Winter Lord: Starting with Daily Intelligence

Chapter 396 A small episode before the meeting

Late summer in the North never feels like summer.

The wind carried the chill of a light snow, the withered yellow grass curled up close to the ground, and a thin layer of snow could already be seen on the high slope, like winter tentatively reaching out ahead of time.

Gareth sat on horseback, his neck hunched over.

He was originally a formal knight of the Morcan family and Baron Morcan's cousin. Because of his quick wit and eloquence, he was chosen by the Baron to be in charge of managing the trade routes.

He was polite and knew how to get along with people. He was also better at dealing with garrisons, outposts, and toll booths than other knights. Over time, the operation of the entire caravan was handed over to him.

For more than a decade, he personally escorted every shipment, both to safeguard these vital goods that could be exchanged for grain for the Baron, and because he knew all too well the rules of the North: if the goods weren't personally overseen, they could vanish at any moment.

He has been on this trade route for more than a decade and believes he has taken care of every tollbooth and every garrison.

Even Lord Ackerman of Graystone Fortress purchases several batches of Red Iron from him every year for free.

Therefore, he believes that nothing unexpected will happen this year.

In that state of mind, Gareth saw the shady canyon pass.

The trade route ahead was completely blocked by crude barricades.

The twelve black-armored knights, all elite knights, stood in a row in the snow and mud, like iron statues growing out of a blizzard.

Gareth's guards instinctively drew their swords.

"Don't move!" Gareth cried out in desperation. "Put your swords back! Do you want to die?"

He jumped off his horse and trotted over there, as if afraid that if he was a step too slow, he would be beheaded.

His smile was so stiff that he presented the heavy money bag that he had prepared beforehand with both hands.

"My lords, you've worked hard! I'm from the Morkan family's caravan. I've already bribed Lord Ackerman. This little bit of money... is for the brothers to buy some wine and warm themselves up."

The money bag slammed into the hand of the black-armored captain, "Broken Axe," making a dull, metallic scraping sound.

He weighed the broken axe in his hand, chuckled, and casually tossed the money pouch to the person behind him, without making an inch of room to move aside.

"Sir Knight..." Gareth asked cautiously, "Can we go now?"

Riding on his tall horse, Broken Axe pointed down at the caravan: "People go ahead. Leave the goods behind."

Gareth's smile finally crumbled, and he seemed to be jolted awake by a bucket of cold water: "Sir, those are life-saving supplies to be exchanged for winter rations... I've already paid the fine to the legion commander! According to the rules, they'll let you pass if you pay..."

Broken Axe repeated in a low voice, "Rules?"

He spurred his horse forward a step: "In the territory of the Seventeenth Army Corps, my hammer is the rule."

The next instant, the heavy, long-handled warhammer, imbued with fighting spirit, slammed down on Gareth's shoulder.

"Click——"

The sound of bones shattering echoed clearly in the canyon, sending chills down one's spine.

Gareth was slammed to his knees in the snow, too painful to make a sound, only his lips twitching.

The guards charged forward with bloodshot eyes, only to fall instantly like ears of wheat being harvested.

The black-armored knights were well-trained and ruthless, each strike precise and deadly, without any hesitation.

Gareth trembled with pain, yet he still struggled hoarsely: "You...you're violating imperial law...it says in non-war zones...it's forbidden to rob nobles' private property..."

Duanfu jumped off his horse, grabbed his hair, and slammed his face to the ground.

"The Empire?" he scoffed. "The capital is thousands of miles away. You expect it to come to your rescue?"

As soon as he finished speaking, he stomped on Gareth's knee and crushed it.

Gareth let out a bloodcurdling scream that echoed through the snow valley, only to be swallowed up by the falling early snow.

Broken Axe casually pointed to the ground: "You guys, dig. Hurry up."

The remaining Morkan family knights were all pale-faced, but could only kneel in the snow and mud, trembling, and use their short swords and gloves to dig at the ground that was frozen harder than stone.

Gareth was dragged aside. He was in so much pain that he almost fainted, but he forced himself to circulate his fighting spirit, as if he were clinging to the last straw, letting that faint warmth flow through his body.

However, under the torment of broken bones and cold wind, the fighting spirit was like a spark blown out by the wind, lasting less than a minute before it began to flicker.

By the time the guards had finally finished digging the pit, Gareth's pitiful fighting spirit had completely died out, and his body began to truly feel the biting cold of late summer in the North.

The black-armored knights pushed him upright into the pit, letting the mud and snow cover his chest.

The cold slush pressed against his internal organs, and each breath felt like swallowing rusty pieces of iron.

The wind and snow fell into his bloodshot eyes, stinging like needles, but his neck was frozen stiff, and he couldn't lift his head at all.

His consciousness fluctuated between suffocation and lucidity. He tried to scream, but could only let out a weak whimper before finally sinking completely.

Broken Axe then found a young apprentice knight who was so frightened that his trousers were wet and he could not even hold his sword.

Broken Axe grabbed him by the back of the collar, dragged him to the valley entrance, and pointed him towards Frostspear City: "Get out! Tell those big shots who are about to hold a reconstruction meeting..."

He bent down, blood still dripping from the gaps in his armor: "In the North, if you want to survive, you have to learn to kneel and bring things up."

The young knight tumbled and crawled away, disappearing into the snowstorm.

The black-armored knights drove away in their wagons laden with ore, leaving deep tracks in the snow that lingered for a long time.

In the canyon, only the head protruding from the snow remained, its eyes wide open, as if unwilling to believe that this late summer had become its grave.

…………

The early autumn snow in the North was like white shards slowly pouring down from the sky, blanketing the area outside Frostspear City.

This was just a few days before the reconstruction conference was to be held. Representatives of nobles and families from all walks of life arrived one after another, and the long convoy of cars formed a gray-white line in the snow.

But the moment you step through the city gate, the world seems to be cut in two.

Outside, the wind howls and the snow is ankle-deep in the barren wasteland, but inside, warmth rises, like a steel city breathing on a snowfield.

The various lords, nobles, and family representatives were stunned by the sight before them as soon as they dismounted.

What lay beneath my feet was not mud or frozen ground, but a smooth, gray-black road surface so flat it reflected my shadow.

Along both sides of the road, rows of magical streetlights are shining brightly, their alchemical cores inside the lampshades beating steadily, making the whole city seem to be awake and breathing in the night.

These were not the expensive crystal chandeliers found in noble halls, but rather reliable, cold-resistant civilian lighting products mass-produced by the Red Tide Workshop. The sheer number of them caused many nobles to unconsciously swallow hard.

Further away, a towering iron tower was slowly emitting white mist.

Steam rose into the night sky, making it seem as if a blurry white moon hung beneath Frostspear City. Those were the heating towers. Geothermal heat and steam circulation throughout the city emanated from them, keeping the harsh winter at bay.

"This...is Frostspear City?" someone exclaimed.

Frostspear was reduced to ashes after the War of the Brood, and almost no one believed it could be rebuilt in just a few years, let alone that it would become such a... monstrous city.

The nobles from various places instantly split into three groups, and their reactions were completely different.

The Red Tide aristocracy led the way.

Their clothing uses the latest technology from the Red Tide Textile Factory, with a soft luster and good warmth retention. The styles have even begun to imitate the urban fashion of the Emerald Federation.

Each of them stood with their backs straight and their steps light, as if they had finally entered their own territory.

Some people whispered about the dividends from Red Tide Shares a few days ago, some talked about the new type of heater that was about to be launched, and many more simply started every sentence with "Lord Louis," their tone filled with undisguised pride.

They made a high-profile move, not out of recklessness, but because every street and every light in the city was reminding those around them that they had bet on the right person.

The other group, however, appeared much more reserved.

These were the regretful ones. They wore the most presentable clothes available in the territory, but when they stood with the Red Tide nobles, the roughness of the fabric, the ill-fitting cut, and the dullness of the color were all too obvious.

They huddled together, whispering about how to "reconnect with the red tide."

Some people glanced furtively toward the castle, their eyes filled with uncertainty and trepidation. They dared not walk too fast or too slow, as if each step was on thin ice.

The last group remained silent like shadows; these were the old nobles who had been observing. They had come to Frostspear City with a critical eye, and some even wanted to see whether the so-called Crimson Tide Miracle was real or not.

But as they traveled, the size and temperature of Frostspear City shattered their arrogance like heavy hammer blows.

A gray-haired viscount looked up at the brightly lit, steaming giant tower in the distance, and felt a tightness in his chest.

“Edmond the Duke… wasn’t much different back then.” He murmured to himself, but no one answered.

Because they all understood that this city was not a replica of Edmund's time; it was larger and more advanced.

Louis Calvin wasn't rebuilding the North; he was rewriting it.

These lords, accustomed to the old order, faced with this new order, had only two paths left:

You either integrate or you get crushed.

…………

In the VIP lounge of the Frosthal City Guesthouse, the air was warm like springtime, while fine snow was falling outside the window.

The interior was luxuriously furnished, with crystal wall lamps casting a soft glow, creating a tranquil atmosphere that seemed to shield the room from the harsh cold of the North.

Morkan reclined in the soft chair, looking quite pleased with himself.

He was dressed exceptionally well today, with a sable-collared shawl, silver-buckled ankle boots, and even a noble perfume.

All of this was to demonstrate the Morcan family's strength to the other wavering minor nobles.

Three or four nobles around him were holding cups of red tea specially supplied by the Red Tide. They smiled on the surface, but their eyes all had the same sour look in them.

"Lord Louis, this is too much of an overreaction. We have to queue up to have our identities checked just to enter the city. I, a lord, was stopped by the guards," a nobleman complained in a low voice.

"Hmph, but he is indeed rich." Another person took a sip of tea, his words laced with sarcasm, but his eyes betrayed envy. "I heard that those who joined the Red Tide... made a fortune this year. I'm thinking... maybe we should..."

Before he could finish speaking, Morkan slammed his teacup down, his tone tinged with a smug, almost self-satisfied, tone of reprimand.

"Soft? If you want to be soft, you can line up at the city lord's mansion right now to offer your pledge of allegiance." Morkan sneered. "But smart people won't stick their necks out to others to tie their chains."

"A mere lad in his early twenties, even if he snatched up a territory and set up some fancy gadgets, it's all just good luck. Does he really think he's the master of the North? I doubt he could even withstand the northern winds without those craftsmen."

He raised his hand and pointed towards the wind and snow outside the window: "Just as we are having tea, my Morkan family's large caravan is passing through the Birch Forest Pass."

The nobles were all invigorated.

That was a well-known cash flow caravan in the North.

Morkan smirked and leaned back in his chair: "That cart is loaded with high-purity ore. Once it reaches the south safely, the grain and gold coins I bring back will give you gentlemen quite a surprise."

The nobles exchanged glances, all showing expressions of admiration.

Someone lowered their voice and exclaimed in admiration, "To live so comfortably without joining the Red Tide... the Morkan family certainly has the resources."

Flattered by the praise, Morkan smiled even more smugly: "When my goods return, I will treat you all to genuine, top-quality southern tea. This Red Tide tea... is too coarse."

The group then joined in the laughter, and a relaxed atmosphere of self-assurance, as if they were in control of the situation, filled the lounge.

Until there was a rapid knocking at the door.

"Who? Can't you see I'm talking business?" Morkan frowned, his tone impatient.

The door was pushed open, and instead of a maid, the old steward of the Morkan family entered.

He was soaked through, as if he had been drenched by rain or snow, or as if he had been running and sweating profusely.

His face was deathly pale, devoid of any color, and he even forgot his most basic manners. He staggered a few steps and collapsed at the Morkan table.

Several nobles were so frightened by the spectacle that they sat up straight.

"Lord Morkan..." The old steward's voice trembled uncontrollably.

Morkan frowned even more deeply: "What's wrong? Why are you so flustered? What kind of behavior is this?"

The old butler ignored everyone else, leaned down to his ear, and whispered in a trembling voice.

The lounge suddenly became so quiet that only the faint hum of the wall lamps could be heard.

Morkan's expression crumbled little by little before everyone's eyes...

To be taken aback.

The pupils contracted violently.

Finally, his entire face turned ashen.

"Snapped--"

The porcelain cup in his hand fell to the ground and shattered into pieces.

The scalding hot tea spilled on his boots, but he didn't react at all.

Morkan looked as if someone was choking him, and he managed to utter a few broken words.

"You mean...all gone...? Even...he...is gone too..."

His voice broke in his throat, as if he were about to collapse to his knees at any moment.

…………

In the center of the square, a ten-meter-tall iron statue stands silently.

That was the former Warden of the North—Duke Edmund.

The statue, forged from cold iron, gleamed with a chilling metallic sheen under the snow, rough and heavy.

The duke, clad in armor and wielding a greatsword, stood as if ready to awaken from his iron armor and charge into battle at any moment.

Most striking is the horrifying scar on his face that extends from the corner of his left eye to his jawline. The texture of the rolled-up flesh was forcefully carved by the sculptor without any embellishment.

Isaac looked up at the statue, his face red from the cold wind, but his eyes were slightly warm.

He raised his hand, wanting to touch his father's base, but just as his fingertips were about to reach it, he seemed to be struck by a sense of awe and silently withdrew his hand.

Louis, standing beside him, watched this scene quietly.

“Brother-in-law…” Isaac’s voice was hoarse, “The craftsmen asked me if I wanted to lighten Father’s scars to make him look more dignified. I refused.”

Louis nodded. "You did the right thing. That scar is worth more than any medal."

He looked up at the iron sculpture. "Ten years ago, during the Battle of the Black River, three barbarian tribes formed an alliance, boasting ten thousand battle axes, and dyed the rivers of the North red."

The wind and snow howled in the square, but Louis's voice was clear.

"When the defense line was breached, it was your father who led his personal guards against the savage tide and charged in. He single-handedly faced three Bloodthirsty War Kings."

Louis reached out and touched the scar on the statue's face.

“This was left behind by one of the War Kings before he died. But your father nailed their heads to the walls of Frostspear City. That night, all the barbarians retreated.”

Isaac was breathing rapidly, as if his chest was on fire.

Louis pressed down on his shoulder, his tone steady yet powerful: "Remember, this scar is not pain, it is protection. It is the true glory of the Edmund family."

Just then, a series of hurried footsteps came from the snow.

Gray approached Louis and knelt on one knee: "My lord, Baron Gareth... is kneeling outside the city lord's mansion requesting an audience. He is crying very hard and says that something very important... is extremely urgent."

Isaac snapped out of his reverie about the epic heroism, while Louis's expression remained unchanged; he merely blinked faintly.

Louis didn't answer immediately. Instead, he first pulled up Isaac's collar, which had been ruffled by the wind, and brushed a snowflake off his shoulder, his movements unhurried.

He seemed more concerned about his brother-in-law's appearance than Gareth's panic.

After a few seconds, he spoke calmly: "Tell him I have a very full schedule... around 7 pm the day after tomorrow. I'll have about ten minutes free."

(End of this chapter)