Lord of the Frozen Winter: Starting with Daily Intelligence Reports

After settling Lord Edmund's funeral, Louis did not stay long in Frost Halberd City, as the autumn harvest was already imminent.

This was the Red Tide Territory's fundamental basis for existence, not the swords of the Knights, nor imperial seats, but those golden waves of wheat.

If the season was missed, or if there were mishaps during the harvest, grain production would decrease, and in the current North, this was almost tantamount to self-destruction.

“Let the Frost Iron Knights escort Emily, Lady Elena, and Little Isaac back to Red Tide City first to settle in. I will return after the autumn harvest ends.” On the way back, Louis looked at Emily beside him.

Emily lowered her eyes, her hand resting on her swollen abdomen.

She didn't act spoiled, nor did she try to dissuade him, simply saying softly, “The autumn harvest is in your hands.”

Louis was busy for a moment, his heart warmed.

Emily, at this time, clearly needed companionship more than ever, yet she was still thoughtful enough to share his burden.

He gently squeezed her hand: “I will return as soon as possible.”

Emily nodded and said nothing more.

The carriage drove over the mountain path, and the scenery ahead gradually opened up.

The entire valley was covered in heavy golden wheat, the ears hanging low, like golden waves, rising and falling with the wind in the sunlight.

Additionally, hundreds of semi-transparent greenhouses were neatly arranged, reflecting a silvery-white sheen under the autumn sun.

“Is this—is this truly the North?” Lady Elena gazed at the scene before her, her eyes filled with disbelief.

She was accustomed to the famine and desolation of the North, but she never expected to see such an abundant scene on the barren frozen ground.

At the same time, Ferran, the commander of the Frost Iron Knights, spurred his horse forward, his expression showing undisguised curiosity.

He didn't beat around the bush, but said directly, “Lord Louis, may I stay? I want to see with my own eyes how your Red Tide Territory produces such astonishing amounts of grain on this frozen land.”

Louis smiled slightly, not refusing: “Of course. After all, only by seeing it with your own eyes will you feel at ease.”

In fact, Louis was happy to do this; some words didn't need to be said. Only by letting them witness the strength of the Red Tide Territory with their own eyes could these newly subjugated Knights truly put aside their doubts.

Thus, Emily, along with Lady Elena and Little Isaac, and most of the Frost Iron Knights, had already set off ahead of schedule to return to the Red Tide Territory.

Under the escort of the Frost Iron Knights, Louis was not worried about their safety.

After all, this Knights, touted as the strongest in the North, was enough to protect his family to reach Red Tide City safely, even during the insect plague.

He himself only left a small number of attendants and headed directly to the Wheat Wave Territory.

At the entrance to the valley, Green and Mick had been waiting for a long time.

Although Green was originally a Calvin Knight, he was now wearing a civil official's uniform, clutching a thick ledger in his hand.

Mick, on the other hand, still looked like an old farmer with gray hair, his sleeves still carrying the scent of soil.

The two had been standing for half an hour, just to salute the arrival of their Lord immediately.

“I've kept you waiting.” Louis dismounted, his gaze lingering on Green and Mick for a moment.

One managed administration, the other managed production.

They managed the Wheat Wave Territory in an orderly fashion, not only with abundant harvests and stable public sentiment, but also with seamlessly linked storage and transportation.

Under the management of the two, the current Wheat Wave Territory was no longer just an affiliated territory, but the most important cornerstone under Red Tide, besides Red Tide City.

Louis was genuinely satisfied with the two in his heart.

Seeing Louis dismount, Green immediately stepped forward and respectfully said, “Lord Louis, Green, on behalf of all the citizens of Wheat Wave Territory, welcomes our Lord back.”

Mick also cupped his hands, his face filled with an undisguised, honest smile: “Everyone has been looking forward to your arrival. The people heard you were coming to inspect, and they're all working hard to show you.”

“How is this year's harvest?” Louis did not engage in much small talk, but asked directly.

Green then opened the ledger he had prepared earlier and reported: “Lord, this year's autumn harvest is projected to yield a total of nineteen hundred seventy thousand tons,

an increase of over seventy percent from the first year's autumn harvest of one hundred fifteen thousand tons.

Among them, green wheat accounts for over sixty thousand tons, rice for over thirty thousand tons, and miscellaneous beans and root crops total about one hundred thousand tons.”

This series of numbers and breakdowns, like heavy hammers, struck the ears of everyone present, especially those Frost Iron Knights unfamiliar with Red Tide. Ferran, initially with his arms crossed and a relaxed demeanor, had already been shocked once by the grains he saw in the fields along the way, and had mentally prepared himself.

But as Green reported, his expression gradually became serious, until it completely froze.

One hundred ninety-seven thousand tons!

What kind of concept was that?

In his impression, the dozens of large and small territories across the entire North combined might not even be able to produce such a yield.

But now, a new territory, cultivated in just two short years, could independently support the food needs of hundreds of thousands of people, and even spare surplus grain to support other areas.

“This—this is simply a fantasy,” Ferran muttered softly, his brows tightly furrowed.

He admitted he wasn't a civil official skilled in accounts, but having fought as a Knight his entire life, he knew too well what grain meant: it meant military strength, it meant survival.

He even suspected that Louis had inflated this figure to him.

Ferran turned his head, staring directly at Green: “Are you sure these numbers are correct? They aren't inflated?”

Green's expression remained unchanged; instead, he straightened his back and said, word by word, “Although the harvest isn't officially complete, it's about right. I'm willing to stake my head on it.”

At this moment, Ferran saw a kind of confidence in the young supervisor's eyes.

Mick, meanwhile, chuckled beside him, raising his calloused hand: “Sir, if you don't believe me, come with me to the sheds.

Here, vegetables can grow even in winter, the irrigation water is constant, and the soil is as fertile as spring.”

Ferran was silent for a long while; he had initially thought he was mentally prepared for the Red Tide's abundant harvest.

But these numbers, these people, these proud expressions before him, made him realize: he might have underestimated it.

“This—this is an astronomical figure,” Ferran finally spoke, muttering to himself.

Green, Mick, and Louis all involuntarily showed a hint of pride.

Green's voice was firm, and he flattered: “All of this is due to Lord's foresight and leadership.”

Louis, however, shook his head, his expression calm: “No, this is the result of everyone's collective struggle. I merely offered a few small suggestions; you are the ones who truly made it happen.”

Mick chuckled softly, his calloused hand gently stroking his sleeve; that simple pride needed no words.

The group walked side by side into the fields, preparing for an initial inspection before formally settling in.

This was the first day of reaping. As the horn sounded, farmers from various villages shouted in unison, tens of thousands of people swinging their sickles simultaneously, and the golden wheat waves rolled like a tide.

New-style long-handled sickles and hand-pushed scythes flew up and down between the field ridges, their efficiency far exceeding that of old-style sickles. The crisp sound of severed wheat stalks filled the air.

Ferran's gaze was firmly drawn to everything before him.

He came from the Frost Iron Knights, having traversed the North for many years, yet he had never witnessed such a scene.

“What—what is that?” He pointed to a semi-transparent greenhouse not far away, glistening with a silvery-white luster in the sunlight, and surprisingly, it was lush green inside.

Green smiled and replied, “That's a warm greenhouse. It uses geothermal heat and a pipe network to maintain temperature, allowing vegetables to be grown even in winter. What you see are vegetables from the South.”

Ferran was stunned for a moment. In the North, seeing fresh vegetables in winter? This was almost unheard of.

Before he could recover, a series of “Boom! Dong!” sounds came.

Accompanied by white steam, an iron barrel-shaped machine was spewing hot air by the field, roaring and gurgling, drawing water from underground and channeling it into the field furrows via a wooden trough.

“What the devil is that?” Ferran instinctively gripped his sword hilt, his eyes wary.

Green chuckled, patiently explaining: “This is a steam water pump. It burns fuel to produce steam, which drives a piston to continuously draw water from the well. This way, even in drought, the fields are /N_o_v_e_l_i_g_h_t/ guaranteed to have enough water.”

Ferran opened his mouth, too shocked to speak.

Louis looked at his expression, a silent smile in his heart.

This was the effect he wanted, to let the Frost Iron Knights witness the Red Tide Territory's foundation with their own eyes, and thus put their minds at ease.

Ferran had initially believed that the “Red Tide great harvest” was merely an exaggeration of rumors in Frost Halberd City.

After all, Lord Edmund had mentioned Louis's talent for governance to him many times, and he had merely smiled, thinking it was just a sick Duke paving the way for his successor.

But on the first day, standing on the hillside of Wheat Wave Territory, watching the entire golden wheat field undulate like a tide, and tens of thousands of people simultaneously starting to reap, he silently retracted his earlier dismissive thoughts.

There was no exaggerated mobilization, no oppressive divine aura, only a steady, orderly, almost calm rhythm of harvest.

And after several days, Ferran grew even more silent.

He had initially thought the first few days of reaping were the limit, but the subsequent autumn harvest rhythm did not slow down; instead, it roared day and night like a precisely operating machine.

Harvesting during the day, transporting in the afternoon, threshing at night.

The three-shift cultivation system was as precise and seamless as military orders.

Children bundled wheat sheaves along the field edges, women moved in teams to transport, and Red Tide Knights patrolled in formation.

No one shouted urgingly, nor was there chaotic noise; everything was orderly.

It hardly seemed like harvesting grain; it was more like a military operation without bugle calls.

He once suspected this was a facade maintained by strong pressure.

Until one evening, by the threshing ground, he finally asked Green in a low voice, “These people can do this—how did you force them?”

Green did not answer immediately; instead, he quietly gazed at the people swinging their sickles in the wheat waves for a moment before speaking:

“This is their voluntary choice, because they are working for themselves. This is the power of Red Tide's system, the greatness of Lord Louis.” A short sentence, yet it seemed to ignite Ferran's long-dormant heart.

He watched the people fighting in the night, some sweating profusely but singing with smiles, others taking out freshly picked vegetable leaves from the warm greenhouses to stew soup during threshing breaks.

They were not suffering; they were harvesting.

They were using their own hands to build a better future.

At this moment, Ferran suddenly realized: what he didn't understand were not these people.

Rather, it was this place, the order operating on this land, which seemed to have completely diverged from the old North.

Torches stood tall on the threshing ground, illuminating the entire valley.

Each strike, the sound of grain separating from stalks, echoed like war drums.

Firelight gleamed on their faces, reflecting sweat and an unspoken satisfaction.

Ferran stood at the edge of the threshing ground, silent for a long time.

He had never imagined that one day he would use the word “magnificent” to describe a threshing scene.

At this moment, a craftsman pushed a new type of roller thresher. Although its metal structure was not complex, it performed astonishingly during trials.

Requiring only two operators, in one round, it could thoroughly thresh an entire cart of wheat sheaves, the grains clattering into cloth bags like mercury spilling onto the ground.

“This thing, did you make it yourselves?” he couldn't help but ask in a low voice.

“It's the third-generation modified model developed by the Red Tide Workshop,” Green replied, “Originally, Mick modified an old watermill, and Hamilton proposed a reverse-axle solution to use here, which saves a lot of effort.”

Ferran nodded slightly; he wasn't too surprised.

Because in these past few days, there had been too many things that surprised him.

Warm greenhouses that could grow vegetables in harsh winters, steam water pumps that could automatically draw water, light reflectors that adjusted their angle according to the sunlight, and geothermal pipes that could store heat.

The miracle of Red Tide was not in one or two inventions themselves, but in continuous progress.

An autumn harvest quietly changed Ferran's heart.

Initially, he had no expectations for the Red Tide Territory and Louis, and had even questioned in his heart: Why Louis?

How could a young noble bear the great responsibility of rebuilding the North?

He had even asked Lord Edmund himself.

The Duke had merely smiled then, saying, “Perhaps this boy... can bring something new to the North.”

And at that time, he did not understand the Duke's meaning, only taking it as the helpless words of an old and ailing man entrusting his orphan.

But now he understood; he had seen this land with his own eyes.

How hope was cultivated with every hoe and sickle, how southern vegetables grew from the frozen soil, how order prevailed amidst the roaring steam in the wind. He had seen how proud the farmers were, how calmly the people cooperated, and how the Knights maintained order with composure and discipline.

He had also seen that roller thresher, and novel tools like greenhouses and water pumps.

But most importantly, he saw the will of the entire territory.

This was a will rooted in the land, constantly moving forward.

And its source, without a doubt, was Louis.

Now he no longer doubted the young Lord's capabilities.

Even in a corner of his heart, he had to admit, perhaps it was somewhat disrespectful, but on the path of governance, ten Lord Edmunds might not compare to one Louis.

Because this young man did not just maintain order; he changed the underlying structure, rebuilding the hope of the North.

For hundreds of years, the rulers of the North had been maintaining stability, but Louis was the first to attempt to change its essence.

Ferran finally understood that the Duke's “new life” did not refer to who would sit in a high position.

But that there was a person who truly intended to rebuild the North, starting from the land.