Winter Lord: Starting with Daily Intelligence

Chapter 389 The Crimson Tide's Sharp Blade

Louis's private office is located on the top floor of the administrative center.

The burning pine in the fireplace created a warm environment, forming a completely different world from the early autumn wind and snow outside the window.

Instead of sitting behind the large desk piled high with documents, Louis changed into casual clothes and sat in a single sofa by the fireplace.

He picked up the silver pot and slowly poured the amber-colored liquid into two crystal glasses, pushing one of them into the empty space opposite.

There was a knock on the door.

"Enter."

Lambert pushed open the door and entered, his cloak still carrying the chill of the night. He instinctively reached for a standard knightly salute.

"Let's not go through all that in private." Louis smiled and raised his hand to press the armrest. "Sit down. This is some newly brewed golden barley wine from Wheatfield Territory, just delivered."

Lambert, as was his habit, lowered his head and gave a brief half-bow before sitting down on the sofa opposite him.

As he took the glass, his fingertips touched the cool glass, as if he were slowly recovering from the shock of the experiment during the day.

Looking at the composed young man before him, he felt a surge of indescribable emotion.

A few years ago, Louis was the Calvin family's outcast, exiled for his lack of talent, his eyes gloomy and lost, abandoned by fate.

At that time, he was just an Oathkeeper with the title of high-ranking knight but no bright future.

Now, Louis is the Lord of the North, controlling unprecedented industrial and military power.

With the resources granted by Louis, he broke through the bottleneck that had plagued him for many years and became an extraordinary knight, leading an army of thousands.

These few short years feel like a lifetime ago.

But the icy touch of the wine in his glass told him that it was all reality.

“Sir, this wine is strong.” Lambert took a sip. “But it’s quite good.”

“I think it’s alright, ready to export.” Louis gently swirled the glass, holding it up to the firelight, the amber wine reflecting a dark golden sheen.

Lambert recalled the scene from not long ago and said in a low voice, "That steam chariot... it was a monster. A traditional phalanx of knights wouldn't last a single charge against it."

He is an extraordinary knight. By the standards of the old era, his physique, his fighting spirit, and his martial arts skills already place him among the top few people on the entire continent.

But at the moment of the test firing, he knew very well that even if he were in his place, standing on that snowy field unprepared, the outcome would be the same.

Louis put down his glass, his voice calming: "It's not just a monster, it's the iron wheel of a new era. No matter how brave a person is, no matter how thick their clothes are, honor can't save them in the face of something like this."

He paused, his gaze darkening slightly: "So we have to create more of these monsters."

He looked up at Lambert: "Because we have less time than I originally thought."

Lambert knew that Louis was not referring to barbarians.

He placed the cup on the table and leaned forward slightly: "What new situation has arisen?"

Louis didn't beat around the bush: "The Regent's body has reached its limit."

The firewood in the fireplace crackled and popped.

"Two years at most, or even less," Louis said casually.

Lambert frowned deeply: "His Highness has passed away..."

“The moment he died,” Louis said, as if picking up where Lambert left off, “the last stone weighing on the Empire was gone.”

He walked to the window and gently tapped on the window frame. Outside, the wind and snow lashed against the glass, blurring it into a blur.

“The princes will start fighting, the nobles will start taking sides, the legions will be drawn away, and some in the provinces will want to use the borders as their own fences. The empire will slowly be torn apart.”

Louis's voice was calm: "Civil war is inevitable."

Lambert remained silent for a few moments before speaking: "So, how does the Red Tide Territory plan to choose sides?"

“The Red Tide Territory doesn’t take sides.” Louis looked out the window at the snow. “The Red Tide Territory is determined to survive with the Northern Territory.”

He said calmly, "What we need to prepare is to wait until they've fought enough before we still have the strength to raise our knives."

The Red Tide Territory cannot be a small boat drifting with the current; it must be an ironclad warship sailing against the tide. While the Empire is in chaos, we must not only defend the northern border but also have the resources to hunt south at any time.

“Expanding the army and building war machines is a bottomless pit,” Lambert said. “Didn’t you say last time that the Calvin family’s trading company was already making moves?”

This is his most pressing concern.

Soldiers can be trained, and chariots can be built, but without money, even the best forging blueprints are just paper.

Louis's lips curled slightly. The smile wasn't gentle; it carried a hint of coldness.

“They acted too late,” Louis said. “Two years ago, this tactic could have crushed us, but now…”

He walked back and casually pulled a financial report from a stack of documents on the table.

"The minerals and industrial products from the Red Tide have already been dumped in the Emerald Federation, and the food reserves in the North are enough to feed everyone in the North for three years of winter."

Louis looked up at Lambert: "You don't need to worry about the money. As long as you can train the troops, I can find a way to make the money."

Lambert looked at him and suddenly realized that the statement didn't sound like boasting at all.

From having only a dilapidated fiefdom, the entire snowfield is now filled with Red Tide's warehouses and flags.

Lambert watched time and again as this young man conjured food, weapons, workshops, and territories from thin air.

Lambert took a breath; he knew what Louis wanted to know, so he read out the numbers he had: "Sir, the total number of the legion has reached eight thousand six hundred and fifty."

The Red Tide headquarters has 3,650 members, all of whom are absolutely loyal, and they have now been equipped with the latest gear.

The former troops of Duke Edmund, consisting of the Broken Edge, Cold Iron, and Silver Fang legions, totaling five thousand men.

We've fought together these past few years, and we've shared salaries and land. Especially the Cold Iron crew—they no longer just recognize Edmund's flag; they recognize the Red Tide's military orders.

“The quantity is sufficient,” Louis nodded, “but not enough.”

This sounds contradictory, but Lambert understands what he means.

In the old days, military strength was judged solely by the number of soldiers, but after the Battle of the Brood, no one dared to look at numbers alone.

Louis held up his fingers and began listing the things one by one: "Keep a close eye on the next few things."

"First, we must establish coordinated operations. Put away the arrogance of the Knights Order, get used to charging under the cover of steam chariots, and get used to fighting alongside the Magic Bombardier Knights."

From now on, when we go to battle, we will no longer have knights in front and infantry behind, but the entire battle line will advance together.

Second, specialization and expansion. The number of White Bear heavy cavalry was doubled, specifically for breaching defensive lines.

"Bring out a few more flamethrower and demolition teams. We'll need both types of personnel for monster hordes and urban warfare."

Lambert nodded slightly.

Then Louis put down his glass, leaned forward slightly, and said solemnly, "But Lambert, what I'm about to say is more important than that steam chariot. I'm going to establish a new rule for this army."

Lambert immediately sat up straight: "Please speak."

“It’s very simple.” Louis held up a finger. “From today onwards, the knights of the Red Tide, whether they are going to suppress bandits or on patrol, are not allowed to take even a single piece of dry bread from civilians.”

"No riding horses into the village is allowed, and borrowed items must be returned. Anyone who dares to act like they used to, thinking, 'I'm risking my life to protect you, so what's wrong with eating your chicken?' will have their medals stripped and be kicked out of the ranks."

Lambert paused for a moment, his brow furrowing slightly: "My lord... I'm afraid that will be difficult."

The commander spoke frankly: "If you are so demanding, I'm afraid the brothers below will complain and think we are being too... too fussy."

“Complaints?” Louis smiled, a knowing glint in his eyes. “Lambert, what do you think we’re most afraid of if we conquer Red Tide Territory and take over other people’s lands?”

"What we fear most is a counterattack by the enemy's knightly order, or a surprise attack by the enemy," Lambert answered from a military perspective.

“No.” Louis shook his head. “What I fear most is that every time we capture a city, we have to leave half of our troops behind to guard against riots within the city.”

Louis stood up, walked to the huge map of the North, and traced his finger across the territories that did not belong to the Red Tide.

"Lambert, if we, like other lords, march through the land with our armies like locusts, looting money, food, and women, what will the common people think of us?"
They'll mistake us for another group of bandits. They'll hide our food and tip off the enemy…

Louis turned to look at Lambert, his tone becoming extremely blunt and direct: "But what if we're different?"

"Imagine if our soldiers entered villages without disturbing the residents, bought things for them, paid for them, and even helped repair roads. What would we be to those villagers who were fed up with exploitation?"

Lambert instinctively replied, "Is he... a good person?"

“He’s a savior,” Louis corrected. “He’s one of their own, someone they’re eager to welcome in.”

Louis walked back to the sofa, picked up his wine glass again, and spoke in a relaxed tone that betrayed a cold calculation:
"This is the kind of public support I want. It's not about being a moral saint, but about saving money and soldiers."

If our reputation spreads, when our army marches south, the civilians in other territories, upon hearing that the Red Tide Army is coming, will not react by fleeing, but by breathing a sigh of relief.

Back then, if we wanted to take over a city, all we needed to do was send a tax collector to plant a flag; there was no need to leave troops to garrison it.

Lambert was dumbfounded. He had fought wars his whole life, always thinking about how to kill the enemy, and had never considered that not disturbing the people was a more ingenious siege tactic.

“This is called winning hearts and minds.” Louis pointed to his chest. “I want the words ‘Red Tide’ to be more effective in the hearts of the common people than the emperor’s.”

"So Lambert, even if it's just an act, make them act like gentlemen for me."

Louis's voice deepened, carrying an unquestionable command: "Tell the people below that anyone who dares to ruin Red Tide's reputation is taking away everyone's livelihood."

If we win the battle, the spoils will belong to the state, and I will reward them handsomely with money from the treasury. But anyone who dares to steal from the pockets of ordinary people will have their hands chopped off.

Knights aren't street thugs. They have to be like people carrying torches in the dark; too rude and they'll drop sparks and burn the houses down, too weak and they won't light the way. You have to teach them that balance.”

Lambert took a deep breath, the confusion in his eyes completely disappearing, replaced by a profound awe. He had initially thought it was just some kind of fastidiousness of the young lord, never expecting it to conceal an ambition to conquer the world.

"I understand, my lord."

Lambert stood up, and this time, his bow was more solemn than ever. "This army will not only be the sword in your hand, but also the cleanest banner of the Red Tide."

Louis nodded in satisfaction: "Go ahead and sharpen this knife. Soon we'll be using it to cut open the veins of this decaying empire."

Once the civil war breaks out in the empire, the blood of this old beast will flow in all directions.

What I need your guarantee is that when it's our turn to strike, this knife will cut precisely where it's needed.

Lambert stood up to leave, taking one last look at the young figure standing by the window.

The skinny boy who was once thrown into the North now stands atop the snowfield, as if speaking to the entire continent.

Lambert didn't say much, but walked to the table, gently placed his right fist on his chest, and performed a standard, almost rigid, chest-touching salute.

"My lord," came the low, steady voice, "no matter where you point your sword, the Crimson Tide Legion will not let you down. I will make the arrangements immediately."

Louis glanced at him sideways, nodded, and said nothing more.

As the door closed, the sound of wind was suppressed through the crack, and the room suddenly became quiet.

Only the fire in the fireplace and the map of the entire empire on the wall remained burning.

Louis walked back to the table, his gaze sliding south from the snow-capped peaks of the North, finally settling on the small area of ​​the capital.

The red dot there is still quietly affixed to the sheepskin.

Louis reached out and tapped lightly on the empty space between the capital and the North.

“Come on,” he said in a low voice, “let’s see who gives up first.”

…………

The Greystone Fortress sits at the throat of the Empire's northern border and the Greystone Province, like a black iron gate, coldly watching over both the north and south sides.

This is the boundary of order.

To the south lies a prosperous world flowing with gold and wine. To the north, however, lies a desolate land of ice, snow, and wilderness.

The interior of the fortress exuded a suffocating sense of desolation.

Torches were placed every five meters in the corridor, illuminating the monster heads and captured barbarian weapons hanging on the walls. Although they had been processed, the smell of blood could still be smelled.

The floor was polished to a gleaming shine, a luster worn down by countless iron boots over the years.

The door to the 17th Army Corps Commander's study was wide open.

Commander Ackerman Greer sat behind a huge black iron wooden table.

He wasn't wearing plate armor, but only a finely crafted silk shirt with the collar slightly open.

As a knight who has stepped into the realm of the extraordinary, the cold winds of the North are nothing more than a cool breeze to him.

He was as burly as an upright brown bear, and even when he was just sitting casually, the oppressive aura of a high-level superhuman filled the entire room as if it were a tangible presence.

Hearing footsteps at the door, Ackerman did not immediately look up.

He was examining a military map in front of him, his finger lightly tracing several red lines, his expression focused yet arrogant.

"If they are from the Ministry of Military Affairs inspecting supplies, please wait in the side hall. I will see you when I am in a better mood."

“I’m here to deliver wine, General Grell.”

His voice answered calmly, unmoved by the superhuman's pressure.

Sorel stood in the doorway, gracefully removing his snow-covered cloak and handing it to a somewhat trembling servant behind him.
He was dressed in a well-tailored dark hunting outfit, with a longsword bearing the Raymond family crest hanging at his waist.

Ackerman finally raised his head. A glint of light flashed in his deep brown eyes, as if he were sizing up a hunting dog that dared to trespass into a lion's territory.

“There aren’t many people who can stand this straight under my pressure.” Ackerman put down his crystal glass, making a crisp sound. “From the Royal Knights?”

“The Third Legion, former deputy commander.” Sorel nodded slightly and gave an impeccable military salute. “I had the honor of witnessing your prowess on the training grounds.”

“That was all ten years ago.” Ackerman leaned back in his chair, his posture languid. “Sit. Since you’re someone who knows the rules, I won’t throw you out. What does the Second Prince want with my Seventeenth Legion?”

"It's not about asking you to do something, but about not wanting you to do something."

Sorel made no attempt to stand on ceremony and went straight to sit opposite Ackerman. He didn't touch the wine the waiter brought him, but instead looked directly into the legion commander's eyes.

"General, you are the empire's sharpest sword. But now, this sword is stuck in this frozen ground. What good is it besides scaring a few barbarians? Will it rust?"

“Watch your words.” Ackerman’s eyes narrowed, and the air in the study instantly became heavy. “I am guarding the empire’s gates.”

“It is an honor to guard the country’s borders, but merely guarding the borders is not worthy of the Grell family’s ambitions.”

Despite the suffocating pressure, Sorel's tone remained calm: "I've checked. Your eldest son died on the battlefield; he was a hero."

But your second son… he has a great talent for business, and even secretly operates two smuggling routes to the Emerald Federation. Not only did you not reprimand him, but you secretly sent your personal guard to protect those caravans.”

Ackerman's murderous aura subsided somewhat, revealing a playful smile: "What? Does Your Highness even need to meddle in such a small business?"

“No, His Highness considers it a waste.” Sorel leaned forward. “To send a legion commander’s son into smuggling? That’s beneath him. He should be sitting in his southern estate, having afternoon tea with the finance minister, discussing trade quotas for the entire province.”

Ackerman fell silent.

He gently turned the ruby ​​ring on his thumb.

He wasn't short of money; having served as a legion commander for over a decade, he had made quite a bit of money off the side.

But what he lacked was the foundation, the ticket to enter the core circle of the empire.

In the eyes of those noble families who had been established for centuries, Ackerman was still just a capable high-ranking bodyguard.

“Continue,” Ackerman uttered a single word.

Sorel took a document sealed with sealing wax from his pocket and pushed it over.

"The Second Prince's offer is the largest winery in the Valencia Valley, and a viscount's title," Sorel's voice was full of enticement.

"This is not a handout of money, but a sharing of power. Your son will officially enter the social circles of the Southern nobility as a partner."

Ackerman picked up the document, feeling the heavy texture of the parchment with his fingertips.

This document signifies that the Grell family will no longer be merely warriors of the North, but true lords.

His descendants will completely shed the nouveau riche label.

"And the price?" Ackerman closed the file, his gaze sharp as a knife. "The Second Prince doesn't seem like the type to do charity."

“It’s simple,” Sorel said, spreading his hands. “When the flags of the North appear at the pass, we hope the Seventeenth Legion’s vision will be a little clearer.”

And... should anything change in the capital at some crucial moment in the future, I hope the General will remember this friendship and maintain a noble silence.

Ackerman stared at Sorel for a long time, then suddenly burst into laughter. The laughter shook the books on the shelf.

"Noble silence...a good word."

Ackerman stood up, walked to the wine cabinet, picked up the bottle of his treasured Southern red wine, and poured a glass for Sorel.

“This godforsaken place is really too cold; even I’m starting to feel a bit weary.” Ackerman pushed his glass toward Sorel, raising his own crystal glass. “My sword belongs to the Empire, but my family belongs to myself.”

Sorel raised his glass, the two glasses clinking lightly in the air: "Deal, General Grell."

……

Half an hour later.

The heavy iron gates of the fortress slowly rose. Sorel's carriage emerged from the enormous shadow of Graystone Fortress.

The wind and snow were still biting, but the carriage was warm and cozy.

“My lord, Ackerman is more difficult to deal with than I imagined,” the attendant whispered beside him, his hands still clammy with cold sweat. “Just now in the study, I felt like I was being stared at by a ferocious beast, ready to be torn to pieces at any moment.”

"He is definitely a ferocious beast. How could someone who can hold the position of commander of the 17th Legion be an ordinary person?"

Sorel leaned back on the cushion and loosened his grip on the sword hilt.

His palms were also slightly sweaty; the exchange just now was not only verbal but also a battle of wits.

"He's arrogant because he has the means. He's dissatisfied because he's seen the ceiling," Sorel remarked casually, gazing at the fleeting snow outside the window.

“He doesn’t lack money; what he lacks is a ladder to upward mobility. We’ve given him that ladder, and this lion will temporarily put away his claws.”

"Shall we head back to the capital now?"

"Do not."

Sorel turned his gaze northward, seemingly trying to see through the wind and snow to that even more desolate white wasteland.

“Ackerman is just a gatekeeper lion; once he’s fed, he’ll sleep. But I’m more interested in the one behind the gate.”

"Red Tide Territory?" The attendant hesitated.

Sorel sneered: "To be able to control the entire North in such a desperate situation, and even make someone like Ackerman wary... such a person is either a madman or a monster more terrifying than Ackerman."

The carriage wheels left a deep rut in the snow, not heading south, but resolutely driving into the depths of the northern snowstorm.

“Let’s go. Let’s meet with that Louis Calvin and see what his ambitions are.”

(End of this chapter)