Winter Lord: Starting with Daily Intelligence

Chapter 439 Fernando

Louis reached out and pushed open the oak door, the hinges making a low, muffled sound.

Varius stood inside the door, his hands gripping the pen tightly. It wasn't a particularly ornate pen, but in his eyes, it was heavier than any scepter.

“Lord Louis, I will not fail you,” he said in a low voice, his voice still a little strained, and he bowed deeply to Louis.

Louis didn't say anything more, he just nodded slightly.

Varius turned and left.

His figure disappeared at the end of the corridor, his expression unusually resolute.

"Click." The door slowly closed behind him.

Almost at the same instant, the almost mentor-like solemnity on Louis's face completely vanished.

He raised his hand and rubbed his temples, as if finally releasing a string that had been taut for a long time.

"Hoo..." He exhaled a long breath.

He turned around and walked back to the table, picked up the cup of tea that had long since gone cold, and without hesitation, took a sip.

The bitterness exploded at the back of my tongue.

Louis frowned slightly, but did not put down his cup. He took another sip, as if trying to pull himself back to reality.

The gentleness and guidance in his eyes had vanished, replaced by familiar calculation and an unconcealable weariness.

Just then, Bradley walked in silently.

He moved swiftly and decisively, without any unnecessary pleasantries, walking straight to the table and carefully collecting the draft bills he had just laid out, placing them into the labeled folders.

He then opened another file box and spread out several new files.

The parchment contained coastal shipping routes, port waterlines, dock structure diagrams, and densely packed shipbuilding data.

Louis placed the empty glass back on the table, his voice returning to its usual calm: "Who's next?"

Bradley glanced at the schedule in his hand: "Orland Fernando, former chief shipbuilder of the Southeast Province, and an old man from your grandfather's era."

Brad paused, then added, "He's been standing at the door for half an hour. He looks very nervous."

Louis's gaze fell on the nautical chart on the table, lingered for a moment, and then he nodded slightly: "Let him in."

The oak door was pushed open again, and Orland walked in.

His hair was gray, but it was combed meticulously, with the hairline close to his scalp and not a single hair out of place.

She was wearing a deep purple velvet dress, the cut of which was twenty years old. There were slight wear and tear on the cuffs and elbows, but it had been cleaned repeatedly and still looked presentable.

The most eye-catching thing was the old-fashioned badge pinned to his chest.

The coat of arms of the Calvin family.

The silver base has oxidized and turned black, and there are even a few small chips on the edges. It is obviously not a recent imitation, but something that has been carried from the old days to the present.

Orland walked to a spot five steps from the desk, stopped at just the right moment, and performed a perfectly standard, even slightly excessive, bow of submission.

He bent slightly, his knees noticeably lowered, his posture extremely humble.

“Young Master Louis…” he began, his voice trembling slightly, “…No, Lord.”

"Seeing your achievements now, I... even if I die at this moment, I can finally face the Duke. God bless the Calvin family."

Orland raised his head, his eyes reddening, his voice carrying a perfectly balanced mix of excitement and choked emotion.

Despite saying that, this was the first time the two had met.

After he finished speaking, the room fell silent for a brief moment.

Louis's gaze swept over the badge on Orland's chest, and he had already made his judgment.

That badge has most likely been lying at the bottom of some box for over thirty years.

Being polished and pinned to one's chest today is itself a statement.

You are a member of the Calvin family, and I once served this family.

This is both a reminder of his seniority and an implication of his achievements.

But Louis didn't expose him because the performance was so good, and he needed a role like that.

Louis immediately walked around the desk, strode over to the old man, and offered a helping hand.

"Please rise, Mr. Orland." His tone was gentle yet firm, without a trace of perfunctoriness. "You are a legendary figure from my grandfather's time, and also my elder."

The moment those words were spoken, the tension in Orlando's eyes visibly eased.

Louis didn't give him a chance to continue speaking, but instead pulled out a chair for him himself: "Please sit down."

Soon, a servant brought hot tea.

This isn't just any drink; it's the best quality beverage available at Red Tide.

As soon as the tea was poured, steam rose, filling the room with a warm and pleasant aroma.

"Thank you for traveling such a long way."

After Orland sat down, he placed his hands naturally on his knees. He first glanced down at his teacup, then secretly observed Louis's expression out of the corner of his eye.

When he confirmed that the young lord was indeed remembering the past and that his attitude was sincere, his slightly hunched back quietly straightened a little.

The expression on his face gradually changed from excitement to a measured kindness.

"I'm sorry to trouble you with your concern, Lord." Only then did Orland raise his head, his hands clenching slightly on his knees, no longer as humble as when he first entered.

"The journey is a bit long, but... I can still walk." He smiled gently. "Being able to see you in person makes this little bit of hardship nothing."

Louis didn't respond immediately, but quietly observed the subtle changes in the old man's face.

“With your skills,” Louis said casually, “you should be sitting in the position of chief engineer in the southeastern province. How did you end up being a wanted man?”

As soon as he finished speaking, the deliberate humility that Orlando had been maintaining on his face was torn away in front of him.

He slammed his cane down on the ground, the wooden tapping sound particularly jarring in the quiet room.

"Wanted?" The old man's voice suddenly rose, his face turning purple. "That's not a wanted notice, that's persecution!"

"It was the purge carried out by those mad dogs from the Golden Feather Flower Church!"

Once emotions break free, pent-up anger can no longer be contained.

"They coveted my shipbuilding skills and wanted me to hand over the latest ship design blueprints. That would have been fine..." Orland's hands trembled slightly, "but they actually forced me to publicly scorn the Dragon Ancestor!"

He looked up abruptly, his eyes filled with humiliation.

"They say the Dragon Ancestor is a false god, a totem of a beast! They want me to burn the dragon bone amulet passed down through my family in the square in front of everyone, kneel before their damned flower statue to be baptized, and they want me to change my name!"

Orland's voice became hoarse, with an undisguised tremor: "But the Fernando family has built ships under the watchful eye of the Dragon Ancestor for generations."

"You want me to abandon my ancestors and believe in that flower goddess who only sells indulgences?"

He spat fiercely: "I'd rather burn the shipyard down than make even a single plank for those charlatans!"

The room fell silent again.

Louis looked at the old man who was losing control of his emotions, but remained unusually calm.

The anger was real, the dignity was real, but he also knew that something else was equally real.

This old shipwright was used to a life of luxury and being looked up to, and he could not bear to be trampled into the mud by the times and power.

What he needs is not just protection, but a stage worthy of his ambition and vanity.

Louis spoke up, his tone even more direct than before: "They are indeed blind, but Red Tide Technology is their only faith."

Louis stared directly at Orland, giving him no room to maneuver.

"Stay here, Mr. Orland. You are in charge of the newly built Royal-class shipyard in Dawn Harbor."

There is no upper limit to research and development funding; you can recruit the best apprentices and use the best wood and steel.

I'll arrange for the mansion to be located at the highest point in the harbor, so you can see your ship being launched just by opening the window.

Upon hearing this, Orland's breathing quickened, but he maintained his mature and composed demeanor.

"This...this is too much trouble." He forced a smile. "I just want to leave something behind for my family..."

“Mr. Orland,” Louis interrupted his pleasantries.

He reached into the drawer, took out a folded drawing, and slowly unfolded it on the table.

As soon as the paper was laid out, Orland was stunned.

This drawing is not complicated. It does not contain the dense symbols he is familiar with, nor does it have a strange structure that is out of date. In fact, it can be said to be straightforward.

The hull is wide and thick, with heavy lines. It lacks the slender shape intended for speed and is more like a wooden and stone platform that can move on water.

The keel was repeatedly marked in bold, with only a simple note next to it: "Load-bearing priority, stability priority".

In the center of the deck, a closed metal cabin was clearly marked, occupying the most central position of the entire ship.

There is no decoration, only a label indicating its purpose: boiler room.

What made Orland's heart race the most were the two sides of the ship. There were no signs indicating the deployment of spare sails, nor any complicated oarlocks; instead, each side was painted with a huge wooden wheel.

The wheels are wide and thick, with a simple structure, resembling a waterwheel that has been directly mounted on the side of a boat.

The axle is connected directly to the boiler room in the center of the ship via a thick connecting rod.

There were no fancy annotations, just one sentence: "Firepower turns the axle, and the axle propels the boat forward."

Orland's breath hitched noticeably, not because the blueprints were profound, but because they were too straightforward.

"...Not relying on the wind?" His voice lowered, tinged with hesitation. "The fire burns inside, and the wheel turns outside?"

He looked up at Louis, then looked down at the blueprints again, as if repeatedly confirming that he hadn't misunderstood.

"Whether it's with the current or against it, as long as the fire keeps burning, this boat can keep going?" Orland's finger stopped beside the wooden wheel. "Then wouldn't that mean... not waiting for the wind, not watching the tide, not relying on the heavens?"

At that moment, all the calculation and performance on his face vanished, leaving only the primal tremor of an old shipwright.

Louis looked at his reaction and nodded slightly: "You're right, and it's not just an idea that stays on paper."

As soon as he finished speaking, Orland suddenly looked up.

Louis continued, "The prototype has been built and is in the inner bay of Dawn Harbor."

Orland's pupils constricted sharply, and his breathing became erratic for a moment.

Louis didn't give him time to process it, and added insult to injury: "Of course, the current version is not perfect."

The hull structure is not optimized, and the stress distribution on the axles is problematic; prolonged operation will damage the keel.

“That’s why I need you.” Louis looked directly at the old man. “If you just wanted to build a bigger sailboat, you wouldn’t need me.”

He paused, then added, seemingly casually, yet with immense weight: "But if this ship can truly be finalized and mass-produced, I will name it after your surname."

After those words were spoken, the room fell silent except for the faint crackling of the candlelight.

Orland froze on the spot.

His Adam's apple bobbed violently, as if he wanted to say something, but he couldn't make a sound immediately.

His gaze was first fixed on the blueprint, then slowly lifted and fell on Louis's face.

In those eyes, calculation and acting were still there, but an irrepressible burning passion forced them out.

The idea of ​​naming himself after his surname kept echoing in his mind.

If Luis's words are true, in future port taverns, shipping ledgers, and even college textbooks, when people talk about that "monster that doesn't rely on the wind," they will casually mention Fernando.

Orland's breathing quickened, and he subconsciously straightened his chest, as if he were already standing on the imagined shipyard, watching the workers and apprentices looking up at him, waiting for his orders.

“...Use my name.” He seemed to be savoring the weight of the name itself.

Orland didn't say anything more, he just nodded slowly.

The movement seemed somewhat dazed, as if the person was still frozen in the moment the name was uttered, their consciousness having already agreed before their reason could catch up.

Louis didn't ask any further questions; he simply closed the blueprints and personally escorted the old man to the door.

The corridor was dimly lit, and footsteps echoed on the empty stone floor.

Orland stopped in front of the door, straightened his bow tie again, as if making final preparations for a stage performance that was already destined to happen.

The door closes.

Louis stood there, watching the figure disappear at the end of the corridor, before a barely perceptible upward curve appeared at the corner of his mouth.

He did this not because of Orland's loyalty, nor because of his noble character.

Rather, it's because the current red tide has reached a point where it must seek its future from the water.

The North has no shortage of minerals, coal, or manpower.

What truly constrains it is transportation.

Inland rivers freeze over in winter, making it difficult for horse-drawn carriages to move through the mud and snow.

Grain, coal, and steel were all stuck on the road. Even with railways, it was impossible to cover all the river networks and harbors.

Water conservancy is the cheapest, yet most brutal, means of transportation on this continent.

As long as ships rely on sails, routes depend on the weather, and scheduling depends on luck, those are variables that an industrial system cannot accept.

The significance of steamships has never been just about speed.

Instead, rivers and coastlines are transformed into precisely calculable transport lines, embedded like gears into the entire production system.

And Orland is the most suitable person in this chain.

He didn't get to that position by luck.

During the age of sail, most of the main ocean-going vessels in the Southeast Province were designed or designed by him in the shipyards.

His greatest skill has never been fancy design, but rather how to keep a ship from falling apart or deforming even when it is fully loaded, in rough seas, and sailing for days on end.

Where materials can be saved, where reinforcement is necessary, which rib is subject to long-term fatigue, and which section of the keel is most likely to break before returning to port.

These things are not on blueprints, but in his decades of experience.

His craftsmanship, his habits, and his solid shipbuilding logic—though outdated by the times—will be passed down through apprentices, layer by layer.

Today it's a single ship; tomorrow it will be an entire shipbuilding system.

An industry that can take root, be replicated, and spread in red tide ports.

For a truly top-tier craftsman, the strongest shackle is never orders, nor money, but reputation.
As long as his name is on that ship, Orlando could never abandon it.

He will work harder than anyone else to make that ship a success.

Because it wasn't just Red Tide's ship, it was his too, even though it was just a name.

His disciples and their descendants will also spend their entire lives on this route.

Louis then slowly exhaled, turned around and went back to his desk, leaned back in his chair, and closed his eyes to rest for a moment.

It's not that I'm too tired to keep going, it's just that I need to relax my tense thoughts.

He has hardly had any free time these past few days.

There was a gentle knock on the door, and Bradley walked in.

"Is anyone still here today?" Louis asked casually without opening his eyes.

“That’s all.” Bradley flipped through the schedule in his hand. “The others are all scheduled for tomorrow.”

Louis nodded. "That's enough for now."

Bradley did not leave immediately, but stood aside, waiting for instructions.

Louis opened his eyes, looked at the documents on the table that had not yet been put away, and his gaze returned to its usual calm.

These days, he has been doing the same thing: receiving talents from the old empire who have traveled from the south.

To date, more than 100 technical officers, legal officers, and chief craftsmen have been officially absorbed, settled, and re-employed by the Red Tide.

This number itself is insignificant, but its impact has already begun to manifest in the empire's talent market.

Workshops and institutions in the southern provinces are quietly becoming hollowed out.

One by one, renowned and experienced people disappeared from sight, leaving behind either apprentices who had not yet been honed or mediocre people who only knew how to stick to the old rules.

Meanwhile, rumors about the red tide continued to spread along these routes of human movement...

They don't care about your background there, they only care about your abilities... As long as you can create value, someone will cover your escape route, and you'll receive generous rewards.

Once this signal is formed, it is very difficult to suppress.

For many talents of the old empire who were marginalized, purged, and marginalized, the Red Tide has become the best option.

They come from different backgrounds and have different personalities; some are greedy for fame, some are greedy for profit, and some only believe in their outdated ideas.

Therefore, their usage cannot be the same.

Talking about ideas with someone like Orland is a waste of time.

What he needs is to be remembered, to have his name once again placed at the center of the times.

So Louis gave him honor, gave him a stage, and also conveniently put a pair of shackles on him that he could not escape.

For someone like Varius, money and fame are secondary.

What he truly yearns for is a self-consistent set of ideas that can explain the world, an order that is no longer arbitrarily distorted by the powerful and wealthy.

So what Louis gave him was ideas, logic, and a new system that he could participate in building himself.

Everyone has their own value; all he has to do is calculate the right price.

Place each type of person in the most suitable position, so that they are willing to dedicate themselves to the same goal.

“We’ll continue tomorrow,” Louis said finally.

“Yes,” Bradley replied softly, and gently closed the door.

(End of this chapter)