Lord of the Frozen Winter: Starting with Daily Intelligence Reports

At the Red Tide train station, a dark railway track split the snowy plain, like a giant black serpent lying on the ground, extending with the terrain and disappearing into the distant gray-white sky.

Parked beside the platform was Louis's private steam train.

Louis was dressed in dark travel attire, with a warm, long cloak neatly fastened over it.

His two wives stood on either side of the platform edge, seeing him off.

Sif was wrapped in a thick white bear fur coat, her breath turning into white mist in front of her.

She leaned in closer and said in a voice only the three of them could hear, "You're rushing off because you're scared of tonight, aren't you?"

Louis's movements paused for a moment, his ears imperceptibly heating up. He turned his head and coughed, as if he hadn't heard clearly, or perhaps was too lazy to respond to such a remark.

Sif saw this, her smile becoming more evident, and she added, "Come back soon. Otherwise, I'll come to the harbor and drag you back."

Louis glanced at her this time, his tone a little softer: "I really do have business."

After saying this, he felt he had explained too much and simply stopped.

On the other side, Emily straightened Louis's collar, fastening the top button tightly: "Don't mind her. It's windy at the harbor, remember not to catch a cold, and... don't overwork yourself. Some things can just be left to your subordinates."

Louis nodded: "I'll be careful. You two in the city, remember to take good care of yourselves too."

At this moment, the whistle blew, and white steam erupted from the valves, billowing above the platform and instantly obscuring their vision.

Louis waved his hand and turned to board the carriage.

The connecting rods began to push, and a low, regular clanging sound came from between the steel parts.

The steel behemoth slowly started, moving with steady power towards the distance... The train had not yet fully stopped when the wind at the edge of the platform already rushed in.

Elliot stood at the very front of the platform, his expression calm, but only he knew his Adam's apple was uncontrollably bobbing up and down.

A Sun Medal was pinned to his collar, simple in style but heavy in weight, a symbol of the Red Tide's highest administrative authority.

A delicate pocket watch lay quietly in his left hand, while his right hand repeatedly straightened his tie and cuffs.

The train finally came to a complete stop, the door perfectly aligned with the white safety line at his feet.

The air pressure valve hissed briefly and deeply, and the heavy cast iron train door slid open to both sides.

A black long boot stepped onto the platform.

Elliot took a deep breath, suppressing all the surging emotions in his chest, and stepped forward.

He stopped three paces from Louis.

Elliot straightened his body, clenched his right fist, pressed it heavily against his heart on his left chest, slightly retreated his left foot, then bowed his head, his movements clean and restrained.

This was a standard Knight's Salute.

"Lord Louis..." His voice was a little hoarse, "Dawn Harbor has been waiting for you."

Louis looked at him; he now had a few strands of white hair, and his aura was increasingly steady, standing there like a ballast stone.

He reached out and brushed a snowflake from Elliot's shoulder.

"Two years, no see," Louis's voice was light, with a hint of a smile, "You're more like a governor than before, Elliot."

He paused, then added, "No need to be so tense. I'm not here to inspect a battlefield."

It was just such a simple gesture.

But Elliot's eyes uncontrollably reddened for a moment.

He quickly blinked, suppressing his emotions, straightened his back again, and resumed his calm and capable demeanor.

However, the excitement in his tone couldn't be hidden: "My Lord, Dawn Harbor has changed a lot. There are some things... I really want you to see with your own eyes."

Louis raised his hand and gently patted Elliot's shoulder, "Let's go. Show me what you've turned this harbor into."

The open-top steam carriage drove away from the station.

The wheels rolled on the road without the bumpy shaking of the past, just a steady, continuous movement.

The heartbeat of the steam engine was hidden at the back of the carriage, low and regular, like a tamed beast breathing.

Louis sat by the window, the administrative report that had just been handed to him spread open on his lap.

The paper was thin, the writing dense, and the format neat. 𝒻𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘸ℯ𝒷𝘯𝘰𝑣ℯ𝑙.𝘤𝑜𝘮

He only needed to glance at the conclusion: crime rate below 2%.

This was an impressively good number, but Louis had seen too many similar figures.

He averted his gaze from the paper and looked out the window.

He wanted to see with his own eyes what kind of port city this system, designed by him and refined by countless people in their daily lives, had sculpted.

The Southeast Province dock in the original owner's memory was already considered one of the best docks in this world.

There were always three things: the stench of fermenting fish guts, overflowing black sewage, and streets full of drunk, unconscious thugs.

The prosperity there was like a deliberately polished outer layer, beneath which the wooden boards had long since rotted.

Slums clung to the shadows of mansions, like malignant tumors refusing to detach.

If you took a wrong turn down an alley at night, you might be fished out of the water the next day.

Now, Dawn Harbor unfolded outside ~Nоvеl𝕚ght~ the window.

The streets were straight and wide, the curb stones on both sides painted with neat black and yellow warning stripes, the lines as clean as if measured with a ruler.

The road surface had a slight incline, allowing rain and snow to flow to the sides, preventing puddles from forming in the middle.

Louis's gaze fell on the cast-iron storm drains every ten meters along the roadside.

He knew what lay beneath them—a vast underground pipe network.

While this continent was still dumping chamber pots anywhere, the Red Tide territory had already implemented sewage separation.

Dirty water and rainwater each had their own channels, and the treatment ponds in the dock area operated day and night, even suppressing the most unpleasant odors underground.

The air had no smell of urine or decay, only the salty scent of the sea, and a faint hint of carbolic acid. That smell wasn't pleasant, but it was reassuring.

Louis didn't speak, but Elliot, sitting opposite him, noticed his gaze.

The supervisor of Dawn Harbor still sat upright, his folder resting steadily on his lap: "My Lord, this is not because they are naturally clean; it's the red tide code at work."

Louis raised an eye.

Elliot continued: "In other ports, dock laborers live in pigsties, earning daily copper coins, and whether they get a hot meal tomorrow depends on the boss's mood. In Red Tide, we provide allocated housing and a monthly salary system.

Correspondingly, there are strict contracts. Those who defecate indiscriminately forfeit three days' wages; those who get drunk and cause trouble are stripped of housing qualifications and expelled.

When they can gain dignity and money, no one wants to go back to being livestock."

Elliot spoke with an undisguised fervor: "It is your system that has transformed them from beasts into citizens."

The carriage slowly drove along the main road of the residential area.

It was shift change time, and a gray torrent of people surged through the streets.

The workers wore uniformly issued canvas work clothes, thick and durable, with reinforced cuffs and knees.

Their faces were smudged with coal dust, and their fingernails were far from clean.

But their hair was cut short. Not for aesthetics, but to prevent lice, heat rash, and the diseases that could never be driven away from the shanties in the past.

More importantly, their eyes were clear; their gaze swept over the streets, the standing gendarmes, and the roadside bulletin boards, without evasion or numbness.

When the steam carriage bearing the Governor's Flag passed, the crowds on the street spontaneously stopped to salute.

Fortunately, they didn't recognize Louis, otherwise, they would have mobbed the carriage.

Louis watched this scene, silent for a moment, then lightly tapped the paper with his finger.

"This is what I want to see," his voice was not loud, but firm, "Even the lowest porters stand tall."

The carriage continued forward, the heartbeat of the steam engine echoing behind them, and the geometric lines of the street stretched out into the snowy mist.

Louis watched it all, finally exhaling slowly: "Order... is truly humanity's most expensive luxury."

The carriage did not stop, turning a gentle slope, and the edge of the residential area was quickly left behind.

The next moment, the view suddenly opened up, and the tranquility was brutally shattered.

Roaring sounds pressed in from all directions, like an entire low-hanging thundercloud rolling along the ground.

The air suddenly grew thick, the temperature rose, and coal smoke mixed with hot air rushed onto their faces.

This was the port industrial zone.

Louis's gaze swept across the street, spotting the elevated steam conveyor belt that spanned half the factory area.

The black belt ran at high speed, driven by sets of gears, emitting a grating friction sound. Coal and ore unloaded from beside the railway were brutally swallowed by it, then transformed into a black waterfall, continuously pouring into the depths of the dock.

In other ports, this scene would signify a different picture.

Thousands of shirtless slaves, carrying heavy baskets of ore, crawled like ants on narrow gangways.

Some slipped, some fell, and those who died of exhaustion were casually kicked into the sea, without even a pause.

But here, flesh and blood had retreated to the rear, and steel stood at the forefront.

Louis's mind recalled a line from the report: mechanization replacement rate, fifty percent.

When that steel behemoth devoured and disgorged materials before his eyes, this number truly gained weight: one conveyor belt.

It freed countless laborers.

The water cup in the carriage suddenly shook, followed by an even heavier vibration.

The sound drowned out the waves, even making the ground beneath their feet respond.

It was a hundred-ton steam forging hammer; each impact reshaped the steel.

Fires flickered deep within the factory area, molten iron splashed, then was quickly drawn away, cooled, and shaped.

This was the true main melody of this city.

Elliot stood on one side of the carriage, looking in the direction of Louis's gaze, his voice unconsciously rising slightly.

"This is the Greyrock-Dawn Harbor linkage mechanism. Ores from Greyrock Province arrive directly here by rail and are processed in this factory area."

He raised his hand, pointing to the area engulfed in black smoke and fire, his tone carrying a nearly proud certainty.

"My Lord, your resource allocation system is truly astonishing. Without nobles layer by layer exploiting, every piece of iron ore is precisely delivered to where it needs to go, ultimately becoming the Empire's armor."

"Other lords..." Louis slowly began, "are still whipping slaves, while we have learned to use systems to harness steam."

He withdrew his gaze and looked at Elliot: "Let's go, take me to the Shipyard."

...The dome of the dry dock was like a hollowed-out mountain.

Steel beams crisscrossed, and hundreds of alchemical spotlights hung above, illuminating the area below in a stark white.

The light fell on the steel surface, then was smeared by machine oil into a cold, hard sheen, making even shadows appear sharp.

The air was mixed with the scorched smell of hot metal, the cloying sweetness of high-quality lubricating oil, and the lingering warmth of steam, pressing heavily in the lungs.

This was the deepest area of Dawn Harbor, the Dawn Harbor Shipyard.

It was not open to any workers; channels were sealed layer by layer, and the ground was cleaned almost deliberately, making even footsteps echo loudly.

Louis stopped. His gaze didn't immediately fall to the bottom of the Shipyard but was drawn to the figure on the scaffolding.

It was an old man, out of place here.

He stood on the steel frame in mid-air, his back to the entrance, not tall in stature, but exceptionally straight.

He wore black linen work pants stained with machine oil, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing calloused wrists.

In stark contrast to this attire was the meticulously tied, slightly yellowed silk scarf at his collar.

His graying hair was carefully combed back, even pomaded, shimmering subtly under the lights.

In his hand was not a wrench, but a piece of chalk.

A blackboard stood beside the steel frame, covered with dense lines. It wasn't an exterior drawing, but a complex and mind-numbingly detailed diagram of stress structures.

"The angle of this rib is wrong. You can't tell in calm water, but when fully loaded, with beam waves and headwind superimposed, it will crack first. Shipbuilding isn't stacking wood."

He tapped heavily on the drawing with the chalk: "It's about giving sailors a living home amidst rough waves and heavy loads. Even if the rivets break, the structure must not fall apart. Remember that, children?"

Several engineers stood below, holding blueprints, their foreheads sweating, yet daring not to refute, only nodding repeatedly.

At that moment, he was less like a craftsman and more like a grandmaster passing on a legacy.

Elliot announced their arrival in a low voice.

Only then did the old man turn around.

When he saw Louis, he showed no panic, nor did he rush to descend from the scaffolding.

He took off his reading glasses, meticulously wiped off the chalk dust with a handkerchief, and then reached up to adjust the blackened badge on his chest.

It was an old-style Calvin Family badge, so oxidized that its original luster was barely visible, yet it was meticulously clean.

Then, he stood firm on the swaying scaffolding.

At this moment, his back was ramrod straight, as if he were asserting his last bit of dignity.

He performed a standard, impeccable Old Empire court chest-touching salute.

This was his tribute, as a shipbuilder, to someone who truly understood ships, craftsmen, and this era.

The old man's back was very straight, yet a momentary tension could still be seen.

He was suppressing his emotions, as if trying hard not to appear undignified.

"Lord Louis," his voice was lower than before, but steadier, "If not for you, these hands of mine should have been taken away long ago."

He paused, his gaze briefly sweeping over the surrounding steel beams, scaffolding, and the young engineers standing breathlessly.

"You allowed me to still stand in the Shipyard, and made these children willing to listen to an old man. To me, this is already the greatest kindness."

Having said this, he finally offered no further explanation.

He simply took a deep breath, as if pushing back everything that was pressing in his chest, then quickly adjusted his emotions.

Then, he stepped aside, raised his hand, pointing into the depths of the Shipyard, and for the first time, an eagerness he couldn't hide entered his tone.

"Please."

The spotlights lit up one by one, peeling back the shadows layer by layer.

Two steel behemoths lay silently at the bottom of the dry dock.

No streamlining, no decorations.

Like black fortresses forcibly pressed onto the water's surface.

On the bow armor of the left ship, the striking name—【fernando】—was cast in brass.

Louis's gaze lingered on that line for a moment: "I never break my word, Orland, your surname will be carved on the Red Tide Navy's flagship."

The old shipwright's Adam's apple visibly bobbed.

He didn't answer, just stared intently at the ship, as if confirming its continued existence.

This ship completely did not belong to this era.

Its hull was wide, its freeboard towering, exuding a suffocating sense of oppression.

Completely black, with no exposed wood, entirely encased in thick, surface-hardened steel plates.

The hull featured two rows of cold gunports, silently gaping like the firing slits of a fortress.

At the center of the ship, two massive funnels slanted backward.

Even unlit now, one could imagine the sight of them spewing black smoke and obscuring the sky.

Orland's voice echoed in the cavernous dry dock, filled with almost insane pride: "It's neither beautiful nor gentle, My Lord; it was born to end this era."

He looked at the ship as if it were his proudest child.

And Louis stood in the shadow of the steel, reaching out to touch the cold armor: "No, Orland, this is, in fact, the most beautiful work of art of this era."