Lord of the Frozen Winter: Starting with Daily Intelligence Reports

Soen rode on his horse, the hooves sinking into the soft black mud with a dull thud.

Ahead lay a low-lying area known as Black Bog Town.

The grey-black water surface shimmered with an oily sheen, scattered dead wood lay tilted in the mire, and the air was thick with the scent of rotting flesh, making one instinctively hold their breath.

Soen's gaze lingered on that swamp for a long time.

He had once been a knight as well.

He had worn polished armor, carried a clean sword, recited oaths, and believed in those words about glory and protection.

Later, when Duke Remont ordered militaristic expansion and the persecution of his subjects, he refused to sign the transfer order.

After that, his title of knight was stripped, his military pay was suspended, and even his mount was nearly dragged away to settle his debts.

He didn't starve to death only because the Red Tide's army soon marched south and saved him.

It was precisely because of this event that he appeared here.

In the files submitted by the Supervisory Department, the evaluation of him was just one sentence: "The old knight who went hungry rather than rob his people."

Chief Administrator Green signed the document.

Soen was transferred into the Red Tide and became a probationary official.

In Soen's view, this was more like a job to just get by.

He didn't expect any real change; he had seen too many instances of changing flags and changing rhetoric in the Grey Rock Province.

No matter how nicely those barbarians from the North spoke, it was just another way of management, another method of exploitation.

This time, as long as he could survive, it would be enough; as for saving the poor, he had long since abandoned such extravagant hopes.

The horse team continued forward, the color of the swamp becoming deeper and deeper; they had arrived at Black Bog Town.

Hardly any intact houses could be seen here.

Shacks made of rotten wood and mud were huddled together like a pile of wreckage that could collapse at any moment.

Sewage flowed along the low ground, carrying away waste and the last shred of dignity.

Soen reined in his horse and said in a low voice to Pete beside him, "This is the province's garbage dump."

Pete did not respond.

"Remont took away all the able-bodied young men here," Soen continued. "They were sent to the front lines as logistics soldiers or turned into labor slaves to be sold for money. Only the elderly and children are left."

He raised his finger toward the figures squatting in the muddy water. "Their farming tools were all melted down to cast weapons. Since they can't farm the land, they crawl in the swamp to catch bugs to eat."

Soen paused for a moment and added, "They aren't humans; they are living ghosts."

Pete remained silent.

Behind him followed twenty grassroots officials of the Red Tide. They were all young, and their uniforms were still very new.

Facing this place that was as wretched as could be, they did not show expressions of disgust; they even seemed a bit eager to get started.

Soen couldn't understand; he didn't know what these people were thinking.

The convoy slowly entered the town. There were no sounds of begging, nor any cursing.

Figures shrank behind broken walls and mud shacks like frightened rats, revealing only pairs of hollow and wary eyes.

Pete jumped down from the carriage.

The sludge rose over the tops of his boots and quickly soaked his pant legs, but he didn't care. He looked up at the half-collapsed stone tower at the town's entrance.

"Right here." Pete took the flagpole and climbed up, stepping over rubble and rotten wood.

He forcefully thrust the bright red flag of the Red Tide into a crack in the stone.

The wind blew from deep within the swamp, making the flag snap loudly.

That splash of red appeared exceptionally piercing in the grey-black world.

Soen instinctively squinted his eyes.

Just then, a beggar covered in sores rushed out from the shadows, letting out indistinct roars from his mouth.

Soen's body reacted before his thoughts. With a 'clang,' his longsword was unsheathed.

This was an instinct he had learned as a knight: any action of rushing an official meant a threat and needed to be eliminated on the spot.

Before his sword could be raised, a hand pressed down on the hilt. It was Pete.

Soen was stunned, while Pete had already taken a step forward.

He reached out both hands and steadily supported the tottering beggar.

The worn gloves were instantly stained dark by pus, blood, and sludge, and a foul stench wafted toward them. 𝐟𝐫𝕖𝗲𝘄𝚎𝗯𝕟𝐨𝕧𝐞𝚕.𝕔𝕠𝐦

Pete didn't even knit his brows; he only said in a low voice, "Slow down, don't fall."

Soen stood in place, the sword in his hand having lowered at some point.

This didn't make him feel relieved; instead, he was even more confused.

In his understanding, an official's hands were for signing orders, for issuing commands from across a desk.

They shouldn't touch such things, nor was there any need to.

He looked at Pete's gloves, soiled by sludge and pus, and an unseemly thought popped into his head: What is this? Who is he performing for?

The Red Tide flag snapped in the wind, its bright red color almost excessive.

Soon, the water in the large pot began to boil.

The iron pot was set on a temporary stone stove, and flames licked the bottom of the pot.

Diced bacon, dehydrated vegetables shipped from the Red Tide, and finely ground oatmeal were poured into the pot spoonful by spoonful, tumbling in the boiling water.

White steam rose, quickly enveloping the entire clearing.

The aroma of meat drifted through the air.

In this swamp that was perennially thick with the smell of stagnant water, this scent seemed out of place, even somewhat pungent.

It wasn't the aroma of a festival, but a long-lost scent of life that made one feel uneasy.

Soen stood behind Pete, looking at the bubbling large pot, his brow furrowing tighter and tighter.

He finally spoke up, exceptionally serious: "Lord Pete. If I may be so bold, the meat in this pot of porridge is enough to buy the lives of everyone in this town."

Pete did not look up.

Soen continued, "You give them meat today, but what about tomorrow? The day after? No matter how full the Red Tide's granaries are, they cannot fill a place like this."

His gaze swept over the figures huddling in the distance, whose eyes were drawn by the aroma.

"When the day comes that you can no longer issue meat, these hungry wolves you've suddenly fed will be the first to tear apart the person standing in front of them."

Soen had seen this ending too many times; the old nobility never made a losing deal, and charity only appeared as long as it could maintain control.

Pete continued to stir the pot, the wooden ladle scraping against the bottom with a steady and rhythmic sound.

After a moment, he spoke calmly, "Knight Soen, in the Red Tide, we don't call people bottomless pits; we call them labor."

Soen was taken aback, not knowing what to say.

Pete continued, his tone still calm, "But the prerequisite is that we must first let them survive today."

Loudspeakers were soon set up.

"Food is ready—!" the shout was drawn out long.

No movement.

Pete frowned slightly and gestured for someone to shout it again: "Food is ready—!"

Still, no one came forward.

By the time the third shout fell, the clearing was already surrounded by people.

Hundreds of gazes stared fixedly at the bubbling iron pot, yet they seemed to be held in place by an invisible line; no one dared to take a single step.

It wasn't greed; Soen knew that look well—it was fear.

A woman suddenly pulled her child into her arms and covered his mouth, fearing that a cry would bring some disaster.

Several elderly people pulled their heads into their collars, their lips pale, as if waiting for a long-written ending.

The air became exceptionally quiet.

Just then, a white-haired old miner crawled out from the crowd.

He didn't have the strength to stand up, so he could only drag his body, inching toward Pete before kowtowing heavily on the muddy ground.

"Master..." His voice was so raspy it was almost inaudible.

Pete was stunned, not knowing what the old man wanted to do.

The old miner raised his head, his cloudy eyes staring fixedly at the pot, his voice trembling: "If you're going to kill us, can you... just kill me alone?"

He gasped for air as if he had used up all his strength. "Let my grandson go to the mines... he can still work, don't kill him..."

Pete's hand holding the ladle suddenly tightened.

Soen stood to the side, closing his eyes as if suppressing some form of disgust, and said in a low voice, "Remont's rule. Only before disposing of a batch of waste would they be given a full meal."

"It's happened a few times—putting poison in the porridge, a toxic powder refined from slag." Soen paused, as if confirming whether Pete really wanted to hear more. "Those who drank it would start convulsing that very night, and by the next morning, they'd be thrown into the waste pits together..."

Soen added in a low voice, "It saves trouble. They call this meal 'Execution Porridge'."

Pete didn't ask further; he knew that any more words of comfort would be redundant here.

He thrust the ladle into the pot and scooped out a full bowl.

Chunks of meat, grains of wheat, and scalding soup sloshed in the bowl; the steam rose directly up, making it almost impossible to keep one's eyes open.

Under the hundreds of gazes staring fixedly at him, Pete held the bowl, tilted his head back, and drank it down directly.

It was as if he couldn't feel the heat at all, nor did he care about his image; he just swallowed in large gulps until only a few scraps remained in the bowl.

Pete turned the empty bowl over, showing the bottom to everyone.

Then he smashed it down with force: "Smash—"

The ceramic bowl shattered into several pieces on the muddy ground.

"Did you see clearly!" Pete's voice sounded as if it were being roared out from deep within his chest. "No poison! Only meat!"

He pointed at the pot, his arm trembling with tension: "The Red Tide doesn't need dead people! What we want are living people! Those who want to live, come and eat!"

The moment his words fell, the crowd seemed to be burst open by something.

Fear cracked open, and what poured out was naked instinct.

Some howled, some shoved; hundreds of dark shadows squeezed toward the porridge stall at the same time, mud splashed everywhere, and cries and gasps blended into one.

Soen's expression changed drastically.

Once out of control, the next step would be trampling, fighting, and bloodshed.

His hand had already reached for the whip at his waist.

"Get back!" he roared, lunging forward.

In his experience, only pain could make this kind of chaos stop.

"Stop, Soen!" Pete's voice pressed in from the side.

Soen was stunned as several Red Tide aid officials, who were already on standby, quickly stepped forward and skillfully pulled a thick rope taut.

It was a hemp rope dyed bright red, stretched horizontally ten meters in front of the porridge stall.

Pete took the loudspeaker, his voice exploding amidst the chaos: "Listen up! Whoever crosses this rope will never eat a single grain of the Red Tide's rice for the rest of their lives! Get back behind the rope! Line up!"

The words were like nails, hammered into the air one by one.

The people at the very front stopped in their tracks abruptly.

One meal versus all future meals.

Surviving for a moment versus whether they could continue to live in the future.

The chaos stopped immediately; some retreated while gasping for breath, and others dragged their companions back.

After a few moments, behind the red rope, a crooked line actually began to form; it wasn't neat, but it was taking shape.

Soen stood in place, the whip still in his hand, but he had forgotten to swing it.

He looked at that flimsy red rope and then at the gradually quieting crowd, his throat tightening.

"A single rope..." he whispered to himself, "is more effective than my whip?"

The one who answered him wasn't Pete, but a coarse laugh.

Just as the line stabilized, a burly man with a face full of scars squeezed his way out.

His shoulders still bore the whip scars from his days as a foreman, and his back was straight, as if he were accustomed to walking through crowds with impunity.

He shoved aside an orphan holding a bowl, spilling the soup onto the muddy ground.

"Get out of the way." He looked up at Pete, then grinned with a fawning smile. "Can you let me have the first bite, Lord? I'm very useful."

Soen's hand was already on his sword hilt, but he also knew that to govern such a chaotic place, one still couldn't do without these local thugs.

Pete did not show anger; he only raised his hand.

Two knights stepped forward, grabbing the burly man from both sides and dragging him out of the line.

"What are you ◈ Nоvеlіgһт ◈ (Continue reading) doing!" the man struggled and cursed.

Pete's voice was low, yet it clearly reached everyone's ears: "Tie him over there."

On the wooden platform next to the porridge stall, there was a pillar originally used for hanging flags.

The man was tied to the pillar with his hands behind his back, and a piece of cloth was stuffed into his mouth, leaving him only able to make indistinct whimpers.

Pete didn't give him another look: "Continue serving the porridge."

The first bowl was handed out; it was the orphan who had been pushed down.

The child held the coarse ceramic bowl, his hands shaking violently, yet he still lowered his head and began to drink in large gulps.

Steam rose against his face, but he didn't care about the heat, focused only on stuffing it into his mouth.

The aroma of meat drifted through the air again and again.

The line moved forward slowly.

The burly man tied to the pillar was struggling at first, his gaze fierce.

Soon, that fierceness was suppressed by hunger.

He watched as people who were originally inferior to him left holding bowls, watched as someone ate until they burped, and watched as that orphan licked the grease from the bottom of the bowl.

The whimpering changed its tone, becoming an uncontrollable wail.

This was a process where both physiology and consciousness were simultaneously crushed.

When the porridge was all distributed, Pete finally turned around and just gave Soen a look.

Soen understood; his longsword left its sheath with no wasted movement.

A flash of cold light fell, and the crying stopped abruptly.

Blood splattered on the pillar and was soon swallowed by the damp, cold air.

After drinking the porridge, the people slowly began to recover their strength.

With a substantial weight in their stomachs, the trembling in their limbs finally began to stop.

Someone suddenly knelt down, their forehead hitting the muddy ground with a heavy thud: "Thank... thank you, Lord..."

The voice was trembling, but it was sincere.

This kneeling seemed to unlock something.

More and more people followed suit and knelt—the old, the young, those holding children—all prostrating themselves toward the porridge stall, their mouths repeating only one phrase over and over.

"Thank you, Lord..."

Pete did not accept this gesture; he raised his hand to signal the knights to stabilize the scene, then walked to the front of the crowd, his voice overriding the messy sounds of kowtowing: "Don't thank me."

Some were stunned and raised their heads.

Pete reached out and pointed to the red flag unfurled at the town entrance: "If you want to give thanks, thank the Red Tide."

His finger tilted slightly upward: "Thank the man who planted this flag here: Lord Louis."

The crowd followed his gaze.

The bright red flag snapped in the wind above the grey-black swamp.

Some hesitated for a moment, then lowered their heads once more.

This time, the direction of their kowtowing had changed.

Only then did Pete continue, his tone becoming steady again: "Now that you've eaten your fill, go back. Tomorrow morning, those who want to continue eating, gather here at the red rope."

He waved his hand, and the guards began to guide the crowd to disperse.

The crowd slowly retreated; their steps were still staggering, but no longer as disorderly as before.

The fire had not yet gone out, and the remaining porridge in the pot gurgled over the low flame.

The meat aroma in the air had faded, but a lingering warmth remained.

Pete scooped a bowl and handed it to Soen, who had been standing to the side without moving: "Eat some."

Soen took the bowl, his palm clearly feeling the heat.

He looked down at the tumbling wheat grains and oil slicks, his Adam's apple bobbing, but he didn't drink immediately.

"This routine today," he said in a low voice, "was indeed impressive."

He raised his head to look at Pete, his tone still calm.

"But I stand by what I said; this cannot continue forever. Tomorrow they will be hungry again, and the day after as well. How many times can that red rope of yours hold them back?"

Pete wiped the remaining oil from the corner of his mouth and did not argue.

He followed Soen's gaze toward the distance. The icy river rushed in the twilight, and the abandoned mines stood like a row of silent black shadows.

"Soen, do you think this bowl of porridge is a handout? This meal is to ensure they still have the strength to move stones. The Red Tide doesn't do charity; we do investment."

Pete pointed to the red rope that hadn't been put away yet: "In a few days, those standing behind the rope won't be beggars; they'll be workers. If they want to eat, they have to work; how much they eat depends on how many Work Points they earn."

Soen didn't speak, he just listened.

"As for whether it can be sustained..." Pete smiled, "Once that dam is built, you'll have your answer."