Lord of Winter: Beginning with Daily Intelligence Chapter 671 - 386: Iron Pulse

Early autumn winds in the Northern Territory already bore traces of piercing chill.

In Red Tide City's northern quarter, a fresh freight platform stood encircled by a grave ring of red-armored knights.

Access to the core area was restricted to select few: a scribe in black robes from the Ministry of Internal Affairs, a gray-uniformed surveyor from the Road Department, around a dozen reps from merchant groups, and veteran craftsmen granted permission to observe.

On a nearby hillock outside town, locals clustered at a distance.

Chilled to the flush, their gazes locked unblinkingly on the twin tracks vanishing into the pale mist.

"Damn this weather..." Retto huddled his neck, burrowing his numb chin into his collar's fox fur.

He appeared in his early twenties, clad in a finely cut yet thin silk outfit from the South, standing out amid the Northern folk bundled in heavy furs.

This marked his initial trip here to Red Tide City with his father.

"I don’t understand why we have to stand here in the cold wind." Retto stamped his feet, grumbling to the modest, unassuming figure next to him.

He didn't know the man's identity, just that Lord Bradley, the internal affairs chief, had invited him too.

"Hey, listen." Retto sniffed, his voice dripping with the haughtiness of a trading house young master, "My father, the president of Golden Wheat Sheaf Trading Company, had urgent matters to attend to, so he sent me to take his place.

The people from the Internal Affairs Office said this is some epoch-making moment? Ha! Just because of these two iron bars laid on the muddy ground?"

The diminutive man named House beside him stayed unruffled by Retto’s arrogance.

His coal-stained work garb marked him from the Craftsman’s Office.

"Sir," House replied gently, "You’d better fasten the buttons of your collar tightly."

"What?" Retto scowled, assuming the lowly worker mocked his light attire.

"Because that is the Snowfield Iron Vein." House whispered, "First-time viewers often have weak legs. Falling down would be quite embarrassing, sir."

"Ha?" Retto was about to scoff at the caution as nonsense when a strange tremor rose from the earth.

Unease just starting to grip him, the stones underfoot began rattling and clinking against the rails.

Not an earthquake's fierce quake, but a thunderous rumble like a thousand cavalry charging.

"Woo——!!!"

Abruptly, an unfamiliar cry ripped through the crisp quiet of early fall.

No fervent horn blast or beastly bellow was it.

Cold and profound, it pierced deep, burrowing into Retto’s bones, numbing his scalp and swallowing his mocking words.

The far-off fog exploded apart.

In Retto’s shrunken pupils, a smoke-belching steel giant barreled down the track toward them.

"What...what kind of monster is that?!"

Retto staggered back instinctively two paces, knees buckling, spine slamming into the barrier.

Without that rail, he'd have collapsed to the dirt just as House predicted.

"That is the Snowfield Iron Vein." House murmured, his eyes alight with thrilled fervor.

The locomotive's massive front plow resembled a charging knight's hefty shield, shining with cold iron's icy luster.

Enormous metal rods powered the tall steel wheels, unleashing a relentless clanging rhythm that exuded crushing might, as if pulverizing all in its way.

"Crunch, crunch, crunch!"

As the train neared, the platform's ground quivered faintly underfoot, Retto's ears overwhelmed by the engine's growl and the scalding hiss of steam from the behemoth.

Nothing so vast or terrifying had he ever witnessed.

His merchant heir's smug disdain shattered utterly before this iron leviathan.

An awe beyond any arms or fighters he'd conceived gripped him.

Mouth agape on reflex, no sound escaped.

"Is that...it?" Retto finally rasped the words past his throat.

Silence blanketed the platform, broken only by labored breaths hanging in the air.

Brakes shrieking, the train halted exactly at the platform's red mark.

Blazing white vapor burst from the relief valve, swallowing half the area in warmth that chased away the frost.

The car door glided aside.

Red Tide Lord Louis Calvin emerged first.

His iconic black lord’s coat draped him, face serene as his eyes scanned the assembly.

"Open the cargo hold."

At Louis's signal, troops yanked wide the ponderous sealed bay at the rear.

Burlap sacks piled high inside, each stuffed full, stamped with golden wheat sheaf and sun symbols.

Retto reflexively braced, recalling desperate brawls over meager bread rations.

He figured these Northerners would ogle the flour sacks like starving hounds, greed flashing in their stares.

Yet he erred, gravely so.

Though life-sustaining grain lay exposed before them, amid the throng of hundreds or thousands of onlookers, none spared the bags a glance.

Myriad eyes, drawn by invisible pull, riveted on the black-clad youth amid the steam clouds.

A primal fire burned there, fiercer than hunger's call.

It was utter devotion to the miracle-worker.

"Lord Louis!!!" A voice cried out first, who knew whose.