Lord of Winter: Beginning with Daily Intelligence Chapter 779 - 430: Red Tide Aid (3)

Thorne's hand hovered over his sword hilt, yet he understood that maintaining order in such a tumultuous place required the assistance of local ruffians.

Instead of anger, Pete simply lifted his hand.

Two knights stepped forward, gripping the burly man from either side and pulling him away from the queue.

"What do you think you're doing!" the strongman thrashed and cursed.

Pete’s voice, though quiet, carried distinctly to every ear: "Secure him over there."

Adjacent to the gruel stand stood a wooden platform, a pole that had once hoisted a flag its sole fixture.

The burly man was lashed to this pole, a gag thrust into his mouth, stifling his protests into muffled whimpers.

Without another glance, Pete commanded, "Continue serving the gruel."

The first bowl was presented to the orphan who had been shoved aside earlier.

The child clutched the rough ceramic bowl, his hands shaking violently, yet he lowered his gaze and eagerly devoured the contents.

Steam rose, misting his face, but he paid no mind to the heat, utterly focused on filling his belly.

The savory aroma of meat wafted through the air repeatedly.

The line advanced with painstaking slowness.

The strongman, bound to the pole, initially struggled, his eyes blazing with defiance.

Before long, however, his ferocity was eroded by gnawing hunger.

He watched as individuals he deemed lesser departed with bowls of food, observed others eating with such relish that they burped contentedly, and saw the orphan meticulously lick the last vestiges of grease from the bottom of his bowl.

His whimpers shifted in tone, morphing into unrestrained sobs.

It was a simultaneous shattering of both body and spirit.

All the gruel was distributed.

Only then did Pete turn, offering Thorne a single, meaningful look.

Thorne comprehended and smoothly drew his Longsword.

A flash of cold steel descended, and the weeping abruptly ceased.

Blood spattered against the pole, swiftly absorbed by the damp, chilly air.

Having consumed the gruel, the people gradually began to recover their lost strength.

With substance in their stomachs, the trembling in their limbs slowly subsided.

Abruptly, one person sank to their knees, their forehead striking the muddy earth with a dull thud: "Tha... thank you, my lord..."

The voice trembled, yet conveyed profound sincerity.

This single act of kneeling seemed to release a dam.

An increasing number followed suit – the elderly, the young, those clutching infants – all bowing towards the gruel stand, their voices echoing the same sentiment:

"Thank you, my lord..."

Pete did not accept their reverence. Raising a hand, he signaled the knights to maintain order, then stepped before the crowd, his voice cutting through the chaotic genuflections: "Do not thank me."

A hesitant voice inquired, and someone looked up.

Pete extended a finger, pointing towards the vivid red flag unfurled at the village entrance, fluttering in the wind: "If thanks are due, direct them to the Red Tide."

His finger lifted slightly: "Thank Lord Louis, who planted this banner here."

The crowd shifted their gazes.

The vibrant red flag rippled defiantly against the backdrop of the grey-black swamp.

After a moment's hesitation, someone lowered their head once more.

This time, the direction of their kowtow changed.

Satisfied, Pete resumed speaking, his tone returning to its usual calm.

"After you have eaten your fill, return to your homes. Tomorrow morning, if you wish to eat again, gather by the red rope."

He gestured, and the guards began to guide the dispersing crowd.

The throng slowly retreated, their steps still unsteady, but considerably less disorganized than before.

The crowd gradually thinned, the fire still ablaze, the remaining gruel in the pot simmering softly over the low flame.

The scent of meat began to dissipate, yet a sense of warmth lingered.

Pete scooped a bowl and offered it to Thorne, who had remained motionless at the periphery: "Eat something."

Thorne accepted the bowl, feeling its warmth clearly in his palm.

He gazed at the swollen wheat grains and shimmering droplets of oil, his Adam's apple bobbing, yet he hesitated to drink.

"Today's procession," he stated in a low tone, "was quite effective."

He lifted his gaze to meet Pete's, his voice maintaining its composure.

"Yet, my assertion remains: this cannot sustain itself indefinitely. Tomorrow, they will face hunger again, and the day after. Your red rope – how many times can it possibly hold back the tide?"

Pete wiped a trace of oil from the corner of his mouth, offering no immediate rebuttal.

He followed Thorne’s line of sight into the distance, observing the ice-choked river flowing in the twilight and the abandoned mines standing like a procession of silent specters.

"Thorne, do you truly believe this bowl of gruel is provided freely? Today's meal was to ensure they possessed the strength to move rocks. The Red Tide engages not in charity, but in investment."

Pete gestured towards the still-standing red rope: "In a few days, those queuing behind this rope will not be beggars, but laborers. If they desire sustenance, they must work, earning credits for their efforts."

Thorne remained silent, merely listening.

"As for its sustainability..." Pete offered a slight smile, "Once that dam is completed, you will certainly know the answer."