Winter Lord: Starting with Daily Intelligence

Chapter 431 Red Tide Aid
Thorne rode on his horse, its hooves sinking into the soft, wet black mud with a dull thud.

Ahead lies a low-lying area known as Black Swamp Town.

The grayish-black water surface gleamed with an oily sheen, scattered dead trees lay askew in the mud, and the air was filled with the stench of rotting flesh, making one instinctively hold their breath.

Thorne's gaze lingered on the swamp for a long time.

He was once a knight.

I passed through neat armor, carried a clean sword, recited oaths, and believed in those words about honor and protection.

Later, when the Duke of Raymond ordered a war of aggression and persecution of his subjects, he refused to sign the order.

After that, his knighthood was stripped, his military pay was suspended, and even his mount was almost taken away to pay off his debts.

He didn't starve to death, but the Red Tide army quickly moved south and rescued him.

That's why he's here.

The file submitted by the Inspectorate contained only one sentence evaluating him: "He went hungry himself but did not rob the people of the old knights."

General Manager Green signed the document.

Thorne was transferred to Red Tide and became a probationary officer.

Thorne felt it was more like a job to just coast along.

He didn't expect any change, just a different flag or a different way of saying things; he'd seen too much of that in the Limestone Province.

No matter how nicely those barbarians from the north speak, it's nothing more than another way of managing people, another method of exploitation.

This time, all he wanted was for him to survive; he had long since given up on the idea of ​​saving the poor.

The caravan continued onward, the swamp growing increasingly dark; they had arrived at Blackswamp Town.

There are almost no intact houses to be seen here.

The shacks, made of rotten planks and mud, were crammed together, resembling a pile of wreckage that could collapse at any moment.

The sewage flowed downhill, carrying away the excrement and the last vestige of dignity.

Thorne reined in his horse and whispered to Pete beside him, "This is the province's garbage dump."

Pete did not respond.

“Raymont has taken all the able-bodied men here,” Thorne continued. “They were sent to the front lines as support soldiers or turned into labor slaves for money. All that’s left are the old and the children.”

He pointed to the figures squatting in the mud and water: "The farm tools have all been melted down to make weapons, so they can't farm. They just lie in the swamp and catch insects to eat."

Thorne paused for a moment, then added, "They are not human, they are living ghosts."

Pete remained silent.

He was followed by twenty low-ranking Red Tide officials, all of whom were quite young and wore brand-new uniforms.

Faced with this place that was utterly rotten, they didn't show any disgust; in fact, they seemed rather eager to try it out.

Thorne couldn't understand it; he didn't comprehend what these people were thinking.

The convoy slowly drove into the town; there were no beggars or curses.

The figures huddled behind the broken walls and mud sheds, like frightened mice, with only pairs of empty and wary eyes showing.

Pete jumped off the carriage.

The mud reached up to his boots and quickly soaked his trouser legs, but he didn't care. He looked up at the half-collapsed stone tower at the entrance of town.

“Here it is.” Pete took the flagpole and climbed up it, stepping on the gravel and rotten wood.

He forcefully shoved the bright red Red Tide flag into the cracked rock.

The wind blew from the depths of the swamp, causing the flag to flutter.

That splash of red stood out starkly against the gray and black world.

Thorne subconsciously narrowed his eyes.

Just then, a beggar covered in festering sores rushed out of the shadows, letting out a muffled roar.

Thorne's body reacted before he could think, and with a clang, his longsword was drawn.

This was an instinct he learned as a knight: any act of clashing with an official was a threat and needed to be eliminated on the spot.

Before he could even raise his sword, a hand gripped the hilt—it was Pete.

Thorne was taken aback, while Pete had already taken a step forward.

He reached out his hands and steadily supported the swaying beggar.

The worn-out gloves were instantly stained dark with pus, blood, and filth, and a putrid stench filled the air.

Pete didn't even frown, but simply whispered, "Slow down, don't fall."

Thorne stood there, his sword hanging down in his hand.

This did not bring him relief; instead, it made him even more confused.

In his mind, an official's hands are for signing orders and issuing commands across a table.

You shouldn't touch this kind of thing, and there's no need to.

Looking at Pete's gloves, stained with mud and pus, a rather unseemly thought popped into his head: What is this? Who is this performance for?
The Red Tide flag fluttered in the wind, its crimson color almost excessive.

The water in the large pot quickly came to a boil.

The iron pot was placed on a makeshift stone stove, and flames licked the bottom of the pot.

Diced salted meat, dehydrated vegetables transported from the red tide, and finely ground oatmeal were spooned into the pot and simmered in boiling water.

White steam rose and quickly enveloped the entire open space.

The aroma of meat filled the air.

In this swamp that is perpetually filled with the smell of putrid water, this odor seemed out of place, even somewhat pungent.

It wasn't the scent of a festival, but a long-lost, unsettling breath of life.

Thorne stood behind Pete, watching the bubbling cauldron, his brow furrowing deeper and deeper.

He finally spoke, his voice unusually serious: "Lord Pete, if I may be so bold, the meat in this pot of porridge is enough to buy the lives of everyone in this town."

Pete did not look up.

Thorne continued, “You feed them meat today, but what about tomorrow? What about the day after? No matter how full the Red Tide’s granaries are, they can’t fill this place.”

His gaze swept over the figures huddled in the distance, their eyes drawn to the aroma.

"When you run out of meat, these wolves that have been suddenly fed will be the first to tear apart the person standing in front of them."

Thorne had seen this outcome far too many times: the old aristocracy never did anything that didn't make them rich, and charity would only appear before they could maintain control.

Pete continued stirring the pan, the wooden spoon scraping the bottom with a steady, rhythmic sound.

After a while, he spoke calmly, “Sir Thorne, in the Red Tide, we don’t call people bottomless pits, we call them laborers.”

Thorne was taken aback, unsure of what to say.

Pete continued, his tone still calm: "But first, we have to make sure they survive today."

The loudspeaker was quickly set up.

"Dinner's ready!" The shout was drawn out.

There was no movement.

Pete frowned, then gestured for the person to call out again: "Dinner's ready!"

Still, no one stepped forward.

By the time the third shout had faded, the open space was already surrounded by people.

Hundreds of eyes were fixed on the rolling iron pot, but it was as if an invisible line had stopped them in place, and no one dared to take a step.

That wasn't greed; Thorne knew very well that look in his eyes—it was fear.

A woman suddenly pulled the child into her arms and covered his mouth, fearing that his crying would bring some disaster.

Several elderly people hunched their shoulders, their lips pale, as if waiting for a pre-written ending.

The air became unusually quiet.

Just then, an old miner with gray hair crawled out from the crowd.

He didn't have the strength to stand up, so he could only drag himself over and slowly move to Pete's side, where he crashed heavily onto the muddy ground.

“Master…” His voice was so hoarse that it was almost inaudible.

Pete was taken aback, wondering what the old man was up to.

The old miner raised his head, his cloudy eyes fixed on the pot, his voice trembling: "If you're going to kill, could you... just kill me?"

He gasped for breath, as if he had used up all his strength: "Let my grandson go to the mine... He can still work, don't kill him..."

Pete's hand, which was gripping the spoon, tightened suddenly.

Thorne stood to the side, closed his eyes as if suppressing some kind of disgust, and said in a low voice, "It's Raymond's rule. They're only given a full meal before a batch of waste is to be disposed of."

“On several occasions, they poisoned the porridge with poison powder made from slag.” Thorne paused, as if to confirm whether Pete really wanted to hear more. “Those who drank it started convulsing that very night, and the next morning they were all dumped into the abandoned pit…”

Thorne added in a low voice, "That's the easiest way. They call this meal 'last farewell porridge.'"

Pete didn't ask any more questions. He knew that any further words of comfort would be superfluous here. He stuck the ladle into the pot and filled a bowl to the brim.

Chunks of meat, wheat grains, and scalding hot soup sway in the bowl, the steam rising so high it's almost blinding.

Amidst hundreds of pairs of eyes fixed on him, Pete picked up the bowl, tilted his head back, and drank it all down.

He seemed completely oblivious to the heat and didn't care about his image, simply gulping down the food until only a few crumbs remained in the bowl.

Pete turned the empty bowl upside down, so the bottom was facing everyone.

Then he slammed it down hard: "Smack—"

The earthenware bowl shattered into several pieces on the muddy ground.

"Did you see that clearly?!" Pete's voice seemed to roar from his chest. "No poison! Only flesh!"

He pointed at the pot, his arm trembling: "Red Tide doesn't need dead people! We need living people! Those who want to live, come and eat!"

The moment the words left his mouth, the crowd seemed to be pushed apart by something.

Fear bursts open, and what surges forth is naked instinct.

Some screamed, some shoved, and hundreds of dark figures rushed toward the soup kitchen at the same time, mud and water splashing, cries and gasps mingling together.

Thorne's expression changed drastically.

Once things get out of control, the next step will be stampeding, fighting, and bloodshed.

His hand had already reached for the leather whip at his waist.

"Back off!" he growled, charging forward.

In his experience, only pain can stop this chaos.

"Stop, Thorne!" Pete's voice came from the side.

Thorne was taken aback. Several Red Tide Aid Officers who were already on standby quickly stepped forward and skillfully pulled up a thick rope.

It was a hemp rope dyed bright red, stretched horizontally and placed ten meters in front of the soup kitchen.

Pete took the megaphone, his voice booming through the chaos: "Listen up! Anyone who crosses this rope will never eat a single grain of Red Tide rice again in their lifetime! Get behind the rope! Line up!"

The words were like nails, being hammered into the air one after another.

The person at the very front suddenly stopped in his tracks.

One bite of rice, and all the rice that follows.

Surviving for a time versus whether you can survive in the future.

The chaos stopped immediately. Some people were panting as they backed away, while others dragged their companions back.

A few breaths later, a crooked line actually formed behind the red rope. It was not neat, but it was taking shape.

Thorne stood there, the whip still in his hand, but he forgot to swing it.

He looked at the flimsy red rope, then at the gradually quieting crowd, and his throat tightened.

“A rope…” he muttered to himself, “more effective than my whip?”

Instead of Pete's response, he received a hoarse laugh.

As soon as the line was formed, a burly man with a fierce face squeezed out.

He still bears the scars of his old foreman's whip on his shoulder, and stands ramrod straight, as if he's used to walking sideways in a crowd.

He shoved aside the orphan holding the bowl in front of him, spilling the soup onto the muddy ground.

"Get out of my way." He looked up at Pete, then grinned ingratiatingly. "Sir, could you let me have the first bite? I'm very useful."

Thorne's hand was already on the hilt of his sword, but he also knew that governing such a chaotic place still required the help of these local thugs.

Pete, however, did not get angry; he simply raised his hand.

Two knights stepped forward, one on each side, and grabbed the burly man, dragging him away from the group.

"What are you doing!" the burly man struggled and cursed.

Pete's voice was low, but it carried clearly to everyone's ears: "Tie him up over there."

On the wooden platform next to the soup kitchen, there is a pillar that was originally used to hang flags.

The burly man was tied to a pillar with his hands behind his back, and a strip of cloth was stuffed into his mouth, so he could only make muffled whimpering sounds.

Pete didn't even glance at him again: "Continue serving the porridge."

The first bowl was handed out to the orphan who had been pushed over.

The child held the rough earthenware bowl, his hands trembling violently, but he still lowered his head and drank it in large gulps.

The heat was steaming his face, but he didn't care about the heat; he just kept stuffing it into his mouth.

The aroma of meat wafted through the air again and again.

The line moved forward slowly.

The burly man tied to the pillar was initially struggling, his eyes fierce.

Soon, that ferocity was suppressed by hunger.

He watched as people who were once inferior to him left with their bowls, watched someone burp while eating, and watched the orphan lick the grease from the bottom of his bowl.

The sobbing changed into an uncontrollable wail.

This is a process in which both the body and consciousness are crushed simultaneously.

Once the porridge was ready, Pete turned around and glanced at Thorne.

Thorne understood, and drew his longsword without any further movement.

A cold glint fell, and the crying abruptly stopped.

Blood splattered on the pillar, only to be quickly swallowed up by the damp, cold air.

After drinking the porridge, the person gradually recovered.

Only when the stomach felt substantial did the trembling in my limbs gradually subside.

Suddenly, someone knelt down, their forehead hitting the muddy ground with a heavy thud: "Thank...thank you, sir..."

The voice trembled, but it was genuine.

This kneeling gesture seemed to unlock something.

More and more people knelt down, the old, the young, and those holding children, all bowing towards the porridge stall, repeating only one sentence over and over again.

"Thank you, sir..."

Pete did not accept the greeting. He raised his hand to signal the knight to calm the situation, then walked to the front of the crowd and whispered in a voice that quelled the disorderly bowing: "Don't thank me."

Someone was startled and looked up.

Pete reached out and pointed to the red flag fluttering in the wind at the village entrance: "If you want to thank someone, thank Red Tide."

He raised his finger slightly: "Thank you to the man who planted this flag here, Lord Louis."

The crowd followed his gaze.

The bright red flag fluttered in the air above the gray-black swamp.

Some people hesitated for a moment, then lowered their heads again.

This time, they kowtowed in a different direction.

Pete then continued, his tone becoming calm again: "Once you've eaten your fill, go back early tomorrow morning. If you want to eat more, gather at the red rope."

He waved his hand, and the guards began to guide the crowd to disperse.

The crowd slowly dispersed, their steps still unsteady, but no longer as disorderly as before.

The fire was still burning, and the remaining porridge in the pot was bubbling on the low flame.

The aroma of meat in the air had faded, but the warmth still lingered.

Pete scooped up a bowl and handed it to Thorne, who had been standing to the side without touching it: "Have some."

Thorne took the bowl, and could clearly feel the heat in his palm.

He looked down at the swirling wheat grains and oil droplets, his Adam's apple bobbing, but he didn't drink immediately.

“That performance today,” he said in a low voice, “was really impressive.”

He looked up at Pete, his tone still calm.

"But I still maintain that this can't go on forever. They'll still be hungry tomorrow, and the day after. How many times can your red rope stop them?"

Pete wiped the grease from the corner of his mouth and did not refute.

He followed Thorne's gaze and looked into the distance. The glacier flowed in the twilight, and the abandoned mines stood like a row of silent black shadows.

"Thorne, do you think this bowl of porridge is free? This meal today is to give them the strength to move stones. Red Tide doesn't do charity; we do investment."

Pete pointed to the red rope that hadn't been put away yet: "In a few days, the people standing behind the rope won't be beggars, they'll be workers. If they want to eat, they'll have to work, and they'll earn work points for whatever they do."

Thorne didn't speak, he just listened.

"As for whether it can be sustained..." Pete smiled, "you'll know the answer once that dam is built."

(End of this chapter)