, chatting softly with Louis, occasionally trembling with laughter at Louis's imperial capital jokes.

But when the carriage slowly rounded the dirt mound and the entire Wheat Wave Territory valley came into full view, she suddenly stopped.

She looked at the endless green wheat, the golden light shimmering in the sunlight, as if a wind truly blew from beneath the earth, causing the entire field to ripple with surging waves.

She was silent for a moment, a complex light appearing in her eyes, even the corners of her eyes tinged with red.

“The Northland—” she began softly, as if afraid to break the miracle before her, “When has it ever seen such a sight?”

She didn't wait for an answer, just watched quietly, her fingertips tightly gripping the window frame.

She knew Louis would do it, but when this hope presented itself so truly before her, the shock still surged like a tide.

“He did it,” she thought silently, her heart warm, “He really did it.”

Emily turned to look at the man beside her. Louis was leaning back on one side of the carriage, his elbow resting on the window sill, his cloak half-undone, looking much more relaxed than he usually did in the political hall or on the battlefield.

Yet, his expression still showed the familiar steadfastness she knew, that sense of trustworthiness that made people willing to entrust their lives to him, a deep-seated sense of responsibility that couldn't be hidden.

Louis seemed to notice her gaze, tilted his head to look over, and a smile played on his lips.

“Stunned?” he said, with a hint of teasing in his eyes, “This should be enough for you to eat.”

Emily snorted, ignoring him, took a deep breath, and turned her head back, her gaze once again falling out the window.

She hadn't expected there to be so much grain, inch by inch, covering the land of the Northland. The carriage continued to move slowly, entering the main road that ran through the valley.

Seeing the sun banner, the farmers along the road straightened up after hearing the sound of hooves.

“The Lord is here!” someone shouted loudly, his voice filled with unconcealed excitement.

The next moment, the shouts seemed to ignite a wave of enthusiasm along the entire road.

“Lord! Lord!”

Cheers spread like a tide, rippling outwards along the main road into the distance.

They were once people with nowhere to go, refugees fleeing famine, the struggling lower class of the Northland surviving in ice and snow, but now they had land, housing, and a proper job that could support their families.

The fields they had personally created, those vast stretches of heavy wheat waves, made them as proud as if their own children had succeeded.

And the 'Lord' they were cheering for sat in that carriage, his back firm and steady, much like the very foundation of everything they now relied on.

Emily looked at the scene outside the window, gripping Louis's hand, a warmth spreading through her heart.

In the distance, a newly built wooden granary stood tall, next to which was a raised signboard displaying the 'Autumn Harvest List' and mobilization announcements.

The carriage stopped steadily in front of the Wheat Wave Territory Political Hall, which was located in front of the granary.

The new Wheat Wave Territory Political Hall was built on a high ground in the center of the valley, offering an open view of the continuous wheat fields and granaries around it.

The exterior walls of the Political Hall still bore traces of newly laid stones that had not yet fully weathered, their bluish-grey patterns reflecting a faint light in the sun.

The hall was not luxurious, but it was spacious and sturdy.

The long tables, made of raw wood planks from local workshops, were not exquisite but were neatly arranged, piled with cultivation records, land distribution maps, and granary expansion blueprints.

Agricultural Affairs Officer Mick, Supervisor Green, village chiefs, workshop foremen, and knight captains were all seated.

Each person had a sketchpad wrapped in oil paper and a pen in front of them, their expressions tense, as if this was not just a harvest, but a battle. Just then, footsteps were heard at the hall entrance.

A Red Tide Knight pushed the door open first, stood tall and saluted, then stepped back inside.

He said nothing, only scanned the hall.

Everyone immediately stood up, almost in unison shouting, “Lord, you've worked hard!”

Louis looked at them, his gaze sweeping over familiar faces, not putting on airs, just nodding.

“You've all worked hard too,” he said, his tone steady, even with a casual warmth.

After speaking, he walked to the main seat, pulled out the chair and sat down, resting an elbow on the table edge, his tone changing, crisp and decisive: “Let's begin. In spring plowing, we waged war against the frozen soil. Now we must win this harvest war.”

As his voice fell, only the faint scratching of pens on paper remained in the hall.

Louis leaned forward, drawing several lines on the map, his voice as steady as a nail driven into wood: “From today onwards, the three-shift rotation will continue: morning plowing village, noon plowing village, and night plowing village, taking turns in sequence, without interruption for a single day.

Every evening, the progress list will be announced. Any village that falls behind must redeploy its own people to catch up; no excuses. Open-air wheat fields will be harvested first, ensuring completion before the first frost. Greenhouse crops will be maintained for the next planting window.”

He looked up and swept his gaze over several grain-guarding knight captains, saying, “Starting tonight, posts must be set up for patrols along the main road, granaries, and grain transport routes. Knights will rotate night patrols, and the high platform at the valley entrance will prepare torch signals. If anything happens, light a fire to notify.”

He then turned to Green, his voice lower but with more weight: “The harvest will be fully incorporated into the Red Tide's winter storage system. We must get through this winter. All grain flows must be transparent.”

Louis continued, “Each village will post public lists, and grain bags will be coded to ensure that 'every bag of grain can be traced to its destination'.

His tone was calm, yet it cut to the root of the problem like a knife, without any ambiguity.

“The granary reinforcement project will proceed as usual; expansion starts today. The drying kilns must be fired up in advance to prevent rain and snow from ruining the wheat.”

Emily sat beside the main seat, quietly ❖ Nоvеl𝚒ght ❖ (Exclusive on Nоvеl𝚒ght) watching Louis.

This was not the first time she had seen him preside over a political meeting.

But each time she watched, it made her unable to help but re-examine this man.

He wore no armor, no cape, just a simple, neat dark grey long gown with neatly tied cuffs.

Yet, the moment he stepped into the political hall, the previously slightly noisy room fell silent, like a tightly drawn bow.

There was no oppressive aura, no superfluous words, but his very presence was enough to command respect.

He stood there, quietly reviewing wheat field blueprints, granary ledgers, and worker rosters.

Emily looked at his profile, a feeling quietly rising in her heart.

It was not admiration, nor gratitude, but a deep-seated appreciation.

He always managed to take control of the situation at the most critical moments, providing a sense of security.

After Louis finished speaking, everyone in the meeting room stood up and responded, guaranteeing that they would complete their tasks.

Only then did he nod, stand up, and look around at everyone, his voice not loud, but it warmed their hearts: “Go! Let the song of harvest resonate throughout the entire Mai Lang Valley!”

The bell outside the door rang just then, as if in response.

Everyone filed out, some immediately going to allocate manpower, others hurrying back to their villages on horseback.

On the morning of the second day after arriving in Wheat Wave Territory, Louis personally set the 'Sickle Opening Ceremony'.

In such a long and arduous harvest battle, commands and systems alone were far from enough.

Most of the people in Wheat Wave Territory were once exiled famine victims, survivors of ruined villages, or common folk dragged into ruins by old wars.

They needed the Great Sun to give them a spiritual buff.

Sunlight streamed down on the high-ground wheat field in the center of the valley, golden waves rolling endlessly.

By the field paths, hundreds of village representatives had already gathered in a circle, their clothes neat, their eyes filled with excitement and reverence.

Colorful cloth flags were stuck in the fields, fluttering in the wind, like festive decorations specifically prepared for this day.

The elderly Agricultural Affairs Officer held a cold-iron sickle with both hands, walked to the center of the field, and respectfully raised it before Louis.

The blade gleamed silver in the sunlight, cold and sharp, yet without murderous intent.

Louis took the sickle, said nothing more, but quietly rolled up his sleeves and walked to the wheat field.

Everyone held their breath, watching as he twisted his wrist, the cold-iron sickle swung down cleanly, and the first bundle of golden wheat ears fell to the ground.

Immediately, the entire field erupted in thunderous cheers.

“Long live the Lord!”

“Mai Lang will be bountiful!”

Cheers rose and fell, spreading like a tide from the fields to the distant valley.

Louis stood up, his gaze slowly sweeping over everyone, his voice not loud, but clear and powerful: “In spring plowing, we declared war on the frozen soil. Today's harvest is not my victory, but a victory won by your own hands! Let these golden waves tell the entire Northland! Hunger is no longer fate!”

His voice carried far on the wind, spreading across the fertile land with the cloud shadows in the sky.

After the ceremony, the villagers were all in high spirits, as if ignited, returning to their respective villages to eagerly recount the scene of Louis wielding the sickle to cut wheat.

“I'm telling you, with one swing of that blade, the wheat just fell as if it obeyed him!”

“The Lord used a golden sickle to cut the wheat! Clean and decisive, not a single wasted word, standing there like a mountain! No, like a god descended to earth!”

“'Hunger is no longer fate,' you hear that! Who else could say such words?!”

Thus, this sickle-opening ceremony became a legend in the valley within half a day.

One told ten, ten told a hundred, a hundred told a thousand, a thousand told ten thousand—the storytellers kept adding details, and what was originally just an ordinary ceremony became like a miracle, igniting the drive of the entire Wheat Wave Territory.

Everyone thought, if the Lord himself has gone to the fields, how can we not work?

Sickles rose and fell, the 'swish-swish' sound of cutting wheat reverberated through the valley, like the rising and falling of war drums.

Carriages flowed endlessly, carving dirt roads along the field paths, transporting cartloads of wheat bundles to temporary granaries.

Women with scarves on their heads and sleeves tied up bent over to cut wheat in the fields, humming long-forgotten harvest tunes; children tumbled and played among the haystacks, their laughter bright.

The elderly were not idle either, stripping wheat, bundling, and drying it by the threshing ground. Even just sitting by the side helping to watch the fire and hand out water made them feel exceptionally secure.

Over at the geothermal sheds, female workers carefully clipped bunches of greenhouse gourds and vegetables, their sweat glistening in the sunlight.

Young men carried straw baskets and burlap sacks on their shoulders, their steps unceasing, their faces beaming with a joy brighter than the sun.

Louis rode his horse, traversing the valley, inspecting every wheat field, greenhouse, and threshing ground along the way.

For instance, he keenly noticed that the pace on the eastern slope was a bit slow, immediately turned his horse around, and dispatched manpower from a nearby village: “Ten people from Group Two, go support them immediately. That area must be cleared before sunset!”

Then he arrived at the temporary granary, personally turned over several bags of freshly stored green wheat, rubbed them with his fingers to check the dryness, and then squatted down to inspect the ventilation ducts and rat traps.

By the drying furnace, he took off his gloves, personally tested the furnace temperature with his hand, and turned to instruct the craftsman: “The heat is too damp. Burn it for another quarter of an hour. Don't let the green wheat spoil.”

To the grain guard team, he simply said: “Increase night patrols tonight. Not a single grain can be wasted.”

Wherever he went, he offered suggestions, making his presence felt.

As the sun set, the entire Wheat Wave Territory had become a roaring harvest machine.

The sound of sickles cutting wheat, cartwheels rolling on the ground, laughter, and shouts intertwined into an autumn song.

Louis stood on the field path, gazing at the entire valley: wheat fields like waves, crowds like tides, granaries like fortresses, children tumbling on haystacks, the smell of smoke and wheat mingling with sunlight and flying in the wind.

And so, this golden season of early autumn slowly drew to a close with the swing of one sickle after another.

Every inch of the valley was carefully harvested, every bag of grain accurately registered, and every cartload of harvest safely stored.

The previously empty new granary was now packed full, even the ventilation aisles were cleared to stack burlap bags.

Green had to re-allocate the positions of the new granary sheds three times, even setting up rows of grain shelters by the valley entrance.

“We harvested too much,” he muttered, somewhat dazed, yet smiling like a child.

This season's Mai Lang not only filled the warehouses but also filled everyone's hearts with a long-lost sense of security.