Lord of the Frozen Winter: Starting with Daily Intelligence Reports

On Fishmonger Street in the northwest corner of Red Tide City, a low-lying but massive complex of buildings steamed in the cold wind.

That was the Red Tide Smoked Fish Workshop, now one of the city's three main industries.

The smoked fish produced here daily not only supplied the entire Red Tide Territory but also sold to the Southern Territory through the Calvin Merchant Guild's trade routes, even being revered by southern nobles as a “rare northern delicacy,” with exceptionally good sales.

In the last few days before the winter holiday, the workshop was a scene of bustling activity.

Washing fish, gutting, salting, hanging, and smoking—each process advanced in sequence, with steam and charcoal smoke intertwining into a warm mist, and heat carrying a smoky aroma wafting out.

On the west side of the factory, a middle-aged female worker was squatting by a smoking oven, checking the temperature of the racks.

She wore a coarse cloth scarf, her movements clean and efficient. She was wrapped in a sheepskin coat distributed by the Red Tide Workshop, her sleeves rolled up high, and her hands were stained with salt and fish oil.

Her name was Haili, she was a team leader at the Smoked Fish Workshop, and one of the Red Tide's original residents.

Four years ago, when the barbarians plundered the North, Haili's original village was destroyed overnight.

She fled into the forest alone with her ten-year-old son, Weil, hiding for three days, but was eventually caught by slave traders due to hunger and cold.

They were taken to the Frost Halberd market as goods, and she had already prepared for the worst.

But that day, a young man in a black cloak arrived—that was Lord Louis.

He said nothing, simply bought that entire group of people, including her and Weil.

Not only did he buy them, but he also gave them food, work, clothes, and even their own houses.

Four years passed, and now she was a supervisor at the Red Tide Smoked Fish Workshop, considered part of the Red Tide Territory's affluent class.

Her greatest pride was her son, who was now a personal guard knight of the Red Tide Lord.

When others mentioned Weil, they were full of envy for having such a promising son.

With three or four days left until the winter holiday, today's schedule was still packed.

The young people in the factory were already counting down to the holiday, muttering, “Will there be honey in the winter supplies?” “It should be our group's turn for leather boots this time,” and occasionally secretly breaking off a piece of smoked fish to taste.

But Haili had no time for these distractions. She stood by the charcoal stove, monitoring the temperature while skillfully poking the damp charcoal with iron tongs.

From time to time, she would issue commands: “The third layer on the right, the heat is uneven.” “Change that batch of brine again, it's not fresh.”

The stove fire crackled, and white smoke faintly drifted from the roof.

Just then, the bell rang.

Dong!

Short and deep, yet loud enough to penetrate the entire city.

All the workers in the smoked fish workshop simultaneously stopped their movements, and some even looked up at the roof, as if they could ~Nоvеl𝕚ght~ see through the heavy wooden beams.

The second and third chimes followed immediately.

“It's three rings!” someone whispered.

“It's a big deal,” another person chimed in, “Could something have happened in the city?”

Haili stood by the stove, her movements paused, and a sentence Weil had let slip half a month ago when he came home for dinner suddenly flashed through her mind: “The Lady is about to—”

Her eyes flickered, and an undeniable excitement spread across her uncleaned, oil-stained face: “Is it—Lord Louis's child? Born?”

Just then, hoofbeats sounded outside.

A Red Tide Knight galloped to a stop at the factory gate, announcing loudly: “The Lord's son was born today! Mother and child are safe!”

As soon as his voice fell, there was a moment of silence, followed by a burst of cheers.

“He's born! The young master is born!”

“That's wonderful, the Lady is safe—thank the heavens.”

Haili said nothing, only let out a long breath: “Finish what you're doing, then stop work. We've done enough for today. Go early tomorrow, don't miss the young master's ceremony.”

The next morning, people gathered spontaneously in twos and threes outside Fierce Tide Square to celebrate.

Initially, there were only dozens of people, but in less than half an hour, it swelled into a crowd of thousands.

Carpenters brought small cradles, blacksmiths presented handmade bracelets, hunters offered freshly skinned silver fox furs, and old grandmothers brought bundles of dried herbs, saying they could ward off evil and ensure peaceful sleep.

Children placed their most beloved wooden carvings in the center of the square, calling them growth guardians for the young master.

The “blessing pile” stacked in the center of Fierce Tide Square grew higher and higher, eventually requiring officials to organize its transportation, with cartloads being collected and tallied.

Bradley reported to Louis with a complex expression: “The number of people exceeded expectations—.”

Louis was silent for a moment, then donned his crimson cloak and ascended the high platform in the square.

He didn't give a long speech, merely gazed at the faces looking up at him: “I know you are here because of my newborn child, and I thank you for your blessings.”

He paused, his gaze falling on a small cloak embroidered with a sun, and said: “His name, Orpheus Calvin, symbolizes dawn.”

As soon as his voice fell, a genuine cheer erupted in Fierce Tide Square.

“Long live Orpheus!”

“The dawn of the North!”

“The Lord's heir!”

“May the young master grow up safe and sound!”

Haili was among the crowd, shouting, her voice hoarse.

Her eyes were filled with a burning light, her throat dry from the cold wind, yet a fervor she herself hadn't noticed surged from her heart.

It wasn't because the infant was beautiful, nor because someone had given money or food.

It was because she clearly remembered how she and her son, Weil, had endured the winter in the slave market four years ago, step by step.

Without Lord Louis, they would now be insignificant figures doing dirty work in some noble's manor, perhaps long frozen or starved to death, their names forgotten.

But now she wore a new fur coat from the workshop, had coal for heating at home, and even had a small group of workers to command.

And her son was the Lord's personal guard.

This cheering was not blind obedience; it was a choice made with memory.

She glanced at the people around her, the Red Tide people standing in the snow with raised arms.

Whether they were indigenous residents, artisans from the south, or former slaves, every face was glowing.

Their cheers all had a source: their lives were visibly improving.

Louis on the platform never stopped the crowd, nor did he loudly direct them, merely stood there watching quietly.

Finally, he calmly said: “Everyone go home early, the snow is about to get heavy.”

By the time Haili left the square, it was almost dark.

As she was about to turn into the residential area in the city center, she suddenly heard the faint sound of hooves on the snow.

She turned around and saw Weil.

He was leading his horse, his cloak half-undone, his bangs slightly damp, his fingers still gripping the sword hilt, but his expression was much more relaxed.

“Why are you returning now?” Haili was a little surprised, as he hadn't been home for over half a month to guard Lady Emily.

“Lord Louis said I could go home tonight,” the young knight scratched his head, smiling awkwardly, “He said my mother has probably been waiting for days.”

Haili was about to scold him, but the words died on her lips. She only asked: “Did you see the young master?”

Weil nodded: “Hmm—he can't open his eyes yet, but he's very spirited.”

He paused, then whispered: “I will protect him.”

He said it so naturally, like a promise, and like an oath.

Haili turned her head to look at him, her gaze softening: “The little brat has learned a sense of responsibility from being with the Lord.”

The young man said nothing, only coughed.

The two walked one after another, braving the wind and snow, towards home.

Meanwhile, at the other end of the North, on the outskirts of Frost Dragon Territory, the cold wind swept through broken tiles and crumbling walls.

Compared to Fierce Tide Square in Red Tide City, there were no cheers here, no blessings.

Only a few people wrapped in rags walked with bowed heads along the muddy, snowy path.

They carried hay, deadwood, and a few root vegetables on their shoulders—that was all their harvest for the day.

Few households in the entire village had smoke rising from their chimneys; only a few thin figures huddled around a stove.

They surrounded the stove, their expressions blank, the soup in the pot steaming, yet as thin as muddy water, occasionally revealing a few unknown black roots swirling in the broth.

A young boy hunched his neck, coughing violently, his cheeks turning green from the effort.

His mother picked up her own bowl, said nothing, but silently poured the soup into her son's bowl.

No complaints, no grumbling.

They had learned how to starve quietly. A carriage rumbled over the icy, muddy road, its wheels churning up tracks in the snow and mud.

Camille sat in the inner compartment, his hands wrapped in mink fur, but his face was not warm.

He lifted a corner of the curtain and looked at the people outside, standing in the cold wind with hollow eyes, and for a moment, he didn't know what expression to make.

“It seems there's no hope here,” Camille murmured, deeply disappointed.

At this moment, an indescribable emotion surfaced in his heart.

He wasn't feeling pity, but rather a sense of almost ironic contrast.

He suddenly recalled Fierce Tide Square in Red Tide City a dozen days ago, where he stood on the platform for the ennoblement ceremony, and thousands of people shouted “Long live the Lord!” with firelight illuminating the sky and cheers forming a deafening roar.

But these people before him were merely alive, with no strength to speak, let alone cheer.

Camille slowly withdrew his gaze and leaned back against the soft cushion.

Even if he feared Louis, he had to admit that when it came to governing the people, Asta and Louis were simply not on the same level.

After some time, the carriage slowly stopped. Before them was the so-called “temporary government office.”

Two old official residences were crudely joined, the newly painted grey on the outer walls not yet dry, its smell mingling with the cold wind.

Three flags stood before the door, the middle one bearing a faded light gold dragon motif.

“At least—they put on a show,” Camille lifted the curtain, a subtle hint of sarcasm playing on his lips.

A man stood under the portico.

His grey cloak was tied neatly, his hair tidy, and his boots polished to a shine.

That was the Sixth Prince, Asta.

Despite standing in the wind and snow, his posture was as proper as if he were in the palace.

He stepped forward, revealing a perfectly appropriate smile: “Lord Camille has come a long way, representing the will of the Imperial Capital and the hope for the North's reconstruction. How could I not greet him personally?”

With that, he extended his right hand.

Camille was slightly startled for a moment, then immediately returned the smile and shook his hand: “Your Royal Highness is too kind; I am merely acting on orders.”

He, of course, understood the true intention behind this “personal welcome.”

His Royal Highness was trying to win him over.

Before the “North Reconstruction Affairs Conference” next year, he desperately needed to secure public opinion and resource support from the Imperial Capital.

And he, as the special inspector, was the most suitable medium.

“But showing me these things, do they think I'm a fool who can't tell the difference?” Thinking this, Camille maintained a respectful and polite demeanor, smiling as he followed Asta into the government office.

Night completely enveloped the Frost Dragon Council Hall.

Inside, however, it was brightly lit, with firelight and spices intertwining into a warm illusion.

Dragon-patterned banners hung high, and on either side sat richly dressed nobles and their subordinate knights.

Most were Asta's vassal nobles, and a few others had clearly come from surrounding territories to make up the numbers.

Camille looked around, then subtly took his seat to the right of the main seat.

The wooden long table had been polished to a shine, silver cutlery neatly arranged, and candlelight danced on the silver plates.

The dishes on the table were exquisite: honey-glazed venison, wild mushroom stew, frozen apple cider mixed with snow sugar, and a large platter of thick monster meat, clearly not something ordinary people could eat.

His Royal Highness Asta personally presided and raised his glass: “No matter how heavy the frost and snow today, it cannot hinder Lord Camille's arrival. To this trust in the North and the wish for its reconstruction, cheers.”

He said no more, but drained his glass.

Camille smiled faintly and raised his glass in return.

From the dishes to the seating, from the spices to the demeanor, this entire banquet was a statement, displaying the Prince's goodwill and capabilities to him, the special inspector.

“As expected of His Royal Highness. But it's ultimately too forced.”

He did not deny the effort put into this banquet, and he could see that this was everything Asta could muster, but it was only that.

During the banquet, the two spoke appropriately, discussing the reconstruction of the North, Imperial Capital policies, and the integration of old nobles, maintaining a balance between politeness and pretense.

Asta's demeanor was elegant, his noble bearing impeccable.

But Camille knew that this composure lacked any real power.

The night banquet ended, and Camille was escorted by a servant to his well-appointed guest quarters.

As he pushed open the door, a flash of red caught his eye. An exquisitely decorated gift box rested quietly on the table in front of the fireplace, as if it had just been delivered.

He paused, his eyes flickering almost imperceptibly.

“Oh—he's sensible,” he chuckled softly, but didn't immediately approach.

Because deep in his mind, he involuntarily recalled the moment a pastry box opened, and a blood-red human head appeared before his eyes.

His palms suddenly felt cold. He sighed, forced himself to approach, and slowly lifted the lid of the box.

Fortunately, there was no smell of blood.

Inside were several sparkling gems, a pure gold bracelet, and an unsigned letter: “Presented to the esteemed guest of the Empire.” Camille let out a low laugh: “He's truly clever enough.”

He closed the lid and sat back in his chair, his fingers tapping idly on the armrest.

Camille had already seen through the essence of all this: to survive in the North, one could only obey Louis unreservedly.