Lord of Winter: Beginning with Daily Intelligence Chapter 737 - 411: Porridge Shelter and Judgment

The initial period following Black Iron City's capitulation was marked by a profound silence, even more so than the night of the decisive battle.

Rain descended three times, borne by low-hanging, somber clouds.

Occasionally, the distant echo of marching iron boots could be discerned from the labyrinthine streets, only to dissipate swiftly around a bend.

Famished citizens remained confined within their dilapidated dwellings, their window latches firmly secured and door cracks meticulously sealed with cloth.

Mothers would instinctively muffle the cries of their infants, while the elderly murmured prayers to the Dragon Ancestor, their voices hushed, fearful of attracting any attention.

They braced themselves for the arrival of the "man-eating demons from the Northern Territory," anticipating scenes of pillage, abduction, and conflagration, expecting their streets to be strewn with corpses and their doors to be violently breached.

Yet, an unsettling calm persisted.

Two more days elapsed. As their hunger reached an unbearable crescendo, an individual cautiously nudged a door crack ajar.

They had prepared themselves for streets awash in blood and the chaos of rampant looting.

Instead, the aroma of damp earth and rain greeted their senses.

The thoroughfares were remarkably immaculate.

The bloodstains from the intense conflict days prior had been thoroughly cleansed by the persistent rain, leaving no corpses visible; only the disturbed earth bore witness to the recent events.

In the distance, a few soldiers clad in black raincoats were visible patrolling the street corners.

Adorning their uniforms were striking armbands featuring a red sun motif. They moved in synchronized steps, their gazes fixed forward.

As they passed by businesses, they made a conscious effort to step around the precarious, dilapidated shelves placed outside, as if concerned their feet might accidentally strike something.

"Could those be... the Northerners?" a hushed voice inquired from behind a closed door.

No immediate reply was given, but gradually, more door cracks widened imperceptibly.

This cautious observation continued until the first tendrils of cooking smoke began to curl upwards from the central square.

At the heart of Black Iron City's Central Square, a dozen sizeable military-grade iron cauldrons were arranged, their fires stoked to a low but consistent burn.

Steam billowed from the rims of the pots, carrying the savory scent of simmering salted meat and dried vegetables, which permeated every alleyway.

In preparation for the ongoing conflict, Raymond had implemented an early tax levy.

Numerous households across Gray Rock Province had long since depleted their food reserves, finding even rats scarce.

The thick, hearty porridge, now being prepared with bits of salted meat, dried vegetables, and finely milled flour, was, to many, more valuable than gold.

Some youngsters, unable to resist, pressed their faces against their windowsills, their mouths watering uncontrollably.

At this precise moment, the resonant clang of a gong echoed through the square, shattering the city's profound silence.

"Dong—dong—dong—!"

A soldier of the Red Tide stood before the cauldrons, holding a gong, and bellowed, "By decree of Count Louis of the Northern Territory! The granaries are now open for food distribution! Residents of this city, form orderly queues to receive your rations—children shall receive one ladle, adults two!"

His voice, amplified by the stillness, carried each word with perfect clarity, reaching even the farthest alley entrances.

The suffocating silence within the homes began to recede.

"Is this... a ruse?"

"If their intention was truly to slaughter us, why would they go to such lengths to prepare this porridge?"

Swallowing hard, someone gathered their courage and cautiously led their family members toward the square.

Initially, only a few dozen individuals dared to venture out, but upon witnessing the line of actual steaming cauldrons, their hesitant steps faltered.

The gnawing hunger within them proved a powerful motivator, dispelling their remaining doubts.

Residents retrieved wooden bowls, their hands trembling like leaves in a breeze, yet they still extended them.

The soldier ladled a generous portion of thick porridge, the warmth radiating from it onto their faces causing several children to burst into tears.

Upon tasting the first spoonful, many were overcome with emotion.

It had been an agonizingly long time since they had experienced such a flavorful meal—not merely thin gruel, but substantial food capable of warming the very core of their beings.

Some, disregarding the heat, ravenously consumed the porridge with the edge of their spoons, while others paused midway, covering their faces, their shoulders shaking—uncertain whether they were weeping or laughing.

A boy, emaciated to the point of resembling a skeleton, lay cradled in his mother's arms. A piece of tough, unchewable dried vegetable occupied his mouth as he murmured, "Is this... truly for us?"

His mother offered no verbal response, merely tightening her embrace around him.

At that moment, the comforting aroma of the porridge seemed to imbue the entirety of Black Iron City with a newfound sense of life.

Furthermore, an event following the meal transpired: a makeshift wooden platform was erected adjacent to the porridge distribution points.

Several individuals, bound securely with ropes, knelt upon the platform, their mouths gagged with rags, their eyes wide with palpable fear.

Some recognized them as the tax collectors under Count Doron's authority, the Peacekeeping Knights sworn to protect the city, and a few of the most notorious local ruffians.

A hush fell over the assembled crowd in the square.

They remained uncertain of what was to come.

A Knight of the Red Tide ascended the platform, unfurled a scroll, and began to read its contents to the gathered populace below.

"First up." The point of a finger landed on the tax official. "Tax official Jimmy, you illegally increased taxes by twenty percent last month. The excess funds were channeled into your private vault. When Blacksmith Old John’s family in the city's west couldn't meet the new demands, you drove his son to suicide. Is this account accurate?"

The tax official vehemently shook his head, pathetic sobs escaping his throat.

The Red Tide Knight remained unhurried, inquiring, "Where is the person involved?"

From the rear of the assembled crowd, a gentle nudge sent someone forward.

Old John, his hair now white, advanced with a tremor. He was meant to have perished by the noose, but the timely intervention of the Red Tide Knight had saved him.

He lifted his gaze and, upon recognizing the visage on the platform, his entire frame convulsed. "It’s him."

"That very day, he led soldiers to plunder our home and hounded my son to his end!" Old John’s eyes blazed crimson. "I declared my inability to pay, and he retorted that every missing copper coin represented a lost life..."

Suppressed murmurs rippled through the square—it was clear the assembled public recognized the veracity of the tale.

The Red Tide Knight then gestured towards the Peacekeeping Knight. "Peacekeeping Knight O’Neil, you abducted the miller’s daughter and subsequently shattered the miller’s leg. We have a witness present among us."

The crowd instinctively parted, creating a path.

A middle-aged man, supported by crutches, was helped to his feet. His leg, improperly mended, contorted his face in agony with each movement.