Winter Lord: Starting with Daily Intelligence

Chapter 390 The New North and the Old North

When the wind and snow swept over the Greystone Fortress, the old trade route was mixed with frozen soil and mud, making people dizzy from the bumpy ride.

Even the luxurious wheels creaked under the weight when they got stuck in potholes, as if protesting the cruelty of this wasteland.

Sorel sat steadily in the carriage, reached out to check the gaps in the doors and windows, and made sure they were all tightly closed before taking out the worn silver pendant from the lining of his undershirt.

He unbuttoned the shirt, revealing a charcoal sketch about the size of a thumb, depicting a little girl holding a rag doll.

She was pale, her eyes disproportionately large, yet she tried to smile slightly at the viewer outside the painting, holding the doll tightly in her arms.

Sorel lightly stroked the screen with his fingertips and briefly closed his eyes.

Then he fastened the pendant back into place, as if putting a secret back into the seam of his armor.

Sorel rolled up a corner of the car window and looked outside.

The sound of wind immediately rushed in, as cold as needles.

The withered black pine forests were bent over by the weight of the snow, and the corpses curled up by the roadside were buried in the snow with only half of their faces showing.

The dilapidated shacks housed refugees who resembled wild beasts. When they looked up at the carriage, their eyes were so numb that they seemed to have long since given up on living.

Smoke from chimneys has almost disappeared in this stretch of wasteland; the air is filled only with the smell of rotting flesh and the cold wind.

Sorel watched all of this.

He knew he should maintain the polite restraint expected of a royal envoy, but the arrogance emanating from his southern noble lineage still swelled uncontrollably.

Sorel chuckled softly, but without warmth.

"Now that's more like the North."

Barren, crude, disorderly, and worthless.

This is the consensus in the capital regarding the North, and everything he is seeing now perfectly confirms this prejudice.

"To be able to reign supreme in a place like this... is really nothing special."

He knew that Louis was skilled in political maneuvering, but this was, after all, the North, and he felt that the conditions he had brought from the Second Prince were completely useless.

“If I were willing to grant him a little trade rights in the South… he would know how to kneel and welcome civilization.”

The carriage continued to sway northward, the wind and snow lashing against the windowpanes, making a series of sounds like a death knell.

Three days had passed since they left Graystone Fortress, and the snowstorm was still raging.

But the carriage stopped abruptly at one point, as if it had suddenly entered another world.

Sorel opened his eyes, his brows furrowed, clearly sensing that something was wrong.

He could feel the wheels were no longer being pulled by the mud, and that ease even made the horse's gait more steady.

He lifted a corner of the curtain.

A cold wind rushed in, but the first thing he saw wasn't snow, but a vast expanse of...

The surface is a dark gray, smooth, hardened surface.

The surface was pressed so flat that rain and snow fell on it without forming mud, but were blown to both sides by the wind along the barely perceptible slope.

The road is painted with neat, straight white lines, not like random hand-painted marks, but rather like a marker with a sense of measure.

Sorel paused for a moment before slowly uttering, "This is... the North?"

He had been to the main roads in the south and the road-building workshops in the capital, but the road surface in front of him was even better than that in many places in the south.

The carriage continued forward, and soon the first building appeared in the snowstorm.

Red Tide Station.

The house wasn't large, but it had clean, crisp lines. The walls were made of neat gray stone bricks, and a bright red flag with a crimson sun pattern hung at the entrance.

A steady stream of white smoke coming out of the chimney indicates that there is continuous heating inside.

What attracts more attention than the buildings are the people bustling about outside the post station.

A team of road workers in dark red uniforms were pushing metal snow scrapers along the road to clear snow.

The movements were methodical, with occasional whistles, and the pace was so relaxed that it didn't feel like work on the frozen ground of the North.

There were no shackles, no whips, and no supervising knights.

The foreman used a hard board to record the amount of snow and the condition of the road section, and would occasionally look up at the sky, as if judging when the next snow removal would be.

Sorel stared for a long time before finally exclaiming, "The people of the North... are they laughing?"

This soft soliloquy carried an unacceptable absurdity.

In his mind, the people of the North were either cold, hungry, numb, or fearful.

Those people should be huddled in their dilapidated houses, shivering, instead of whistling and working in the snow.

Sorel slowly lowered the curtains, his brows furrowing noticeably.

He even wondered if he had stumbled into a territory that had been completely swallowed up by the Red Tide, as the scene here was completely different from the desolation he had seen in the North these past few days.

As the carriage traveled north, invitations came one after another.

Almost every time Sorel arrived at a castle or town, he would be stopped by the lord's attendants, who would beg him to do them the honor of sitting for even just a quarter of an hour.

Given his status as the Second Prince's special envoy, even if these lords harbored their own ulterior motives, they had to maintain a respectful demeanor on the surface.

But Sorel soon discovered that the differences between those banquets were almost absurd.

As if he were walking along the same road, he was pulled into two completely different worlds: prosperity and ruin, passion and coldness, hope and decay.

The content of the banquet, the lord's attitude, and the spirit of the people were all divided into two completely opposite halves.

The first type of territory consists of places where the "Red Tide Crest" is displayed at the main street entrance.

For example, when Sorel arrived at the first place, it was in the gray light before dusk. The sky was as if it were suffocating under the weight of snow, but the castle gates opened quickly, as if they had been waiting there all along.

The lord, nearing fifty, personally came out to greet him, wearing a cloak warmed by a fireplace.

His face was red from the cold, and he grabbed Sorel's forearm: "It is an honor for my entire territory for Your Highness's messenger to come."

As he spoke, he took a Red Tide glass from the servant and presented it with both hands, his expression solemn. It wasn't for any grand cause, but because this item had become a formal commodity in his family's warehouse and could be exchanged for real profits with the surrounding territories.

“In previous years, I couldn’t even afford a decent gift for my own family,” the lord said in a low voice, as if showing off his good taste. “But things are different now. These glasses are selling very well; I’ve heard that noblewomen in the south are scrambling to buy them. Your Highness, please accept this; it’s quite valuable.”

Then the old lord saw Sorel's carriage, which was creaking from the cold, and frowned again: "That broken carriage is an embarrassment to me. I'll get you a new one, a Red Tide carriage, which runs more steadily and holds its value better."

He spoke with such self-righteousness, as if he was worried that Sorel would affect his family's reputation, rather than concerned about Sorel's safety, displaying the full air of a nouveau riche.

Sorel was also curious as to why such a nouveau riche lord would appear in such a remote little place, especially since the gifts he gave were indeed quite valuable.

So Sorel stepped into the other party's manor, wanting to find out what was going on.

The banquet hall was excessively warm and brightly lit. The dishes on the table were plentiful.

During the casual conversation at the banquet, the old lord couldn't hide his pride: "Three years ago, more than forty people froze to death in my territory. Last year, it was the fifteenth. This year, not even two have died. It's not because of me, but because of Lord Calvin."

Sorel raised an eyebrow.

The lord continued, "The workshops, roads, and stoves in my territory... were all obtained through trade with the Red Tide."

"I won't lie to you, Your Highness's envoy... This year's dividend for my family is seven times the amount of our taxes in previous years. I don't care who he is, as long as he can bring prosperity to my family, he's someone I'm willing to follow."

The sound of children's laughter came from outside the window.

Sorel looked in the direction of the sound and saw several children chasing each other in the snow wearing thick, bright red felt boots.

The lord glanced at them casually and said, "Oh, those? They are people in the territory with knightly bloodlines and talents. Lord Louis needs them and wants to help me train more knights, so I need to prepare people in advance."

The hostess at the other table said softly, "My son is studying at the school in Red Tide City. When he grows up, he will come back to inherit the territory, and he will definitely rise to a higher level."

There was no hint of coercion in his tone; rather, it conveyed a sense of satisfaction after careful calculation.

These words are not unique to this family.

As he traveled north, Sorel heard similar claims in almost every territory that had joined the Red Tide system.

It wasn't because the lord suddenly became merciful, nor was it for the sake of his people's happiness.

Rather, it was the prosperity, markets, and technology brought about by the red tide that truly made their families more stable, wealthier, and with a brighter future.

As for improving the lives of the people?

That was just a side effect; the lords didn't care about the little bit of surplus grain that overflowed from the granary, but they were too lazy to object either.

As the banquet continued, the sound of children's laughter drifted in from outside the window. Sorel looked in the direction of the sound and saw several children chasing each other in the snow, their feet clad in thick, red felt boots, no longer barefoot or timid.

When a patrolling soldier passes by, he will bend down to retie the child's shoelaces before continuing his patrol.

Sorel realized he was being overwhelmed by these stories.

Behind this prosperity all came the red tide: food, roads, workshops, stoves, coal, glass, ironware, and new agricultural tools.

The territory's economy was transformed, the people's way of life was rewritten, and the lord's power structure was redefined.

The second type of territory is completely different.

On the surface, these lords gave the prince's envoys ample face: they sent guards to greet them, held banquets, and displayed their family crests as a sign of respect.

But the smell that Sorel could detect as soon as he stepped out of the car was the stubbornness of someone forced into a corner by reality. When he entered the castle, he was always greeted by damp walls, flickering candles, and servants huddled in corners trying to make themselves inconspicuous.

The food on the table was equally meager: a few plates of bread, bitter-tasting salted meat, and a pot of fish soup.

Yet these lords still stood tall, displaying the arrogance of old-fashioned Northern nobles, as if their poverty was part of their honor.

A cold wind blew in through the window cracks, causing the candle to bounce wildly from side to side.

They stubbornly refused to replace the windows exposed by the red tide, saying, "This is how our ancestors have always spent the winter."

His voice clearly betrayed his shivering from the cold, yet he insisted on using tradition as armor.

At the start of the banquet, they always couldn't wait to start by cursing the Red Tide.

"That Calvin kid is too arrogant."

"He just flaunted his status as the Duke of Edmund's son-in-law."

"Ah, I'm so glad the Duke is still alive..."

“We, the nobles of this century-old family, will not be led by him.”

But after a few sips of wine, the gaps in his words began to leak out:
"Not a single person in Hawke's Ridge has frozen to death this year? Really?"

"Iron farm tools...two silver coins? That can't be that cheap."

"A paved road... I wish I had one too."

Sorel understood what was in his eyes at a glance: not suspicion, but jealousy, hatred, and a suffocating feeling of being left behind by the times.

But that's not the most ironic part.

Despite their loudest pronouncements of "defending the glory of the North."

But when Sorel saw the gifts that the servants were mysteriously carrying, they were all items from the Red Tide, and of rather poor quality.

They won't admit it, but their hands have already reached for the red tide.

It seemed that as long as the Red Tide caravan didn't see them, they could still maintain their shattered dignity.

Sorel didn't expose him, but simply accepted it with a smile.

As he left, he glanced back at the gloomy castle, as if looking at a dying old beast that still wanted to raise its mane.

He came to a more brutal conclusion: these lords did not simply harbor hostility towards Louis, but rather hated him for making them see their own backwardness.

They envied the Red Tide's prosperity and regretted not joining a few years earlier, yet they stubbornly clung to their pride and refused to acknowledge reality.

He sat back in the carriage and gripped his fingers tightly inside his gloves.

"This isn't a matter of personality... it's a difference in civilization."

The Red Tide system is dragging the entire North into a new era with a silent yet irresistible force.

These people can only stay where they are, and the more they struggle, the more ridiculous they seem.

As he traveled north, Sorel had initially focused his attention solely on the various lords.

But gradually, he discovered that what best reflects the true face of a land is not banquets or castles, but the ordinary people living in the wind and snow.

As the carriage passed through the old territories that rejected the Red Tide system, the scene was too jarring to ignore…

On winter nights, the streets are pitch black, without even a decent oil lamp. When the wind blows, it's truly cold, not warm as if shielded by a fire.

Outside the dilapidated house, he saw refugees huddled on the edge of the snow, their bodies wrapped in tattered burlap sacks.

Some people dodged the carriage as if frightened, while others stared blankly, simply lowering their heads and shrugging their shoulders out of habit.

The children huddled in the corner of the shed, their eyes large but devoid of light.

Occasionally, I stare at passersby as if they were shadows that would never bring any good news.

What made Sorel frown the most were those knights.

The knights, draped in tattered cloaks, rampaged through the streets, completely disregarding the fate of the common people.

Their horses frightened the refugees into scattering, and one woman was forced to run into a wall to avoid being trampled.

Sorel watched this scene from inside the carriage, unconsciously clenching his fists.

"This is the North I knew."

But if you go a few days further ahead, the scene changes as if someone has switched it from the root.

After entering the red tide system's influence area, the night was still cold, but it was warmed up by the scattered lights.

The iron furnace beside the road was burning, and the magic stone lamps hung on the wooden poles, emitting a steady white light so that people no longer had to grope their way forward in the dark.

A porridge stall appeared by the roadside, steam rising from the entrance. Several elderly people were queuing up to receive hot porridge, with two lazy stray cats around their feet.

Further away was a small clinic with a wooden sign painted with a sun pattern of the red tide.

The female doctor at the door, wrapped in a thick shawl, was quietly comforting a mother holding her child.

Sorel stared at the images, a strange sense of bewilderment welling up inside him for the first time.

Children played on the street, their laughter purer than the snow. Someone threw a snowball, someone fell, and an adult immediately went to help them up.

The woman was repairing the fence with Chichao's iron farm tools. The tools were easy to use, and the woman's movements were skillful, as if she had been using them for a long time.

In the distance, the granary stands on the snow line, its exterior walls made of modern wood and stone, as stable as a small mountain.

Several workers were carrying grain sacks back and forth in the warehouse, their faces radiating warmth and energy.

The patrolling knights allowed Sorel to keep an eye on them for longer.

The knights of the Red Tide system move with precision, draped in crimson cloaks, their horses' hooves clattering softly. When they cross intersections, they consciously pull on their reins and slow down to give way to pedestrians.

Some motorcyclists would even bow slightly and exchange a friendly greeting with passersby: "Watch out for the ice under your feet."

That tone was a knightly tone that Sorel had never imagined.

"This is... the transformed North?"

Sorel spoke softly, his gaze falling on the interplay of light and shadow created by the granary and magic stone lamps in the distance.

"Or...a completely new country?"

The lords may feign their true colors, but the lives of their subjects do not lie.

Further east, the wind and snow intensified.

The carriage windows were covered with a layer of frost, but the outline of the city still emerged from the distance.

When Sorel first drew back the curtains, he saw not a single city, but two completely different giant shadows standing side by side.

To the left, there was a glow of lights spreading out in the snow and mist.

The city walls stood tall, the streets stretched out in neat lines, and the light from the magic stone lamps, like gold dust scattered by the wind, layered upon layer, illuminating half the sky. Even from this distance, one could feel the oppressive sense of scale and order, a kind of highly accomplished prosperity.

On the right, further away in the shadows, lies a different landscape.

There was a cloud of gray smoke rising from there, not a chaotic thick smoke, but a steady, orderly column of smoke.

The snow was tinged pale gray by the plumes of smoke, and several massive buildings stretched out like mountain ridges, their lines straight and devoid of any aristocratic decoration.

Sorel stared at it for a long time before realizing that it was a workshop... but its scale far exceeded that of the imperial capital's military workshops he had ever seen.

But he knew nothing of the details, only that the area resembled the body of a steel behemoth, while the bustling city on the left was the behemoth's head.

Together, the two constitute Red Tide City.

He lowered the curtains, sat back on the cushions, but felt as if something was pressing against his chest.

He put his hand in his pocket and gripped the silver pendant tightly.

The image of Ellie in the pendant was familiar and gentle, but now it only made him more uneasy.

He repeatedly reviewed his mission along the way.

Royal favor? Conferment of an official title? Seat? Guarantee of legitimacy?
These words swirled in his mind, quickly becoming soft and pliable, like paper soaked in water.

He had initially thought the chaos in the North would make these bargaining chips useful, but the lords he had met along the way... the way they looked at Louis was not as a lord, but as someone who had risen to power through him.

They were thinking about dividends, workshops, roads, and fireplaces, not imperial titles.

Even the most stubborn old nobles couldn't help but show their longing when talking about Red Tide's glass and paved roads.

Sorel closed his eyes, his fingertips unconsciously pinching the pendant.

Imperial titles hold no appeal here, and imperial laws have no authority here.
As for money… he thought of the lords flaunting their dividends, the Red Tide's granaries piled high like mountains, and the workshops and goods he had seen along the way…

He could no longer lie to himself: Red Tide was richer than most provinces of the empire, even much richer.

I can't offer them any bargaining chips that they would be willing to accept.

Sorel closed the pendant; his palms were icy cold and sweat had already seeped out.

When I looked up again, Crimson Tide City was getting closer and closer. The two cities stood side by side, one bustling and prosperous, the other steel, like a giant mouth opening from the horizon.

(End of this chapter)