Lord of the Frozen Winter: Starting with Daily Intelligence Reports

In the harsh winter of the Northern Territory, Red Tide City's domed houses were as warm as spring.

Bradley sat up, slowly stretching his shoulders, a faint 'click' sound emanating.

“Ugh—these old bones are becoming less and less cooperative,” he grumbled, picking up his robe from the bedside and putting it on, then unhurriedly brewing a cup of warm tea.

Maintaining his health had become a daily routine, not for longevity, but to handle affairs more clearly each day.

This elder, over sixty years old, was once the old butler of the Calvin Family in the Southeast Province, having dealt with nobles his entire life.

He should have retired four years ago and enjoyed his golden years within the Calvin Family.

However, due to an order from Duke Calvin, he embarked on a journey to the Northern Territory to investigate a magic marrow mine.

Upon arriving in Lord Louis's territory, Bradley found that this young master, who previously had little presence, was indeed doing well, but there were still many loopholes and much chaos in the area.

Louis also personally requested him to stay and help develop the Red Tide Territory.

Bradley initially thought he would help the young man for at most one or two years, then return to the Southeast to retire once he had found his footing.

But one stay turned into four years.

He witnessed that young man, Louis, single-handedly navigate crises amidst heavy snow, epidemics, and riots.

He saw how a group of refugees, slaves, and defeated soldiers were united into the city of order it is today.

He saw how, within a few years, he transformed from a pioneering baron into an earl, and moreover, the de facto ruler of the Northern Territory.

Unbeknownst to him, he himself had become the Chief Steward of Red Tide City, his status in the city second only to the Red Tide Lord and his two wives.

“Alas, the world is unpredictable, truly marvelous.”

Bradley finished his tea, rubbed his still-stiff lower back, opened the door, and stepped out of the room.

The Northern Territory's ice and snow remained thick, the chill biting, but Red Tide City was different.

Geothermal pipelines drawn from underground, combined with Fireback Turtle greenhouses, kept the street temperatures above the winter standard.

While it couldn't be described as warm with blooming flowers, at least people wouldn't shiver from the cold.

As Bradley walked out onto the street, two young Red Tide Knights were already waiting at his door, ready to lead his horse and clear his path. They saluted, saying, “Lord Bradley, the carriage is ready. What is today’s schedule?”

A slight smile touched his lips: “Hmm, first, to the storage area, to check the main granary and salted meat reserves, and while we’re there, confirm if the allocation for the third batch of charcoal has been approved.

Then, we'll detour to the infirmary to see if the newly received refugees have settled down.

After that, to the heating center. Recently, a set of geothermal pipes in the East District has been unstable; someone reported yesterday that heat isn't reaching the furthest greenhouses.

Oh, and remember to book the small conference room at the Administrative Office for me before noon. We have the spring plowing activation plan and Spring Festival preparations.”

Bradley adjusted his cloak and finally made a small joke: “That’s all. Let’s go. It’s cold and slippery, tell the coachman to drive slowly. I still want to live a few more years.”

The carriage arrived on Central Street. Prayer candles hung in the windows of houses along the street, likely lit long ago, still glowing with their last few flickers of flame.

The first stop was the storage area, a row of semi-underground granaries not far from the inner city.

Bradley, familiar with the place, walked into the dispatch room, where several duty officers were organizing the previous night’s distribution receipts.

He didn't need to say much; someone immediately handed him a list as he extended his hand.

Charcoal distribution reached ninety-four percent, quotas for each district remained stable, and the remaining flexible reserves were still ample.

Bradley stood before the central long table in the storage area, his cloak still on, his fingertips tracing a parchment scroll:

“This Winter Emergency Adjustment Form can be simplified further, removing redundant distributions and duplicate records.”

He pointed to a line of data at the bottom of the form and said faintly, “There have been new relocatees in the outer area of the Southeast District recently. Allocate ten barrels of charcoal as backup first; don’t wait for people to ask.”

The clerk responsible for records quickly nodded in agreement, fearing his pen might be a step too slow.

Bradley then looked at the neatly stacked grain bricks, dried meat, and coal briquettes in the storeroom.

The entire storage area was well-organized, showing no signs of panic, and clearly labeled with origins and destinations, but this was not without reason.

Half a month prior, a warehouse manager was caught by Bradley secretly reselling high-heat charcoal bricks.

That man was an old soldier, among the first to follow Louis to Red Tide, who had foolishly committed such an act due to greed.

He cried, argued, and pleaded all night at the council hall.

But at dawn the next day, his body hung from an iron hook outside the warehouse door, a notice detailing his crimes.

After that, no one dared to reach out again.

Bradley was not a bloodthirsty man, but in this land of the Northern Territory, without severe punishment, it was difficult to curb corruption, as the people here had been poor for too long.

Now, warehouse managers dared not take an extra piece of charcoal, and clerks would proactively report and correct even a single wrong line of text.

Rules had been ingrained into everyone's bones.

Bradley nodded with satisfaction and stepped out of the storage area.

As he left the storage area, the sky had brightened slightly, but the misty snow still hung low.

Bradley donned his thick cloak, stepped into the carriage, and slowly drove with his escorts towards the infirmary. Along the way, he could see the footprints left by patrolling knights.

Inside the carriage, Bradley was engrossed in reviewing notes when he suddenly heard children's voices: “Good morning, Lord Bradley!”

Looking out the window, two children were squatting under the eaves, roasting potatoes, their small faces rosy. One of the girls stood up and waved at him.

Bradley looked up, his eyes curving into a smile, and returned the greeting: “Morning.”

This small scene was worth a thousand words.

If not for the implementation of systems and stable heating, how could children's laughter be heard on the winter streets?

In front of the infirmary, several doctors returning from night patrol were changing shifts, wrapped in thick felt, their faces bearing the fatigue of an all-nighter.

Seeing Bradley approach, Dr. Mary, the person in charge, quickly came out to greet him, bowing respectfully.

“Last night, we had four new fever cases: two from refugee dwellings and two local residents. They have been transferred to the special hospital according to protocol,” she paused. “No severe coughing or vomiting observed; initially assessed as common flu.”

Bradley nodded, looking at the wooden house, which had long been converted into a special hospital in accordance with the “Red Tide Epidemic Emergency Procedures.”

“Have the medicines sent from the Southern lands been tested?” he asked.

Mary nodded: “Yes, they've been tested. Children use them most steadily. Temperature control is an hour faster than local Northern Territory medicine.”

“If there isn’t enough medicine, write an application,” Bradley emphasized. “Don’t jeopardize a group of people for a single report.”

This was not a casual command; it was stipulated in the regulations.

Louis's personally established rules explicitly stated: “For winter epidemic prevention and control, efficiency takes precedence; for medication standards, those with severe illness receive it first; no layer-by-layer suppression of batches, no intentional delays.”

Bradley added, “Have the case files been compiled?”

“They are submitted daily and processed uniformly by the archives. If red-line indicators are triggered, they are immediately transferred to patient mode.”

“Very good,” he gently patted Mary's shoulder. “You’ve done well.”

Mary said nothing, merely bowed her head in salute, and only relaxed after Bradley had gotten into the carriage and driven away.

These “seemingly ordinary” procedures had long become institutionalized.

After all, every small illness could turn into a disaster in winter.

And now, not only Mary but the entire medical team of Red Tide could accurately and calmly execute every response, because they had established rules to follow.

After leaving the infirmary, the snowfall eased slightly, but the sky remained overcast.

The small road leading to the outskirts of the workshop street was still covered in uncleared snow, making it impassable for carriages. Bradley, wrapped in his cloak, walked with his two attendants.

Their footsteps crunched on the snow, and the air was filled with cold and the distant smell of charcoal smoke.

Most of the workshops were closed for winter vacation, their doors sealed, with piles of snow accumulated. Only the small building at the end of the street was still emitting billows of white steam—that was the Red Tide Heating Center, the central team responsible for maintaining the city's winter geothermal system.

As they approached, the hiss of steam could be heard, like some living giant beast breathing in the snow.

At the entrance, several technicians, wrapped in sheepskin aprons, were squatting in front of an open pipe, adjusting gear valves. Their faces were red from the cold, yet no one stopped working. Bradley approached quietly: “You’re working hard. I’ve come to take a look.”

The technicians turned around, startled, especially the youngest boy, who took a while to react.

He stood up flustered, still holding a wrench, his face flushed: “Tha-thank you, sir!”

This young man was Hamilton, the deputy leader of the steam engine construction team.

Bradley smiled slightly, his gaze falling on the new apparatus.

It was a steam pressure-regulating boiler half-buried in a brick foundation, with connecting copper pipes and heat-conducting channels extending out askew, like steel snakes emerging from underground.

A plaque was welded to the side, its lettering blurred by high temperatures, with only “Red Tide No. 1 · Winter Use” barely legible.

“Is it this machine that kept the West District from freezing?” Bradley watched the valve continuously spewing white steam.

Hamilton, who was squatting nearby checking the pressure gauge, turned around, his tone tinged with pride: “It—um, it can probably raise the temperature from twenty degrees geothermal to thirty-seven or thirty-eight degrees.”

He scratched his head and added, “But the technology isn’t fully mature yet; we have to monitor it daily. If a pipe cracks, the entire section has to be dug up and reconnected.”

Bradley didn't laugh; instead, he nodded.

This thing was far from elegant or precise; it looked more like a monster cobbled together from a pile of sheet metal and hot welds.

But it was effective; it genuinely prevented Red Tide's heated houses from becoming ice cellars.

Bradley turned to look at the end of the pipeline: “By the way, someone from the East District reported yesterday that the temperature in the furthest greenhouses was low, and the heat wasn’t reaching the end. Have you checked it?”

“Checked!” an older technician nearby quickly replied. “That section of the pipeline is buried, so the heat pressure is insufficient. We’re adjusting a component to it; it should be back to normal tonight.”

“Good,” Bradley nodded, his gaze sweeping through the snowy mist. “You’ve all worked hard. I’ll have logistics send another batch of hot meals tonight.”

He said no more, turning to leave.

By the time he returned to the administrative plaza, it was already dark, but the conference hall was brightly lit, and the warmth from the fireplace and steam pipes made the hall as cozy as spring.

Bradley sat at the head of the table, a pot of still-warm tea beside him.

Representatives from the Craftsmen's Office, the Smoked Fish Factory, and the Education Department had arrived in succession.

The warm conference hall was filled with the intertwining sounds of voices, and several bowls of stewed meat, sent by the kitchen as a late-night snack, were placed on the table.

Bradley turned over a sheet of notes and spoke concisely: “Your festival last year was well done. This year’s Spring Festival needs to be prepared earlier, so it must be even better.”

Then came the Spring Festival plans for each district.

The Craftsmen's District representative stood up, excitedly rolling up his sleeves: “We’ve prepared a ‘Winter Iron Drilling Challenge’! Thick steel plates provided by the workshops, drilled on-site, to see who has the steadiest hand and greatest strength.”

“What’s so interesting about that? It’s not as good as last year’s sword forging,” someone chuckled.

“The Smoked Fish Factory is holding a ‘Pickled Fish King Contest’ this year! Each fishing household will contribute a barrel, and the judging panel will taste for the best flavor! We want the taste of the sea to fill the plaza!”

“We’ve designed a new ‘Snow Race,’ with an obstacle course, including rope swings, net climbing, and even ice slope climbing.”

Bradley noted each item, occasionally marking or nodding.

He waited until everyone had finished reporting before closing his ledger: “Lord Louis may not be able to attend the festival performance part.

But remember, make it the brightest festival in the entire Northern Territory, not for appearance's sake, but to let everyone know that the Red Tide Territory will be even better this year.”

The hall fell silent, followed by a chorus of applause.

Late into the night, the fireplace in the Red Tide Lord's manor burned brightly, its flames reflecting on the stone walls, casting flickering shadows.

Louis sat in a chair, cradling the infant in his arms, gently rocking him.

The child had only recently been born, his features not yet fully developed; he merely smacked his lips occasionally, grunted a couple of times, and then fell back into a deep sleep.

The carpet by the fireplace was soft and thick, and the room was so warm that one could almost forget that outside the window was a Northern Territory winter night, with the city sealed by heavy snow.

Bradley stood nearby, turning page after page of his brief:

“Regarding distribution, the storage area is stable, and charcoal supply should last until the Spring Festival without issues. The infirmary has completed flu isolation, and Mary has ample medicine.

Spring Festival preparations are proceeding smoothly; reports from all districts are positive, and the evaluation system remains as usual.” He paused, closing the brief scroll. “No major hidden dangers; everything is under control.”

Louis looked up, his gaze passing over the brief, and smiled at him: “With you in charge, I’m at ease.”

Bradley bowed slightly, his voice a few shades lower: “It’s my duty.”

The daily report should have ended there.

But Louis gently patted the sleeping child in his arms again, then looked up at Bradley: “For most of next year, I may not be in Red Tide City.”

Bradley paused.

Louis continued: “At Dawn Port, the basic surveying has been completed. As soon as the snow melts, the first phase of piling and harbor basin excavation must begin.

So, the affairs here are entrusted to you. I hope that in my absence, Red Tide will remain the same.”

Bradley nodded: “Rest assured, My Lord, I will arrange everything.”

He glanced at the child in Louis’s arms and suddenly said softly: “When the young master grows up and knows he was born in such a winter, he will surely be proud of you.”

Louis smiled, saying nothing, merely gently rocking the sleeping child in his arms.

And as Bradley stepped out of the room, he couldn't help but look back at the warm scene once more.

Louis was still looking down at the child in his arms, his gaze as soft as a winter fireplace.

A strange warmth surged within him.

It was late when he left the earthen castle.

Bradley entered the public ✧ NоvеIight ✧ (Original source) bathhouse, the chill of the day seeming to melt away completely at this moment. This was one of his few periods of rest each day.

The young attendant on duty saw him and immediately came forward, smiling: “Lord Bradley, your room is ready.”

It was a small inner single room, with warm stones embedded in all four walls, and hot spring water continuously flowing in.

A polished wooden tray was placed by the pool, with a teapot, towels, and fresh clothes all neatly arranged.

Bradley removed his cloak and slowly settled into the hot spring water, feeling his entire being sink into a gentle stillness.

Amidst the misty steam, he let out a long breath, leaned his head back against the stone wall, and closed his eyes. “When I left the Southeast back then—” Bradley murmured to himself, “I thought it would be a tough job.”

In the Calvin Family, he was just a dutiful old butler, a tool that could be discarded at any time.

But here, in this snow-bound yet spring-warm Red Tide City.

He was the Chief Steward, the deputy of the entire city's administration, the “Lord Bradley” in the children's mouths.

His decisions determined whether countless families could find warmth on a winter night, whether they could eat a bowl of stew in the snowy evening.

His judgment influenced whether the entire territory continued to operate orderly amidst blizzards.

And more importantly, people showed him respect for what he had done, not for who he was.

Bradley opened his eyes, looking at the faintly yellow light in the steam.

“To be able to achieve what Red Tide is today, with Lord Louis, in this land of ice and snow—” he said softly, “Perhaps it is the most correct decision of my life.”

When Bradley stepped out of the bathhouse, snow was still falling.

But he felt that every wisp of warmth, every beam of light in this city, seemed to echo that tiny, unspoken pride in his heart.