Lord of the Frozen Winter: Starting with Daily Intelligence Reports

In the Northern Territory during early autumn, the wind already carried a subtle chill.

In the North District of Red Tide City, the newly constructed freight platform was cordoned off by a circle of solemn red-armored knights.

Few people were permitted near the inner circle: only the black-robed scribes from the Hall of Internal Affairs, surveyors in gray uniforms from the Department of Roads, a dozen invited merchant caravan representatives, and some veteran artisans specially allowed to observe the ceremony.

On the outer earthen slope, a circle of liege subjects gathered from afar.

They were red from the cold, but their eyes were fixed on the parallel railway tracks stretching into the gray-white mist.

"Damned weather..." Reto hunched his neck, trying to hide his frozen chin in the fox fur lining his collar.

He looked to be in his early twenties, wearing a well-tailored but somewhat thin Southern silk suit, making him stand out among the Northerners wrapped in thick furs.

This was his first time accompanying his father to this place, Red Tide City.

"I don't understand why we have to stand here drinking cold wind." Reto stomped his foot, complaining to an inconspicuous, skinny man beside him.

He didn't even know the man's name, only that he was also one of the people invited by Lord Bradley, the Chief Administrator of Internal Affairs.

"Hey, listen up." Reto sniffed, his tone filled with the arrogance of a young master from a major merchant house. "My father, the Chairman of the Golden Wheat Merchant House, only sent me to fill in because he had urgent matters to handle.

The people from the Hall of Internal Affairs say this is some epoch-making moment? Ha! Just based on these two iron bars laid in the mud?"

The skinny man beside him was named House, and he wasn't angered by Reto's arrogance.

He wore work clothes covered in coal dust—the uniform of the Artisan Department.

"Sir," House's voice was soft, "you should button up your collar a bit tighter."

"What?" Reto frowned, thinking this lowlife was mocking him for his thin attire.

"Because that is the Snowfield Iron Vein," House muttered. "Anyone who sees it for the first time will have their legs turn soft. It would be embarrassing to fall, sir."

"Hah?" Reto was about to scoff at the bumpkin's sensationalism when the ground suddenly transmitted a strange sensation.

Just as he felt a slight unease, the gravel at his feet began to jump restlessly, making faint collision sounds against the railway tracks.

It wasn't the violent shaking of an earthquake, but a vibration like ten thousand horses stampeding.

"Wooooo—!!!"

Immediately afterward, a long, unfamiliar blast tore through the cold stillness of early autumn.

The sound was neither the passion of a horn nor the roar of a magical beast.

It was cold, deep, and extremely penetrating, drilling directly into Reto's bone marrow, making his scalp tingle, and swallowing the mockery he was about to utter.

The distant thin mist was violently shattered.

In Reto's constricted pupils, a colossal steel object, spewing thick smoke, was bearing down on him along the tracks.

"Wha... What monster is that?!"

Reto subconsciously retreated two steps, his legs buckling, and his back slamming hard against the railing.

If not for the railing, he really would have sat down on the ground, just as House had predicted.

"That is the Snowfield Iron Vein," House whispered, his eyes shining with excitement.

The massive cowcatcher on the front of the engine resembled a heavy shield used by charging knights, gleaming with the unique cold light of Cold Iron.

Massive metal connecting rods drove the man-high steel wheels, producing a grinding, yet incredibly rhythmic, metallic clanging sound, accompanied by an absolute physical sense of oppression—the feeling that if you didn't move, you would be crushed into paste.

"Clack, clack, clack!"

As the train approached, Reto felt the ground beneath the platform seemed to tremble slightly, his ears filled with the mechanical roar and the harsh hiss of steam flow generated by the behemoth.

He had never seen such a massive, powerful existence.

The confidence and contempt he held as a young master of a merchant caravan were utterly shattered by this steel behemoth.

He felt an indescribable shock, one that far surpassed his imagination of any weapon or warrior.

He subconsciously opened his mouth but couldn't utter a word.

"That... is it?" Reto finally squeezed the words out of his throat.

There was dead silence on the platform, broken only by heavy breathing echoing in the air.

The train, accompanied by the screeching howl of the brake shoes, stopped precisely next to the platform's red line.

The scalding white steam vented by the pressure relief valve instantly engulfed half the platform; a wave of heat rushed forward, dispelling all the cold.

The carriage door slid open.

Red Tide Lord Louis Calvin stepped out first.

He was wearing his characteristic black Lord's robe, his expression calm as his gaze swept over the crowd.

"Open the cargo hold."

Following a gesture from Louis, the incredibly heavy-looking sealed cargo carriage behind him was pulled open by the sappers.

Inside were mountains of burlap sacks, each mouth bulging full, and stamped with a golden Wheat Ear Sun Emblem.

Reto subconsciously protected himself; he had seen too many scenes where starving people fought over half a piece of black bread.

He thought these Northerners would stare at the sacks of flour like wild dogs, their eyes gleaming with greed.

But he was wrong, utterly wrong.

When those sacks of life-saving grain were laid out before them, not a single one of the hundreds of liege subjects on the periphery spared the flour a second glance.

Countless pairs of eyes, as if drawn by some magnetic force, were fixed fiercely on the black-clad young man standing before the white steam mist.

It was something more primal, more fanatical than the craving for food.

It was absolute reverence for the bringer of miracles.

"Lord Louis!!!" Someone shouted first.

Immediately after, like a fierce wind sweeping through Wheatwave, the crowds on the earthen slope raised their hands in waves.

There were no pleas for food, only roars that seemed to burn the soul: "Lord Louis!!!"

This shout was sharper than the train whistle's long blast moments ago, instantly tearing at Reto's eardrums.

"Guardian of the Deep Winter!!"

"Great Calvin!!"

The wave of sound erupted like a tsunami.

Reto watched in horror as House, the humble artisan beside him, fiercely gripped the railing, his expression fanatical.

In House's eyes was an almost insane pride—the look of a believer showing off the true god to a heretic: "Sir! Did you see clearly?! That is our Lord! That is the Great Lord Louis!!"

Reto was forced to retreat repeatedly by the surging wave of fanaticism.

Amidst the deafening cheers, Louis showed no sign of smugness.

He simply stood amidst the flying steam and cheers, looking at the fanatical faces.

Then the young Lord performed a gesture.

He slowly raised his right arm and pressed his black leather-gloved fist heavily against his left chest—a returning salute.

"Boom—!!!"

If the previous cheer was a tsunami, then this moment was an avalanche.

Seeing the Lord's response, the crowd went completely mad.

Reto even felt the platform beneath his feet tremble violently with the sound wave, and he could hear nothing but that name.

Louis held the posture for a full three seconds.

Then he lowered his hand, palm down, and gently pressed down in the empty air.

But the instant this gesture dropped, the avalanche of cheers miraculously began to subside, until finally, only heavy gasps and the distant roar of the steam engine remained.

Complete control.

This was not just affection; this was absolute dominion.

"A true man should be like this." # Nоvеlight # That was Reto's only thought.

Louis did not linger on the platform. Escorted by the knights, he passed through the path automatically cleared by the fanatical populace and boarded the carriage returning to the administrative center.

Even after the Lord's motorcade disappeared at the end of the street, the suffocating fanaticism lingered in the air for a long time.

Half an hour later, in the Red Tide City Administrative Center, the Lord's Office.

The heavy oak door slowly closed behind him, making a soft "click."

The door panel, thick as a wall, completely isolated the seemingly ceaseless clamor outside.

Louis unbuttoned a button at his collar, removed the black leather gloves stained with cold and coal dust, and tossed them casually onto a corner of the long table.

"Have a seat," he said. He walked around the desk and sat down in his high-backed chair.

There was no relaxation indicative of a major accomplishment; his back remained straight, and his fingers habitually tapped the armrest.

The few who followed him in—Bradley, Trade Commissioner, Lambert, and the hesitant Hamilton—finally recovered from the previous fanatical atmosphere, regaining the composure of decision-makers.

Louis did not speak immediately; he simply closed his eyes, his fingers tapping rhythmically on the desk.

Four full days. Only four days.

Louis's bones were still slightly unsettled from the prolonged vibration, but this made him feel real and joyful.

In the past, this road was a severed artery.

From the mines of Starforge Territory to the docks of Dawn Harbor, it was a muddy death march; from the farmlands of Wheat Wave Territory to the dining tables of Red Tide City, it was a gamble against the blizzard.

But for these ninety-six hours, this steel beast did not rest.

It did not need sleep, nor did it need to chew fodder like mules and horses, nor would it limp because the frozen ground was too hard.

It only consumed coal and water, running tirelessly across the desolate plains where night and day alternated.

On the morning of the first day, iron ore from Starforge Territory poured into the carriages like a black waterfall.

On the evening of the second day, the sea breeze from Dawn Harbor, carrying the scent of southern spices, rushed through the windows.

At noon on the third day, it carried away heavy sacks of flour from Wheat Wave Territory.

And now, on the evening of the fourth day, they were lying quietly in the warehouses of Red Tide City.

This was not magic, but it surpassed magic.

When the four territories were forcibly bound together by this steel chain, the concept named Red Tide finally transformed from an ink stain on a map into a living, breathing entity.

"A full twelve hundred li... four days."

Even though he was already seated in a warm chair, Trade Commissioner Deslan still found it somewhat unbelievable.

He flipped open the ledger he carried, his finger quickly tracing the lines, his habitually squinted eyes now wide and round, revealing a merchant's zealous fervor.

"My Lord, if my most elite trade caravan were to make this round trip, without considering blizzards, bandits, or even the death of mules and horses from exhaustion, it would take at least forty days. And that's in the summer!"

Trade Commissioner Deslan grabbed the thick ledger, waving it like a weapon: "This means our capital turnover rate is ten times faster than those Southern Merchant Guilds!

While their goods are rotting in the mud, ours have already been sold three times over! This can't even be called profit; this is practically stealing money from their pockets!"

"More than your damned profits, I care about how to fit all this stuff in," Bradley interrupted Deslan's fantasy.

"We can transport a month's worth of Wheat Wave Territory's output in four days... Heavens, the City Hall granary simply cannot handle this rate of throughput."

Bradley scratched his thinning hair and sighed, but a smile played on his lips.

Lambert, who had been silent, neither looked at the ledger nor drank water.

He stood behind Louis like a statue, his gaze lowered, seemingly still savoring the vibrations of the moving train.

"It's not just about cargo."

Lambert's voice was low, audible only to the few people in the room.

As a knight, he saw neither gold coins nor bread.

"If, over these four days, the train had been loaded with my Knights and heavy crossbows... it would mean that just as the barbarians in the north began to gather, our swords would already be at their throats."

He raised his head, looking at Louis, his eyes flashing with cold light: "Four days is enough time for us to launch a surprise attack in any corner of the Northern Region, or to reinforce a city in peril."

As Louis listened to their discussion, the blueprint for his massive plan became increasingly clear in his mind.

Food, wealth, war.

These three pillars supporting the territory's existence finally found their most solid foundation amidst the steel roar of these four days and four nights.

He stood up and walked over to the huge map of the Northern Region on the wall.

"The internal circulation has been opened, but this is only the heart starting to beat. Next, we must let the blood flow to the limbs."

He picked up a pen and drew a winding dashed line in the ruined area marked gray on the map's eastern side, next to the former site of Frost Halberd City.

"Phase Two Project: Eastward. Laying a branch line connecting the Frost Halberd Reconstruction Zone.

The survey team has already charted the route. We must avoid those damned, corrosive, toxic insect-infested wastelands and forge a stable new line along the Gray Rock Valley.

The reconstruction of Frost Halberd City requires massive amounts of stone. Hauling it by carriage would take until the next century; I intend to use the railway to speed up the reconstruction."

He then pointed southward: "Phase Three Project: Southward."

This time, even Trade Commissioner Deslan gasped.

"We will build the railway to the junction point with the Southern Nobles' trade routes."

Louis looked coldly at the area at the bottom of the map representing blockade and hostility: "Since someone is blocking our trade routes, we will use cheaper goods and more efficient logistics to crash through their doors.

Let Red Tide's goods move south, and draw in all those refugees who can't survive in the south and the self-serving merchants along the rails."

The matter Louis spoke of was that the Calvin Family, having seemingly realized he was slowly separating from the Calvin Merchant Guild, had employed certain tactics to persuade some nobles not to buy Red Tide's goods.

Louis then turned to look at Hamilton, who was huddled in his chair frantically taking notes.

"This requires a technical upgrade. Hamilton, the current Snowfield Iron Vein is too heavy; running long mountain routes is strenuous."

"Y-yes, My Lord!" Hamilton pushed up the goggles on his nose bridge and answered nervously.

"I want the next generation of boilers—lighter and more durable. I will give the order to Starforge Territory to start casting finer rack rails to handle slopes," Louis said, holding up a finger.

"Also, the Artisan Academy must immediately open a steam maintenance course. I don't want the train breaking down halfway and having to wait for you to rush over from Red Tide City to fix it. I want every future station to have people who can repair the trains."

The young artisan nodded frantically, nearly snapping the pen in his hand.

Finally, Louis turned around and looked at Lambert: "Lambert, what does this mean strategically?"

"It means speed, My Lord," Lambert replied without hesitation. "Winter supply lines will no longer be a nightmare. Without relying on carriages, our heavy infantry can mobilize ten times faster."

"Exactly." Louis placed both hands on the edge of the map, his voice dropping, carrying a suffocating sense of pressure, "In the future, when the Imperial War breaks out..."

Hearing the four words "Imperial War," the air in the warm office seemed to instantly freeze.

Deslan's hand, flipping the ledger, froze mid-air; Bradley's smile stiffened on his face; even Lambert couldn't help but feel his eyelid twitch slightly.

But Louis did not pause, nor did he shy away.

He continued calmly, as if discussing tomorrow's weather:

"...When the Imperial War breaks out, while the enemy legions are gnawing on hard bread in the snow, waiting for marathon-style resupply, Red Tide Territory will be able to assemble a well-equipped, physically robust army within three days."

The pen in his hand quickly sketched lines on the map, connecting Frost Halberd Old City, Silver Pine Ridge, Red Tide City, Wheat Wave Territory, Starforge Territory, and Dawn Harbor.

That was a massive network covering the entire Southeast Northern Region.

"This is the long-term goal: a Red Tide Inner Ring, Northern Region Outer Line," Louis stated, dropping the pen and pausing.

They looked at the formidable and grand steel network on the map, finally understanding that the ambition of this young lord was never limited to merely holding onto one corner.

Everyone's breathing grew heavy.

Louis sat back down in his chair, let out a soft breath, and brought the conversation back to immediate threats.

"But the larger this network is, the more fragile it becomes." He turned around, his gaze falling again on the greasy-faced head of the Engineering Group.

"So, besides this fast-running snake, we need a beast that can bite. Hamilton!"

The young artisan, who had been spacing out, suddenly jolted, nearly dropping his notebook. "Ah... Yes, My Lord!"

"I hear that thing has awakened?"

Hamilton paused, and his initial nervousness was instantly replaced by the unique fervor of a technological enthusiast.

He straightened his posture: "My Lord, the boiler pressure test passed. Although the driveshaft still overheats slightly under high torque, it... it is fully combat-capable."

"Very good."

Louis adjusted his cuff and looked at Lambert beside him: "Tomorrow, gather everyone from the Engineering Group. We'll go take a look."

Lambert raised his head slightly, confused, and met Louis's gaze.

"Go see your new mount, Lambert," Louis said softly. "It is prepared for you, and for the Red Tide Knights... a true war machine."