Lord of Winter: Beginning with Daily Intelligence Chapter 687 - 390: The Terrifying Red Tide City (4)

Despite that, the immense scale still left him dazed, sending tingles across his scalp.

Devouring the influx of raw materials

Hundreds of massive wagons, each hauled by pairs of powerful horses, formed a long queue emerging from the snowy depths.

Loaded atop them: precisely sliced timber, lustrous dark coal, rough ore hauled from the depths of the mines...

Some wagons even bore lengthy metallic components draped in oilcloth.

All these resources were ceaselessly engulfed by the colossal iron gates, vanishing as if into the gut of a colossal monster.

Sorel muttered, “This workshop’s daily intake rivals a full year’s output from the Raymond family’s forge...”

Gazing at the approaching caravan, “How many smiths toil within? A thousand? Ten thousand?”

The more he pondered, the heavier his breathing grew.

From the far side of the gates, a handful of wagons crept out slowly.

Their loads were shrouded under thick black oiled canvas, shapes impossible to discern, marked by no signs.

Few as they were, the weight of each was staggeringly immense.

Even across paved stone roads, the iron-banded wheels carved pale grooves into the surface.

Six horses heaved with every sinew, while drivers lashed whips relentlessly just to inch them forward.

He whispered despite himself, “Cargo this massive... A battering ram? A catapult? Or iron beams to counter heavy cavalry?”

Sorel lingered with eyes fixed on the mighty gates, at last reining in his wild speculations—barred from entry, retreat was his sole path.

He wrapped his cloak tight and made for the guest hall, stealing frequent glances back at the grim edifices en route, as though beholding a slumbering behemoth ready to stir.

In his chamber once more, he sank into the chair and shut his eyes.

Scenes from his days amid the city flickered rapidly in his thoughts.

Unfrozen avenues, clean refuges free of stink, knights aiding elders without prompt, permits issued in a scant fifteen minutes...

Sorel gradually assembled a vague framework:

Conventional lords brandish the whip to sow dread among the masses, kind lords bestow alms to earn loyalty.

Yet Louis Calvin harnesses order and everyday living, embedding himself into the city’s very essence.

Here, folk shed tears over a mere porridge bowl, beam at an elder steadied upright, offer nods to patrolling knights.

Not from terror, not from pity, but utter reliance on this structure.

“For these people, Louis isn’t a ‘Lord’...” Sorel’s eyes snapped open, throat constricting, “He’s akin to the sun—they can’t bear to part from him...”

Sorel abruptly grasped a truth more chilling than the factory district.

“Bribing Red Tide’s generals? Their own knights would drag them to judgment. Stirring revolt? These citizens would swarm first to rip out my gullet.”

A weight bore down on Sorel’s chest: “In this city... Louis stands as God. I’m but a frail man dangling Gold Coins before divinity.”

He fell quiet for ages, then drew himself up slowly.

Aware of inevitable failure, the task demanded pursuit; empty return meant tomorrow’s jest or sacrificial lamb.

Sorel let out a measured breath, drawing from his breast the clandestine missive shared solely among Empire insiders.

This was the Second Prince’s ace card, the Empire’s grandest lure to claim Louis Calvin’s allegiance.

Bestow the rank of Duke of the Northern Territory.

Guarantee Red Tide Territory’s independence and freedom from levies.

Unlock seventy percent of profits from two vital southern trade paths as seed capital for alliance.

Secure a position on the Empire’s forthcoming Dragon Throne Council.

Any single one of these boons, flung out lightly, would drive half the Empire’s nobles to kneel weeping.

Sorel eyed the sealed document, one ridiculous notion dominating his mind: “These offerings... Louis likely scorns them entirely.”

Still, attempt it he must.

He’d already devised the ploy: exploit Louis’s growth phase, lead with imperial ennoblement, leverage royal prestige to elevate him.

Arouse hunger for power via Northern Duke status, then dangle Raymond southern trade gains, forging reliance in this fledgling lord.

With Red Tide and Raymond intertwined in mutual gain, ease Louis toward the Raymond patriarch’s camp.

Not the Second Prince’s clique, but the Raymond family head’s own.

This ranked as his finest ploy in the capital’s intrigues.

Yet peering now at Red Tide City, he saw not a quarry for the hunt, but a mountain demanding a tether.

Grinding his teeth nonetheless, he tucked the letter back securely.

“No choice but to steel myself for talks... At minimum, show the Second Prince my utmost effort.”

Sorel rose, straightened his collar, reclaiming a shred of poise.

“Louis Calvin won’t yield easily... so target his circle. Begin with Bradley, then legion leaders, then trade overseers...”

He murmured, “Even if the mountain defies shifting, I’ll hack away a fragment of rock.”