Winter Lord: Starting with Daily Intelligence

Chapter 419 A Flower Blooming in the Mud

Louis's steel torrent has long since passed.

What remained in the canyon was not the cheers of victory, but a lingering fear that had not yet cooled.

The refugees knelt in the mud, their hands still covered in flour.

Some people clutched their injured legs, biting on strips of cloth to stifle their cries, while others stared blankly at the distant firelight, as if they hadn't yet recovered from that madness.

They had thought they would be abandoned here.

But not long after, a second wave of teams entered from the canyon entrance.

Those were neither cavalrymen coming to reap the harvest, nor spearmen coming to clear the field.

It's the logistics and medical team.

Hundreds of soldiers, carrying bulging packs, marched steadily and quickly.

Their clothes were all the same color, a grayish-white that was almost glaring, as if they were specially made to stand out in the mud and blood.

Their faces were covered by bird-beak-shaped masks and multiple layers of gauze, revealing only pairs of tired but clear eyes.

The sun armband on his arm stood out brightly in the cold light after the rain.

Dozens of alchemical glow sticks were driven into the ground, spreading out a pale white light that illuminated the once dark canyon into a straight corridor. The chaos was abruptly severed.

The refugees instinctively tried to shrink back, but the group didn't rush forward.

They first set up tents, then erected safety ropes, and finally put up the cooking pots.

Then, someone could stand on higher ground.

She was wearing light armor in the style of the Red Tide, with rainwater rolling down her shoulder guards.

Behind her was a two-handed greatsword almost as tall as her, with a hilt wrapped in dark leather.

When she removed her face mask, she revealed a face that was too young for her age, with a faint scar on her forehead from an old injury.

Mia, squad leader of the third logistics brigade of the Red Tide Knights.

Her voice cut through the damp chill after the rain: "Don't push! Line up by color! The Red Tide won't abandon anyone who listens!"

She doesn't need to explain what obedience means.

That torrent of steel has already pressed the answer into everyone's bones.

Mia pointed to several colorful cloth flags stuck in the mud.

"Red zone: those who are injured. Yellow zone: those with fever and cough. Green zone: those who can walk, go get the porridge!"

She paused, her gaze sweeping over the people who had just crawled out of the trampling: "Those who defecate indiscriminately, have your rations revoked."

The command was as cold and hard as iron.

But it is precisely this rhythm that makes the crowd, who have just escaped from the frenzy, subconsciously begin to obey.

Martha knelt in the mud, the child in her arms too weak to cry.

During the struggle, she had finally managed to grab a handful of raw flour, but now all she felt was despair.

She haphazardly mixed flour with dirty water and, with trembling hands, fed it to the child's mouth.

"Eat a little...please, just a little..."

The child's face was bluish, and his breathing was so light it was almost imperceptible.

Mia was looking down on the crowd from above when she caught a glimpse of this scene out of the corner of her eye.

For a moment, she stopped in her tracks.

The sounds of rain, shouts, and the echoes of the tin loudspeaker were all drawn far away.

An inappropriate image flashed through her mind.

The ruins of Baishi Village were covered in snow that seemed to be pressing down on the sky.

A man knelt in a dilapidated house, holding a little girl who was high in fever and unconscious in his arms. His lips were white, and he was crying as if he wanted to rip out his lungs.

Eight years have passed, but that despair remains unchanged.

Mia jumped down the embankment and rushed over through the mud.

Martha was about to stuff the lump of raw dough into the child's mouth.

A hand covered by an iron glove suddenly gripped her wrist.

"Stop!" Mia shouted. "Do you want to kill him?"

Martha shuddered in fright, looked up and saw the greatsword, almost thinking she had encountered the Northern Demon the knight had spoken of.

Her lips trembled: "My lord... I won't..."

“If you’re hungry for too long and eat raw flour and dirty water, your stomach will explode,” Mia said quickly, as if she were racing against time. “Give him to me.”

She bent down, but her movements were surprisingly gentle. The child was as light as a kitten, his forehead was burning hot, and his breath was as thin as a whisper.

Mia held the child securely, looked up at the crowd, and shouted, "Medical team! Level 1 critical care! Life-saving medicine! Steam tents!"

Several military doctors wearing masks rushed over immediately, with a stretcher following behind, their movements as if they had rehearsed.

Martha reached out to grab the child, but Mia gently pushed her away with her shoulder.

"Keep up with him," Mia said softly, her tone slightly gentler than before. "Don't wander off. If you collapse, he won't live much longer either."

Martha got up in a daze and stumbled after him.

The medical tent was warmer than the outside world. Steam pipes hissed and emitted heat from the corners, and the air was filled with the smell of medicine.

The child was placed on a clean white sheet, and the military doctor took over.

Martha screamed as the needle pierced the tiny blood vessel and lunged forward.

Mia grabbed her shoulder, the pressure light but as firm as a nail.

“Look.” She stared into Martha’s eyes. “That is the water of life.”

The pale golden liquid dripped down little by little.

The child's bluish-purple complexion began to lighten, and the rise and fall of his chest became more even.

A few minutes later, he frowned slightly and let out a very soft hum.

Martha felt as if all her bones had been drained away, collapsing to the ground, sobbing uncontrollably: "Thank you... thank you, Your Excellency... thank you, Goddess..."

"I'm not a goddess." Mia squatted down and handed her a bowl of steaming hot minced meat porridge.

The bowl was very hot, and Martha's hand trembled, almost causing her to drop it.

Mia didn't make her kneel: "Drink first. You're about to collapse yourself."

Martha looked up, choking back tears, and saw Mia's face after she took off her helmet.

It wasn't the refined aloofness of a noblewoman, nor the haughty superiority of a knight. It was a face shaped by training and a good diet—healthy and robust, with a resolute look in its eyes.

“Eight years ago,” Mia suddenly spoke, as if to Martha, or perhaps to herself, “I was like him, about to die in the snow.”

“My father back then… was just like you, grabbing everything and daring to stuff anything into my mouth.”

She paused for a moment, a faint smile curving her lips.

"Then someone picked me up. He said that the knights of the Red Tide had come to save people."

Martha was stunned: "You...you are too..."

“Yes.” Mia nodded. “I was once a refugee, and now I am a knight of the Red Tide.”

She pointed to the sun armband on her light armor: "In Red Tide, as long as you survive and are willing to work, you'll have food to eat. Later on, you can learn to read and write, and learn swordsmanship. Even peasants can wear armor."

…………

Outside the tents, order is gradually being restored at the logistics camp.

Getting porridge is not about fighting for it.

Everyone must first pass through a narrow passage.

The pungent smell of lime water mixed with alchemical disinfectant mist hit us.

The knight roared, "Wash your hands! Scrub them ten times! You're not allowed to eat until they're clean!"

Some people gritted their teeth and did as instructed, while others tried to get away with it but were pushed back to the back of the line.

People exhibiting symptoms such as fever and cough were immediately removed from the crowd and sent to the isolation area.

It was only last time they could eat.

Everyone received the same wooden bowl.

The pot wasn't bubbling with plain water, but with salted minced meat and well-cooked oatmeal, thick and warm.

An old farmer held the bowl of porridge, his hands trembling violently, the steam rising to his face, and his tears falling into the bowl.

He had lived for sixty years, and no lord had ever cared whether his hands were dirty or not, much less cut up meat and cooked it for him.

This feeling of being treated like a human being left him unsure how to cope.

Nearby, engineers were processing the bodies.

Those who died in the stampede or were killed by the overseers were neatly arranged together and sprinkled with fuel and alchemical powder.

“After the rain comes the plague,” the Red Tide Knight explained briefly. “For the sake of the living, they must be cremated.”

The refugees stood at a distance and watched as the flames rose.

…………

Mia's news quickly spread throughout the camp.

"That female officer who saved people... was also a refugee before."

"Really? She said it?"

"The child she took away almost died."

The way the crowd looked at Mia changed.

The awe I felt earlier was still there; it was an instinctive fear of steel and guns.

But beneath that fear, something else began to emerge.

I yearn for it.

If she can get out of the mud, can their children do the same?

As dawn broke, the rain finally stopped.

Black Rock Canyon no longer resembles a man-eating abyss, but rather a field hospital that was quickly erected.

The white tents stretched out in a row, and wisps of smoke rose slowly into the cool morning air.

Martha sat by the tent, the baby in her arms sleeping soundly, his face already regaining color.

She was wrapped in a dry blanket and held a half-eaten bowl of meat soup in her hands.

Mia walked quickly through the tents, but stopped in front of Martha: "He will survive."

Martha's throat tightened, and after a long pause, she managed to squeeze out, "I... what can I do for you?"

Mia gestured with her chin toward the other side of the camp: "Go over there. The logistics team is short of people to move boxes, and the medical team is short of people to wash bandages. We'll be paid by the day and given food as well."

Martha looked down at the child in her arms, then at the people queuing in the camp.

She wiped her face, stood up, and rolled up her sleeves.

"Sir... I know how to mend clothes."

"I can work."

Soon, more people stepped forward.

Hands rose one after another, trembling in the morning light, yet resolute.

On the outermost edge of the camp, on a makeshift wooden board, several simple, almost brutal rules were written in charcoal.

No cutting in line. No hoarding food. No assaulting others. No concealing illness.

Below is a slightly heavier addition:

Those who violate this rule will have their rations cancelled and be forced into labor until they recover or leave the camp.

These words, devoid of any fancy rhetoric, were like nails, firmly embedded in everyone's eyes.

The Red Tide soldiers do not maintain order by repeatedly scolding others; they rely on certainty.

Every violation has clear consequences, and every act of compliance brings predictable rewards.

When a burly man who tried to get an extra bowl of porridge was pulled out of the line in public, his bowl was taken away, and he was pushed to the dirtiest and most tiring carrying area, the crowd did not cause a commotion; instead, they quieted down.

When a young man who concealed his high fever and attempted to sneak into the green zone was exposed and sent directly to an isolation tent, his suspicions were suppressed when he actually received medicine and hot water two hours later.

There is no gratitude here, only rules.

There is no forgiveness based on mood, nor any privilege based on status.

It was this cold and almost ruthless approach that made the people, who had just emerged from their frenzy, begin to understand that the red tide was not sustained by goodwill.

Unlike most lords of this era who distribute porridge haphazardly, this lord relied on a set of rules that wouldn't be affected by someone crying more pitifully or shouting louder.

The red tide is distributed as porridge to keep the system running.

When people realize this, obedience is no longer just forced, but a rational choice.

(End of this chapter)