Lord of Winter: Beginning with Daily Intelligence Chapter 750 - 418: Flowers Blooming in the Mire

The steel flood that was Louis had already receded.

What remained in the canyon wasn't the roar of victory, but a fear that hadn't yet dissipated.

Refugees were kneeling in the mud, their hands still stained with flour.

Some clutched at their injured legs, biting down on cloth to stifle their groans, while others stared blankly at the distant flames, as if still lost in the recent madness.

They had originally believed they would be left to their fate here.

But before long, a second wave of people entered from the canyon’s opening.

These were not cavalry eager to claim spoils, nor phalanxes ready to clear the battlefield.

They were the logistics and medical teams.

Hundreds of soldiers carried bulging supply bags, their steps firm and swift.

Their uniforms were a uniform, striking grey-white, seemingly chosen to contrast with the mud and gore.

Their faces were obscured by beak-like masks and layers of gauze, revealing only pairs of weary yet vigilant eyes.

On their arms, the sun insignia was particularly prominent in the dim light following the rain.

Dozens of alchemical glow sticks were planted into the ground, casting an eerie white light that sliced through the canyon's darkness, creating a stark pathway and forcibly imposing order upon the chaos.

The refugees instinctively flinched, but the approaching team showed no aggression.

They first erected tents, then established quarantine perimeters, and subsequently set up cooking stations.

It was only then that someone ascended to a higher vantage point.

She was clad in the light armor of the Red Tide Standard, rainwater streaming off her pauldrons.

Behind her stood a greatsword, nearly as tall as she was, its hilt wrapped in dark leather.

As she removed her helmet, it revealed an unusually youthful face, marked by a faint scar from an old wound on her forehead.

This was Mia, the leader of the third logistics brigade of the Red Tide Knight Order.

Her voice pierced the damp chill that lingered after the rain: "Don't push! Line up according to the designated colors! The Red Tide will not abandon anyone who heeds our command!"

She didn't need to elaborate on what heeding commands entailed.

The earlier steel flood had already pounded that lesson into everyone's very being.

Mia raised her hand, pointing to the colored flags staked into the mud.

"Red zone for the injured. Yellow zone for those with fevers and coughs. Green zone for those who can still walk – go get yourselves some porridge!"

She paused, her gaze sweeping over those who had only just emerged from the stampede: "Anyone caught relieving themselves indiscriminately will forfeit their rations."

The directive was as unyielding and cold as iron.

Yet, it was this structured approach that compelled the crowd, still reeling from their recent ordeal, to begin complying instinctively.

Martha knelt in the muddy water, her child held close, too weak even to cry.

In the recent chaotic scramble, she had managed to grasp a meager handful of raw flour, but now only utter despair remained.

She mixed the flour with the dirty water, her trembling hands bringing it towards the child's mouth.

"Eat a little... please, just a little..."

The child's face was tinged with blue, his breathing barely discernible.

Mia, maintaining order from her elevated position, caught sight of this scene peripherally.

In that instant, her movements faltered.

The sound of the rain, the distant shouts, the lingering echoes from the metallic loudspeakers, all seemed to fade into insignificance.

An image, seemingly out of time, flashed through her mind.

The desolate ruins of White Stone Village, snow falling relentlessly as if intent on crushing the very heavens.

A man was kneeling within a shattered dwelling, clutching a young girl who lay unconscious with fever. His lips were pale, and he cried out as if attempting to expel his very lungs.

Eight years had elapsed, yet the crushing despair remained unchanged.

Mia leaped down the earthen embankment, wading through the mud and water towards them.

Martha was just about to force the lump of raw dough into the child's mouth.

A hand encased in an iron gauntlet suddenly gripped her wrist.

"Stop!" Mia commanded, her voice sharp, "Do you intend to kill him?"

Martha trembled, her gaze flicking up towards the imposing greatsword, half-convinced she faced the legendary Northern Territory demon from the tales of old.

Her lips quivered: "My lady... I... I didn't mean to..."

"Consuming raw flour and dirty water after prolonged starvation will cause the stomach to rupture," Mia explained rapidly, as if in a race against time, "Give him to me."

She bent down, her actions surprisingly gentle, and took the child. He felt as light as a kitten, his forehead burning with fever, his breath as thin as a thread.

Mia cradled the child securely and shouted towards the gathered crowd: "Medical squad! Priority one critical patient! Administer Life Potion! Prepare the steam tent!"

Several masked medics immediately converged, a stretcher following closely behind them, their movements fluid and perfectly synchronized.

Martha instinctively reached out to reclaim her child, but Mia gently nudged her aside with her shoulder.

"Follow me," Mia instructed in a low tone, her voice softened considerably, "Don't stray. If you fall behind, he won't survive much longer either."

Martha, dazed, rose and stumbled along in Mia's wake.

Warmth permeated the medical tent, a stark contrast to the frigid outdoors. Hissing steam pipes in the corner mingled their sound with the distinct aroma of medicinal herbs.

The child was carefully laid upon a crisp white sheet, and the attending medical staff immediately took charge.

As a needle slid into the tiny vein, Martha let out a sharp cry, instinctively lunging forward.

Mia, however, secured her shoulder with a grip as firm and unyielding as iron.

"Observe," Mia’s eyes met Martha’s, her voice steady. "That is the elixir of life."

Slowly, the pale golden liquid descended into the child’s body.

The infant’s formerly blue-tinged skin began to regain its color, and his breaths grew more even and regular.

Mere minutes later, the child stirred, a slight frown creasing his brow, and a soft, faint sound emanated from his throat.

Martha, as if all strength had drained from her body, slumped down, tears flowing freely as she sobbed, "Thank you… thank you, my lady… thank you, Divine Goddess…"

"I am no goddess," Mia replied gently, crouching down. She offered Martha a steaming bowl filled with minced meat porridge.

The heat radiating from the bowl caused Martha’s hands to tremble, nearly making her drop it.

Mia prevented her from kneeling, saying, "Eat first. You are on the verge of collapse yourself."

Martha looked up, her heart full, and caught sight of Mia’s face now that her helmet was off.

It wasn’t the aloof coldness typically seen in noble ladies, nor the proud arrogance of a knight commander. Instead, it was a countenance shaped by rigorous training and proper sustenance—healthy, strong, with eyes that radiated unwavering resolve.

"Eight years ago," Mia began suddenly, her words seeming to address Martha, yet also directed inward, "I was just like him, nearly perishing in the snow."

"My father then… was the same as you, grasping at any scrap, forcing whatever he could find into my mouth."

She paused, a subtle, almost imperceptible curve gracing the corners of her lips.

"Then, someone found me. He told me the knights of the Red Tide were here to offer salvation."

Martha gasped, stunned. "You… you were also…"

"Indeed," Mia confirmed with a nod. "I was once a refugee; now, I am a knight of the Red Tide."

She gestured to the sun emblem adorning her lightweight armor. "Within the Red Tide, survival is guaranteed for those willing to work. Food is provided. Later, opportunities arise to learn literacy, to master the sword. Even one covered in mud can eventually don armor."

......

Beyond the tent, the organized chaos of the logistics camp began to take shape, procedure by procedure.

Acquiring porridge was not a matter of desperate scrambling.

Each individual first had to pass through a carefully constructed narrow passageway.

The sharp scent of lime water mingled with an alchemical disinfectant mist filled the air.

A knight stood guard, bellowing, "Wash your hands! Scrub diligently for ten counts! Failure to wash thoroughly means no meal!"

Some clenched their jaws and complied, while others attempted to bypass the process, only to be firmly directed to the very end of the line.

Those exhibiting signs of fever or a persistent cough were immediately separated from the throng and escorted to a designated quarantine zone.

Only then was it time for sustenance.

Every person received an identical wooden bowl.

The contents simmering in the cauldron were not merely clear water, but a hearty mixture of salted minced meat and cooked oats, thick and warming.

An elderly farmer clutched his bowl of porridge, his hands trembling uncontrollably. The rising steam warmed his face, and tears welled up, falling into the bowl.

Throughout his sixty years of life, no lord had ever shown concern for his hygiene, nor had any provided him with cooked meat.

The profound feeling of being treated as a human being left him stunned, unsure of how to react.

Not far from this scene, sappers were diligently attending to the deceased.

Those who had perished in the stampede, or had been felled by the overseers’ harsh methods, were laid out in an orderly fashion, doused with fuel and a special alchemical powder.

"A plague is inevitable after the rain," a Red Tide knight explained concisely. "For the sake of the living, cremation is necessary."

As the flames ascended, the assembled refugees watched from a distance.

......

News of Mia's background spread like wildfire through the camp.

"That female officer, the one saving lives… she was a refugee herself."

"Is that true? Did she actually say it?"

"The child she rescued, the one she held with her own hands, was practically on the brink."

The perception of Mia among the populace began to shift.

The initial awe, born from an instinctive fear of their advanced weaponry, still lingered.

However, beneath that apprehension, something new started to germinate.

Hope.

If she could rise from the depths of despair, could their children also achieve such a feat?

As dawn broke, the persistent rain finally ceased.

Black Stone Canyon, which had previously resembled a gaping, consuming maw, now looked more like a hastily erected field hospital.

Rows upon rows of white tents stretched out, with tendrils of smoke slowly curling into the crisp morning air.

Martha sat beside a tent, the child she had carried now sleeping soundly in her arms, his complexion a healthy pink.

She was enveloped in a dry blanket, still holding a half-finished bowl of meat broth.

Mia moved with swift purpose among the tents, briefly pausing beside Martha.

"He will recover," Mia stated reassuringly.

Martha’s throat constricted, and after a long moment, she managed to stammer, "I… what can I do for you?"

Mia gestured with her chin towards another section of the camp.

"Go over there. The logistics team requires assistance moving supplies, and the medical unit needs help washing bandages. We offer daily wages and meals."

Martha glanced down at the sleeping child in her embrace, then turned her gaze towards the lines of people forming throughout the camp.

Wiping her face, she stood and rolled up her sleeves.

"Ma'am... I can mend clothes."

"I’m able to work."

Before long, an increasing number of people rose to their feet.

Hands, one after another, were raised, trembling slightly in the early morning light, yet possessing an undeniable resolve.

At the farthest perimeter of the camp, a roughly constructed wooden board displayed simple, almost crude rules inscribed with charcoal.

These rules stated: No cutting in line. No hoarding food. No physical altercations. No concealing illnesses.

Beneath these, additional regulations were written in slightly bolder strokes:

Those who violated these rules would face a reduction in food rations and be assigned to hard labor until they recovered or decided to leave.

These pronouncements lacked any flowery language, yet they were like nails, firmly imprinted upon everyone's vision.

The Red Tide soldiers didn't enforce order through incessant shouting; their method was built on certainty.

Each transgression was met with clear repercussions, and every act of compliance was rewarded with predictable benefits.

When a burly man, attempting to secure an extra bowl of food, was dragged from the queue, his bowl confiscated, and then pushed towards the most arduous and unpleasant loading duties, a calm silence descended upon the onlookers instead of any unrest.

Likewise, when a young man, feigning health despite a high fever and attempting to sneak into the recovery area, was discovered, immediately sent to the quarantine tent, and yet, two hours later, still received medicine and warm water, skepticism among the populace also began to dissipate.

Here, there was no room for indebtedness, only a functional system.

No leniency was granted based on whim, nor was any special treatment afforded due to one's identity.

It was precisely this unyielding, almost severe, approach that began to help the crowd, newly freed from their recent ordeal, comprehend that the Red Tide's strength wasn't derived from mere benevolence.

Unlike the nobles who distributed porridge with casual indifference, this force operated on a framework of rules that remained steadfast, impervious to tears or louder pleas.

And the porridge provided by the Red Tide served a singular purpose: to keep this very system operational.

Once this realization dawned upon the people, their compliance ceased to be solely coerced and transformed into a logical decision.