Lord of Winter: Beginning with Daily Intelligence Chapter 778 - 430: Red Tide Aid (Part 2)

His gaze swept across the distant, huddled figures, their eyes nonetheless captured by the aroma.

"The moment you can no longer provide meat, these starving wolves you suddenly nurtured will be the first to eviscerate whoever stands before them."

Thorne had witnessed this outcome far too often. The old Nobility never suffered losses; charity was merely a tool for control.

Pete continued to stir the pot. The wooden ladle scraped the bottom, creating a steady, resonant sound.

After a moment, he finally spoke, his tone light, "Knight Thorne, in the Red Tide, we don’t refer to people as bottomless pits. We call them laborers."

Thorne was taken aback, unsure how to respond.

Pete continued, his voice unfaltering, "But first, you must ensure they make it through today."

The loudspeaker was swiftly put into place.

"Mealtime—!" The announcement was drawn out deliberately.

There was no reaction.

Pete frowned, then gestured for another call: "Mealtime—!"

Still, no one advanced.

By the time the third shout echoed, the open area was already encircled by onlookers.

Hundreds of gazes were fixed upon the bubbling iron pot, yet an invisible barrier seemed to hold them captive; not a single soul dared to step forward.

It wasn't hunger, Thorne recognized that look well. It was sheer terror.

A woman abruptly pulled her child into her arms, muffling his mouth, fearing his cries would invite disaster.

Several elderly individuals hunched their necks, their lips pallid, as if awaiting a predetermined conclusion.

The atmosphere grew eerily silent.

Just then, an elderly miner with streaks of gray in his hair crawled from the throng.

He lacked the strength to stand. He could only drag himself, inch by painful inch, to Pete's feet, then impact his head heavily against the muddy ground.

"Master..." His voice was so raw it was barely a whisper.

Pete froze, bewildered by the old man's action.

The elder miner raised his head, his clouded eyes fixated on the pot, his voice trembling, "If you have to kill... could you... just kill me?"

He drew a breath, seemingly expending all his remaining energy: "Let my grandson go to the mine... he can still work, spare him..."

Pete's grip tightened fiercely on the ladle.

Thorne stood aside, momentarily closing his eyes as if suppressing intense revulsion. He stated quietly, "Those are Raymond's decrees. They only offer a full meal when a batch of waste is about to be processed."

"On several occasions, they've laced the gruel with poison. A powder derived from mine slag." Thorne paused, as if gauging Pete's readiness to hear more. "After consuming it, they began convulsing that very night, and by dawn, all were discarded into the refuse pit..."

Thorne added in a low tone, "It is simpler this way. They term that meal 'execution porridge.'"

Pete asked for no further explanation. He understood that words of solace were futile in this place.

He plunged the ladle into the pot and filled a bowl to the brim.

Lumps of meat, kernels of grain, and scalding broth jostled in the vessel. The rising steam stung his face, nearly forcing his eyes shut.

Under the unblinking stares of hundreds, Pete raised the bowl, tilted his head back, and drained its contents.

He appeared utterly indifferent to the heat, unconcerned with propriety, simply gulping it down in large swallows until only a meager residue remained.

Pete inverted the empty bowl, presenting its base to the assembled crowd.

Then, with a forceful motion, he threw it down: "Crack—"

The earthenware shattered into several fragments upon the mud.

"Did you all witness that unequivocally?" Pete's voice was a raw rasp from his throat. "No poison! Only meat!"

He gestured emphatically towards the pot, his arm quivering with exertion. "The Red Tide requires the living, not the dead! If you wish to live, come and eat!"

The instant his words were uttered, it was as if a force struck the crowd.

Fear fractured, unleashing raw instinct.

Some cried out, others jostled. Hundreds of darkened figures surged towards the food distribution point, mud and water spraying, shouts and gasps merging into a single cacophony.

Thorne's expression shifted instantly.

Once the situation devolved into chaos, the next phase would inevitably involve trampling, fighting, and bloodshed.

His hand instinctively grasped the whip at his side.

"Back down!" he commanded, lunging forward.

In his experience, only pain could quell such pandemonium.

"Stand down, Thorne!" Pete's voice boomed from the side.

Thorne hesitated. Several Red Tide relief officers, who had been on standby, rapidly advanced and smoothly deployed a thick rope.

It was a hemp rope, dyed a vivid red, stretched taut horizontally, forming a barrier ten meters before the food distribution area.

Pete seized the loudspeaker, his voice echoing above the pandemonium. "Listen up! Anyone who dares to cross this rope will forfeit all future Red Tide rice! Get behind the line, now!"

His pronouncement landed with the force of successive hammer blows.

Those at the forefront faltered.

A single meal now versus a lifetime of meals.

Surviving this moment versus ensuring their future existence.

The clamor seemed to choke itself into silence.

Some individuals retreated with gasps, while others hauled their companions back.

Within moments, a disorganized queue began to form behind the scarlet barrier.

It lacked neatness but was undoubtedly taking shape.

Thorne remained frozen, the whip in his grasp but unfallen, his attention fixed.

He observed the unassuming red rope and the gradually subsiding crowd, his throat constricting.

"A rope..." he murmured, bewildered, "proved more effective than my whip?"

The response came not from Pete, but from a coarse, raspy chuckle.

As the line stabilized, a rugged man, his face a tapestry of scars, pushed through the throng. Faint whip marks from bygone overseers were still visible on his shoulders. He stood rigidly, accustomed to shouldering his way through any assembly.

He roughly nudged aside an orphan clutching a bowl, sending soup spilling into the mire.

"Move aside," he grunted, casting his gaze toward Pete. A salacious grin spread across his face. "Sir, might I implore you to grant me the inaugural bowl? I possess considerable utility."