Lord of the Frozen Winter: Starting with Daily Intelligence Reports

By the time the envoy team was officially received, the sky was already dark, but the city was as bright as day.

Magic Stone Lamps lined the main street in an arc, stretching towards the high tower in the Administrative District.

Sorel was led into the Administrative Center building.

The heavy door opened with a slight push, the hinges making no sound.

The person waiting for him at the entrance was a gray-haired, impeccably dressed old man—Bradley.

This old man, who was in charge of Red Tide City's administrative core, carried himself with a composure utterly unsuited to the Northern Territory.

Bradley bowed slightly, neither subservient nor arrogant: "Welcome, Lord Sorel."

Sorel noted that all actions were perfectly appropriate, yet lacked the customary flattery nobles usually showed an imperial envoy.

He instinctively straightened his back: "May I ask where Count Louis Calvin is? I have urgent matters to discuss with him on this trip."

Bradley maintained his gentle yet distant demeanor: "The Count is currently inspecting the new mine vein and the Glacier Route. His return date is uncertain, likely requiring ten to fifteen days."

Sorel paused for half a second, instinctively searching the other man's face for any sign of deliberate obstruction, but found none.

He sneered internally: "Hmph, Breaking the Hawk."

Having worked in diplomacy for years, he immediately recognized this as a classic power play: neither seeing him, nor refusing him, nor offering an explanation.

You want to talk? Then wait first.

But Sorel was not angered, because the snow had blocked the roads, and he hadn't planned on leaving within ten days anyway; his original intention was to stay in Red Tide City until spring.

Sorel smiled and expressed understanding: "Perfect, I can take this opportunity to admire the splendor of the Pearl of the Northern Territory."

"Of course," Bradley nodded slightly, stating calmly, "Aside from a few Military Control Zones marked with red road signs, Red Tide City is completely open to you."

Sorel grew even more curious, but he didn't voice it, merely smiling: "Then I shall await here respectfully."

Bradley made a gesture of invitation: "Your residence has been prepared. If you require anything, simply inform the steward."

Sorel was led toward the depths of the reception hall, and the further he walked, the more the ground beneath his feet felt neither like flagstone nor wood.

It felt steady and smooth underfoot, even carrying a slight warmth.

When he pushed open the door, that "unusual warmth" completely enveloped him.

There was no fireplace, no charcoal brazier, no fire in the room.

Yet the air was warm like spring.

He walked in and instinctively reached out to touch the wall.

The texture was warm stone, as if it had been baked by a hearth, yet the heat wasn't localized; the entire wall was slowly radiating warmth, and the floor beneath his feet was the same.

"—What is this?" Sorel frowned.

The accompanying attendant was also astonished: "My Lord, there is—no fire lit here."

Bradley stood at the doorway, his tone steady: "Red Tide City utilizes Geothermal Piping and Centralized Heating. You need not worry about temperature issues during your stay."

Geothermal, Centralized Heating.

Sorel had never heard these terms; they sounded like new, awkward concepts.

In any case, he had never seen anything like it anywhere else in the Empire.

The room was not only warm, but the air was clean, free of mildew or dampness.

Fresh hot water was on the table, a wool overcoat and dry leather gloves were in the wardrobe, and the bedding was more comfortable than the royal guest rooms in the Imperial Capital.

Sorel remained silent for a long time.

He wasn't moved by the warmth; he saw something much more terrifying: energy redundancy.

While other Northern Territory domains had to scrimp even on a bundle of firewood, here they could afford to heat the entire floor and walls of a guest room.

This meant Red Tide's fuel reserves were abundant enough to be squandered, and their control over coal production, transportation efficiency, and energy storage technology far surpassed any other power in the Northern Territory.

It meant they were neither afraid of the cold nor afraid of winter, and the Northern Territory winter had always been the sharpest blade against the local populace.

Sorel sat on the chair, holding his forehead, his heart skipping a few beats.

Bradley said softly: "Your Excellency has traveled far and ➤ NоvеⅠight ➤ (Read more on our source) may rest first. I will arrange for a dedicated person to update you daily on the progress of the Lord's itinerary.

Sorel looked up and saw the other man still wearing that impeccably polite expression.

Within that expression lay a strange disconnect.

He was being treated as a visitor received according to protocol, not as an Imperial Envoy, which was completely different from the enthusiastic welcome he had received throughout his journey to the Northern Territory.

"I understand," Sorel murmured.

Early the next morning, Sorel changed into a light-colored cloak prepared by his attendant, pulled his hat low, and walked onto the streets with two personal guards.

He did not report his movements or bring his retinue, acting like an ordinary Southern noble traveling, simply observing the city.

The wind and snow were still heavy, falling like goose feathers, pressing the distant eaves into white lines.

But the road beneath his feet seemed completely out of season.

The three-section main thoroughfare was wide and straight. Snow that fell onto the ground melted into water in less than a second, flowing along the laid-out

drainage ditches toward the roadside.

There was no accumulated snow, no mud, and none of the hard ice patches common in winter.

Sorel squatted down, moving his finger close to the gap between the paving stones, feeling a faint warmth.

He frowned: "Just like in the room, the road underneath is radiating heat?"

The attendant looked bewildered: "My Lord, is it magic?"

"No," Sorel withdrew his hand and stood up.

He recalled the warmth radiating from the walls of the guest room in Red Tide City, then connected it to the non-freezing main thoroughfare beneath his feet—the entire chain of thought instantly clicked—

Red Tide had pre-embedded Heating Conduits beneath the roads, transporting thermal energy from the city center to all main thoroughfares.

What ordinary people saw was simply that they wouldn't slip while walking.

But to Sorel, this represented a completely different level of technological capability.

He stared at the non-freezing road: "They can keep the main thoroughfares of the entire city at a constant temperature? They can maintain transport, commerce, and public order during a blizzard—completely unaffected by the weather."

His estimation of Red Tide's technical strength increased significantly.

Next, he headed towards the Reception Zone near the city gate.

Theoretically, this should have been the dirtiest and most chaotic place; every major city in the Empire had an area like this to some extent.

These people weren't local residents; they were like foreign parasites, impossible to drive away, so a section had to be allocated for them to live in.

In any case, they constantly dispersed and reappeared like weeds, forming the shadow that all cities in the Empire preferred not to mention.

But as he approached, he was greatly surprised.

There was no smell of decay or the sour odor of excrement in the air, only the clean scent of lime water and sulfur soap.

"—The smell is wrong," Sorel murmured.

The attendant thought he was complaining: "My Lord, I'll just—"

"It's not dirty, it's suspiciously clean." Sorel gently raised his hand, signaling him not to move.

Steam pipes outside the Reception Zone emitted white mist. Several staff members wearing thick aprons guided the newly arrived displaced persons to line up and enter a massive public bathhouse.

The exterior wall of the bathhouse was engraved with the Red Tide Sun Crest, and two Female Medical Workers stood at the entrance.

A staff member noticed them, gave a brief look, and walked over: "Are the two of you outside visitors? This is the reception line; if you wish to observe, you must stand outside the yellow demarcation line."

Sorel glanced at the yellow line on the ground and couldn't help but ask: "You clean this many people every day?"

The staff member nodded: "It is regulated. Newly arrived displaced persons must first be treated for lice and mold spots, otherwise they might bring disease."

Sorel was stunned by the reply.

The displaced persons went in filthy and covered in lice.

They came out with shortened hair, their clothes replaced with uniform old cotton garments, each holding a bowl of steaming porridge.

Just then, a middle-aged man who had just been ushered out suddenly stopped, the hand holding his porridge trembling slightly.

He looked at the Red Tide Sun Crest on the wall, and his eyes inexplicably welled up.

He didn't speak to anyone, but suddenly knelt in the snow and forcefully kowtowed, his voice choked: "Thank you—thank you—I thought I wouldn't survive this winter—"

The foreman quickly pulled him up: "Don't kneel. Finish eating, go register, and then you have work to do."

Not far away, a frail woman holding a child quietly asked the Female Medical Worker: "Can we really—really stay? You won't drive us away?"

The Female Medical Worker placed a clean shawl over her shoulders: "As long as you are willing to register and work, you can stay."

The woman hugged her child and burst into tears right there: "Thank you—Red Tide saved us—"

Sorel watched this scene, feeling somewhat unable to stomach it.

These people were tearfully grateful, but Sorel didn't understand why, as displaced persons were not wealth; they only brought risk.

Why would Louis spend such a massive cost to handle these people?

By the standards of Imperial nobles, this behavior was meaningless: strenuous, unprofitable, and low-yield.

Yet in Red Tide, everyone took it for granted, as if they were executing an incredibly mature procedure.

Sorel couldn't understand, and he certainly couldn't guess the true reason.

The increase in the number of displaced persons meant a larger population base, representing a manifold increase in the number of mobilized laborers, trainable soldiers, and cultivatable artisans.

The cleaned displaced persons wouldn't be immediately useful, but they would survive.

Once they survived, they would be incorporated into Red Tide's food allocation, work point, and review system. They might not necessarily stay in the city, but be distributed to other Red Tide territories nearby.

Once integrated into the system, they were not a burden but a resource, a human ore that could be continuously processed.

Louis wasn't offering relief; he was pre-stocking people for future industrial expansion.

As for finding new industries, that was no problem at all for Louis, a transmigrator from Earth and a lord gifted with the Daily Intel Cheat.

Sorel, of course, could not have realized this.

From his perspective, this entire process was costly and laborious—utterly idiotic.

He failed to understand the logic of this system because his perspective was too narrow.

On the afternoon of the third day, Sorel walked to the square in the residential area.

This was an area where citizens gathered, and the most direct place to observe the city's atmosphere.

He happened to see an old man pushing a wheelbarrow slip, spilling his entire bag of flour onto the ground.

Sorel subconsciously expected the Knight to crack a whip and drive away the obstruction.

After all, this was perfectly normal in the Imperial Capital.

But in Red Tide City, the Patrol Knight immediately reined in his horse, dismounted, first helped the old man up, then gathered the spilled flour back into the bag, and only continued patrolling after confirming everything was alright.

The surrounding citizens did not retreat; instead, several children's eyes shone like stars: "I want to be a Knight too!"

Sorel froze in place. Knights were no longer a privileged class; they were protectors.

Commoners were no longer lowlifes who had to avoid eye contact; they could look directly at the Knights and even take pride in them.

If it were only one Knight acting this way, it would just indicate that individual Knight possessed high moral character. However, based on his experience over the past few days, the Knights of Red Tide were all very kind to the commoners and never impatient.

This meant that Louis had deliberately established this rule, and every Knight was diligently following it.

This was not mere management; it was the reshaping of class consciousness.

But even so, he still felt that something was not quite right. Once the lower class accepted the new order, the old nobility would become superfluous. Wouldn't this also be disadvantageous to Louis?

But that's precisely the problem; the part Sorel understood only skimmed the surface.

As for the deeper logic—why change the class structure, why make knights more gentle, why make the populace actively embrace this order—he still couldn't quite grasp it.

To Sorel, this approach was too complex and too risky, not conforming to any common sense of the Empire's nobility.

He racked his brain but couldn't figure it out, so he could only keep it in his heart for now.

On the fourth day, he was permitted, with Bradley's consent, to visit the periphery of the Red Tide City Council Hall. 𝑓𝘳𝑒𝑒𝓌𝘦𝘣𝘯ℴ𝑣𝘦𝑙.𝘤𝑜𝑚

The building had no gold, no carvings, not even the stained-glass windows the Imperial Capital loved to flaunt.

Cold Iron beams supported the dome of the hall one by one, and the Red Tide banners fell from above like cascading waterfalls, creating a strong sense of oppression with the cold, hard iron structure.

The outer hall was very noisy, with Red Tide citizens constantly coming to conduct business, people coming and going, a continuous clamor.

Inside, however, it was astonishingly quiet. Clerks held red, yellow, and gray folders, moving briskly, not whispering, and without any chaos.

Everyone's movements were concise and precise, like gears that had been polished over and over again.

A merchant submitted an application document earlier; from taking a number, submitting, reviewing, to getting it stamped and leaving, the entire process took less than fifteen minutes.

These scenes stunned Sorel. In the Imperial Capital, such a procedure would take at least three days, and three gratuities would be required.

He slowly exhaled: "No layers of exploitation, no local petty officials, no middlemen taking cuts—Louis's will can be transmitted to the very end without loss."

This was powerful centralization, a highly efficient administrative machine, and the operating method of a new order.

But here, he got stuck again. If the Empire were to do this, it would immediately provoke a backlash from all nobles. How did Louis achieve it? Why didn't the Northern Territory explode?

He couldn't understand it at all.

In fact, the reason Red Tide's administrative system could operate so efficiently was that Louis transformed the structure of interests, not the structure of power.

The old nobility's multi-layered exploitation chain was severed and replaced with an integrated interest loop of "infrastructure, industry, and taxation."

The fewer intermediate links, the higher the efficiency, and the growth of resources in the Red Tide Territory would allow most people to profit. Officials' salaries were very high, and coupled with a transparent promotion system, these officials naturally actively submitted to this system.

Sorel, of course, could not see these things.

He could only see the surface order but completely failed to grasp the underlying logic. He suddenly understood why the Northern Territory lords were so afraid of Red Tide.

This was not building a territory; this was building a nation, and a rapidly growing, enormous machine at that.

A machine with its own military, industry, energy, and administrative system, independent of any Imperial resources.

Sorel stood on the edge of the high platform in the administrative district, gazing up at the enormous red flag, suddenly feeling completely swallowed by the shadow of this machine.

His gaze swept over the city wall, seeing the distant area consistently shrouded in a light mist.

There were no lights of prosperous districts, no soft glow of magic stone lamps, only massive building complexes stretching like a mountain range.

The lines were straight, the surfaces hard and cold, devoid of the patterns and decorations favored by nobles.

It was more like an entire barrier of iron and stone, rising from the frozen earth.

The first time Sorel saw it, he thought it was some kind of military fortress.

Without flags, without bugles, and without the sound of soldiers training, it appeared all the more oppressive and unfamiliar.

Bradley had mentioned a "militarized zone" before, so Sorel assumed this was one of them.

But the more he looked, the more he felt something was wrong.

This place was unusually quiet, unlike a military camp, yet also unlike a workshop. He simply couldn't determine what it was.

Sorel squinted, staring at the dark mass of buildings, his heart itching with curiosity.

"What exactly is Louis keeping in there?"

He couldn't find an answer, and the more he thought about it, the more uneasy he became.

So Sorel quietly instructed the two accompanying High-ranking Elite Knights: "Don't alarm anyone. Just get close and see what they're building in those black houses."

The knights changed into gray cloaks and quietly left through a side door in the darkness.

Sorel lit a candle and sat by the window, waiting.

The snow fell heavily, the candlelight flickered, and his heart pounded along with it.

Before long, low footsteps approached.

The two knights knelt down: "My Lord, we couldn't get in, absolutely couldn't get in."

Sorel's brow furrowed: "Many guards?"

"Not many," the knight spoke with difficulty, "but strong."

He looked up, his expression as complex as if he had seen something incredible: "There are at least three—"

No, possibly five Extraordinary Knights on patrol."

Sorel almost lost his footing.

In the Empire, one Extraordinary Knight was enough to command a legion of five hundred men and could become a baron's esteemed guest.

They were the core of the battlefield, symbols of noble power.

And in Red Tide?

Louis actually used five Extraordinary Knights to guard a workshop gate?

Sorel's heart grew cold: "What exactly is hidden in that smoking place—"

The next day, he personally went to the outskirts of the East District's main road to observe from a distance.

The snow was heavier, but the avenue leading to the industrial zone remained clear, and transport teams continuously advanced along the wet road.

Sorel did not approach, staying at a safe distance.

Even so, he was still shaken by the sheer scale of it.

The input was raw materials being consumed.

Hundreds of heavy horse-drawn carts, pulled by two horses each, lined up and drove out from deep within the snowy landscape.

Piled on the carts were: neatly cut logs, shiny black refined coal, crude iron ore from the mines—

There were even a few carts covered with tarpaulins, concealing long metal parts.

These materials were continuously swallowed behind the huge iron gates, as if fed into the belly of a giant beast.

Sorel murmured: "This workshop's daily consumption is equivalent to the Remont Family's blacksmith shop's annual usage—"

.

He stared at the continuously advancing transport team, "How many blacksmiths are kept in there? A thousand? Ten thousand?

"

The more he thought about it, the more he struggled to breathe.

And at the gate on the other side, a few scattered trucks slowly drove out.

The goods were tightly covered with oiled black canvas, their shapes indiscernible, and without labels.

Though few in number, each one was incredibly heavy.

Even on the hardened road, the iron-clad wheels left white indentations.

Six draft horses strained every muscle, and the drivers practically relied on their whips to get the vehicles moving.

He couldn't help but whisper: "Such heavy cargo—is it battering rams? Catapults? Or iron barriers to counter heavy cavalry?"

Sorel stared at the giant gate for a long time, eventually suppressing all his conjectures. Since he couldn't get in, he could only leave for now.

He put on his cloak and returned to the guesthouse, constantly looking back at the gloomy complex on the way, as if staring at a giant beast that might awaken at any moment.

Back in his room, he leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.

Images from the past few days in the city flashed rapidly through his mind.

Ice-free roads, odorless shelters, knights who actively helped the elderly, administrative approvals taking only fifteen minutes—

Sorel finally managed to piece together a rough outline:

Traditional lords relied on the whip to instill fear in their subjects, while better lords relied on charity to earn their gratitude.

But Louis Calvin relied on the system and life itself, integrating himself into the very air of the entire city.

The people here would cry over a bowl of porridge, cheer for an elderly person being helped up, and nod in greeting when knights patrolled.

Not out of fear, not out of charity, but because they could no longer live without this system.

"To these people, Louis is not a lord—" Sorel opened his eyes, his throat tight, "He is like the sun; they can no longer live without him—"

Sorel suddenly realized a fact more terrifying than the industrial zone.

"If I were to bribe a Red Tide general, he would be tied up by his own knights and sent to the judgment stand. If I were to incite a riot, the citizens here would probably be the first to rush forward and bite my throat."

Sorel's chest felt heavy, as if pressed down by something: "In this city—Louis is a god. And I am merely a mortal trying to bribe a god with gold coins."

He remained silent for a long time, then slowly straightened his back.

Even knowing it was impossible to succeed, he still had to fulfill his mission. If he returned empty-handed, he would only become a laughingstock or a scapegoat the next day.

Sorel slowly exhaled and took out the wax-sealed secret letter, which circulated only within the Empire's core circles, from his Huai.

That was the Second Prince's trump card, and the most exaggerated condition the Empire was willing to offer to win over Louis Calvin.

Enfeoffment as Grand Duke of the Northern Territory.

Promise of Red Tide Territory's autonomy and exemption from corvée labor.

Opening up 70% of the profits from two core southern trade routes as an initial cooperation fund.

Guaranteed seats in the future Imperial New Dragon Seat Council.

Any one of these conditions, taken alone, would make half the Empire's nobles kneel and weep.

Sorel stared at the secret letter, but in his heart, there was only one absurd thought: "Louis probably doesn't even care for these things."

But he still had to try.

He had even planned his strategy: while Louis was still in his developmental phase, start with the Imperial enfeoffment to give Louis a golden veneer in the name of the royal family.

Use the status of Grand Duke of the Northern Territory to induce political ambition in him, then, in due course, offer the Remont Family's southern trade route interests to make this young lord dependent.

Once Red Tide and Remont are deeply intertwined in their interest structure, slowly pull Louis into the Remont Family's faction.

Yes, the Remont patriarch's faction, not the Second Prince's family's faction.

This was the method he was most skilled at in the Imperial Capital.

But now, looking in the direction of Red Tide City, he suddenly realized he wasn't hunting a beast; it was like trying to lasso a mountain.

Even so, he gritted his teeth and put the secret letter back into his embrace.

"I can only bite the bullet and continue negotiations—at least, so the Second Prince sees that I tried my best."

Sorel stood up and straightened his clothes, as if giving himself one last dignified gesture.

"Louis Calvin won't be easily swayed—then I'll start with the people around him. First Bradley, then the legion commanders, then the trade route controllers—"

He murmured: "Even if I can't move the whole mountain, I'll chip off a stone."