Lord of the Frozen Winter: Starting with Daily Intelligence Reports

The lingering warmth from the food distributed last night had not yet completely dissipated. The gazes shrinking in the shadows remained wary, yet they lacked some of the instinctual urge to flee upon seeing people.

Little Mud huddled in the deepest shadows, her back against the cold stone, not daring to move an inch.

She was eleven, or maybe twelve, or thirteen... she couldn't remember anymore.

The number of one's age held no meaning in Black Marsh Town.

People were divided into only two kinds: those who could move and those waiting to die.

Little Mud didn't remember her parents' faces; she only remembered the salty taste of dust pouring into her throat on the day the mine collapsed.

Later, someone told her that her mother was buried underneath, and her father held on for half a year before dying at home.

His body /N_o_v_e_l_i_g_h_t/ was dragged away the next day to fill a pit.

Children like her were not uncommon in Black Marsh Town.

When she was starving, she would crawl by the swamp to dig for bugs, her fingernails always caked in black.

Little Mud's hair was matted into a single block, as if someone had poured asphalt over it, stuck to her scalp.

Pustules crawled from her neck all the way down her shoulders and back. Yellow fluid seeped from the broken ones, staining the tattered piece of burlap she wore for modesty until it turned black.

When the wind blew, the stench would waft out, and even the rats would avoid her.

She stared at the mouth of the alley, where the sound of footsteps and unfamiliar voices came from.

“These people are from the North.” This sentence had been circulating through the town since last night.

She knew about these savages from the Northlands.

When the adults chatted in the mines, they said the Northland savages ate people.

But because she remembered the taste of that pot of hot porridge, Little Mud didn't run away immediately when the footsteps approached again.

The footsteps stopped at the alley mouth. A few young people wearing uniform protective suits poked their heads in, their gazes lingering on her for a moment.

She let out a short, sharp scream and turned to run, but her wrist was caught by a hand.

These people were very strong. She struggled desperately, her voice hoarse, sounding like a howl: “Let me go! Don't eat me!”

Little Mud was dragged out of the alley. The sunlight suddenly hit her face, making her instinctively squint.

Over by the square, steam was rising. Wooden tubs were lined up one after another, as if prepared long ago.

She was lifted and thrown into a tub... “They really are going to boil and eat me,” Little Mud thought in despair.

The expected burning pain did not appear; the water was warm.

Little Mud was stunned.

The next second, a bar of soap smelling of fat and wood ash was pressed against her shoulder.

It was rough, but it didn't hurt.

Someone was scrubbing her back vigorously.

Black sludge fell away from her body, dispersing across the surface of the water.

The filth around the pustules was washed away bit by bit, revealing pale skin beneath that was nearly transparent... On the steps above, Soen stood with his hand on the railing, able to see the entire square clearly.

Wooden tubs, steam, razors, and piles of shorn hair.

People were held down and forced to have their heads shaved. Some cried, some cursed, but these people did not stop.

He had originally thought that a group of monsters twisted by sludge and disease lived here.

But as face after face was washed clean, and as the hair fell away to reveal complete features, he suddenly realized an unsettling fact: these people were no different from him.

The same eyes, the same bridge of the nose, the same instinctive closing of eyes when water was splashed on their faces.

They had simply been crushed into their current state by time and despair.

This discovery made Soen's throat feel tight.

Pete, beside him, said, “Only after being washed clean will they feel like human beings.”

He paused: “A human being will not be content to die in a mud pit like a pig.”

After the washing, someone led Little Mud to the side.

An old, resized cotton coat was stuffed into her arms.

The fabric was coarse but thick and clean, carrying a faint scent of sunlight.

It was a Red Tide work uniform. It didn't fit, but it had no fleas.

It was the best clothing she had seen in her memory.

A woman from the medical team had her sit down and unscrewed a small bottle. A purple liquid was poured onto a cloth and pressed against her festering skin.

Pain suddenly exploded. Little Mud sucked in a breath of cold air and instinctively tried to shrink away, but she was held firmly in place.

“Endure it for a bit,” the voice said calmly.

A cooling sensation soon overwhelmed the stinging pain, like a breeze blowing over a burning wound. Her shoulders and back no longer itched.

At the entrance to the village, there was now something she had never seen before: a large, standing copper mirror.

Little Mud was pushed in front of the mirror. She instinctively lowered her head but was then tilted up by the chin.

The person in the mirror stunned her.

She raised her hand to touch her face, then touched the new cotton coat. Her chest suddenly felt a bit tight.

She didn't want to die anymore; she wanted to live.

She wanted to live like this forever, clean and tidy... After cleaning the bodies, shaving heads, and applying medicine, the next step was to clean up the environment.

The filth could not remain only on people's bodies, nor could it continue to pile up where they were to live.

Fires were lit by the swamp, not for warmth, but for those crooked black poplar logs soaking in the rotten mud.

The trunks were still dripping water when they were dragged out, riddled with wormholes that made one frown at a glance.

Soen stood to the side, his brow furrowed deeply: “Lord Pete, these logs are all wet and full of insect eggs. If used to build houses, they'll collapse in three months, and the inside will be even stinkier than the outside.”

In his experience, such things were only fit to be burned or left to rot in the mud.

Pete did not argue. He had people strip the bark and prop the logs over the bonfires.

The flames licked the surface of the wood. Steam evaporated frantically at first, then the color gradually darkened.

The outer layer was charred black. Cracks opened up but soon stabilized, as if sealed by a layer of shell.

“Fire can kill insects,” Pete said while adjusting the position of the logs. “The carbonized layer prevents rot and moisture.”

He kicked the now-blackened stake with the toe of his boot: “This kind of wood, even if thrown back into the swamp to soak for a hundred years, will not rot.”

Soen watched as stake after charred stake was carried away and driven deep into the mud with heavy hammers.

The parts of the stakes protruding from the ground were connected by crossbeams, and the floor was elevated by half a meter.

The walls were made of carbonized wooden boards, and the gaps were stuffed with clay mixed with hay. Once patted firm, the wind could no longer penetrate.

Soen stood there, watching rows of black house frames rise over the swamp, his throat moving.

Just as he was about to look away, he saw that the skin on Pete's shoulder had been rubbed raw by a log.

Blood seeped out, mixed with sweat, but the man seemed not to notice, still directing people to adjust the position of the stakes.

Soen frowned. He unfastened his robe, tossed it aside to reveal the shirt underneath, and walked over to snatch the log from Pete's shoulder.

“Move aside,” his tone was blunt. “You don't have the strength for this. Leave this kind of work to a Knight.”

Pete was startled for a moment, then smiled, let go of the log, and handed over a canteen of water. 𝘧𝓇𝑒𝑒𝑤ℯ𝑏𝓃𝘰𝑣ℯ𝘭.𝘤ℴ𝘮

The two looked at each other and said nothing more. At this moment, social class was submerged in sweat... When the sky darkened, Little Mud was led into a new house.

This was one of the first batch of houses built in Black Marsh Town. According to Red Tide regulations, priority was given to the elderly, the sick, and uncared-for children; able-bodied young adults had to wait.

She stood at the door, hesitated for a moment, and then cautiously crawled inside.

The floor was made of dry wooden boards. Her feet did not sink when she stepped on them, nor did water seep through.

The house was suspended over the mud, a short distance from the ground.

The walls were black, rough to the touch, yet they carried a sense of warmth.

The smell of charred wood reminded her of the distant firelight from last night, and her heart felt inexplicably settled.

The wind swept through the swamp.

In the past, such a night wind would have pierced through her burlap rags like a knife, making even her bones ache.

But tonight, the clay mixed with hay had plugged all the gaps.

In the corner of the room sat a small tin stove, crude in design with hammer marks on the edges.

After the coal was lit, heat slowly radiated out.

Little Mud huddled in the room, hugging her knees. For the first time at night, she wasn't shivering from the damp cold.

The house hung above the mud like a clumsy but steady ark.

When she lay down, her eyes remained open for a long time, afraid that all of this was just a long dream.

At that moment, the door was gently pushed open.

Little Mud instinctively shrank her body, but she didn't smell the familiar stench of rot and alcohol.

Pete walked in, stooping. He hadn't changed out of his uniform jacket, and his cuffs were stained with mud.

In his hand, he held several cracked, roasted hot potatoes, which were emitting white steam.

“Why aren't you asleep yet?” Pete walked closer, handed over a potato, and then paused. “Are you still hungry?”

Little Mud was stunned for a moment. She instinctively reached out her hand, then suddenly pulled it back.

Pete did not withdraw his hand. Instead, he caught her wrist, turned her hand over, and examined it carefully by the light of the stove. The crevices of her nails were clean.

“Washed well. You pass.” Only then did Pete stuff the potato into her hand.

The warmth transferred through her palm. Little Mud's throat moved. She lowered her head and asked softly, “Why... are you being good to me?”

Pete thought for a moment and said, “Because in the Red Tide, children are the seeds of the future. If a seed doesn't sprout, it's not the seed's fault; it's the failure of the one who planted it.”

He stood up and brushed the dust off his hands: “There are classes tomorrow night. Literacy, arithmetic, and how to exchange work points for things. Be sure to come and take a look.”

The door closed again. Little Mud held the hot potato and took a bite.

It was very hot, but she did not let go... The following evening, candle lanterns were lit in the center of the square.

The wind was slightly lighter than during the day, but the flames were still unsteady, swaying gently inside the shades.

Pete stood before a wooden platform, hung up a rough wooden board, and used a charcoal pencil to smudge it, leaving marks of varying depths.

People slowly gathered around, both children and adults.

Soen also stood on the periphery. After working all day, his shoulders were still sore, yet he did not leave.

Pete picked up the charcoal pencil and looked at the orphan he had met the previous night: “What is your name?”

Little Mud was stunned and instinctively lowered her head.

“I don't have a name,” she said softly. “Everyone calls me Little Mud.”

Pete shook his head. “Mud belongs on the ground,” he said. “You are a person who stands upright.”

The charcoal pencil made a scratching sound on the wooden board.

“This is read as Lily.” Pete pointed to the two symbols. “In the Northlands, this is a type of flower. It can bloom even in the frozen earth.”

He turned around and looked at her.

“From today on, this will be your name.”

Lily. She stared at the wooden board; it was a name that belonged to her.

Pete did not linger for long.

He drew a few simple lines below the wooden board and wrote down several numbers.

“Learning to read and learning arithmetic is not for the present,” he said. “It is for the future.”

“In the future, when you stand in the workshops, at the accounting tables, or on bridges and dams, you won't have to lower your head to ask others if this is yours or if you should take it.”

He drew a square box on the wooden board with the charcoal pencil.

“Those who know arithmetic can keep accounts and manage people. Those who know how to read can look at blueprints, be foremen, and wear uniforms. You won't have to spend your whole life just using your physical strength.”

Pete looked up, watching the faces whose gazes were gradually focusing.

“Right now you are illiterate, but in the future, the roads to be built, the cities to be established, and the factories to be managed in this land will all need people who can read.

Words and numbers are the threshold. Cross it, and you stand inside; fail to cross it, and you can only watch from the outside.”

The crowd fell silent.

“Lord Louis has said,” Pete continued, “that anyone who can learn a hundred words within a week can become a clerk. The kind that wears a uniform.”

When the class ended, the crowd slowly dispersed.

Lily did not leave. She picked up a twig and drew on the newly laid concrete ground.

A circle, with a ring of short lines on the outside.

Pete crouched down to take a look: “A gold coin?”

She shook her head: “No.”

She looked up and said very softly but seriously: “This is Lord Louis. I've never seen him, but you said he is warm, like the sun.”

The people around who hadn't yet dispersed stopped in their tracks.

A blind old man fumbled his way to the drawing and slowly knelt down.

It was only a patch of ground that hadn't yet fully dried.

But in their hearts, the man who gave them food, clothes, and a name was more real than the Dragon Ancestor in the church who only knew how to collect taxes... A month later, in the early morning, a thick fog enveloped the river valley.

Black Marsh Town no longer existed.

The rotten mud that once swallowed people whole had been leveled and compacted. Two rows of straight stilt houses lined the riverbank.

Carbonized wooden pillars were driven deep into the ground, and the buildings were suspended. Shadows fell upon the road paved with gravel and quick-drying concrete, which glinted with a cool, bluish-gray light.

The air was free of rot, leaving only the faint scent of charred wood and the crisp, clean smell of lime disinfection.

A copper bell rang in the square.

It was a bell just cast by the Artisan Department. The sound wasn't particularly pleasant, but it was clear enough.

As the tolls spread, over a thousand laborers quickly emerged from various houses and lined up in the square.

Lily stood in the front row.

She wore a set of washed-out gray work clothes with the sleeves altered to be quite short, and her hair was cut into a neat, short style.

Her face, once covered in pustules, was now clean and thin, but her eyes were exceptionally bright.

A polished wooden plaque hung from her chest, carved with the words: “Outstanding Literacy Class Student.”

She stood ramrod straight, reaching out to straighten the collar of an orphan beside her who wasn't standing steadily, whispering: “Chest out. Teacher Pete said we are the Red Tide's reserve force, not beggars.”

The child was startled for a moment and immediately mimicked a knight's posture, standing straight.

Soen stood on the lookout tower on the high slope, overlooking the entire square.

It wasn't just Black Marsh Town; over this month, changes had spread outward like ripples.

On the three dirt roads in the distance, groups also wearing gray work uniforms were converging toward the riverbank.

They carried shovels and pickaxes. Their pace wasn't exactly orderly, but they all walked steadily.

They were from Iron Slag Village, Deadwood Hamlet, and several other nearly forgotten small settlements further away.

In the past, even tax collectors were too lazy to go to these places.

Now, people were coming out on their own, following the rivers and road signs, heading in the same direction.

They didn't clearly understand water conservancy planning, nor could they recite the Red Tide's system regulations. They had simply heard that there was work to do there, food to eat, and nights where they wouldn't be randomly dragged away.

The flow of people was like guided water, converging from all directions and slowly pouring into this construction site that was taking shape.

This was not just the revival of a single town.

This was the first time the entire Grey Rock Province had begun to breathe in the same direction.

By the riverbank, the steam pile driver was already in place.

Black iron pipes spewed white mist, and pistons rose and fell slowly like a giant beast that had just awakened. The steam whistle let out a long blast.

The sound tore through the thick fog and startled the water birds into flight.

Pete walked onto the high platform and raised a red flag, offering no redundant mobilization: “Start work, for the Red Tide!”

“For the Red Tide!”

The responding roar drowned out the bellowing of the icy river.

Lily shouldered a surveyor's rod nearly as tall as herself and followed the team, rushing toward the riverbank.

The first pile was driven heavily into the riverbank amidst the mist.

At this moment, the fate of the Grey Rock Province was nailed firmly into the foundations.