Lord of Winter: Beginning with Daily Intelligence Chapter 672 - 386: Iron Pulse (Part 2)

Right after, like a gale ravaging a wheat field, the masses on the slope thrust their arms skyward all at once.

Not begging for rations, but unleashing a heart-searing bellow: "Lord Louis!!!"

That cry pierced sharper than the prior steam whistle's wail, ripping straight through Retto’s ears.

"Guardian of Winter!!"

"Great Calvin!!"

The sonic surge erupted akin to a tidal wave.

To his horror, Retto watched House, the modest artisan next to him, gripping the rail in wild devotion.

House’s gaze burned with near-maddened arrogance, like a devotee flaunting the almighty deity before an unbeliever: "Sir! See it plain as day! That’s our Lord! The mighty Lord Louis himself!!"

The tide of passion shoved Retto backward step after step.

Through the thunderous acclaim, Louis revealed no trace of smugness.

Calmly positioned amid swirling vapor and roars, he gazed upon the zealous countenances.

Next, the youthful lord signaled with a motion.

Deliberately, he lifted his right arm, slamming his gauntleted fist against his left breast in salute back.

"Boom——!!!"

Where earlier cheers mimicked a tsunami, now it rivaled a full-scale landslide.

The lord’s reply sent the throng into utter frenzy.

Retto sensed the very platform quaking fiercely under the sonic assault, ears filled solely with that resounding name.

For three solid seconds, Louis maintained the stance.

Afterward, he dropped his hand, palm facing downward, softly pushing at the empty air.

Yet as that signal landed, the landslide roar of cheers wondrously ebbed away, leaving just labored breaths and the far-off steam engine’s growl.

Mastered with effortless command.

Beyond mere reverence—this was total sovereignty.

"A real leader for sure." Retto’s mind echoed with that single notion.

Louis wasted no time atop the platform; flanked by his knights, he strode the path parted instinctively by the zealous masses, climbing into the carriage bound for the admin hub.

Long after the lord’s procession vanished down the avenue, the oppressive zeal hung thick in the atmosphere.

Thirty minutes on, inside Red Tide City’s admin core, within the lord’s chamber.

A gentle "click" echoed as the stout oak portal eased shut behind him.

Thick as any fortress barrier, the door sealed off the ceaseless clamor from beyond.

Louis loosened his collar buttons, peeled away the coal- and frost-smudged black leather gauntlets, flinging them onto the long table’s edge.

"Take a seat." Circling the desk, he settled into the tall chair.

Victory brought no easing; his posture stayed rigid, fingers drumming the rest instinctively.

Bradley, Desland, Lambert, and bashful Hamilton—those trailing him inside—shook off the prior manic vibe, resuming their poised roles as key advisors.

Louis held his tongue at first, eyes shut while he drummed steadily on the desk.

Merely four days—that’s all.

A faint ache lingered in Louis’s frame from the endless shaking, yet it stirred a tangible thrill.

Once, that route resembled a severed vein.

Linking Star Forging Territory’s pits to Dawn Port’s wharves, it meant slogging through muck to doom; hauling Mai Lang Territory’s crops to Red Tide City’s plates risked blizzard roulette.

Yet over these ninety-six hours, the iron monster never paused.

No slumber required, no munching hay like stubborn mules, no hobbling on frozen tundra.

Coal and water alone fueled it, charging relentlessly through day-night wilds.

First dawn saw Star Forging Territory’s iron ore cascading into cars like ebony cascades.

Second dusk brought Dawn Port’s spice-laden southern gales wafting via openings.

Midday third hauled hefty powder sacks out of Mai Lang Territory.

And this fourth dusk, they rested silent in Red Tide City’s stores.

No sorcery here—just pure system.

As this iron link chained four domains tight, Red Tide shifted from mere map scribbles to a breathing power.

"Fully twelve hundred miles... in four days."

Trade Bureau Chief Desland, sunk in the cozy seat, could scarcely credit it.

Snapping open his ledger, fingers raced across pages; his typical narrow gaze flared wide with trader’s fire.

"Lord, my top caravans—even ignoring storms, raiders, or beastly fatigue—would need forty days minimum for the loop. Summer best case!"

Seizing the hefty tome, Desland brandished it fiercely: "Our funds cycle tenfold faster than Southern Commerce Associations!

While their wares fester in slop, we’ve flipped ours thrice! Forget gains—this plunders their vaults outright!"

"Forget your cursed margins; stuffing it all worries me more," Bradley cut into Desland’s ravings.

"Four days dumps a month’s Mai Lang Territory output... Heavens, granaries can’t keep pace with this blitz."