Lord of Winter: Beginning with Daily Intelligence

That was neither a hastily assembled mercenary band, nor a knight order propped up by noble bloodlines.

It was an army molded through discipline, industry, and cold calculation, the first truly fully industrialized army in human history.

His thoughts uncontrollably drifted back; the earliest memory was the orphan camp.

Back then, like many children, he was abandoned by disaster by the roadside. In other territories, being an orphan meant slavery, mines, and a short life.

But in the Red Tide Territory, Louis gave them milk, meat, and the qualification to cultivate Fighting Energy.

It wasn’t compassion, but more like a calm and direct investment.

Later, he was selected into the Lord’s guard, standing behind Louis, wielding a longsword shield, serving as an iron wall against hidden arrows.

Until that day, Louis took away the shield that had accompanied him for years and instead gave him a command sword.

“Your swordsmanship is good, but in the Red Tide Territory, I want you to learn to use your brain to protect the Red Tide.”

The next five years were like an unavoidable forced indoctrination.

Ballistics, trench construction, logistics coordination, multi-arms cooperation…

All the warfare knowledge absent in the old times was crammed into his mind.

And these were not merely theoretical.

In the conquest of the Gray Rock Province, Louis handed over the frontline command to him completely for the first time.

How steam tanks forged the path, when cavalry should be deployed to harvest…

What followed was the elimination of remaining noble forces, the hunting of mountain bandits, the repeated suppression and restoration of old noble powers.

Repeated low-intensity yet prolonged and dirty battles honed him into a true commander capable of managing the situation.

In simulations and real battlefields, he was repeatedly trained, forcefully matured into a general by Louis.

Now he looked back and saw an endless steel dragon behind him.

The steam tanks covered with canvas breathed lowly, like a group of beasts lying in wait.

The smell of metal, oil, and steam weighed heavily in the air.

“No bloodline, no family background. Yet, they entrusted this army capable of crushing the world into my hands.”

Gray was well aware that the spectators were the old nobility of the Northern Territory, people he once couldn’t even dream of looking up to.

But today, the one standing here is him.

“I want to show them that the people chosen by the Red Tide Territory are ten thousand times stronger than those noble knights propped up by bloodline.”

In the distance, the steam whistle sounded deep and low.

The countdown to the parade began.

Gray closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. The air mixed with the smell of oil was the unique scent of the Red Tide Territory.

When he opened his eyes again, all distracting thoughts were suppressed to the bottom of his heart.

He donned his white gloves properly, gripping the command knife at his waist tightly, his hand no longer trembling.

……

Nico changed into clean everyday clothes.

It wasn’t a military uniform, nor a formal suit, just a well-tailored dark jacket.

Making his face appear even paler, the weakness left by fatigue hadn’t fully faded.

If not for the foundation built by years of cultivation, he probably wouldn’t have recovered so quickly.

As the representative of the Calvin Clan, he was arranged in a seat next to the main seat, surrounded by some executives of the Red Tide and high nobles of the Northern Territory,

Sitting beside him was Bradley.

The old steward had changed out of his usual deacon outfit, wearing only a formal suit, with his back still straight, hands naturally resting on his knees.

If not for the white hairs at his temples, he looked almost unchanged from when he stood behind Duke Calvin twenty years ago.

Nico spoke first, his voice hoarse, yet with a long-lost relaxation: “Old friend, you’ve aged.”

As he said this, his gaze lingered on Bradley’s eyes, as if re-confirming something.

“However,” Nico paused, nodding slightly, “your spirit is even better than when you were in the Southeast.”

Bradley smiled slightly, raised his hand, and poured Nico a cup of hot tea. White mist slowly rose from the cup, dispelling some of the Northern Territory’s morning chill.

“Because there is hope here.” He pushed the teacup in front of Nico, his tone calm and certain, “The young master here has created too many miracles.”

Nico picked up the teacup, looking down in the direction of the ceremonial platform.

The formations below were already aligned, black units like steel plates embedded in the wilderness, with precise spacing and stable formations, carrying an inherent oppressive aura, even before any action began.

Nico said softly: “I know, the Gray Rock Province and the Northern Province are not made of paper. To swallow them and still stabilize the situation…”

He let out a gentle breath, “Though I don’t want to admit it, the young master has already surpassed the old Duke.”

His assessment was not flattery, but the instinctive evaluation of an experienced knight.

Before coming here, he had already envisioned the parade in his mind.

A Knight Order with strict discipline, dozens of Extraordinary Knights, complemented by some new equipment. This was already enough to be considered a strong army.

But when he was actually sitting here, watching those silent steel phalanxes with his own eyes, he realized that his expectations were still too conservative.

Nico’s fingers holding the teacup unconsciously tightened a bit.

“Let me see,” he murmured softly, almost talking to himself.

“Since we’re marching south for revenge, we need teeth.” His eyes were fixated on the phalanx about to commence, a long-lost sharpness emerging in his gaze, “I hope the young master’s teeth… are hard enough.”

Exactly ten o’clock in the morning.

The massive steam clock tower in the center of the parade ground emitted a deep and resonant mechanical echo, its hands steadily settling into place amidst the expulsion of white steam.

“Hoo—!!”

The sound of a horn abruptly tore through the air.

It was not an ordinary military horn, but a low-frequency sound wave amplified by an alchemy acoustics array, deep and lingering, as if striking directly at the human heart.

The audience that had been surging like a tidal wave fell silent in an instant, as if someone had pressed the mute button on the world.

Deathly stillness.

Tens of thousands of people simultaneously ceased their movements, eerily synchronized.

Everyone’s gaze lifted at the same moment, focusing on the highest reviewing platform of the parade ground.

The involuntary compliance, formed without command, sent chills down the spines of the nobles on the VIP viewing platform. This was not mere excitement; it was a fully domesticated order.

In the shadow of the reviewing platform, a figure slowly stepped forward.

Louis Calvin stepped out.

He wore neither the cumbersome and elaborate noble attire nor the traditional heavy plate armor of a knight.

It was a sleek, deep black marshal’s uniform, a style unique to the Red Tide Territory.

The golden sun epaulettes gleamed coldly in the sunlight, while the crimson cloak behind him fluttered in the northern wind, like a silently burning battle flag.

The early summer sunlight fell upon him, but it seemed to be entirely absorbed by the black fabric.

Young, exceedingly young.

This was the thought of all the nobles. Although they knew of Louis’s age, every time they saw him in person, they couldn’t help but be surprised at the young appearance of the man who wielded authority over two great provinces.

But beneath that stern face, his gaze was unnervingly calm.

On the VIP platform, Nico instinctively held his breath.

He couldn’t fathom the depth of this young lord, nor could he sense the oppressive aura of fighting energy in its traditional sense. It was absolute confidence, as if the world was in his grasp.

Louis walked to the railing, merely took off his gloves, and casually waved his hand downward.

“Boom—!!”

In the next moment, the long-suppressed silence was completely shattered.

Countless people shouted the same name, some wept, some knelt on the spot, their foreheads hitting the ground heavily.

“Lord Louis!!”

To them, the young man on the platform was not an abstract lord, nor a distant noble, but the savior who had dragged them out of hunger, cold, and humiliation.

He allowed them to live, to live with dignity, and that was enough.

Then Louis raised his hand, palm down, making an extremely simple suppressing gesture.

Three seconds, just three seconds.

The uproar that could have toppled city walls seemed to be pressed back to the ground by an invisible giant hand.

The cheers abruptly ceased, leaving only the sound of the wind and the deep breathing of steam engines.

This effortless control was more chilling than the earlier fervor.

Louis did not simply say a few words but extended his hand and slowly drew the Cold Iron Longsword from his waist.

In the instant the sword left its sheath, a crisp and icy metallic ring echoed in the air.

The sword’s edge pointed directly at the sky, reflecting a dazzling cold light in the sunlight, like a line of judgment spanning between heaven and earth.

The acoustics array projected his voice to every corner of the parade ground.

“The blade of Red Tide, unsheathed.”