Lord of the Frozen Winter: Starting with Daily Intelligence Reports

The steam engine hummed softly, the furnace fires not yet fully hot, and eight looms stood in the workshop. The air still carried the scent of coal dust and lubricant.

Dozens of technicians were already lined up neatly, standing in the bright and spacious weaving workshop.

They all wore uniform grey-blue artisan robes, with the Red Tide sun emblem sewn onto the hems.

Some looked excited, some frequently glanced around, and others couldn't help but clench their fists.

"Lord Louis has arrived!" someone whispered softly.

In an instant, all eyes in the factory turned towards the entrance.

The next moment, the main door opened, and Louis walked in, dressed in a grey casual outfit, with the Red Tide sun emblem pinned to his chest.

There was no honor guard, only Bradley and Hamilton by his side, and a few knights accompanying him.

No one had trained the workers on how to welcome him, but the sound of applause erupted naturally, like a flood.

Like waves, it spread from the front row to the back, then back to the front.

"Welcome, Lord Louis!" someone shouted.

"It's Lord Louis!" an elderly artisan exclaimed, his eyes red-rimmed and his voice choked with emotion.

He raised his hand to signal for quiet, but the applause erupted again, even more enthusiastically than before.

Louis didn't assume a majestic posture; he simply smiled, a bitter smile tinged with a hint of helplessness.

The next second, he slowly raised his hand, and a faint tremor of magical power spread with his voice, sweeping through the factory like a gentle breeze: "I know you are all very excited, and so am I."

His voice clearly reached everyone's ears, and only then did the applause gradually subside.

He looked around, at the rough but resolute faces, and his tone softened slightly.

"Many of you, I remember. From the first year, the second year, even when Red Tide City didn't have outer walls, you were here.

Some started by moving stones, transporting materials in snowstorms; some fired bricks and laid tiles, working fourteen hours a day; some slept in the workshop for three whole months just to adjust the precision of the first batch of gears.

You have repaired streets, built waterways, installed fireplaces, and endured food shortages and winter shutdowns.

Red Tide is what it is today not because of me, but because you supported this city."

The factory fell silent. The workers no longer applauded; instead, their eyes reddened, and they subconsciously straightened their backs.

"And now, what I need you to do is weave cloth."

Louis's tone suddenly tightened: "But not for clothes, it's for our children, so they no longer freeze and wear torn sacks through winter.

It's to sell Red Tide's fabric throughout the Northern Territory, even to the Imperial Capital, to let them know we can make the finest textiles in the world.

You are the old Red Tide people, the ones who personally built this city little by little out of the snow, the most reliable group of people.

Bringing you here to work today is not just because of your skill, but because you are trustworthy."

He paused: "The wages and benefits here are among the best in Red Tide, and your status will rise with your craftsmanship.

I hope that in three months, the first batch of export fabric can be woven here. You are not just working; you are writing the history of Red Tide."

After the last sentence fell, the scene was silent.

Then a loud burst of applause suddenly erupted.

Immediately after, as if someone had released a taut string, more people began to clap, cheer, and whistle, making the entire workshop boil with excitement.

"For Red Tide!"

"We'll see it through!"

"Ten machines aren't enough, we need a hundred!"

Heaton, the factory manager standing by, suddenly waved his arm and shouted: "Did you hear that? We're going to cover the Northern Territory with Red Tide's cloth!"

The crowd burst into laughter, and applause erupted again.

The enthusiastic applause still echoed in the distance, but this row in the loom area had returned to quiet.

The steam pipes vibrated slightly, and several looms, not yet started, reflected soft light in the sunlight.

Louis and Factory Manager Heaton walked side by side between the looms.

"Are there enough hands?" he asked directly.

"Currently, yes. Later, we'll need to transfer four batches of skilled workers from the artisan camp," Heaton replied quickly. "I've thoroughly understood Hamilton's blueprints, and the parts warehouse is also coordinating resupply."

"Good." Louis glanced at the young artisan who was cleaning up debris from a trial run. "When there are more people in the future, don't mind their origins. Promote whoever performs well, and dismiss anyone who causes trouble. The importance of this place goes without saying."

He spoke calmly, but there was no room for negotiation in his tone.

Heaton stopped at his words and nodded solemnly: "Understood, my Lord. You trust me, and I will not let you down, nor the factory, nor Red Tide."

Louis looked at him for a moment, then nodded gently: "I trust you."

The sound of steam came from afar again, and the clock in the weaving workshop just struck the hour.

This factory was just the beginning.

Next, Red Tide's First Weaving Mill would become the main force for fabric production throughout the Northern Territory.

Coarse cloth, linen, cotton weaves, and various common goods would continuously emerge from these steam looms, then ❀ Nоvеlігht ❀ (Don’t copy, read here) be transferred from the warehouse to various parts of the Northern Territory.

Not only that, but the weaving mill would also serve as a demonstration template, to be replicated and implemented in the second and third factories established outside Red Tide.

At that time, with the help of the seaport passage, Red Tide's fabrics would be packed in bulk and shipped by cargo ship to the Southern Territory, in exchange for more salt, sugar,

medicinal herbs, and ironware.

If they could open up the guild market in the Imperial Capital, they might even be able to directly connect with the Royal Capital's merchant associations, opening up entirely new trade routes.

Steam weaving was not just about increasing efficiency; it was Red Tide Territory's first true step into large-scale production.

The number of barbarian youths living in the dome houses grew steadily; it wasn't just the original seventeen, but a total of seventy-six had arrived successively.

On their fourth day here, Halom brought another batch of new faces.

As soon as they entered, they warily looked around, some even instinctively reaching for their waists, as if checking if they still carried a saber.

Although they had been required to surrender all weapons before entering the city, the older residents in the house had gradually adapted to Red Tide's pace of life.

"Don't be nervous." Beisha was the first to stand up and walk towards the new companions, patting one of them on the shoulder, "We were like this when we first arrived, but you'll get used to it quickly."

Beisha spoke naturally, his tone like welcoming a lost relative home.

He even showed a little smugness: "I can almost recite the heroic deeds of the Great Lord backwards."

The new youth stared at him, somewhat puzzled: "You are—one of their people?"

Beisha smiled, baring his teeth: "I am a Red Tide person now."

He said it with righteous indignation, even a bit proudly, and as he spoke, he gestured for people to eat.

Steaming hot rye bread, stewed meat soup, and roasted vegetables were neatly arranged on the long table, one portion for each person.

The ingredients were not luxurious, but for these barbarian youths who used to gnaw on dried meat in the snow, it was a delicacy beyond compare.

The new youths rushed over, picking up the bread and stuffing it into their mouths.

"Don't run around after eating, go take a bath later," Beisha reminded them. "It's with hot water, not heated by firewood; the pipes underground heat themselves."

The new youth pouted, muttering, "You're lying, aren't you?" but his chopstick speed got faster and faster, not wanting to drop a single piece of meat.

But watching him eat faster with each bite, Kosa, sitting in the corner, merely snorted softly.

Kosa sat in the corner, slowly chewing his bread as usual, saying nothing.

But his gaze was much softer than when he first arrived.

Kosa still remembered how he looked on his first day standing at the entrance of the hot water bathhouse, full of suspicion, as if facing some kind of trap.

But when he actually stepped in, and the hot water gushed down through the copper pipes, that warm feeling almost overwhelmed him.

And now he had learned how to adjust the temperature, how to hang his towel, and when to retrieve his changed clothes.

Their schedule was posted at the door, printed in standard Imperial language, and the instructor checked daily if it was completed.

Initially, he resisted, believing this system was a process of enslavement and domestication.

But now he began to realize that as long as he followed the rules, not only would no one scold him, but he could also eat his fill, dress warmly, and sleep in a house that didn't let in drafts.

"It's not that bad, actually," he mumbled to himself.

Beisha sat beside him, excitedly chattering: "Next week we can visit the workshop. I heard the steam hammers there can break rocks."

"Do you really want to be a Red Tide person?" Kosa suddenly asked.

Beisha didn't hesitate: "Of course. I used to have no home, no land, no food. Now I have a house, clothes, food. Red Tide Territory gave me everything. I want to stay and become an official, like Lord Halom."

Halom had clearly become Beisha's idol.

Kosa said nothing more at his words, burying his head and continuing to eat his bread.

Besides daily life, the training was also somewhat different.

Once all the barbarian youths had arrived, the training in Red Tide officially began.

When Kosa was in his tribe, he had followed his kin into real battles, so he wasn't afraid at all.

Imperial youths and barbarian youths were mixed in the ranks, with no preferential treatment or special precautions.

Kosa stood at the very end of the line, his gaze sweeping around.

"Aura cultivation—almost exactly the same as what I learned," he silently judged in his mind.

Whether it was the standard aura cultivated by Imperial Knights or the primal battle intent awakened within barbarian warriors, their essence all originated from the same power system.

Both involved drawing on internal energy to enhance strength, speed, and stamina, but their principle remained an unknown mystery.

But unlike the newly arrived barbarian youths, these Red Tide youths moved uniformly, with clear rhythm, their bodies already adapted to this discipline.

When the instructor ordered a turn, there were no roars, no whips; everyone complied.

Kosa didn't keep up quickly at first, but a grey-haired youth next to him whispered a reminder: "You miscounted your steps, just adjust half a step to the right."

He grunted, but he wasn't good at thanking, so he said nothing else.

That day was their first practical combat skills training lesson.

The leading instructor was a strong man with a scar on his cheek, wearing Red Tide standard light armor, walking with a swagger, kicking away the slush on the ground as he stood before the squad.

"My name is Bruch, training officer of Red Tide Territory's Youth Camp."

His voice was deep, yet it penetrated the entire training ground. No one spoke, not even daring to cough.

"I don't care whose noble brat you are. From the moment you stand in this line, you are Red Tide people."

His gaze swept over the crowd, landing on a few of the most vigilant-looking barbarian youths.

"I won't teach aura cultivation; some of you know more than I do. Today we start learning combat skills, beginning with the low-stance slash."

He paused, his expression darkening slightly: "Don't think this is just for show. If your last step is unstable, the person next to you might lose their head."

"In Red Tide, discipline is a warrior's life. You may not know aura, but you cannot disobey orders. Those who don't understand instructions can go home and herd sheep."

With that, he dropped his short sword with a clang onto the snowy ground, then raised his hand to point at a row of wooden dummies used for training behind them:

"Ten low-stance slashes per person, in groups of three. Switch stances after an hour. Anyone who fails won't get dinner tonight."

There was no commotion in the ranks; everyone complied.

Kosa originally thought Imperial training was just about writing and posing, but he didn't expect the first lesson to be practical combat techniques.

Although it was a wooden sword for training, it was surprisingly heavy.

The first time he did a low slash, he squatted too low, cutting crookedly. The second time was a bit faster, and the recoil made his wrist numb.

No one laughed at him, because all the Apprentice Knights were pretty much the same.

The grey-haired youth in his group even frowned and reminded him: "Your blade is too high; it will break the formation."

Kosa began to understand what the Red Tide people meant by discipline.

Just as they were practicing the fifth stance, another small team next to them ran into trouble.

A barbarian youth deliberately struck a step too fast, which skewed his movement. The Imperial youth next to him couldn't keep up, and the entire team's formation instantly fell into disarray, with one person almost getting his knee sliced, letting out a cry of alarm. 𝚏𝕣𝐞𝗲𝐰𝕖𝐛𝐧𝕠𝕧𝚎𝚕.𝐜𝚘𝗺

Instructor Bruch walked over and barked: "If that slash you just made were on a real battlefield, your comrade would already be dead."

The barbarian youth tried to argue: "I just wanted to be faster—"

"You practice faster, disobey orders, and uncontrollably slash your teammate?"

Bruch stared at him, his voice still not loud, but tight with coldness.

"The punishment is ten rounds of continuous low-stance combat. Everyone stop and watch."

The entire training ground fell silent.

The barbarian youth's face was flushed red, and he gritted his teeth and complied.

The Imperial youth who was accidentally injured said nothing, just silently returned to the ranks.

"Discipline isn't for show," Bruch turned to face the entire field. "If you take one wrong step, someone behind you could lose their life."

"Don't treat what we teach as slogans, and don't treat your comrades' lives as a game."

Afterward, the training switched to battle formations.

In groups of three, two in front and one behind, they practiced alternating slashes using basic segmented overlapping combat techniques.

Movements had to be synchronized, and each strike had to control distance, angle, and blade retraction time, allowing no room for error.

"This isn't a duel," the instructor emphasized. "Battle formations are for surviving together."

"If you want to continue like this, go be a hunter, not a knight."

Kosa gritted his teeth and persevered. His footwork was agile, and his slashing angles were precise, but quickly achieving seamless cooperation with others was ten times harder than fighting alone.

A single inch out of place in the formation meant the entire movement would collapse.

But he gradually understood Bruch's meaning, the importance of discipline.