Lord of Winter: Beginning with Daily Intelligence Chapter 684 - 390: The Terrifying Red Tide City

By the time the envoy delegation received their formal welcome, night had blanketed the sky, though the city shone brilliantly like daytime.

Magic stone lamps curved in an arc down the main avenue, stretching all the way to the administrative district's tower.

Sorel got escorted into the central administrative structure.

A soft push swung the massive door open silently, without a single creak from the hinges.

An old man with silver hair, attired perfectly, awaited him at the entrance — Bradley.

This senior overseeing Red Tide City’s administrative core radiated a serenity totally out of place in the Northern Territory.

Bradley inclined his head modestly, his manner balanced and composed: "Welcome, Lord Sorel."

Sorel observed how each gesture hit the perfect note, but missed the usual sycophancy that nobles show to royal emissaries.

He automatically drew himself up taller: "Where is Count Louis Calvin? I’ve got crucial matters to address with him on this journey."

Bradley kept his mild but distant poise: "The Count is checking out new mineral deposits and glacier paths; his arrival back is unpredictable, possibly in ten to fifteen days."

Sorel paused briefly in shock, scanning the man’s face for hints of intentional delay, yet spotted nothing.

Inside, he scoffed: "Hmph, forcing me to cool my heels."

With years in diplomatic circles, he instantly pegged it as a textbook power play — no audience, no rejection, no excuses.

Want to bargain? Sit tight first.

Still, Sorel stayed cool, since snow-choked roads meant he hadn’t intended to depart for at least ten days anyway; his initial scheme was lingering till spring to exit Red Tide City.

Sorel grinned and showed comprehension: "Perfect timing, then — I can savor the glories of the Northern Pearl."

"Certainly," Bradley dipped his head faintly, serene as ever, "Red Tide City lies open to you, save for military areas flagged in red."

Sorel’s intrigue deepened, though he hid it, simply beaming: "Then I’ll bide my time here."

Bradley motioned welcomingly: "Your quarters stand prepared. Alert the steward to any needs."

As Sorel ventured deeper into the reception area, he sensed the floor underfoot diverging from typical stone or timber.

Every footfall felt solid, cozy, faintly toasty even.

Opening the door let that "odd warmth" wrap around him entirely.

No hearth blazed, no charcoal basin glowed, no flames crackled anywhere.

Still, the atmosphere felt springlike in its balminess.

He stepped inside, hand extending instinctively to the wall.

It felt like sun-warmed rock, stove-infused yet not spot-heated; the whole surface exuded gentle heat, matching the floor below.

"...What is this?" Sorel creased his brow.

The servant with him looked astonished: "Lord, there’s no fire here."

From the doorway, Bradley’s voice remained even: "Geothermal conduits and central heating power this city — rest easy about the chill on your visit."

Geothermal, centralized heating.

Sorel found these words utterly alien, strange and clunky notions.

In any case, nothing like it existed elsewhere in the Empire.

Beyond the toasty room, the air stayed pure, free of mustiness or moisture.

Steaming fresh water sat ready on the table, woolen overcoats and supple leather mittens filled the closet, and the bed outdid even the Imperial Capital’s royal suites in plushness.

For a long stretch, Sorel stayed quiet.

The warmth didn’t touch him; what chilled his spine was the deeper horror — surplus energy.

As other Northern lands rationed every log, here they heated guest floors and walls wholesale.

This signaled Red Tide’s fuel stockpiles overflowed for waste, their command of coal production, delivery speed, and storage dwarfing all Northern rivals.

It showed they mocked the freeze and the season, when winter’s knife had long menaced this realm fiercest.

Sorel sank into the seat, palm pressed to brow, pulse racing wildly.

Bradley murmured gently: "Your travels weary you — rest now. I’ll have updates sent daily on the Lord’s schedule."

Sorel glanced up, noting the man’s face still courteous, seamless.

That face held an odd disconnect.

No scorn, just standard visitor protocol, ignoring his status as Empire envoy.

"I understand." Sorel replied quietly.

......

Come morning, Sorel slipped on a pale cloak from his servant, tugged his hat low, and strolled the streets flanked by two guards.

He skipped notifications, ditched the entourage, posing as a casual Southern aristocrat sightseeing the place.

Heavy snow poured down feather-like, blanketing far roofs in white streaks.

But the path under his boots defied the season entirely.

The broad, straight three-part boulevard shed falling snow to water almost instantly, channeling it via clever gutters to the edges.

No drifts piled up, no slop formed, none of winter’s treacherous icy slabs.

Sorel knelt, fingertips brushing stone cracks, detecting subtle heat.

He scowled: "Like in the buildings — roads heated underneath too?"

The servant puzzled: "Lord, is it magic?"

"No." Sorel pulled back, rising.

Memories of the city’s warm guest walls flashed, tying straight to the frost-free streets — the puzzle snapped together.

Red Tide buried heating pipes beneath roads, piping thermal power from the heart outward across key thoroughfares.

Common folk just notice sure footing sans slips.