Lord of the Frozen Winter: Starting with Daily Intelligence Reports

Outside the warehouses of Wheat Wave Territory, workers shouted as they carried sacks of wheat into the warehouse doors.

Footsteps, the creak of ropes, and the dull thud of cloth bags hitting wooden racks echoed through the valley, mixed with laughter and shouts.

On the drying ground in front of the warehouses, golden piles of wheat resembled small mountains, reflecting a warm glow under the sun.

The valley was dyed golden, the valley floor resembling a giant bowl slowly being filled, and as the autumn wind swept through, it carried wafts of wheat fragrance.

Louis stood at the top of the slope, squinting at the scene, unable to conceal his joy. Then he said to Green beside him, “Green, call all the representatives. We’ll hold our autumn harvest summary meeting right here.”

A short while later, Mick, Green, and representatives from various village communities, workshops, and patrol cavalry teams arrived successively, forming a semicircle as was customary.

A canvas was spread on the ground in front of the wheat stacks, wooden stakes driven into the earth, and stone slabs weighing down the corners, serving as a makeshift conference table.

Green stood at the front, his face still un-wiped of sweat, yet he straightened his clothes and stood tall.

He looked at the undulating mountains of grain, took a deep breath, and raised his voice, saying, “Reporting to Lord Louis, and to all representatives, as of today, Wheat Wave Territory’s autumn harvest is eighty percent complete. I will now report the preliminary statistics.”

Then he unfolded the parchment ledger in his hand, his voice filled with unconcealed pride: “A total of one hundred fifteen thousand tons of grain have been harvested.”

He then pointed to each line on the ledger: “Fifty-one thousand tons of green wheat, which is our staple food and the largest proportion. It mainly comes from the southern slope plains and the fields outside the sheds.

Nineteen thousand tons of rice, from the middle layers of the warm sheds and the terraced fields at the foot of the mountains. Nine thousand tons of miscellaneous beans, all produced in dry land and next to the sheds.”

He turned a page and continued: “Twenty-three thousand tons of root crops, mainly cold potatoes, white root turnips, and sweet potatoes.

A total of eleven thousand tons of dried vegetables and oilseeds, of which over seven thousand are oilseeds and over three thousand are dried vegetables. These are mainly produced inside the sheds and on warm hills, enough for oil pressing and pickling for winter.

Finally, five thousand tons of fodder and miscellaneous crops, prepared for livestock winter feeding and spring plowing.”

Green closed the ledger, his tone slowing, but each word resonated like a stone hitting the ground:

“It is estimated that the total edible grain will reach ninety-five thousand tons. This is enough to feed the one hundred thousand people of Red Tide for an entire year. And there are tens of thousands of tons of surplus grain, which have been allocated for military storage or emergency reserves.

Currently, approximately thirty-three thousand tons of grain have entered the public granaries, accounting for forty-five percent of the required submission. Two of the five major granaries have already been sealed.

Drying ovens, ventilation walls, and other facilities have also been inspected several times without any issues. As long as the snow doesn’t come too early, all the grain will definitely be harvested,

bringing this autumn harvest to a successful conclusion.”

Finally, Green looked around at everyone present: “This is the first truly comprehensive harvest across the entire Wheat Wave Territory since its establishment!”

When his words fell, the crowd was first silent, as if the entire valley was holding its breath.

The wind lifted a corner of a wheat stalk, rustling the heavy ledger in Green’s hand.

The village community representatives gazed at that page, at the dry yet scorching numbers.

They had been mentally prepared, and more or less estimated the harvest in their hearts.

But at this moment, with the numbers presented in such a precise, stark form before their eyes, it was like a hammer, continuously and solidly striking their chests.

This silence lasted for a few seconds.

An old village chief’s Adam’s apple bobbed, and he finally couldn’t help but murmur softly, “...Is there really that much?”

His voice was like the first needle breaking the stillness, immediately followed by a nearly uncontrollable surge of emotion that exploded among the crowd.

“Food for one hundred thousand households for a year,” someone murmured, as if repeating it in a dream.

“We really did it!”

“This is the grain we grew!”

“Heaven bless us, long live Lord Louis!”

“These warehouses are about to burst! Hahaha!”

Laughter and shouts intertwined. Some even excitedly wiped their faces, as if wiping away tears or sweat.

The village community representatives patted each other’s shoulders. Several old village chiefs simply squatted down, holding their heads and laughing heartily: “Lived most of my life, first time seeing so much grain!”

Someone shouted towards the valley: “Mai Lang will surely prosper!”

Others immediately followed: “Long live Lord Louis! Mai Lang will surely prosper!”

The sound rose in waves, echoing across the golden fields, attracting the attention of the working farmers, who also looked over.

Louis, standing at the head of the table, said nothing, merely watched these people slowly, a slight smile playing on his lips.

This was to maintain the dignity of a lord, but he was also extremely excited internally.

Let alone in this barren, cold North, even throughout the entire Empire, no territory could produce such mountains of grain piled to the top of the valley in a single year.

This was a complete turnaround.

It was the result of an entire system, an entire way of thinking, forcefully implemented.

It wasn’t good luck, nor was it a divinely blessed harvest year.

It was a battle Louis had fought step by step, timing every hour and meticulously monitoring every rhythm, from the day the first hoe broke ground in spring.

No one in the North had ever done something like this, let alone succeeded, but he did it, and he succeeded.

The villagers also clearly understood that everything was brought by Louis; from the day he stepped onto this land, he pushed it forward little by little.

He established rules and regulations, organized land ownership, integrated labor allocation, turning scattered and chaotic vagrants into a true production team.

He brought a nearly insane pragmatism.

For example, building canals to divert water, promoting high-yield crops, replacing old wooden rakes with more efficient iron roller plows, and even segmenting sowing and irrigation times by the hour, as precise as military deployment.

Spring plowing, irrigation, farm tool reform, three-shift rotation, frost-proof harvesting—every step was like laying tracks for this harvest.

Farmers who previously relied solely on the heavens for food now worked in large-scale agricultural fields, behind them an entire expanse of crop blocks arranged according to wind direction and soil temperature.

Even winter was no longer desolate; geothermal pipe networks brought warmth into the sheds. Places where not a single seedling used to grow now yielded two harvests a year of even cabbage and carrots.

They were no longer isolated boats drifting with fate, but truly, with their own hands and wisdom, leveraged the future of the entire land.

Everyone saw all of this clearly; it was all because of a man named Louis, who hung over Mai Lang like the sun.

For these people, his light shone into every field ridge, warming this North region eroded by cold winds.

His warmth burned away the hunger of winter nights, allowing people to rediscover the boundaries of life and dignity in the wilderness.

Just as the Mai Lang undulated in the morning light, his presence shaped the rhythm of the harvest. Just as the seedlings thrived under the summer sun, that was the order he brought.

In their hearts, Louis gave not a wheat field, but a ray of hope, making them believe that even in icy, cold earth, golden Mai Lang could bloom.

After more than ten minutes of overwhelming cheers from the crowd, the fervent emotion still lingered in the air, as if it had not fully dissipated,

but the meeting had to continue.

Louis cleared his throat lightly twice. The crowd stopped their enthusiastic cheering and automatically returned to their semicircular positions, sitting down.

Papers were spread out again, pens fell back to the pages, and the tone shifted from passionate to pragmatic.

Green opened the plan written by Louis and spoke again: “Let’s continue with the concluding work, the disposal of crop residues.”

He turned to the second page of the record: “Green wheat stalks, bean stalks, and the like will be bundled and stored as winter feed and firewood; first distributed to the livestock cooperatives, and the remainder sent to the open ground behind the warehouse for centralized stacking.

Diseased wheat, moldy beans, don’t throw them away. They’re all useful for brewing, feeding livestock, and ❀ Nоvеlігht ❀ (Don’t copy, read here) fertilizing the land. Dedicated personnel will sort them, categorizing them into barrels. The distillery and the fertilizer team are already prepared.

As for potato peels and rotten roots, they all go into the compost pile. After composting for a month, they’ll be perfect to turn over in winter and spring as organic fertilizer.”

He paused, then gestured towards the direction of the wheat fields: “Next is land maintenance and crop rotation arrangements.

Harvested plots should be frozen as quickly as possible. Cover with dry grass and compact the soil to prevent frost cracking.

Also, those high-yield fields on the south slope, I suggest plowing them once and mixing in wheat husks and bean stalks to nourish the soil. When planted again in spring, the effect won’t be bad.

The area along the river, where the water level is stable, we can try a round of rice next year, or even reed cultivation for weaving. Keep that in mind.”

After this segment, the village chiefs had already begun whispering to each other, arranging who would do which task on their respective plots.

Green then looked at the blacksmith representative on the other end: “Also, farm tool inventory.”

The man nodded in agreement: “We’ve already sent people to count in each village. There’s a list of damaged sickles, plowshares, and hoes. All repairs are to be sent to the blacksmith shop and carpentry workshop, working overtime.

And sharpening stones, there’s too much grain harvested this time, so the grinding needs to keep up. We’re short-handed on our side, so we might need to transfer two batches of people from the Red Tide workshop to help.”

Louis nodded: “I will transfer people over.”

Then Mick, the head of agricultural affairs, stood up, clutching his yellowed leather-bound sketchbook. He first cleared his throat, then gave a simple, honest laugh:

“Currently, here in Mai Lang, we have already built twenty-four geothermal greenhouses. We also plan to build six more before next spring. These sheds combined should ensure that the common folk have vegetables to eat in winter.”

As he spoke, his voice held a hint of unconcealed pride. He pointed to the shed areas on the rough drawing as he continued:

“The first crop, from early winter to mid-winter, will be green vegetables, mustard greens, bok choy, lettuce, spinach, and a bit of leeks. They grow fast and are filling. Also, carrots, winter radishes, small onions, and taro knots. One crop is enough for all the winter soups.

The second crop will mainly be soybeans and lentils, which both replenish soil fertility and facilitate the next season’s grain planting. The experimental shed has a reserved seedling area.

Tomatoes, cucumbers, and herbs all have seeds ready.”

“As for guarding the sheds, the shed team will be increased to twenty people, with two groups rotating nightly. Rat infestations, drafts, and freezing, we’ll try our best to hold them off.”

After saying all this, he closed his notebook, glanced at Louis who was seated, then looked around at everyone, and smiled: “Hmm—that’s about it.”

A round of enthusiastic applause then erupted at the meeting table.

It wasn’t perfunctory encouragement, but genuine, heartfelt approval.

Those sitting in the field, every single one of them, had started from the mud, and understood best what a single vegetable leaf meant in the bitter cold of winter.

The winter greenhouse cultivation plan was not just about providing a few green vegetables for the common folk to eat in winter, but an entire path connecting to the future.

The construction of geothermal greenhouses allowed Wheat Wave Territory to break free from traditional agriculture’s absolute reliance on seasons, truly taking the first step towards “year-round cultivation.”

It meant that even when snow covered the mountains and the earth was frozen solid, life could still grow in the sheds, and harvests could emerge from the soil.

Fast-growing vegetables and root crops provided daily dietary security, while rotating legumes not only maintained and nourished the soil but also provided a valuable source of green manure for spring.

More importantly, those tomatoes, cucumbers, and herbs now had the possibility of being grown beneath the ice of the North.

Green stood up after the applause subsided, still holding the ledger in his hand, and said in an unhurried tone, “There is one matter that you all heard Lord Louis mention before, but now that the grain harvest is confirmed, it is time to implement it.”

He raised his hand and pointed to the distant piles of wheat sacks, which looked like small mountains, his voice slightly raised:

“Currently, the storage facilities in our Wheat Wave Territory, even the three newly built temporary warehouses, are already strained. According to the plan set by Lord Louis in spring, we will uniformly transport sixty-five percent of the grain to Red Tide Territory.”

He paused, looking at the crowd.

“Red Tide has more stable terrain and a more complete storage system, and it also has direct access to various transfer stations. Whether for external support or wartime allocation, it is safer and more efficient.

As for Mai Lang itself, thirty-five percent of the grain will be retained for daily rations, distribution to village communities, emergency reserves, and seed retention, all meticulously subdivided according to standards.”

No one below uttered a word of objection; instead, several village chiefs nodded.

After all, this was something Louis himself had decided before the spring plowing began.

Louis sat at the head of the table, quietly listening to the entire report, no exaggerated expression on his face.

But the glimmer in his eyes was clear to everyone—it was satisfaction, and also approval.

When everyone had finished speaking, he slowly nodded, his voice not loud, but it immediately invigorated everyone: “All arranged well. The harvest is a victory. The work that follows is to magnify the fruits of this victory.”

As soon as these words fell, everyone subconsciously straightened their backs, and a sense of pride appeared on their faces.

Louis paused, then suddenly showed a relaxed smile: “Of course, celebration is also a must.”

He scanned the village chief representatives: “All you village chiefs, go back and organize! Each village must hold a Harvest Day celebration banquet. You must publicize the autumn harvest results to the villagers, don’t hide it. Let them have confidence, and let every person who has worked and sweated know that this land remembers their names.”

“At the same time, once the final yield is confirmed, rewards for this year will be distributed according to the ‘Spring Plowing Performance List.’ Labor models such as the ‘Plowing King’ and ‘Top Ten Households’ will be allocated permanent high-quality private land, additional grain distributions, tool rewards, or promotion opportunities. Outstanding laborers in each village will be prioritized for recommendation into the management team.”

“That’s all,” Louis stood up, patting the hem of his robe, “Meeting adjourned.”

As he walked out of the canvas meeting area, the golden Mai Lang swayed gently in the wind, as if paying homage to this harvest and decision.

Behind him, a crowd of people stood up, their smiles increasingly hard to hide, and they exited in an orderly fashion, returning to their respective posts, preparing for the final work of the autumn harvest.

This was a departure after a victory, but it was more like the beginning of a new act.