Lord of the Frozen Winter: Starting with Daily Intelligence Reports

Sixty li north of the Imperial Capital, there was an abandoned mill.

The night hung low, and a wind blowing from the end of the wasteland carried the scent of crushed snow and hay, stinging as it hit the face.

The wooden wings of the mill had long since broken, leaving only a shadow-like shaft swaying slightly in the wind.

When Varius was brought here by that mysterious man, the first thing he saw was a cluster of carriages.

They were scattered around the mill, their ruts crisscrossing on the frozen ground like a tangled mess of lines, marking it as a temporary assembly point.

Varius dismounted and stood his ground, observing the figures around him by the flickering light of scattered torches.

Those maintaining order were a group of knights who looked like mercenaries; they wore mismatched armor, cloaks of various colors, and carried weapons of diverse origins.

But Varius could tell that it was merely a disguise.

They stood with steady stances, spoke in brief exchanges, and their gazes constantly swept between the mill's entrance and the perimeter.

These were people who had received systematic training.

What truly made Varius's heart tighten were the people gathered in the mill's clearing.

None of these people looked like ordinary refugees.

Varius's gaze swept over their faces one by one, and he recognized several of them.

They were individuals who had once held prominent positions in various departments during the reign of the previous Emperor.

One was a special case officer from the Finance Bureau, another was an auditor from the Armory, and there was even... someone who had once been in charge of judicial inspections in the Empire's Southern Borders.

Now, these people either had disheveled hair and beards or looked pale and defeated; he understood this was the result of the Second Prince's destruction.

But even so, Varius could tell at a glance the marks left on them by long-term professional training.

"The North has quite an appetite," Varius whispered to Cassian beside him. "So many talents, not a single one left behind."

Cassian merely glanced at the line of knights on the mill's edge and did not respond.

His hands remained naturally at his sides, as if ready to deal with any sudden emergency at any moment.

Just then, the man who had led them all the way north walked to the mill's entrance.

He had changed into a coat more suitable for action; the grey wool overcoat was gone, replaced by an ordinary leather jacket.

The firelight illuminated his profile, making his features appear sharp and calm.

"Victor," someone called out his name in a low voice.

Victor stood at the mill entrance, holding a thick register in his hand.

The pages were worn from flipping, densely packed with names, origins, destinations, and several symbols marked in different colors.

He checked them one by one. Every time he called a name, someone would step out from the crowd, nodding in response or simply standing silently in a designated spot.

The entire process was quiet. Everyone who was called would be led to a different carriage—seemingly random, but clearly arranged.

Varius was also quickly assigned to an unremarkable carriage.

When the register reached the last page, Victor closed the book.

He looked up, his gaze sweeping over all the carriages around the mill. "Everyone is here. Prepare to depart."

The mercenary-like knights immediately sprang into action, untying reins, adjusting axles, and urging the horses in low voices... Sitting in the carriage, Varius wrapped himself in a blanket to keep warm.

The compartment was small, the wooden boards rough, and it was lined with a layer of old felt.

Besides him and Cassian, there were two other people inside.

One was a rather rough-looking old man with broad shoulders, palms covered in callouses, and knuckles so thick they were somewhat deformed.

As he sat down, he carefully cradled a tool bag in his arms, as if protecting something more important than his own life.

"Varius," Varius introduced himself. "A registered Viscount of the Empire, formerly of the Court Legal Affairs Office. This is my knight, Cassian."

"Baron," the old man spoke first, his voice low and raspy but carrying a certain bluntness.

"Used to work at the Royal Factory," he said, subconsciously straightening his back as he spoke.

"One of the top craftsmen," he added, then quickly explained as if afraid of being misunderstood, "The former Emperor gave me an award back in the day."

Varius nodded.

He noticed that when the man spoke, he always deliberately used formal address, his attitude carrying a sense of propriety mixed with awe and hesitation.

"There's no need for such titles now," Varius said, his tone calm. "At this stage, we are all much the same."

Baron paused, then scratched his head and gave a somewhat clumsy smile. "Yes, yes... but rules are rules."

"The Second Prince's people treat craftsmen like cattle," Baron lowered his voice. "They don't care if you're skilled or not, only if you can endure. Those who can't are just dragged away."

At this point, his throat moved. "I couldn't take it, so I ran. Later, I almost starved to death in the woods until I ran into the Red Tide people. That's how I survived."

Varius did not press further.

His gaze turned to another corner of the carriage, where a third person sat.

The man's hair was disheveled, and his eyes were sometimes cloudy, sometimes clear.

He was muttering something under his breath, his fingers tracing lines in the air as if writing invisible formulas or driving away things that weren't there.

Baron followed his gaze, looked over, and sighed.

"Master Herman. From the Royal Alchemy Institute."

He spoke slowly, as if picking up the man's identity piece by piece for him.

"He's truly capable, it's just... his mind isn't very stable."

Herman suddenly looked up, his gaze clearing for a moment. "I'm fine..."

But in the next instant, that clarity vanished again.

Baron continued in a low voice, "The Second Prince forced him to do human experiments. On living subjects."

"He refused, but he had no choice. Later, he became like this—lucid for a while, confused for a while. The Red Tide people smuggled him out."

The carriage swayed gently and began to move forward.

Varius leaned against the carriage wall and closed his eyes.

He finally understood that this was not an ordinary transfer, but the Red Tide slowly extracting the skeleton of the Imperial Capital.

Such an operation was not a spur-of-the-moment decision.

This was an order from the North.

That Northern Lord was in no hurry to seize land, nor was he interested in immediately intervening in the cities that were currently burning.

Because in Louis's view, land could be retaken with an army, but once true talent was exhausted, even the vastest territory would become nothing more than an empty shell.

And now that the North had expanded so much territory, it precisely needed this kind of professional talent.

Craftsmen, judges, Alchemists, auditors... these were not knights and would not sway the outcome of a single battle, yet they determined whether a piece of land could still function.

It was for this reason that the Red Tide's hand reached toward the crumbling edges of the Empire.

They did not snatch burning cities or touch established powers; they only extracted the skeletons that had not yet been completely crushed from the cracks of collapsing order... The carriage traveled on the bumpy dirt road for over two months.

At first, it was mud. The black soil turned up by the rain stuck to the wheels, requiring stops every so often to scrape it off.

Later, it was gravel; loose stones jumped under the wheels, and the carriage swayed enough to make one's stomach churn... until one morning, the carriage suddenly smoothed out, and the jolting vanished without warning.

Varius opened his eyes, subconsciously reaching out to steady himself, only to find the carriage was no longer swaying.

He pulled back the curtain; the road beneath was no longer the familiar color of earth.

It was a wide, straight, grayish-white hardened road extending forward, with almost no signs of damage from rainwater.

The carriage's speed began to pick up; without needing to be urged, the horses quickened their pace on their own.

"We've reached Grey Rock Province. This is Red Tide territory now. Everyone can come out for some fresh air."

The knights disguised as mercenaries shouted from the front, their voices clearly tinged with excitement.

Baron simply jumped off the carriage.

He crouched by the roadside, ignoring his status, and scraped at the road surface with a rough finger.

"This isn't stone," his voice was tight. "And it doesn't look like brick either."

He looked up, his eyes wide as if seeing something that defied common sense for the first time. "This is man-made, isn't it?"

No one answered immediately.

Victor walked up from behind, glanced at the road, and then at the shocked Baron.

"They call it Red Tide Grey-stone," he said calmly. "I don't know exactly how it's made, but it should be man-made."

Baron was speechless for a moment, pressing his palm against the road as if to confirm the texture.

"To think such a thing exists..." he murmured.

Varius did not get out of the carriage.

His gaze followed the straight road forward, looking toward the undulating terrain in the distance.

What was the point of building such a straight road in this kind of muddy land?

And how could it have been done so quickly?

Grey Rock Province had been taken less than a year ago.

Yet this road did not look like the product of a rushed job.

Victor seemed to sense his doubt. "Once we reach Red Tide, you can ask the craftsmen yourselves. They know better than I do."

The convoy reorganized; the carriages no longer held back their speed but let loose their pace.

On this grayish-white road, they could finally head north at full speed without any reservations... This was already Red Tide territory.

The convoy traveled a bit further and did not continue through the night.

They stopped at a building of uniform style by the roadside.

The exterior walls were painted light grey, without any family crests, only a simple wooden sign standing by the entrance.

This was a supply station in Grey Rock Province.

After entering the province, such buildings appeared at regular intervals.

The carriages stopped in sequence, and soldiers and mercenaries began to guide everyone to rest.

As soon as Varius stepped out of the carriage, he smelled a faint, pungent scent.

In the center of the courtyard stood a huge copper tea barrel, its walls polished to a shine, with a small constant-temperature stove beneath it.

Someone turned a valve, and an amber liquid flowed from the copper spout, steam rising.

"Ginger tea, it's free." The soldier on guard spoke in an ordinary tone, as if repeating a perfectly normal occurrence.

Varius took the wooden cup, his fingertips immediately feeling the warmth.

He noticed that the people around him did not scramble; instead, they consciously formed a queue.

Those who finished drinking would place their cups back in a designated spot.

On the wall of the supply station, several notices were posted in neat handwriting.

It was the "Hygiene Convention." The contents were not complex but were strictly enforced: wash hands, use centralized toilets, and clean daily.

What surprised Varius even more was the absence of a pungent, foul smell in the air.

In this era, even in the Imperial Capital, the stench of excrement in the streets was unavoidable, yet here there was only the scent of hearth fire, hot tea, and damp earth.

He couldn't help but look a few more times.

This kind of «N.o.v.e.l.i.g.h.t» order did not require anyone to watch over it.

The convoy would rest here for two days.

After the first night passed, Varius simply couldn't stay still.

At dawn, he walked out of the supply station alone.

The Red Tide official guarding the entrance merely glanced at him, neither stopping him nor sending anyone to follow.

Not far away was a mining area.

It was lunchtime, and from deep within the mining area, a bell rang.

The sound was low and clear, carrying far in the cold air.

Varius had already prepared himself mentally.

In his mind, miners were always hunched over, covered in filth, crawling underground like rats.

But as he drew closer, he was stunned.

Emerging from the mine shafts were a group of sturdy men wearing uniform grey cotton clothes.

Their faces were indeed smeared with coal dust, but their steps were steady, and they could still laugh while talking.

No one was cracking a whip; they queued up voluntarily in front of a simple canteen, waiting for their meals.

The line was orderly and quiet.

As Varius watched, he suddenly noticed a detail.

A young man reached out to take his meal, but his hand was slapped by a coworker beside him.

"Go wash your hands," the man gestured to the side. "The hygiene team is watching. If you don't want your work points docked, hurry up."

The young man laughed and cursed but still turned and ran to the sink, carefully scrubbing his hands with soap before returning to the end of the line.

The entire process involved no dispute, much less coercion.

Varius stood there, feeling as if something had gently struck his chest.

To him, this was something out of a dream.

He came from the Empire's legal system.

In the past few decades, every governance method he had seen was almost entirely built upon a single premise.

People were lazy and short-sighted, and had to be driven by violence, fear, or privilege.

Laws could be sophisticated and rigorous on paper, but once away from the nobles' seals and the knights' whips, few people truly believed they would be enforced.

Yet these miners before him, without any threat, spontaneously followed rules, reminded each other, and even actively maintained order.

This was precisely what shocked him the most.

This didn't rely on status suppression or violent deterrence, but on a clear, continuous, and predictable mechanism.

The further north they went, the closer they got to the North, the more composed the people's behavior became.

When the convoy moved, people would yield the way; merchants would clearly mark prices; and patrolling knights would deliberately steer clear of crops when passing through farmland.

Until one time, he personally saw a knight's horse trample a field ridge.

The knight dismounted, spoke a few words with the farmer, and then took out a coin purse to hand over compensation.

The farmer accepted the money and even gave a bow.

Varius stood by the roadside, not walking any further.

At this moment, the last piece of hardness in his heart quietly shattered.

In Red Tide territory, class did not stand above the law.

Wasn't this the ideal he had repeatedly pondered in the charter, yet could never bring to fruition?

The wind blew from the North, the chill growing a bit heavier.

Varius felt that perhaps this land was worth observing seriously.