Lord of the Frozen Winter: Starting with Daily Intelligence Reports

“Let’s see what luck today brings.”

Louis extended his right hand and waved it in the air. A translucent interface appeared, with text rapidly scrolling before his eyes.

【Daily Intelligence Update Completed】

【1: Eighty miles north of Dawn Harbor, large patches of Snowfield Moss discovered.】

【2: In Red Tide City’s workshop district, steam-powered looms have entered small-scale mass production.】

【3: Barbarian remnants in Border Guard Village are colluding with remnants of the Silver Plate Guild, hiding lamp oil and Magic Bombs, with plans for arson and explosions.】

Louis stared at the first piece of intelligence, his eyes slightly brightening.

Snowfield Moss, a cold-resistant plant, could be dried and stored to make monster feed.

The intelligence also mentioned accompanying frost salt crystals, which meant its energy conversion rate was extremely high, potentially allowing monsters to recover stamina quickly.

Currently, more and more monsters were being raised in Red Tide Territory; some were raw materials for Magic Bombs, some were used to pull heavy carts, and there were even a few types that could enhance knights’ battle qi and blood qi.

If the moss could be supplied steadily, it would mean these monsters could grow faster, serve longer, and reproduce more.

Louis muttered, “It must be in our hands.”

He didn't think further, directly writing instructions in his intelligence notebook: “Snowfield Moss is designated as a military resource. Collect, transplant, cultivate, send samples back to the city, trial plant first, then expand cultivation.”

He naturally didn’t need to handle such matters personally.

The Red Tide Knights already had specialized teams responsible for searching for and recovering resources; Louis only needed to give the order.

Louis thought to himself that this was good news; resource intelligence could directly be converted into strength.

【2: In Red Tide City’s workshop district, steam-powered looms have entered small-scale mass production.】

Louis’s gaze swept over the second item. His expression showed no surprise; he had received a personal letter from Hamilton a few days prior.

The letter reported that, after improvements, the steam-powered loom could finally operate stably, and the output efficiency for a single operator was more than six times that of traditional weaving.

That child wouldn’t exaggerate; Louis was well aware of this.

Hamilton never used flowery language to embellish; the fact that he ➤ NоvеⅠight ➤ (Read more on our source) wrote the number “six times” indicated that the machine’s performance had been repeatedly verified.

It should have been something worth personally returning to the city to confirm, but at the time, it was a critical stage for shipbuilding in Dawn Harbor. He didn’t get distracted, only sending a brief reply, ordering the workshop to proceed with mass production according to trial production standards.

Now seeing this in the daily intelligence merely indicated that everything had smoothly begun.

Louis silently noted that this meant Red Tide City’s textile industry had truly crossed a threshold.

【3: Barbarian remnants in Border Guard Village are colluding with remnants of the Silver Plate Guild, hiding lamp oil and Magic Bombs, with plans for arson and explosions.】

Louis stared at this piece of intelligence for a few seconds, his eyes calm, showing no surprise.

He had cut off the Silver Plate Guild’s network last year.

After Anthony’s capture, the entire Silver Plate Guild’s intelligence network in the Northern Territory was uprooted.

Those who needed to be killed had already been killed, leaving only stubborn remnants stirring up trouble in the peripheral areas.

As for the barbarians... Louis had said long ago that the sparks of betrayal must be extinguished before they ignite.

He originally didn’t intend to personally deal with such small-scale rebellions.

As usual, kill those who needed to be killed; one round of cleansing would be enough.

But Louis was silent for a moment, then reached for the map on the table.

“Border Guard Village...” His gaze fell on a coordinate near the snowy ridge, on the edge.

That was an autonomous village set up for the surrendered barbarians.

But autonomy was merely an illusion; with the military household system, collective responsibility management, and permanent knight garrisons, control was tight enough.

Theoretically, nothing should go wrong, unless someone lit a fire there.

He softly said, “It’s time to go and see.”

Port construction and shipbuilding plans here at Dawn Harbor were already on track. The Dawn’s trial voyage was successful, and ship model standardization was also beginning to advance.

There was no longer much need for him to stay here.

And Border Guard Village... he had never personally visited it since its establishment. He would take this opportunity to see how the assimilation was progressing.

The room was not yet fully lit, with only a sliver of gray-white morning light filtering through the window cracks.

Sif woke up amidst a slight fluctuation of battle qi.

She didn't open her eyes, merely turned her head and buried it into the soft blanket beside the pillow, a familiar scent close at hand.

A moment later, she opened her eyes, half-asleep, and looked at the figure not far away.

Louis sat on the thick blanket in the corner of the room, battle qi flickering around him, like a layer of light and shadow clinging to his body and flowing, gently surging with the rhythm of his breathing.

His bangs were slightly damp; he had clearly completed a round of cultivation.

This was already his routine morning practice; whether in Red Tide City or Dawn Harbor, unless it was a moment of crisis, he could always be seen cultivating before dawn.

Sif propped herself up, rubbed the corners of her eyes, her voice still a little hoarse: “Don’t you ever get tired, day after day...?”

Louis didn’t open his eyes, merely said indifferently, “I practice whenever I’m awake.”

Sif didn’t speak, just stared at him for two seconds, then turned to lean against the headboard, tidying her messy hair.

Only when he finished his practice, stood up, and put on his outer robe again, did she slowly ask, “Are you going to the port area today?”

“No.” Louis fastened his cloak, turned and glanced at her, “I’m going to Border Guard Village.”

Sif’s movements paused, her eyes subtly changing.

She knew what kind of place that was—the frontier of Red Tide Territory, where surrendered barbarians were incorporated into military households, supervised by knights, seemingly autonomous but in fact tightly controlled.

She had participated in their surrender but had never truly been there herself.

“Is something urgent?”

“A knight discovered someone planning trouble.” Louis spoke very vaguely.

“You’re going personally?”

Louis nodded: “It’s a good chance to take a look. The port side has already entered a routine, there’s no need to stay here indefinitely.”

He glanced at her: “Do you want to come along?”

Sif didn’t answer immediately.

She lowered her head, pulling the blanket down a bit, revealing an old scar on the side of her neck—a remnant from her escape.

But no one mentioned her identity as the princess of the Cold Moon Tribe anymore; even Visa stopped bringing it up because Sif didn’t like it.

She had grown accustomed to being called “Lady Sif” or “Madam.”

But this didn’t mean she had completely left that part of her history behind.

If they insisted on bringing hatred back into reality, then she had to stand on that front line herself and tell them: the enemies are all dead, don’t become the next one.

Sif remained silent for a long while, and Louis also didn’t speak, just waited.

Finally, Sif looked up at him, her expression unchanging: “I’ll go with you.”

Louis nodded, not saying much more.

He knew that this matter was far more complicated for Sif than it appeared on the surface.

But she had agreed, and that was enough... Three months ago, outside Border Guard Village’s West Ridge.

Border Guard Village. The Red Tide Knights had dispatched an entire team to the northern section to assist in repairing the trade route.

This news had been blurted out three days prior by a talkative Red Tide merchant on the post road.

That person didn’t know the true nature of the Gray Belt Merchant Caravan, only assuming they were fellow salt traders.

The next morning, Cohen ordered them to detour via the snowy path, taking the southern entrance, because they had found a truly exploitable window.

At this time, Border Guard Village was precisely when people’s vigilance was lax.

Some knights were transferred out, leaving only a small number of knights and local officials in the village. Night patrols had decreased from twice to once.

More importantly, they hadn’t experienced any incidents yet, so no one was truly vigilant.

“Move out.” With just those two words, they departed.

Three people, one cart, an old ox.

The cart was covered with a gray canvas awning, bearing a faded mark of the “Southern Territory Free Merchants Alliance.”

Cohen sat at the back of the cart, one hand resting on a cloth bag, the other holding the old mission handbook, a worried expression on his face.

Recently, the entire merchant guild’s network in the Northern Territory seemed to have been severed.

Cohen didn’t know what had happened; no one told them there was trouble, and no one informed them whether they had been exposed.

They were just a peripheral unit, responsible for remote material reception, initial contact, and public opinion manipulation; they were never at the center.

Precisely because of this, they hadn’t been swept up by Red Tide Territory.

His two subordinates beside him were completely unaware of these matters.

Cohen also didn’t intend to tell them.

He only knew one thing: the mission itself had not been terminated.

“Phase Objective Three: Contact the retired barbarian military households in Border Guard Village, implant feelings of identity deviation, and encourage their separation from Red Tide’s order.”

He had read this sentence no less than ten times.

Cohen murmured to himself: “No one told us to stop, so that means it hasn’t stopped.”

The cart swayed, and the dry food bags beneath the cart board knocked against each other, making muffled thuds.

Inside were salt biscuits, dried rations, old barbarian totems, lamp oil pouches, and a small wooden box containing several Magic Bombs... Returning from patrol at night, Sarik, as usual, hung his short crossbow back behind the storeroom door, unbuckled his belt, and prepared to stuff the bag of dry rations given out that day into a corner.

He lived in the side room of the warehouse guard post, a small room shared by three people.

At this moment, the other two hadn’t returned, and no lamp was lit in the room; only the stove ashes in the red stone brick hearth glowed a dull red.

He tossed the bag into the corner and casually picked up the kettle, but in his peripheral vision, he noticed that the bag seemed a little different.

It wasn’t the common burlap sack from the military supply depot, nor was it sealed in the Red Tide standard way.

It was a gray linen bag, very old, with frayed edges.

The stitching at the mouth of the bag was somewhat loose, and the sewing method... was the customary craftsmanship of the old tribe, wrapping three times before closing the stitch.

The person who gave him this was a member of the merchant caravan he encountered at the post station that morning, a tall, thin man.

He hadn’t reported it, and he didn’t feel any obligation to report it.

Sarik sat by the window of the storeroom, breaking the dry biscuit into pieces, biting into them one by one, chewing very slowly.

The next day, he deliberately took a circuitous small patrol route, circling to the outside of the snowy slope, pretending to be on patrol.

The person under the gray canvas awning was still there, sitting by a wooden box, whittling dried fish. When he looked up, he nodded at Sarik.

“The weather’s better,” the man said in the barbarian language, his tone natural, as if he were an old friend from the same tribe whom he hadn’t seen in years.

“It’s alright,” Sarik replied with only two words, not moving closer.

“Red Tide controls you tightly,” the man chuckled, “But... you don’t look like someone willing to be tied down by them.”

Sarik didn't respond.

Their contact began to become regular.

Every three days, the merchant caravan would bring a small bag of salt biscuits or dry rations, along with some other supplies, and exchange some idle talk.

“You have barbarian blood, yet you patrol for Red Tide?”

“They’re using you to guard a warehouse, but they don’t trust you.”

“Do you think you’re a military household? They’ll just turn your children into the next you.”

“We can take you out.”

Sarik neither refuted nor agreed.

Until one day, when Sarik circled around to the back of the storeroom, he saw the figure already squatting by the fence, carrying a long package in his hand, as if he had been waiting for a long time.

“The things I brought tonight aren’t food,” the man whispered.

Sarik didn’t approach, standing three steps away, watching the other slowly place the long package on the snow and loosen its leather straps.

The layers of cloth unfolded, revealing the outline of a longsword.

The blade was thick and wide, double-edged, with old barbarian script engravings. The hilt was wrapped in animal sinew, and a piece of dried feather bone hung from the pommel.

That was a standard longsword passed down in the tribe, only given to noble firstborn sons upon reaching adulthood or going to war.

Sarik’s pupils constricted slightly.

He recognized the runes on that sword as the style used by his father’s generation.

“You don’t see things like this in Red Tide anymore, do you?” The man raised an eyebrow, his fingers lightly tracing the patterns on the blade. “That was your father’s sword.”

Sarik didn't speak, still staring at the sword.

“You think you’re a military household? You’re nothing but their servants.” The man’s tone grew colder, his voice dropping inch by inch, “When your father wielded his sword, they didn’t dare step into the snowfield. Now you’re guarding their warehouse for them.”

Sarik’s fingertips tightened slightly.

The man saw this and simply plunged the sword into the snow, the tip sinking halfway into the ice, “Do you have the guts to pick it up? Or have you gotten used to a life without a sword?”

These words seemed to pierce Sarik’s chest.

He stared at the sword for a few seconds, his palm unconsciously reaching out, stopping in mid-air.

“We are the remnants of Frost Blood, the sparks that haven’t been extinguished,” the man said, enunciating each word, “We want to rebuild the glory of the barbarians. Not with words, but by taking back what belongs to us. Now, are you willing?”

Only the sound of the wind was in the snow.

Sarik looked at the longsword, his breathing slowing, something in his chest stirring little by little.

He remembered his father’s figure walking out of the tribe with a sword on his back, he remembered the glow of that sword beside the sacrificial fire.

He finally stepped forward and grasped the hilt of the sword.

The man smiled: “Then let’s start with you. Find people you trust, tell them, we are still here.”

But Sarik’s hand gripped the hilt of the longsword, yet he hesitated to draw it.

He looked down at the familiar pattern, and a belated question surfaced in his mind: “Do I really hate Red Tide?”

The answer was unclear.

He remembered the year he shivered from hunger and cold, when Red Tide Territory’s grain convoy entered the village.

He remembered the day his father’s remains were gone, when Red Tide Knights helped erect a monument.

Even now, he wore the cotton clothes they issued and ate the rations they distributed.

He couldn’t say he hated them, but he certainly couldn’t claim a sense of belonging either.

After all, a lifetime of being guarded was suffocating enough.

Sarik finally moved, re-wrapping the longsword in animal hide and holding it in his arms.

He glanced back in the direction of the storeroom, where Red Tide’s flag still hung.

At this moment, he knew he had crossed that line.

Sarik didn’t have to try too hard to recruit people.

The few he sought out were all known troublemakers in Border Guard Village.

Some had been beaten for refusing to remove their hats during training, some had been jailed for three days for privately possessing tobacco, and another had received two violations from the interpreter for speaking too much barbarian language.

Sarik only said one sentence: “We’re preparing something. If you don’t want to be a watchdog forever, come.”

No one refused. They didn’t hold meetings, only exchanged a few words leaning against a wall during shift changes.

Gradually, others in the village also noticed.

Who was close to whom, who always went to the broken warehouse in the west recently, who always took a long detour during shift changes... none of it could be kept secret.

But no one spoke up, no one interfered, and no one reported it.