Lord of Winter: Beginning with Daily Intelligence Chapter 683 - 389: New Northern Territory and Old North (Part 3)

Provided they managed to evade the scrutiny of the Red Tide Caravan, they could cling to the final fragment of their dignity.

Sorel refrained from calling them out, simply offering a smile and going along with it.

Upon departing, he cast a glance back at the foreboding castle, likening it to an aging beast on the brink of death yet desperately raising its mane.

In his thoughts, he arrived at a sterner judgment: these lords harbored not mere hostility toward Louis, but deep resentment for his revelation of their own obsolescence.

They coveted the affluence of the Red Tide, lamented their delay in aligning with it, but tenaciously held onto their arrogance, unwilling to face the truth.

He settled into the carriage once more, his fingers tightening within his gloves.

"This goes beyond personality flaws... it’s a divide between civilizations."

The Red Tide system was inexorably dragging the whole Northern Territory into a fresh epoch with its quiet, unstoppable momentum.

And these folks were destined to lag behind, their resistance only amplifying their absurdity.

Traveling northward, Sorel at first paid attention solely to these lords.

Over time, he realized that a land’s true state was mirrored not in banquets or fortresses, but in the everyday folk enduring the gales and blizzards.

As the carriage traversed the outdated domains spurning the Red Tide system, the panorama was impossible to overlook...

In the dead of a winter evening, streets lay shrouded in darkness without a proper oil lantern in sight. The gusts delivered biting chill, untouched by hearth fires.

By a dilapidated dwelling, refugees huddled at the snowy verge, swathed in ragged burlap.

Some flinched away from the carriage in fright, while others gazed blankly, instinctively bowing heads and shrugging shoulders.

Children lurked in shack corners, their wide eyes devoid of spark.

They would occasionally fixate on passersby, as though beholding omens of misfortune.

The knights troubled Sorel the most, drawing his deepest scowl.

Knights draped in tattered cloaks barreled down streets, utterly heedless of the commoners.

Their mounts sent refugees fleeing in panic, a woman pinned to a wall barely escaped trampling.

Observing this from the carriage, Sorel’s fist tightened instinctively.

"This is the Northern Territory etched in my memory."

But after pressing on for several more days, the landscape shifted dramatically, severed at its base by some unseen hand.

Within the reach of the Red Tide system’s sway, nights stayed frigid yet were lit by dotted glows.

Roadside iron stoves blazed, magic stone lamps dangled from timber posts emitting constant white radiance, guiding night wanderers clear of pitfalls.

Porridge vendors dotted the wayside, vapors curling at entrances where elders lined up for steaming bowls, flanked by lounging stray cats.

Nearby stood a modest clinic, its wooden plaque bearing the Red Tide’s sun symbol.

At the entrance, a healer shrouded in a heavy wrap soothed a mother cradling her infant in hushed tones.

Sorel contemplated these vistas, an odd bewilderment washing over him for the first time.

Children frolicked by roadsides, their giggles clearer than fresh snow. Some hurled snowballs, others tumbled only to be swiftly lifted by grown-ups.

A woman mended a fence using Red Tide’s iron implements, wielding them with ease and familiarity born of long practice.

A granary rose along the snowfield edge, built stoutly from fresh timber and rock, resembling a sturdy hillock.

Laborers hauled sacks to and fro from the storehouse, their visages radiating evident cheer and vitality.

Sorel observed the patrolling knights at greater length.

The Red Tide system’s knights advanced in sync, wrapped in crimson cloaks, their steeds treading lightly. At crossings, they reined in deliberately to yield to foot traffic.

One knight even called out to a pedestrian, "Watch your step on the ice."

Such words were utterly foreign to any knight Sorel had known.

"Is this... a reborn Northern Territory?"

Sorel whispered, his gaze settling on the interplay of lights from far-off granaries and magic stone lamps.

"Or... a brand-new nation altogether?"

Lords might mask their countenances, but the populace’s existence reveals unvarnished truth.

Venturing farther east, the blizzard intensified.

Frost veiled the carriage panes, yet a city’s silhouette pierced the haze from afar.

For the first time, as Sorel drew back the drape, twin metropolises emerged—not one, but two starkly contrasting behemoths juxtaposed.

To the left, a luminous expanse unfurled amid the snow mist.

Imposing walls soared, avenues stretched in order, magic stone glows gleamed like gold dust in the breeze, tier upon tier, bathing half the heavens. Even from afar, the sheer scale and discipline evoked utter abundance.

To the right, deeper in gloom, another vista unfolded.

Slender smoke plumes ascended steadily in precise array, no disordered fog.

Snow took on a faint ashen hue beneath them, vast structures sprawled like ranges, their edges precise, stripped of ornate flourishes.

Sorel gazed long before grasping these were factories... dwarfing any imperial armory he recalled.

Yet specifics eluded him; that zone evoked an iron colossus’s torso, paired with the vibrant city to its left as the head.

United, they comprised Red Tide City.

He dropped the curtain, reclining into the plush cushion, a weight bearing down on his chest.

His hand delved into his vest, clasping the silver locket firmly.

Ellie’s likeness within was comforting and dear, yet now stirred deeper disquiet.

Throughout the journey, he revisited his objectives time and again.

Royal backing? Commission? Position? Imperial validation?

These notions swirled in his head, dissolving like parchment in moisture.

He’d assumed the Northern Territory’s turmoil would render these assets valuable, but the lords met en route... they saw Louis not as a noble peer, but as a benefactor enriching them.

Their concerns revolved around profits, factories, highways, warmers—not crowns or edicts.

Not even the staunchest traditionalists hid their longing when speaking of Red Tide’s glassware and paved thoroughfares.

Sorel shut his eyes, fingers absently twisting the locket.

Imperial honors lacked appeal here, imperial decrees commanded no sway,

As for funds... he recalled lords boasting of yields, Red Tide silos heaped sky-high, the factories and wares glimpsed along the path...

He could deceive himself no longer: Red Tide outshone most Empire provinces in riches, vastly so.

Whatever bargaining pieces he held failed to entice.

Sorel snapped shut the locket, his palm chilled, perspiration already dampening it.

Lifting his gaze anew, Red Tide City loomed nearer. Those dual cities abreast—one thriving, one forged of steel—like a colossal jaw parting on the skyline.