Lord of the Frozen Winter: Starting with Daily Intelligence Reports

After Leighton was led out of the Main Fortress, the night had not yet receded. Louis did not rest, only ordered his guards to relay the command again.

Soon, a second person, head covered, was escorted in.

That person was breathing heavily, and his clothes carried a strong scent of spices and Southern wine.

Louis raised his hand, and the knights paused: "Untie him."

When the hood was pulled off, the man blinked, saw the person sitting before him, and his face instantly turned pale, his feet unconsciously retreating half a step.

The man opened his mouth, instinctively wanting to blurt out the familiar excuse: "I'm just a small spice merchant––"

Louis merely watched him with a smile.

That night, the lights of the Red Tide Main Fortress burned late.

From the merchants of the Red Glow Guild, to the representatives of the Ashes Guild, and then to the lurking messengers of Starfall, four or five members of the Federation Guild who had been hidden in Red Tide for many years were brought in.

The lights of the Red Tide Main Fortress burned late into the night. They were brought in one by one, and taken away one by one.

However, throughout the entire process, there was no interrogation, no drop of blood.

Louis did the same thing to everyone.

First, he revealed their true names and affiliated guilds, then simply stated their activity records over the past few years in Red Tide, Dawn Harbor, and Silver Ridge Hill—

Finally, he invited them to sit down and pushed a letter sealed with the Red Tide stamp across to them.

"Rest assured," Louis's tone remained gentle, "I will not execute legal merchants in Red Tide; Red Tide needs trade."

Those guild members, who prided themselves on their experience, one by one broke out in cold sweat under Louis's calm gaze.

"There's just one thing—" Louis tapped the table lightly with his finger, "From now on, we ship, you make money, that's fine. But you can't stab us in the back, leak secrets, or set up networks for enemy nations."

"If your superiors are smart, they will understand that I am offering you a path to long-term profit, not an enemy."

Someone couldn't help but speak: "Are you—threatening us?"

Louis smiled: "This is a polite reminder."

He didn't raise his voice or show anger, personally pushing the letter in front of the other party.

"The letter states very clearly. Red Tide is open to trade quotas with the Federation and various guilds, but it requires reasonable prices and clean channels.

You take it back and relay the message. If they accept, Red Tide's goods will always be open to you. If they refuse—"

He paused, his tone not heavy, yet it sent a chill down one's spine: "Then please, tell them not to extend their hands into the North."

When the last person was blindfolded and led away, only the crackling of the fireplace remained in the study.

"If they have brains," Louis murmured, "they'll see this as a win-win."

Red Tide is not exclusionary; it does not reject the Federation's gold coins or the guilds' cargo ships, but Red Tide will operate by its own rules.

This was also something Louis had always wanted to do, otherwise, he wouldn't have kept these Emerald Federation spies around for so long.

Some of these spies had even been doing business here when Red Tide City hadn't even been established, back when it was just the Red Tide Territory.

And as long as these spies hadn't caused any substantial damage, Louis, with his Daily Intelligence System, had simply turned a blind eye.

It was only the Calvin Family cutting off trade channels that forced his hand and accelerated his plans.

Louis stood up and walked to the window, looking at the lights of Red Tide City in the snowy night: "Father, I have made my choice. I hope you won't regret it."

The sea breeze of the Southern Province always carried a salty taste, but in Count Harvey's study, there was no hint of dampness.

Thick stone walls blocked out the sound of the sea, and the fire in the fireplace burned steadily, its flickering light reflecting on ledgers and documents.

The desk was piled high with tax reports, waybills, and quota lists. A silver wine flask was half empty, and red wine swirled in the glass, casting a ring of light.

Count Harvey held a pen in his left hand to approve documents and sipped wine with his right.

It was a habit he hadn't been able to break for years; a few sips actually cleared his head, making numbers, names, and port tax agreements all perfectly clear.

When he didn't drink, he became irritable; this problem had plagued him since he was a youth.

He was not born into a true noble family.

His grandfather was a viscount on the brink of bankruptcy, addicted to gambling, and had almost squandered the family fortune.

When his father took over, the family could barely keep any servants, with only an empty old estate remaining.

That period taught him from a young age what it meant to be penniless.

Through the perseverance of two generations, father and son, the Harvey family recovered.

His father amassed the first pot of gold by smuggling wine and spices, established a trading house in the seaport, and supplied grain to the imperial fleet.

Harvey himself studied in the imperial capital, not at a knight academy, but finance and law. After graduation, he followed his father, running the docks, clearing accounts, and dealing with imperial officials.

It was then that he developed the habit of drinking while doing accounts; strong liquor could suppress anxiety and help him focus.

He owed his promotion to count entirely to the Emperor.

When Ernst August first took office, he implemented heavy port taxes and trade route reforms. The older generation of nobles opposed it, but only Harvey voluntarily took on the risk of coastal tax reform, advancing military funds and port construction funds for the imperial family.

The Emperor admired his courage and skill, personally bestowing upon him the title of Southern Port Affairs Count.

From that day on, he understood that he was no longer a noble by bloodline, but a political merchant by means.

This background kept him in a state of almost neurotic vigilance.

Harvey didn't believe in luck, only in numbers that balanced on the ledger. He didn't believe in bloodline honor, only in ships that could weather the storms.

As he reviewed the documents, he felt a bit annoyed.

The Emperor was in seclusion, the Regent was gravely ill, and the princes were openly vying for power.

Orders from the imperial capital came down one after another, coastal tax systems were changed again and again, and the preliminary agenda of the Dragon Throne Council grew thicker with each page.

The old nobles schemed against each other, the new nobles were used as buffers, and no one wanted to be the first to enter the fray.

Harvey put down his quill and took a sip of wine: "Ha—what a mess of accounts."

The current crisis was far more complex than just the tax reforms on paper.

Coastal shipping routes were repeatedly requisitioned by the imperial capital, a merchant ship had to pay taxes three times, and pirates in the South were resurfacing, with some even secretly supporting them.

Inland nobles took advantage of the chaos to cut off trade routes, forcing him to concede profits. Creditors from the imperial capital were pressing for payment, and IOUs from the Ministry of Military Supplies were still piling up.

The entire Southern trade was like a ship with holes everywhere, liable to capsize at any moment.

Harvey was all too aware of his predicament. Though the Harvey family had been ennobled as counts, their foundation was still weak.

At the slightest hint of trouble, if the old nobles joined forces, they would surely be the first to be thrown out.

The current accounts could still be maintained, relying on the export taxes from the three ports and the income from the wineries.

But once the imperial capital reassigned supervisors and cut off tax revenue sharing, his decade of hard-earned family business could vanish into thin air.

Even worse, he had to maintain ambiguous relationships with various factions.

Envoys from the imperial capital wanted him to pledge allegiance to the Second Prince, while the Censorate was trying to win over the Fourth Prince's faction—

Every connection had to be kept, every side appeased. Moving too heavily in one direction would alert the other.

"The more chaotic the imperial capital, the more those of us who came to the table with money should stick together," Harvey murmured, as if reminding himself.

As he spoke, he signed his name on a document.

Just then, faint footsteps and a knock came from outside the door.

"Come in," he said, putting down his wine glass, his voice calm.

The servant pushed the door open, bowed respectfully, and presented a silver tray with both hands. On the tray lay two letters. One was sealed with a sun emblem, the mark of the Northern Red Tide Territory. The other bore a familiar sailing ship emblem, belonging to his own Harvey family, written to him by Yoen.

Harvey raised an eyebrow, recognizing the sun emblem. It was a letter from Louis Calvin.

A count writing to him personally. He couldn't help but be curious: what did this Northern Lord want to discuss with him?

But he temporarily set aside that letter, reaching instead for the one with the sailing ship emblem.

"Let's see what that boy has written this time," he sighed, leaning back in his chair.

This second son truly gave him a headache. He was a child born late in life, spoiled since childhood, a bit slower than his older brother, but not unintelligent, just a bit flighty.

The path he had arranged for him was as stable as could be: guarding the family port, inheriting a small barony, living a life of wealth and status, as long as he didn't cause trouble.

But the boy, full of youthful passion, ran off to enlist in the Northern expansion.

That place was practically a graveyard; he truly thought his son wouldn't return.

Who knew not only did he survive, but he also latched onto the Northern Lord's coattails.

In just a few years, he had risen to the title of viscount. This skill of latching onto powerful figures was somewhat similar to his own discernment in his youth.

He smiled helplessly and opened the envelope.

The letter's content was lighthearted, its sentences jumbled, full of Yoen's characteristic enthusiasm.

"Lord Louis, the Red Tide Lord, wants to cooperate with us! He's the most capable person I've ever met!—He suggested our family could provide Southern ports, and Red Tide would ship leather, Cold Iron, and such—profit sharing! This is a sure-fire, no-loss deal!"

Count Harvey laughed halfway through, shaking his head and sighing: "That boy—he's a viscount now, and still so naive."

He actually understood why Yoen wrote it this way.

After all, that Northern Lord had given him so much: continuous support, fiefdoms, resources, honor—all opportunities that seemed to fall from the sky.

To be honest, even if he had personally arranged it, he couldn't have made him rise from an pioneering baron to a viscount in just a few years.

Thinking of this, Harvey felt a bit conflicted, half pride, half sigh.

He put down that letter and picked up the one sealed with the sun emblem.

It was from Louis Calvin, the handwriting on the cover was neat, and the wax seal was tidy.

The letter paper unfolded, the handwriting was neat, the wording calm, conveying the restraint and orderliness of a business discussion.

Louis addressed him as "Uncle Harvey" in the letter, his tone calm and appropriate, neither humble nor arrogant.

The entire letter contained no superfluous flattery, nor any hint of coercion, like a lord who knew his own worth stating facts.

He first briefly explained the current situation in the North: Red Tide City had become the core of Northern trade, with stable and expanding output.

Then he wrote about the intention to cooperate: Red Tide was willing to primarily offer materials such as leather, Cold Iron, magma essence, and various minerals, in exchange for access to Harvey's port for the circulation of grain, spices, silk, and wine, and to establish stable transit warehouses.

The letter even detailed several suggested plans: including cargo profit-sharing ratios, winter storage and transport subsidies, port maintenance cost-sharing, and future expandable trade quotas.

Each item was so clear it was numbered, allowing one to immediately see the logic and order of an entire management team behind this letter.

Furthermore, Red Tide promised to support reasonable proposals from the "New Noble Alliance" at the Dragon Throne Council.

If the imperial situation worsened and war spread, the Harvey family's material transport and port access would also be prioritized.

The final sentence was concise yet profound: "If the two families of the North and South can join hands, even in troubled times, there can be a greater degree of stability."

He finished reading, gently set down the letter, his gaze fixed on the firelight, his thoughts slowly forming.

"The Calvin Family has /N_o_v_e_l_i_g_h_t/ long been the empire's top port and trade route hegemon. This child, a son of Calvin, bypassed his own trading house to come to me?" he murmured to himself.

This was no ordinary cooperation invitation; it was tantamount to slapping his own father in the face.

Either there was an internal struggle within the Calvin Family, or this young count already intended to strike out on his own.

He took a sip of wine, countless thoughts flashing through his mind.

He and the Calvin Family's ports had always been in competition, secretly vying for power for years.

And this Louis had saved Yoen's life, pulling that foolish boy out of a pile of dead men, and then helping him gain the title of viscount. He couldn't pretend not to see this favor.

Moreover, the Emperor had not appeared for a long time, the princes were forming factions; the old nobles were biding their time for restoration, and the New Noble Alliance was suppressed in the imperial capital. He, a count who had risen through money, frankly had shallow roots and an unstable position.

"Standing with anyone feels like gambling with my life," he murmured to himself. "But that young man in the North turned a wasteland into a place where people are well-fed and clothed, stronger than half the old nobles. At least, he needs partners now, not prey."

He knew too well that aligning with old nobles meant becoming a passive subordinate.

Opening a separate line with Louis, however, meant having an extra card, an extra fallback.

And if Louis failed, he could still claim it was just local cooperation to look after his son.

He tapped the table, making a decision: first talk, then take sides.

"Draft a reply," he instructed his secretary, "friendly in tone, neither humble nor arrogant. Express interest in the cooperation proposal, willing to send representatives to the North for detailed discussions, starting with one shipping route and a batch of goods as a trial."

He looked at the firelight, his thoughts still racing.

Harvey repeatedly weighed the significance of this step in his mind. This letter was not just a negotiation, but a test, a quiet gamble.

He knew he wasn't qualified to directly confront the Calvin Family, nor could he easily be drawn into the princes' factions.

But Louis was different. The Northern line had always been loosely connected to imperial politics; from its geography to its people, it was independent and resilient.

His ability to establish a foothold in such a place indicated that he didn't rely on imperial power but could create his own order.

Such a person understood both the game of power and how to survive in the mud.

If he could connect with this Northern line, no matter who won in the imperial capital in the future, the Harvey family in the South would retain room to maneuver.

Harvey's mind was half coldly calculating, half filled with a certain secret admiration.

Young, daring, and methodical—such a lord was becoming rare in this decaying empire.

"He's betting on the future of the North, and I'm betting on him," Harvey murmured.

Count Harvey decided to be a little more cautious, not rushing to commit all his chips, but this connection had to be secured first.

He raised his wine glass, as if toasting the distant figure in the firelight: "Then let's see how far you can take the North, Louis Calvin."