Lord of Winter: Beginning with Daily Intelligence Chapter 685 - 390: The Terrifying Red Tide City (Part 2)

From Sorel's perspective, this surpassed mere urban convenience—it embodied an entirely superior tier of technological achievement.

He fixed his gaze on the road free of ice: "They keep the main roads across the whole city at a steady temperature? Ensuring transport, trade, and public order endure through blizzards... totally immune to the weather."

His mental appraisal of Red Tide's technological might soared dramatically.

Next, he proceeded toward the refugee zone close to the city gate.

In principle, this area should rank as the grimiest and most disorderly spot, since virtually every major city in the Empire features such a zone to varying degrees.

These outsiders aren't local dwellers but invading parasites, and unable to wipe them out completely, cities cordon off a space for their residence.

Regardless, they scatter like weeds only to sprout anew relentlessly, casting the darkest shadow over every Imperial city.

However, as he drew near, his initial impulse wasn't to pinch his nose—instead, astonishment struck him.

No stench polluted the air, no reek of waste assailed the senses; only the crisp aroma of limewater and sulfur soap lingered.

"...This feels wrong," Sorel whispered under his breath.

The attendant thought he was griping, "Sir, allow me to..."

"It's not filthy; it's excessively clean," Sorel lifted his hand softly, gesturing for the man to stay put.

Beyond the refugee zone, steam pipes released wisps of vapor, while workers clad in heavy aprons directed newcomers into a vast public bathhouse in orderly fashion.

The bathhouse exterior bore Red Tide's signature sun emblem, flanked by two medical attendants at the doorway.

One worker spotted them, gave a quick scan, then strode over: "Are you outsiders visiting? This marks the containment boundary. For observation, please remain behind the yellow line."

Sorel eyed the yellow marking on the ground and couldn't resist inquiring: "Do you process this volume of people every day?"

The worker affirmed with a nod: "It's mandatory. Fresh arrivals get deloused and treated for mold first, to prevent outbreaks of disease."

Sorel stood stunned upon hearing this.

Refugees shuffled in disheveled and lice-ridden.

They emerged transformed: hair cropped short, outfits swapped for standard recycled cotton clothes, each clutching a bowl of hot porridge.

Suddenly, a middle-aged man shoved forward paused abruptly, his hands trembling as he gripped the porridge bowl.

Catching sight of Red Tide's sun emblem on the wall, tears welled up in his eyes without warning.

Muttering to thin air, he dropped to his knees in the snow, kowtowing deeply with sobs: "Thank you... thank you... I figured this winter would claim me..."

The foreman hauled him upright swiftly: "No kneeling—eat, register, then get to work."

Nearby, a weak woman cradling her child timidly questioned the medical attendant: "Can we truly... truly remain? No one will chase us out?"

The medical woman wrapped a fresh shawl around her: "Register and commit to labor, and you can stay."

Clutching her child, the woman dissolved into tears right there: "Thank you... Red Tide has saved us..."

Sorel observed the spectacle, struggling to make sense of it.

These folks wept in profound gratitude, yet he couldn't fathom why—refugees spelled trouble, not treasure; they carried only peril.

What drove Louis to pour such resources into managing them?

By Imperial noble metrics, this wasted effort—costly, inefficient, yielding scant rewards.

But in Red Tide, it unfolded seamlessly, like a well-oiled, time-tested protocol everyone followed effortlessly.

Sorel remained baffled, unlikely to pierce the true motive.

A swelling refugee influx meant a broader population pool—a boom in potential workers, recruits for training, and artisans to nurture.

Cleaned-up refugees offered no instant value, but survival was key.

Once alive, they integrated into Red Tide's rations, labor credits, and merit frameworks—not stuck in the city, but spread across affiliated lands.

Embedded in the system, they shifted from liabilities to assets—a vast human vein ripe for endless refinement.

Louis offered no mere handouts; he stockpiled workforce for impending industrial growth.

Uncovering fresh industries? Trivial for Louis, an Earth-born transmigrator armed with daily intel as his ultimate edge.

Sorel, of course, grasped none of this.

To him, the operation screamed extravagance and drudgery, pure folly.

His narrow outlook blinded him to the system's profound logic.

On the third day's afternoon, Sorel strolled into the residential plaza.

This citizen hub revealed the city's true character most vividly and plainly.

He witnessed an old man wheeling a cart who stumbled, dumping an entire sack of flour across the ground.

Sorel expected the Knight to lash the nuisance aside.

That was standard in the Imperial Capital, after all.

Yet in Red Tide City, the patrolling Knight reined in his mount, hopped down, assisted the elder to his feet foremost, then meticulously rebagged the spilled flour, confirming all was well before resuming duty.

Onlookers didn't scatter; rather, kids' eyes sparkled brightly: "I want to be a Knight too!"

Sorel froze in place, struck by the revelation: Knights had evolved from elite overlords into true guardians.

Common folk no longer cowered as lesser scum dodging glances but stood as proud citizens engaging Knights openly, even idolizing them.

If just one Knight, it might reflect personal virtue alone, but across his days here, every Red Tide Knight treated civilians with uniform warmth and forbearance.

This bespoke a policy Louis had intentionally forged.

Beyond mere policing, it forged a total overhaul of societal hierarchies.