Winter Lord: Starting with Daily Intelligence

Chapter 336 Barbarian Remnants Prepare for Rebellion
"Let's see how my luck is today."

Louis stretched out his right hand and waved it in the air. A semi-transparent interface appeared, and text jumped rapidly in front of his eyes.

[Daily intelligence update complete]

[1: Eighty miles north of Dawn Harbor, a large area of ​​snowfield moss was discovered.]

[2: In the Red Tide City workshop area, steam-powered looms have entered small-scale mass production.]

[3: The remnants of the barbarian tribes in Bianwei Village are colluding with the remnants of the Silver Plate Guild, hiding kerosene and magic explosive bombs, and planning arson and explosion.]

Louis stared at the first piece of intelligence, his eyes lighting up slightly.

Snowfield moss, a cold-resistant plant, can be dried and stored to make monster feed.

It also produces salt frost crystals, which means it has an extremely high energy conversion rate, potentially allowing monsters to recover their stamina in a short time.

Nowadays, the number of magical beasts raised in the Crimson Tide Territory is increasing. Some are used as raw materials for refining magic explosive bombs, some are used to pull heavy carts, and there are even several types that can enhance the knight's fighting spirit and blood energy.

If the moss can be supplied stably, it's equivalent to allowing these magical beasts to grow faster, serve longer, and reproduce in greater numbers.

Louis muttered under his breath, "It must be in our own hands."

Without further thought, he wrote down the order in his intelligence notebook: "List snowfield moss as a military resource. Collect, transplant, cultivate, send samples back to the city, test planting first, then expand planting."

He naturally doesn't need to personally handle these kinds of matters.

The Red Tide Knights already had a dedicated team responsible for searching for and recovering resources; Louis only needed to give the order.

Louis thought to himself that this was good news; resource-based intelligence could be directly converted into power.

[2: In the Red Tide City workshop area, steam-powered looms have entered small-scale mass production.]

Louis glanced at the second item, his expression unsurprised; he had received Hamilton's handwritten letter a few days earlier.

The letter reported that, after improvements, the steam-powered loom could finally operate stably, and the output efficiency of a single operator was more than six times that of traditional looms.

The boy wouldn't exaggerate, and Louis knew that very well.

Hamilton never used flowery language; the fact that he could write down a number like six times meant that the machine's performance had been repeatedly verified.

It should have been something he would personally return to the city to confirm, but at that time it was a crucial stage for shipbuilding in Dawn Port. He didn't get distracted and only sent a short letter, ordering the workshop to mass-produce the ship according to the trial production standards.

Seeing this in the daily intelligence report now simply means that everything is proceeding smoothly.

Louis silently noted this down in his mind, signifying that Red Tide City's textile industry had truly crossed the threshold.

[3: The remnants of the barbarian tribes in Bianwei Village have colluded with the remnants of the Silver Plate Guild, hiding kerosene and magic explosive bombs, and are planning arson and explosions.]

Louis stared at the intelligence report for a few seconds, his expression calm and unsurprised.

He cut off the Silver Plate Guild connection last year.

After Anthony's arrest, the entire Silver Disc Merchants' intelligence network in the North was uprooted.

Those who should have been killed were killed long ago; only a few skeletal remnants remain, stirring up embers in the corners.

As for the barbarians... Louis had long ago said that the flames of betrayal must be extinguished before they ignite.

He originally did not intend to personally handle such small-scale rebellions.

As usual, those who should be killed should be killed; one round of purges is enough.

But after a moment of silence, Louis reached for the map on the table.

“Bianwei Village…” His gaze fell on a coordinate near the edge of the snow-capped mountains.

That was an autonomous village for settling surrendered barbarian tribes.

But autonomy was merely a facade; the military household system, collective responsibility, and the permanent presence of knights ensured tight control.

Theoretically, nothing should happen unless someone starts a fire there.

He said softly, "It's time to go and take a look."

The port construction and shipbuilding plans at Shuguang Port are on track, the Shuguang has successfully completed its sea trial, and the standardization of the ship type has begun.

There's not much point in him staying here anymore.

As for Bianwei Village... he had never personally visited it since its establishment, so he took this opportunity to see how well it had been educated.

The room was not yet fully lit, with only a sliver of gray-white morning light seeping through the cracks in the window.

Sif awoke to a slight fluctuation of battle aura.

She didn't open her eyes, but simply turned her head and buried herself in the soft blanket beside her pillow, the familiar scent so close at hand.

A moment later, she opened her eyes and looked at the figure not far away, half-asleep.

Louis sat on a thick rug in the corner of the room, his fighting spirit faintly visible around him, like a layer of light and shadow that flowed close to his body and rippled slightly with the rhythm of his breath.

His bangs were slightly damp, indicating that he had already completed a cycle.

This had become his routine morning practice. Whether in Red Tide City or Dawn Harbor, as long as it wasn't a time of crisis, he could always be seen cultivating before dawn.

Sif propped herself up, rubbed her eyes, and said in a slightly hoarse voice, "Don't you ever feel tired...?"

Louis didn't open his eyes, only saying calmly, "If you're awake, practice for a while."

Sif didn't speak, but stared at him for two seconds before turning her head to lean against the headboard and tidying her messy hair.

After he finished his movements, stood up, and put his outer robe back on, he asked slowly, "Are you going to the port area today?"

“No.” Louis fastened his cloak, glanced back at her, and said, “I’m going to the border village.”

Sif paused, her expression shifting slightly.

She knew where that place was: the frontier of the Red Tide Territory, where barbarian traitors were incorporated into military households and supervised by knights. It seemed autonomous, but in reality, it was strictly controlled.

She had participated in the efforts to persuade the enemy to surrender, but she had never actually gone there.

"What's the big deal?"

“A knight has discovered that someone is planning something,” Louis said vaguely.

"You want to go in person?"

Louis nodded: "It's a good opportunity to go and take a look. The process at the port has already begun, so there's no need to stay here any longer."

He glanced at her: "Do you want to come along?"

Sif did not answer immediately.

She lowered her head and pulled the blanket down a little, revealing an old scar on the side of her neck, a mark left during her escape.

But no one mentioned her identity as a princess of the Cold Moon tribe anymore, not even Vesa, because she didn't like it.

She was used to being called "Lady Sif" or "Madam".

But this does not mean that she has completely left that period of history.

If they insist on bringing hatred back into reality, then she must personally stand on the front line and tell them: the enemy is dead, don't become the next one.

Sif remained silent for a while, and Louis didn't say anything either, just waited.

Finally, Sif looked up at him, her expression unchanged: "I'll go with you."

Louis nodded without saying anything more.

He knew that this matter was far more complicated for Sif than it appeared on the surface.

But she still agreed, and that was enough.

…………

Three months ago, outside Xiling in Bianwei Village.

Border Guard Village: The Crimson Tide Knights dispatched a whole squad to the northern section to support the repair of the trade route.

This news was leaked three days ago on the post road by a merchant from Chichao.

The man was unaware of the Gray Belt Caravan's background and assumed they were fellow salt traders.

The next morning, Cohen ordered a detour along the ski slope to the south entrance, as they had found a real opening to penetrate.

At this time, the people of Bianwei Village were becoming complacent.

With some knights transferred out and only a small number of knights and local officials remaining in the village, the number of night patrols was reduced from twice to once.

More importantly, they haven't had any accidents yet, so nobody is really on guard.

"Let's take action." With just that one sentence, they set off.

Three people, a cart, and an old ox. The cart was covered with a gray cloth canopy, on which was a blurry mark that read "Southern Free Traders Union".

Cohen sat at the back of the car, one hand on a cloth bag and the other holding the old mission manual, his face full of worry.

Recently, the Chamber of Commerce's entire network in the North seems to have been cut off.

Cohen had no idea what was going on; no one told them anything was wrong, and no one informed them whether they had been exposed.

They were just a peripheral group, responsible for receiving supplies, initial contact, and shaping public opinion at distant locations; they were never at the center.

That's why they weren't swept away by the Red Tide.

His two subordinates were completely unaware of these matters.

Cohen didn't intend to tell them either.

He only knew one thing: the mission itself was not over yet.

"Phase 3: Contact retired military personnel from the border villages, implant their sense of identity deviation, and push them to break away from the Red Tide order."

He had read that sentence at least ten times.

Cohen muttered to himself, "If no one has told us it's over, then it's not over yet."

The pack cart wobbled, and the food bags under the cart collided with each other, making a dull thud.

Inside were salt cakes, dry rations, old barbarian totems, oil packets, and a small wooden box containing several magic bombs.

…………

Returning from his night patrol, Sarik, as always, hung his crossbow back behind the barn door, unbuckled his belt, and prepared to stuff the bag of rations he had been given during the day into a corner.

He lived in a small hut on the side of the warehouse, a room shared by three people.

The other two had not yet returned. There were no lights in the room, only the ashes in the red brick furnace emitting a dim red glow.

He tossed the bag into the corner, picked up the water bottle, and noticed out of the corner of his eye that the bag seemed a little different.

It wasn't the burlap sacks commonly found in military supply depots, nor was it sealed in the style of the Red Tide method.

It's a gray-lined cloth bag that's been used for a long time; the edges are all frayed.

The stitching at the bag opening was a bit loose, and the stitching method... was the old tribal custom of wrapping the needle around three times before tightening it.

The person who delivered this was a tall, thin man, a member of the caravan he had met at the post station that morning.

He did not report it, nor did he feel he had any obligation to report it.

Sarik sat by the window of the barn, breaking the biscuits into pieces and chewing them slowly, one bite at a time.

The next day, he deliberately took a roundabout route, going around to the outside of the snow slope, and pretended to be on patrol.

The man under the gray cloth shed was still there, sitting by the wooden box peeling dried fish. He looked up and nodded at him.

"The weather is better now," the man said in a barbarian language, his tone natural, as if he were a long-lost friend from the same tribe.

“Not bad,” Saric replied with just two words, and didn’t come any closer.

“Red Tide is pretty strict with you,” the man said with a smile. “But… you don’t seem like someone who wants to be kept under their control.”

Sarik did not respond.

Their contact began to become regular.

Every three days, the caravan would bring a small bag of salt cakes or dry rations, along with other supplies and some gossip.

"You are clearly of barbarian blood, yet you choose to patrol for the Red Tide?"

"They're using you to guard the warehouse, but they don't trust you."

"You think you're a military household? They'll only turn your child into a second you."

"We can take you out."

Sarik neither refuted nor agreed.

One day, when Sarik went around to the back of the barn, he saw the figure squatting by the fence, holding a long bag, as if he had been waiting for a long time.

"What I brought tonight isn't food," the man said in a low voice.

Sarik did not approach, but stood three steps away, watching as the other man slowly placed the long bag on the snow and loosened the belt.

The layers of cloth unfolded, revealing the outline of a long sword.

The sword has a thick, double-edged blade with ancient barbarian inscriptions. The hilt is wrapped with animal sinew, and a piece of dried feather bone hangs from the end.

That was the standard longsword passed down in the tribe, issued only when the eldest son of a nobleman came of age or went to war.

Saric's pupils contracted slightly.

He recognized the runes on the sword as the style his father's generation had used.

"You won't see this kind of thing in the Red Tide anymore, will you?" The man raised an eyebrow, his fingers lightly tracing the patterns on the sword.

Saric remained silent, still staring at the sword.

"You think you're a military household? You're nothing but their servant." The man's tone grew colder, his voice lowering inch by inch. "When your father wielded his sword, they dared not set foot on the snowfield. Now you're guarding their warehouse."

Saric's fingertips tightened slightly.

Seeing this, the man simply thrust his sword into the snow, the tip sinking halfway into the ice. "Do you dare pick it up? Or have you already gotten used to life without a sword?"

These words struck Saric like a thorn in his side.

He stared at the sword for a few seconds, his hand unconsciously reaching out and hovering in mid-air.

"We are the remnants of Frostblood, the sparks that have not yet been extinguished." The man spoke each word clearly. "We will rebuild the glory of the barbarians. Not with words, but by taking back what is rightfully ours. Now, are you willing?"

Only the sound of the wind could be heard in the snow.

Saric stared at the longsword, his breathing slowing, something churning inside his chest.

He remembered his father carrying a sword as he walked out of the tribe, and the light of that sword beside the sacrificial fire.

He finally stepped forward and grasped the hilt of the sword.

The man smiled: "Then let's start with you. Find someone you trust and tell them we're still here."

But Saric's hand remained on the hilt of the longsword, and he hesitated to draw it.

He looked down at the familiar pattern, and a belated question surfaced in his mind: "Do I really hate the Red Tide?"

The answer is vague and unclear.

He remembered the year he was shivering from cold and hunger when Chi Chao's grain convoy entered the village.

I remember the day his father's remains were lost, it was the Red Tide Knights who helped erect a monument.

Even now, he is still wearing the cotton-padded clothes they gave him and eating the rations they allocated to him.

There's no hatred involved, but there's absolutely no sense of belonging either.

After all, the prospect of being guarded for a lifetime is suffocating enough.

Saric finally moved, wrapping the longsword back in the animal hide and holding it to his chest.

He glanced back towards the warehouse, where the Red Tide flag was still hanging.

At that moment, he knew he had crossed that line.

Saric pulled the person away without much effort.

The people he found were all notorious troublemakers in Bianwei Village.

Some were beaten for refusing to remove their hats during training, some were imprisoned for three days for possessing tobacco, and one was recorded as a disobedient by the interpreter for speaking too many times.

Saric simply said, "We're preparing something. If you don't want to be a watchdog forever, come on over."

No one refused; they didn't have gatherings, but only exchanged a few words with the wall during shift changes.

Gradually, other villagers also noticed.

Who's close to whom? Who's been going to the western warehouse a lot lately? Who always takes a longer route when changing shifts?

None of these things can be kept secret.

But nobody spoke up, nobody cared, and nobody reported it to higher authorities.

(End of this chapter)