Winter Lord: Starting with Daily Intelligence

Chapter 416 The Demon of the North

The command vehicle was filled with a mixed smell.

The pungent smell of cheap tobacco, the fishy odor of wet wool soaked by rain, and the damp cold brought in by iron boots stepping on the muddy ground, all pressed down on the narrow space, making one's chest feel suffocated.

Several older Northern generals were leaning against the sides of the carriage, smoking their pipes.

The smoke swirled slowly in the dim light of the oil lamp, like a lingering fog.

The sound of torrential rain pounding down on the roof was dense and rapid, as if countless pebbles were being dumped from a height.

The car door was suddenly pushed open from the outside.

A cold wind carrying rain rushed in, and a soaking wet scout stumbled into the carriage, his boots kicking up a trail of muddy water.

He could barely stand, but he managed to stay upright. He didn't bow, but just took a couple of quick breaths.

His fingers were white from the cold, but he didn't stop moving.

The scout took off the waterproof tarpaulin tube from his back, roughly tore open the seal, pulled out a hastily sketched charcoal pencil, and spread a wrinkled urgent report soaked in rain on the table.

The paper hit the oak table with a dull thud.

“Report.” His voice trembled. “Black Rock Canyon…the road is blocked.”

The carriage fell silent for a moment as several generals gathered around.

The sketch was rough, with messy lines, but its meaning was immediately clear.

The narrow canyon entrance was filled with a dense crowd of people, and the piles of charcoal wires formed a messy black mess.

Those people wore no armor, only tattered clothes, which were deliberately drawn small and messy.

Behind them were several thick, straight lines, representing barricades and temporary outposts.

Further behind were several dark figures wielding knives, positioned separately but clearly taller.

The scout pointed to the area and spoke quickly: "The number exceeds fifty thousand. Kyle Raymond ordered the refugees to be driven into the canyon, supposedly to provide them with winter shelter."

He paused, his Adam's apple bobbing, "Once everyone has squeezed in, we'll block the road. The supervisory team is behind us; whoever retreats will die."

After a brief silence, a loud bang broke the stillness.

"boom!"

Count Abbott slammed his fist on the oak table covered with a parchment map, the tabletop shook violently, and the ink bottle wobbled twice, nearly tipping over.

The old nobleman, who had fought his entire life in the North, straightened his body, his beard trembling with exertion, and his eyes bloodshot.

"You beast!" His voice was low, but filled with suppressed rage. "Kyle Raymond is a shameless beast!"

He took a deep breath and continued cursing, "We Northerners are rough men. We didn't treat serfs like human beings before, and we were harsh in requisitioning grain because everyone had to survive!"
But we have never used the elderly, women, or children to fill the gaps in our ranks! That wasn't war, that was…

The old man stopped speaking, because he didn't know how to describe this beastly behavior.

A burly nobleman from the North couldn't help but chime in, his tone urgent and harsh.

"I used to fight with barbarians for territory, even to the point of drawing blood, but I never did anything like this that would wipe out my lineage!"

"Driving tens of thousands of people to their deaths? What kind of nobles are these?" He spat, his face extremely ugly. "This is throwing the face of the nobility into the mud and trampling it!"

A low murmur of agreement rang out in the carriage.

These people are usually rude in speech and tough in action, and believe in the law of the jungle, but they all have a tacit bottom line—not to use the elderly, weak, women and children as shields.

Kyle's actions are crossing that line, pushing it to its limits.

Someone gritted their teeth and whispered, "The Gray Rock Province prides itself on being a civilized center. I never imagined their hearts were even blacker than ours, these 'barbarians'."

After the words were spoken, no one in the command vehicle responded, and the heavy sound of rain filled the silence once again.

Lambert slowly exhaled, his face equally grim, but he deliberately suppressed his emotions.

He reached for the pen and drew a striking red line on the unfolded map, tracing the Black Rock Canyon.

"Charge headlong." He didn't look up, but his tone was unusually clear. "If our steam tanks run over them, it won't be an advance, it will be a massacre."

The charcoal pencil makes a heavy dot on the red line.

"And there are 50,000 people. With people underneath the tracks, the seams would be full of bits of flesh; it would be impossible to get in."

He raised his eyes and looked at the crowd: "And the reputation of the Northern Army for not killing civilians will be completely destroyed within a quarter of an hour."

No one refuted.

Lambert pointed to the side of the map, where contour lines were densely drawn.

"Take a detour. Take the narrow mountain road on the west side. Heavy tanks can't pass through there; they can only be disassembled and transported. It will add at least ten days to the journey."

He paused for a moment, then lowered his voice.

"Grayrock Fortress will have ten days to complete its defenses. By then, we won't be attacking, we'll be ramming into the wall. Besides, winter is coming, and we'll run out of supplies..."

The pen was put back on the table, and the carriage fell completely silent.

Only the sound of rain tapping on the car roof and the suppressed breathing of the passengers could be heard.

This is a dead end.

Kyle simply placed his conscience in the middle of the road, forcing himself to crush it.

Count Abbott's hand remained on the hilt of his sword, his knuckles white. His chest heaved a few times, but he finally released his grip.

Even if Kyle were torn to pieces, it wouldn't solve the problem of this canyon.

At this moment, the wooden door of the command vehicle was pushed open again.

A damp, cold wind carrying rain rushed in, causing the oil lamp to flicker.

Louis entered the carriage.

He was dressed in a neat black military uniform, with the collar buttoned up perfectly, and his boots were barely covered in mud.

He appeared excessively clean compared to the car's smell of smoke, anger, and dampness.

He was holding a freshly brewed cup of black tea in his hand.

White steam rose slowly from the rim of the cup, standing out starkly against the cold air.

He glanced around at everyone, his gaze sweeping over several tense faces before finally settling on the crumpled charcoal sketch on the table.

"What's wrong?" he asked casually. "It's early in the morning, and everyone looks like wilted eggplants."

He looked at Abette, his lips twitching slightly: "Count, your mustache is practically sticking up to the sky."

Abette immediately came to greet him, her voice filled with barely suppressed anxiety.

"My lord! Have you seen the scouts' report? That madman Kyle... he's using refugees to block the road!"

Louis raised his hand, signaling him to stop.

He lowered his head and blew on the foam in his teacup, as if checking the water temperature, his tone as flat as if commenting on the weather: "I've seen it. It's just a few tens of thousands of people and some explosives, isn't it?"

The carriage fell eerily quiet for a moment.

Several generals instinctively looked at each other, some even thinking they had misheard.

Louis walked to the head seat and sat down, placing his teacup on the table and tapping it lightly twice with his fingertips: "There's no need to discuss the detour anymore."

Lambert frowned and couldn't help but speak.

"Sir, that's tens of thousands of people... We can't just run them over."

Louis looked up.

His gaze seemed to pierce through the rain curtain, looking towards the Black Rock Canyon dozens of kilometers away.

“I know.” So you don’t need to think about it. He paused, his tone still calm. “While you were banging on the table, I already had someone take care of it.”

After those words were spoken, no one uttered another.

If someone else had casually said "it's solved" in this situation, anyone here would have questioned it on the spot.

But the person he was speaking to was Louis, the lord who had emerged from the depths of winter and had never tasted defeat.

Louis didn't keep them in suspense any longer. He leaned forward slightly and whispered a few words about his plan.

The atmosphere inside the carriage felt as if someone was holding your breath.

Several generals instinctively straightened up, gasped, but no one uttered a sound.

They suddenly realized that this deadlock didn't exist at all.

After Louis finished speaking, he picked up his teacup again: "Prepare as I say."

…………

The people crowded in Black Rock Canyon came from different backgrounds.

Three large towns and more than a dozen villages in the north were pushed here layer by layer by the torrential rain and cold wind. Some people dragged carts with broken wheels, some carried unconscious elderly people on their backs, and some had nothing with them except for their tattered clothes that were white and soaked by the rain.

Before retreating, Kyle's army destroyed everything that could save lives.

The house was set on fire, and the roof beams collapsed into the flames.

The granary was smashed open, and the grain was trampled into the mud.

Wells were either sealed off or filled with rotting flesh and poisonous ash.

As winter approaches and torrential rains continue, civilians are left in the wilderness.

And before they were driven away, another voice had already begun to emerge.

Propagandists were dispatched to various towns and village entrances, dressed in neat armor, standing on wooden crates or well edges to read out announcements.

They repeatedly emphasized the same thing: the people of the North were moving south.

Those people were depicted as monsters.

They cannibalized people, leaving no survivors, and specifically targeted women and children.

They swore they had seen northern chariots crush villages, leaving behind piles of broken bones beneath their tracks.

They said the Knights of the North would nail living people to doors for amusement, and they spoke as if they had seen it with their own eyes.

Then, another way out was presented to them.

A winter shelter has been built behind Grayrock Fortress.

There was hot soup, tents, and a doctor.

As long as we evacuate our original home as soon as possible and cross Blackrock Canyon together, we can avoid the slaughter in the North.

To make it seem authentic, the propaganda officer distributed paper certificates with the emblem printed on them on the spot.

"Civilian Certificate of Limestone".

They told everyone that this was the only credential for entering the shelter, and also the mark for distinguishing good citizens from Northern spies.

Those who do not have this paper will be treated as accomplices.

Fear and hope were simultaneously thrust into the hands of the crowd.

That thin piece of paper was repeatedly crumpled and smoothed by countless hands, and then hidden inside the body.

It's worthless, but more important than life itself.

So the crowd was driven forward, like sheep being herded into a pen, squeezing little by little into this only passage leading to "survival".

Black Rock Canyon is not wide for tens of thousands of people.

When the first group reached the middle section, the ground beneath their feet had completely turned into a mud pit.

The sewage was ankle-deep, mixed with excrement, rotting food, and blood.

Each step requires effort to pull your feet out, and if you stop, you'll be pushed off balance by the people behind you.

The rain was icy cold, and the steam rising from the crowd huddled together evaporated into a layer of grayish-white mist in the canyon.

The fog had a sour, foul smell; it clung to my face, and with each breath, it felt like my lungs were filled with dirty water.

They thought it was just a temporary congestion and that they could enter the so-called winter shelter in a day or two.

There's a checkpoint ahead; they say they're checking identities.

To prevent spies from the North from infiltrating, they must be checked one by one.

But as time went by, the team barely made any progress.

Only a very small number of people are released each hour.

Those behind didn't know what was happening ahead, only seeing people occasionally disappear into the rain, so they pushed even harder to get ahead.

People in the middle of the canyon were so crowded that they could neither stand up nor fall down.

There was no noise.

There was only a continuous low hum.

The sounds of chattering teeth, suppressed sobs, and the gasps escaping from the throats of the dying mingled together, echoing through the canyon.

People were pressed close together in the gloomy rain.

Some elderly people were already dead, but they did not fall down. Their bodies were sandwiched among the living people, swaying with the crowd. Their heads were tilted, their eyes were open, but they were already out of focus.

Martha was trapped inside.

She used to be a well-known tailor in the small town, but now she can't even stand firm.

She held her three-year-old child tightly in her arms with one hand, and clenched her other hand in front of her chest.

It was a "gray rock civilian certificate" that had been soaked and ruined by rain.

She remembered that she traded the last bag of grain in her family for it.

The officer didn't even look up while writing, and just casually said, "With this, the children can have milk."

Martha lowered her head, brought her mouth close to the child's ear, and repeated it over and over again.

"Hang in there a little longer, there's a checkpoint just ahead, and once we get past it, we'll find milk."

She seemed to be telling a bedtime story to her child, but it also seemed like she was using this sentence to bind herself.

She didn't dare look at the child's face, nor did she notice that the tiny body was unusually light.

Suddenly, a commotion broke out at the front of the column.

An old blacksmith with a full beard squeezed to the front; he was tall and could see clearly.

That's not screening at all.

The barricades were laid out horizontally, shields were erected one by one, and behind them were soldiers with their bows fully drawn.

"You're not conducting an inspection!" the old blacksmith roared, his voice tearing through the canyon. "You're preventing us from passing! Liars! There's no shelter at all!"

The crossbow string vibrates.

"puff."

The arrow entered from the side and pierced the throat.

The blood sprayed into the rain and was quickly washed away.

The old blacksmith's body was kicked aside and rolled into the roadside ditch, face down, and never moved again.

The officer on horseback looked down at the crowd, his voice cold and flat.

"Trying to break through! This person is a spy from the North! Everyone back off! If you dare to make another sound, you'll all suffer the same fate!"

The people in the front row were forced to retreat by the knife.

The people in the back row, however, pushed even harder to get forward because they were "about to pass the test."

Just then, the earth began to shake.

"Boom, boom..."

Heavy and regular.

Like some enormous creature, it is slowly approaching.

Panic erupted from behind.

"Chariot..."

"The cannibalistic war chariots from the North are here!"

Ahead lay the blades of their own army and their blockade.

Behind it is the legendary steel monster that crushes everything.

In the middle, all that remained was a body squeezed so tightly it could hardly breathe, and an empty stomach.