Lord of the Frozen Winter: Starting with Daily Intelligence Reports

The heavy airtight side door closed behind them.

Metal latches pressed shut one by one, emitting a low, brief thud.

The sea breeze, the sound of waves, and the clamor of human voices outside were instantly cut off by the steel.

The corridor was narrow and low, with cold gray steel plates on both sides, not an inch of superfluous decoration. Rows of rivet heads were neatly and densely hammered into the walls, like the exposed joints of some giant beast.

Every few steps, an explosion-proof glass lamp glowed.

The lampshade, slightly yellowed from prolonged exposure to high temperatures, cast flickering light that fractured their shadows into pieces.

Orland walked ahead, his steps as steady as if he were not an old man.

He stopped before an exceptionally thick watertight door, raised a hand, and tapped the pure copper knob on the side of the door. The metallic sound was crisp and solid.

"The entire ship is divided into forty independent watertight compartments by me." The old man's tone carried unconcealed pride as he twisted the knob, gesturing for Louis to observe the complex locking mechanism.

"Even if it's hit by a torpedo or scuttled by pirates, as long as the doors are sealed, it will float like a cork. Here, comfort is superfluous; only survival is paramount."

Louis reached out and touched the steel plate.

The cold, rough sensation transmitted to his fingertips reassured him more than any expensive silk.

"You're right, Orland." Louis withdrew his hand, approvingly, "At sea, survival is the only elegance. Even if we're to die, we must die on the charge, not drown in a leaking coffin."

Orland was momentarily stunned, then nodded heavily.

They continued downwards. The deeper they went into the hold, the hotter the air became, and the vibration underfoot grew more pronounced.

Even though the machinery was not yet at full power, the entire ship seemed to be suppressing some imminent force.

The moment the soundproof door to the engine room was pushed open, a tremendous roar and a wave of heat practically rushed out.

The space suddenly widened. Four massive vertical steam engines occupied the entire core compartment.

Thick connecting rods, crankshafts, and cylinders were stacked in layers, like steel-forged internal organs, gleaming with a cold metallic luster.

Beside them were huge coal-fired boilers, their doors ajar, the firelight casting a blood-red glow throughout the dim compartment.

Several shirtless coal shovelers were busy working back and forth in front of the furnaces.

Sweat gathered in streams on their dark backs, flung onto the scorching iron plates with the flexing of their muscles, making sizzling sounds.

Seeing the cabin door open, these low-level workers instinctively stopped their actions.

They looked at Louis, dressed in a greatcoat, with a hint of bewildered reverence in their eyes.

The air seemed to freeze for a moment.

"What are you all staring at!" Orland stepped forward, his voice as resonant as a bell, echoing in the enclosed space: "Standing before you is the one who gave this ship life, the Sovereign of Red Tide Territory, Lord Louis Calvin!"

The coal shovelers' pupils constricted sharply, and they hastily tried to kneel.

Louis said, "Don't mind me, carry on."

In the next second, the sound of shoveling coal suddenly intensified.

If it was merely labor before, now, there was a fervent rhythm added to the sound.

Iron shovels struck coal piles, and coal was flung into the furnace, the movements faster and more forceful than before.

They dared not look directly into the eyes of this great lord, but they poured all their gratitude into the boiler.

Flames licked wildly inside the furnace, and the pressure gauge needle trembled slightly.

Louis watched all this and nodded slightly: "Good, very spirited."

The old man then led Louis to the center of the engine room, pointing to the thick drive shaft that ran through the ship's hull: "Integrated casting technology from the Steam Factory. From here, it connects directly to the twin propellers at the stern."

He reached out and patted the shaft, as if soothing a temperamental but obedient warhorse.

"As long as the boiler burns hot, it can push this seven-thousand-ton block of iron to fly." The old man's lips curled slightly, and a fervent light flickered in his eyes.

After inspecting the steam core, the two slowly descended in the hydraulic elevator.

Thick steel cables tightened in the guide rails, emitting a low, regular hum.

As the height gradually decreased, the vibration inside the ship became clearer, as if it were penetrating the most dangerous depths of a steel behemoth, along its bones and veins.

This could no longer be simply called a ship's cabin. It was more like a museum of violence sealed in steel.

On the first main gun deck, the space was intentionally raised and exceptionally wide.

Along the central axis, two massive gun turrets stood side by side, like two sleeping iron hills, firmly pressing down the ship's center of gravity.

Louis only took one glance to confirm the specifications of the actual objects.

Dark, thick gun barrels extended forward, with cooling and reinforcing rings stacked in layers. Even motionless, the chill emanating from the muzzles was enough to cause an instinctive sense of suffocation.

Orland stood beside the turret, reaching out to pat the cold, riveted armor: "This main gun layout was executed exactly according to your requirements."

A hint of awe was in the old man's eyes.

In the initial plan, he had tried to use a more economical medium caliber, but Louis vetoed it with a single vote.

"During those years of service in the Southeast Province, I saw too many flashy warships with beautiful parameters that turned into floating coffins after the first salvo."

Orland's voice echoed on the empty deck, "But you said the first round must be heavy enough, ruthless enough. To shatter their bones before they even realize the pain."

Louis stepped forward, his fingertips tracing the rough cast-iron gun body: "In the future world, caliber is justice, and range is truth."

Louis's voice was calm and cold, as if discussing the weather: "I don't want our enemies to have a chance to sit down and negotiate. This thing isn't for engagement, Orland, it's for unilateral judgment."

"Coupled with Red Tide Territory's specially made Magic Bombs," Orland added, "one shot can blow a five-meter-diameter hole in an ordinary wooden sailing battleship. That is absolute destruction."

The elevator continued its descent.

The space on the second level noticeably tightened. Along both sides of the hull, rows of armored gun casemates unfolded, and within each casemate, a rapid-fire cannon lay dormant.

The cannon bodies had sleek yet fierce lines, and brass ammunition belts were neatly coiled on the feed racks, like venomous snakes ready to be awakened by the scent of blood.

"Medium and small caliber, twelve guns." Louis scanned the muzzles, "Ammunition capacity increased by 30% from the original plan."

Orland nodded, his expression solemn: "This is to cope with the dirty war you annotated on the blueprints."

It wasn't a gentlemanly fleet decisive battle, but a quagmire of overwhelming numbers.

Louis knew very well that the Northern Ice Sea not only had pirates but also swarms of mermen and even stranger gregarious magical beasts.

"Against swarms of rabble, accuracy is secondary."

Louis picked up a cold ammunition belt, weighing it: "The main guns are responsible for instilling awe in the enemy, and these things are responsible for tearing the sea surface to shreds. I want a barrage, a metal storm with no blind spots."

Then, on the third level, the air suddenly became scorching hot.

The ceiling was low, and pipes were dense. On platforms high on the deck, several sets of monstrous-looking devices were mounted, with multiple thick, short gun barrels arranged in a fan shape, connected to independent steam power lines.

"Reapers," Orland introduced, "Six hundred rounds per minute. Any creature attempting to board, be it pirates or legendary mermen, will be torn to shreds the moment they step onto the deck."

And beneath these devices, a row of inconspicuous nozzles was hidden along the ship's edge.

"There's also the Dragon's Breath System. High-pressure spray of alchemical gel oil, instantly ignited." Orland made a gesture, "If something crawls all over the ship, the entire vessel will instantly turn into a burning fire hedgehog. This is the fire that purifies filth."

Louis nodded in satisfaction.

This was the physical manifestation of his extreme aversion to close-quarters combat. In this low-magic world, any action that allowed the enemy to get close was a tactical failure.

Finally, the elevator descended to the lowest level.

Here, near the stern, the space appeared empty and cold.

Sloping deployment rails led directly to the water outside. Beside the rails, several large iron barrels were placed, their bodies inscribed with runes for sensing water pressure.

"Deepwater Shock Bombs." Orland looked at these iron barrels, his eyes complex.

This was the last part to be written into the design blueprints, and also the part he understood the least, until Louis showed him the statistical report on "ships lost without contact."

"Underwater countermeasures system. The incompressibility of water amplifies the impact tenfold upon detonation." Orland whispered, "If there's truly something down there, their internal organs will shatter first."

"It must have it." Louis interrupted him, his tone unequivocal.

"Orland, remember my words."

Louis turned around, his back to the pile of depth charges, his gaze penetrating the dim compartment as if looking into the unknown deep sea.

"Many people think the sea is flat, that hiding underwater is safe, but I don't think so. There will be even more terrifying enemies underwater."

...As night fell, they returned to the fully armored command tower.

Located at the highest point of the hull, this was the nerve center of the entire warship, its true brain.

Five-centimeter-thick bulletproof glass slanted forward, like a cold, hard shield, separating the outside from the inside.

Through the glass, one could overlook the long, empty foredeck, and the main gun silently pointing towards the night sky.

The muzzle was silent, yet it carried an oppressive feeling that it could tear anything apart at any moment.

Unlike the lower compartments, the air here was exceptionally quiet.

Only the faint sound of gears slowly meshing inside the instrument panel, occasionally accompanied by tiny jumps of the needles, stood in stark contrast to the not-yet-fully-awakened roar deep within the entire ship.

Louis gripped the cold black iron steering wheel, not looking at the sea chart, his gaze passing through the bulletproof glass, fixed on the dark, misty sea ahead.

"According to the Imperial Navy's regulations, a new ship requires at least three months of sea trials and breaking-in. We have only completed half of the tests."

He paused, his voice calm yet oppressive: "But Orland, if I were to take it out to see blood right now, would it disappoint me?"

The old shipwright was stunned for a moment, then understood the meaning of the words.

He did not dissuade him; instead, the fanaticism in his eyes intensified, as if discussing an impending feast:

"All the connecting rods have been lubricated, and even the most difficult-to-please No. 3 cylinder has been adjusted. It's like a newborn but ravenous shark, my Lord. It doesn't need a gentle sea trial; it craves a blood sacrifice."

"Very good." A faint, cold smile curled Louis's lips, and his fingers tapped lightly on the steering wheel.

"A bunch of suicidal scum has gathered on the southern shipping lane. No need to find a target ship; these people are the most suitable target."

Louis turned around and gave the final order to the adjutant behind him: "Send word, the entire fleet will undergo its final resupply and preparation tonight. At six o'clock tomorrow morning, we set sail on time."

...Dawn Harbor's dock was already packed with thousands of residents who had heard the news.

Their exhaled white breath converged into a cloud of anxiety, and everyone's eyes were fixed on the massive black silhouette in the shipyard.

Doubt, fear, and a deathly silence as if awaiting judgment.

"How can iron float on water?" A merchant stammered, clutching a mooring post, his face full of disbelief, "That's a coffin destined to sink to the bottom..."

"Woooo—!!!"

A piercing roar instantly tore through the morning's tranquility.

The sound did not belong to the melodious horn of the sailing era, but rather the shriek of high-pressure steam rushing through brass whistles.

It was overbearing and rude, with a heart-stopping penetrative force that instantly drowned out the sound of the waves, causing pain in the eardrums of the workers in the front row.

Immediately after, the ground began to tremble.

"Boom!"

Under everyone's terrified gaze, two streams of black smoke, so dense they were almost solid, surged out of the massive smokestacks like the breath of a waking evil dragon.

The rolling black smoke instantly dyed the originally grayish-white sky, even obscuring the first ray of dawn that had just risen.

A sense of oppression, named industrial monster, descended upon this barbaric world for the first time.

"It moved... it moved!" A scream erupted from the crowd.

Accompanied by the loud creaking of winches tightening, that black steel mountain, defying common sense, actually pushed aside the seawater in front of it, relying on the irritable steam heart within.

The sharp ram of the bow cut into the water, stirring up not white foam, but two turbid, churning walls of water.

The huge propellers at the stern churned frantically, turning the calm bay into a boiling cauldron.

The merchant's pipe fell to the ground, shattering into pieces.

He watched the majestic riveted armor glide past him, saw the giant cannon capable of fitting an adult inside, and his knees buckled. He instinctively knelt down.

For the people # Nоvеlight # of the old era, everything before their eyes was no longer a tool, but a terrifying miracle.

"Is this... Lord's power?" A young coal shoveler, his face covered in soot, watched the rolling black smoke, his eyes gradually changing from dazed to fervent.

He clenched his fists tightly, feeling the vibration beneath his feet.

This wasn't the ethereal incantation of a magician; this was steel, a miracle driven by the coal they had personally dug!

Someone started shouting, and the next second, the long-suppressed roar erupted like a volcano.

"Long live!!"

"Long live the Red Tide Lord!!!"

Thousands of cheers converged, frantic and hoarse, even drowning out the roar of the steam engine.

In this deafening adoration, this steel behemoth, representing industrial truth, arrogantly held its head high.

Crushing the waves of the old era, carrying a full hold of killing intent, it slowly sailed into the vast, mist-shrouded sea.

That was its hunting ground.