Lord of Winter: Beginning with Daily Intelligence Chapter 780 - 431: Change

The lingering warmth from the previous night's food distribution was still present, and the hidden watchers in the shadows maintained their vigilance, though less inclined to scatter at the approach of people.

Little Mud burrowed deeper into the darkest corner, her back pressed against the frigid stone, utterly motionless.

She was eleven, or perhaps it was twelve, or even thirteen... her memory was hazy.

In Black Swamp Town, age was an insignificant detail.

People were simply categorized into two groups: those who could still move and those awaiting their demise.

Little Mud couldn't recall her parents' faces, only the acrid taste of dust that choked her the day the mine collapsed.

She later learned her mother was entombed beneath the rubble, and her father succumbed at home six months later.

His body was unceremoniously removed the following day and cast into a mass grave.

Children like her were a common sight in Black Swamp Town.

When starvation truly set in, they would venture to the swamp's edge, digging for grubs, their fingernails perpetually stained black.

Little Mud's hair was matted into a single, tangled mass, as if tar had been poured over it, clinging stubbornly to her scalp.

Boils spread from her neck to her shoulders and back, the ruptured sores weeping a yellowish fluid that soaked through the meager piece of burlap covering her, turning it black.

When the wind stirred, a foul odor emanated from her, repelling even the rats.

She fixated on the alley's opening, where the sound of approaching footsteps and unfamiliar voices could be heard.

"These newcomers are from the North," word had spread through the town since last night.

She was aware of these barbaric people from the Northern Territories.

The adults, during their idle moments in the mine, had spoken of the Northern savages consuming people.

Yet, the memory of that warm porridge lingered, and as the footsteps drew nearer, Little Mud hesitated to flee.

The sound of footsteps paused at the alley's entrance. A few young individuals clad in matching protective gear peered inside, their gazes briefly sweeping over her.

A short, sharp cry escaped her lips as she turned to bolt, but a hand seized her wrist.

These individuals possessed considerable strength; she fought with all her might, her voice raw and desperate as she shrieked, "Let go of me! Don't eat me!"

Little Mud was yanked from the alley, the sudden glare of sunlight making her involuntarily squint.

Steam billowed from the central square, where row upon row of barrels stood, seemingly prepared beforehand.

She was lifted and unceremoniously dropped into one of the barrels...

"They're actually going to cook me," Little Mud thought with utter despair.

The anticipated searing pain never came; instead, the water was warm.

Little Mud was taken aback.

In the very next instant, a bar of soap, smelling faintly of grease and wood ash, was pressed against her shoulder.

The scrubbing was firm, but not painful.

Someone vigorously worked on her back.

Dark sludge detached from her body, swirling across the water's surface.

The accumulated grime around the boils was gradually washed away, revealing skin beneath that was pale to the point of translucence.

...

From his vantage point on the elevated steps, Thorne observed the entire square, his hand resting on the railing.

Barrels, rising steam, sharp razors, and piles of shorn hair were visible.

People were being seated forcefully, their hair shaved off; some wept, others cursed, but the work continued unabated.

Initially, he had presumed this place to be inhabited by grotesque beings corrupted by the mud and pervasive sickness.

However, as each face was scrubbed clean and their hair removed, revealing their complete features, an unsettling truth struck him: these individuals were no different from himself.

The same eyes, the same bridge of the nose, the same instinctual reflex to close their eyes when water splashed their faces.

They were merely broken by the passage of time and the weight of despair into their current state.

This realization caused Thorne's throat to constrict.

Beside him, Pete remarked, "Once they are clean, they begin to feel like human beings again."

He then added, "People don't readily accept dying like pigs in the mud."

Following the cleansing, Little Mud was guided to the side.

An old cotton coat, now fitting her better, was placed in her arms.

The material was rough but substantial and clean, carrying a faint aroma of sunshine.

It was a Red Tide uniform, ill-fitting yet entirely free of pests.

It represented the finest attire she had seen in her entire life.

A woman from the medical team had her sit, then uncapped a small vial. A purple liquid was applied to a cloth and pressed onto her afflicted skin.

A sudden explosion of pain made Little Mud gasp and instinctively recoil, but she was held steady.

"Endure it," a calm voice instructed.

A refreshing coolness rapidly subdued the stinging pain, like a cool breeze over a burning wound, and her shoulders and back ceased to itch.

At the village entrance stood something Little Mud had never encountered before: a tall, upright copper mirror.

She was guided in front of the mirror, instinctively lowering her head, only for her chin to be gently lifted.

The reflection staring back stunned her.

She raised a hand to touch her face, then the new cotton coat, and a tightness suddenly bloomed in her chest.

She no longer wished to perish; she desired to live.

To live in this manner, clean and presentable.

...

After the cleansing of bodies, the shaving of hair, and the application of medication, the subsequent phase involved tidying the living environment.Filth has a way of clinging not just to bodies but also to the very places people inhabit. A fire blazes by the swamp, its purpose not to offer warmth but to treat those twisted, mud-caked black poplar logs. The logs are pulled from the mire, still sodden and riddled with wormholes that immediately make one uneasy. Thorne stands close, his expression grim. "Lord Pete, these logs are drenched and teeming with insect eggs. If we use them for construction, the houses will fall apart within three months, and the interiors will be even more putrid than the outside." In his estimation, such materials are only good for burning or letting them further decay in the mud. Pete offers no rebuttal, instead instructing his men to strip the bark and place the logs over the flames. The fire greedily consumes the wood's surface, causing steam to erupt wildly before the color gradually deepens. The outer layer blackens and cracks, yet it quickly stabilizes, as if a protective shell had formed. "Fire eradicates insects," Pete explains, carefully repositioning the logs. "The charred layer acts as a barrier against rot and dampness."