Winter Lord: Starting with Daily Intelligence

Chapter 239 Execution
Even after Louis left the room, a somber atmosphere remained in the chamber.

Bradley stepped forward slowly, stood below the main seat, took a stack of documents bearing the Red Tide seal from his adjutant, and announced expressionlessly, "This is the Draft Agreement for the Reconstruction of Snow Peak. Please sign it in turn."

The copy is concise, yet the wording is as cold and hard as iron:
In Red Tide Territory, all nobles must obey Red Tide laws and are prohibited from establishing private armies or interfering in military and political affairs.

All noble affairs must be subject to the Red Tide's coordination, and unified arrangements must be made for the winter transition and reconstruction.

Anyone who disobeys this order will be treated as a rebel.

"This agreement shall be regarded as a formal commitment by the nobles to voluntarily participate in the reconstruction of the Red Tide. If there are no objections, it shall be signed immediately." Bradley's voice was not loud, but it carried an undeniable pressure.

Jon was the first to step forward and sign, followed by Veris. They were calm and even pressed their finger rings on their hands.

After that, the room fell silent for a few moments.

Other nobles began to sign in succession.

Each name written on the paper is like a debt contract, a vow, an invisible noose.

No one protested, not because they didn't want to, but because they dared not.

Those who had signed bowed their heads and left in single file without uttering a word.

Only the sound of boots echoed in the stone-pillared corridor, the silence unsettling.

The nobles who used to chat and laugh were now afraid to look each other in the eye, and no one mentioned the fate of Brooke, Harris, or Sirius.

The cold wind outside was like a blade, and the falling snow was silent.

As they walked out of the earthen building, their hearts felt heavier than the stone bricks beneath their feet.

The wind blew the cloaks, but no one dared to turn around and look at the Red Tide flag on the tall building.

The noble representatives filed out of the council hall of the Red Tide Territory. They should have gone home, but as they stepped down the castle steps, their steps slowed involuntarily.

At the end of the street, a cacophony of voices rose. It wasn't the hustle and bustle of a market, but rather a surging, tidal wave of activity.

"What's going on?" someone asked in a low voice.

The square was packed with people.

The crowds, surging in from all directions, completely blocked the main street and side alleys, even causing the stone-paved road to tremble slightly.

The nobles stood on the steps, motionless for a moment.

"You...did you see that?" a viscount frowned. "Over there, is there an execution platform?"

"It seems so." The other person barely managed to stand on tiptoe, but could only see the shadow of a corner of the high platform and the Crimson Tide Iron Cavalry lined up like a forest.

Viscount Roland leaned against a stone pillar, catching his breath, and finally beckoned to a Red Tide Knight who was maintaining order nearby: "Hey, what's going on up ahead?"

The young knight, with a serious expression, saw that they were dressed in noble attire and replied, "Reporting to your Excellency, the Inspectorate is conducting a public trial of the ringleaders of the rebellion."

"Rebellion?" Roland's expression changed slightly. "Who rebelled?!"

“They are… refugees and bandits.” The knight didn’t know how to explain, so he took out a neatly folded, rough leaflet from his pocket and respectfully handed it over.

The flyer contained little text, but the combination of text and images was highly persuasive.

A rough woodcut depicts a bustling crowd and an armored knight surrounding a trial platform. Several disheveled prisoners stand on the platform, facing the execution pillar, with the four large characters "Red Tide Law" hanging behind them.

The following text is written concisely and directly:
"On the 15th of this month, the Control Yuan found that some leaders of the refugees took advantage of the Red Tide main force's expedition to gather crowds to cause trouble, loot military supplies, and attack garrisons, resulting in serious public security incidents and material losses. This morning, a trial was held at Red Tide Square in accordance with the law, and the matter was dealt with accordingly."

The view of the family.

"As expected... it's those refugees again."

"These people are never satisfied."

"The main force has just returned, and there are already troublemakers causing chaos. If the Red Tide is not quelled... this chaos will not be stopped."

They spoke calmly, but each of them felt uneasy inside.

Seeing their hesitation, the knight took the initiative to speak: "If you gentlemen wish to observe the trial, there are prepared positions ahead. I will take you there."

The nobles exchanged glances, and after nodding to one of them, they followed suit.

They didn't have to wait long; the morning bells rang three times, their deep echoes reverberating across the sky above Red Tide City.

The thick fog had not yet dissipated, and the wind swirled snowflakes. Flags flew high in Red Tide Square, their crimson color like fire, fluttering in the wind.

More than a thousand people from the Red Tide Territory had already gathered here. From East Street to South Alley, from the city to the newly expanded refugee area, the crowds surrounded the square, and even the rooftops were filled with people.

The city's garrison and the Inspectorate's knights formed a triple iron cavalry blockade, their armor gleaming, swords drawn, their blades gleaming coldly.

The atmosphere was so oppressive it was almost frozen.

As the final bell rang, a Director of the Inspectorate, dressed in a black robe, slowly ascended the judge's bench.

Quinn, Chief Inspector of the Red Tide Territory.

He said in a calm tone: "The public trial begins. The source of chaos will be tried using the Red Tide Law."

As soon as he finished speaking, several prisoners were dragged onto the platform.

Clad in prison clothes, covered in dust and blood, they were bound by chains and knelt in the snow and mud. Some had already fainted, some stared wide-eyed in anger, and some cried out for mercy.

But only one person caused a murmur of unease among the VIPs.

That's Viscount Brooke.

Just moments ago, he was impeccably dressed, speaking eloquently and offering his opinions at the lords' meeting.

But now he has been stripped of his fine clothes, draped in prison garb, his hands tied behind his back, his face ashen, and his eyes vacant as if dead.

A viscount who once prided himself on being an old nobleman of the North now kneels before the crowd like a dehydrated old dog.

Quinn read each point aloud, his voice booming and penetrating the crowd:
"Firstly, they incited the masses. Viscount Brooke secretly colluded with the refugee leaders 'Skinny Horse' and 'Herd', and secretly ordered them to incite public opinion at various grain distribution points, spreading rumors that 'Red Tide is hoarding grain and not distributing it,' in an attempt to provoke looting."

"Secondly, their henchmen ambushed the Red Tide Knights at night, seriously injuring a trainee knight named Aaron Tyne, who remains unconscious."

"Thirdly, taking advantage of the chaos in the city, Brooke instructed his subordinates to break into the western granary without authorization and steal three boxes of war-prepared medicines and more than thirty winter charcoal stoves, causing shortages of supplies on multiple defense lines."

"Fourth, a riot broke out at the grain distribution site, resulting in the trampling death of a four-year-old child; in addition, three wounded soldiers who underwent surgery suffered from worsening wounds due to a shortage of medicine, one of whom died."

"Fifth, they disrupted order by setting fire to West Street and creating panic. The fire spread, causing a nighttime escape and stampede, resulting in thirteen injuries, two of whom suffered serious fractures."

Each time a line was read aloud, a commotion would erupt in the room.

Each statement is accompanied by eyewitness testimonies, records signed by Red Tide soldiers, and physical evidence, demonstrating their numerous atrocities and providing irrefutable evidence.

Quinn's tone was like cast iron, calm yet heavy, each word and sentence as if nailing Brooke's head to the judgment seat.

A murmur began to rise from the crowd.

Upon hearing the news that "a four-year-old child was trampled to death," an elderly woman began to sob quietly, while others angrily cursed, "That was my neighbor's granddaughter!" and "Only a beast would do such a thing!"

On the high platform, Brooke lowered his head, his lips trembled, and he collapsed to the ground as if his bones had been removed, his face ashen.

He tried to explain, but no sound came out of his throat.

Beside him, Quinn's voice boomed like thunder, shouting sternly, "These traitors are unforgivable! Today, we will use blood to uphold the law and establish our authority through punishment!"

As soon as he finished speaking, the Red Tide Iron Guards below the stage responded in unison, and the executioners on both sides were already in position.

On the execution platform, several main criminals were pressed down and forced to kneel, their throats clamped shut, unable to struggle.

A flash of cold light, and the blade rose.

Blood spurted three feet high.

The corpses tumbled down the wooden steps and rolled into the snow, leaving winding, scarlet streaks on the cold ground.

Brooke struggled to turn his head one last time, his lips trembling as if he wanted to shout something, but he only spat out a mouthful of blood, his voice dying in his throat.

The former nobles and councilors could not even take a word of explanation with them, their eyes wide with shock and disbelief, and they were ultimately swallowed by snow and blood.

The crowd below was silent for a moment, then erupted in cheers:

"Good kill!"

"These scoundrels should have been dealt with long ago!"

An elderly woman with white hair was weeping in the back row, murmuring, "My son died unjustly... but today there is finally some closure..."

Emotions were scattered, with roars, cries, and almost frenzied cheers—an emotional outpouring after a long period of post-war repression.

Meanwhile, in the seats representing the nobles, the "survivors" were already ashen-faced.

They watched helplessly as Brooke, who had been conspiring with them the night before, was beheaded in broad daylight, and no one dared to utter a single plea for mercy.

"He...he actually chopped Brook down..."

"He's gone mad... Has he gone mad...?"

Whispers arose, but no one dared to raise their voice.

Some people were drenched in cold sweat, their backs soaked with sweat; others had fingers stiff as wood, barely able to hold the scepter.

Even though they weren't named, it felt as if a knife was already at their necks.

The square was still crowded even after the main culprit was executed.

The guards on the platform quickly cleaned up the bloodstains. The red liquid dripping from the executioner's knife had not yet cooled, but Quinn did not stop. He flipped through the scroll in his hand and his voice rang out again: "Twenty-three secondary suspects, bring them in one by one."

As the order was given, another team of Red Tide guards escorted the prisoners onto the platform.

These people were dressed in tattered clothes, staggering along. They were of all ages, men and women, with expressions ranging from blank to panicked to glaring with gritted teeth—but none of them dared to shout.

"These twenty-three people, though not the masterminds, provided assistance in this rebellion."

First, Joseph, a vagrant, spread rumors that "the Red Tide is hoarding grain and not distributing it," and incited more than a hundred people to gather at the South Street Tavern.

Secondly, Melinda, a displaced woman, tipped off the main culprit and helped him escape on several occasions.

Thirdly, a member of the foreign caravan, 'Marcel,' secretly gathered information about the Red Tide's mobilization and military deployment. Each charge was read aloud, and soldiers dragged the accused to the execution post, binding them or forcing them to kneel.

The caning was carried out immediately.

The sound of the whip whistling through the air, swirling like an arrow, struck the flesh hard.

"Ahhhh——!"

The first prisoner screamed, but before the second lash had even landed, the second lash had already struck.

Blood splattered, dust billowed, and the audience erupted in commotion.

"Well done!" someone roared, pumping their fist. "My husband was tricked out by these people! He almost didn't come back!"

"These bandits' lackeys, even if they aren't killed, they should be beaten to a pulp!" another woman shouted, her eyes reddening.

The child beside her was so frightened that he shrank into his mother's arms, but he also stared wide-eyed at the execution platform, not daring to blink.

On stage, Quinn calmly announced: "Those with less serious offenses will be punished with ten to fifty lashes, and will also be sentenced to service in the Red Tide Work Team to repair canals and build walls, and will not be discharged before winter."

Meanwhile, the sound of whipping continued on the execution platform.

That was the sound of iron law being smashed into flesh and blood, the clearest and coldest declaration of justice in the cold winter of the Red Tide Territory.

Below the execution platform, in the alleys closest to the edge of the square, there were originally some vagrants who were unwilling to "order in line obediently".

They were black market ration coupon dealers, messengers spreading rumors in the middle of the night, and the "spectators" who had injured the Red Tide soldiers the day before.

The moment the head hit the ground, some people almost fell to the ground, some turned and ran away, and some bit their rags and covered their mouths tightly, afraid that even a breath would cause trouble.

After witnessing the entire public trial and execution, these previously restless refugees dared not make any further moves.

They quietly dispersed, like sand scattered by the wind, disappearing into alleys, ruins, and crowds, as if they had never existed.

In just one day, the undercurrents of the entire Crimson Tide City seemed to have been severed by a heavy blow.

No one mentions "red tide hiding grain" anymore, and no one dares to gather to discuss it.

They suddenly realized:

This land is not the northern wasteland that can be looted and burned at will.

It belongs to that man who dared to kill nobles, slaughter rioters, and show no mercy.

This is a red tide.

In the Red Tide, those who disobey orders, break the law, and are not afraid of death will die quickly.

The sound of whipping finally ceased, the bloodstains on the execution platform were still wet, but the crowd in the square had already surged like a tide.

Some people knelt on the ground, tears streaming down their faces, kowtowing repeatedly and whispering, "Thank you, sir... Thank you, Chichao... Thank you for saving my life..."

Some people shouted emotionally, "It was the red tide that gave us a place to live!"

"We were hiding in a cave, freezing to death, and they brought us out!"

"We are able to have porridge because Lord Louis sent people to cook it!"

"My husband works at the medicine distribution camp. Chichao has applied medicine to his wounds three times, and they're almost healed!"

Shouts rose and fell, and the once oppressive square was filled with the first rays of sunshine after the spring snow melted.

That was the joy of surviving a disaster, the fervor of grasping at a straw in a desperate situation.

A middle-aged man held aloft a tattered half-flag—an old flag he had salvaged from ruins during the insect swarm, now painted with crescent moon patterns of the red tide.

"Long live Lord Louis!"

He was the first to shout out this slogan, his voice hoarse yet deafening.

The next instant, as if ignited by a raging fire, the entire square erupted in cheers:
Long live the Red Tide!

"Long live Lord Louis!!"

"We swear to protect the Red Tide to the death!!"

The people waved their tattered hats, frostbitten hands, and palms that had not yet scabbed over, their throats hoarse but still shouting.

The children joined in the shouting, even if they didn't understand the meaning, they knew it referred to "the adult who protects them."

Amidst the cheers of thousands, a deep yet authoritative voice came from the south end of the square.

"quiet."

The voice wasn't loud, but it felt like a heavy hammer blow from the bottom of the heart, instantly silencing the boiling crowd.

Following everyone's gaze, one could see the Crimson Tide Knights' signature red and black cloaks, the wax-sealed edges gleaming in the morning sun.

Louis slowly ascended the platform.

He was still wearing his cloak, his expression was cold and stern, and every step he took was as steady as an iron hammer.

But when he stood still, his gaze swept over the people below the stage, and instead of rebuking them, he calmly spoke:
"You are able to stand here because you have held the line."

Red Tide Territory is your refuge.

But remember—this land is safe not because of any favors bestowed upon it, but because of the ironclad laws that govern it.

The wind howled, and Louis raised his hand, pointing to the audience below:
"As long as you are willing to abide by the rules of the Red Tide, as long as you are willing to unite, obey orders, not cause trouble, and not harm others, then this ironclad rule will protect you!"

The moment the words were spoken, the square fell silent, then erupted in thunderous applause and cheers.

"I am willing to abide by the laws of the Red Tide!"

"I am willing to serve you with all my might!"

"We're willing to do anything to survive!"

Some even knelt down and shouted, "This is not a place of exile, it is our home! It is the red tide that allows us to still have a home to return to!"

Louis stood on the execution platform, his red cloak fluttering in the wind, amidst the blood-stained snow and the cheers of the crowd, like a true emperor ascending the throne.

Millions of refugees, paralyzed grain supply lines, the old system collapsed, and a new system yet to be established...

The entire North was like a severely wounded beast, its skin torn and bleeding profusely; only a potent medicine could stop the loss of life.

Before Red Tide's true laws, supply lines, and distribution system were established, Louis knew that human nature could not be trusted.

Therefore, he chose the worst chaos and used the most ruthless measures.

The instinct for survival will drive refugees to loot granaries, hunger and hatred will ignite armed conflicts, and the struggle for territory and interests will repeat the madness before the collapse of the North.

He can't wait.

We cannot wait for the laws to be perfected, for the city defenses to be built, or for the old nobles to reach a negotiation agreement.

We must kill a group of people first.

The killings were ruthless and loud enough.

Only when the killing is so intense that the people on this land can hear the sound of hammers striking bones, will the first rudimentary form of "rules" emerge.

This public trial was a clarion call of iron and blood, a prelude to reconstruction, and a "bottom line" that Louis opened up in the chaos of the world.

Since that day, no one has dared to engage in private fighting and armed robbery in the Red Tide Territory.

No more refugees dared to break into the granary.

No one dared to disrespect the name Louis Calvin anymore.

Because everyone knows that it is not just the name of a lord, but a new code of law that has just been written in blood and is above the old nobility.

In the center of the square, that familiar flag slowly rose.

The Red Tide Banner, like a blazing sun, fluttered in the cold winds of the North, an inextinguishable force that illuminated the ice and snow and reddened the still-unfrozen bloodstains beneath the execution platform.

The two red streaks echoed each other, and that single color spoke volumes.

It symbolizes order, it symbolizes protection, and it symbolizes the name that once pulled people back from the brink of death in the darkest night.

Long live the Red Tide!

"Long live Lord Louis!!"

The shouts, like waves, spread from the heart of the square toward the city walls, streets, and even the crowds huddled on rooftops.

It wasn't ordered by anyone, nor was it led by anyone; it was simply an outburst of the most primal and instinctive emotions.

The noble representatives stood aside, their expressions complex. They had intended to take the opportunity to leave, but the sudden surge of sound left them momentarily stunned.

Many people felt a chill in their hearts and involuntarily took a half step back.

Someone whispered, "These aren't refugees anymore. They're...believers."

They dared not linger and had to leave quickly with their heads down, without saying a word.

They dared not look back at the high platform, feeling as if the Red Tide Flag was silently watching them.

Meanwhile, the original inhabitants and newcomers in the square still stood in the cold wind, gazing at the figure who had once stood amidst raging fire and swarms of insects, their eyes filled with tears that had been suppressed for too long.

After one shout, there were ten, a hundred, a thousand shouts—

Long live the Red Tide!

"Long live Lord Louis!!"

Those were vows made amidst wind and snow, loyalty forged in ruins, and the people's most fervent gratitude and devotion to their guardians.

After this upheaval, on this blood-stained square, the order belonging to the Red Tide finally took root completely.

(End of this chapter)