Lord of Winter: Beginning with Daily Intelligence

Chapter 682: Chapter 389: The New Northern Territory and the Old North (Part 2)

The Lord, nearing fifty, personally came out to greet, draped in a cloak warmed by the stove.

His face red from the cold, he grabbed Sorel’s forearm: "It is an honor for my entire domain that the Prince’s messenger has arrived."

Speaking this, he took a Red Tide glass cup from the hands of an attendant and offered it with both hands, his expression solemn—not for any grand reason, but because this item had become a formal commodity in his family’s warehouse, ready to be traded for tangible profits with surrounding territories.

"In past years, I couldn’t even gift my own family anything decent," the Lord whispered, as if boasting about his foresight, "It’s different now. These glass cups sell exceptionally well; I’ve heard southern noblewomen clamor for them. Please accept it, Your Highness, the value is substantial."

Then the old Lord noticed Sorel’s frozen carriage creaking, and frowned: "That shabby vehicle is an embarrassment here. I’ll replace it with a new one, with a Red Tide chassis. It’s steadier and retains its value better."

He spoke with righteousness, as though concerned about Sorel tarnishing his family’s dignity, rather than about Sorel’s own safety; a full display of a nouveau riche’s air.

Sorel was curious why a remote place like this would have such a nouveau riche-style Lord, and the items he gifted were indeed valuable.

Thus, Sorel stepped into the other’s estate, eager to investigate.

The banquet hall was overly warm, brightly lit. The table was laden with rich dishes.

In the banter of the banquet, the old Lord couldn’t hide his pride: "Three years ago, forty people froze to death in my domain; last year, fifteen. This year, not even two. Not because of me, but because of Lord Calvin."

Sorel raised an eyebrow.

The Lord continued: "My domain’s workshops, roads, stoves... all traded with Red Tide for business.

I won’t hide from you, Your Highness’ messenger, my family’s dividend this year is seven times the usual tax revenue. I don’t care who Calvin is, as long as he can make my family prosperous, he is someone I am willing to follow."

Children’s laughter wafted from outside.

Sorel looked toward the sound and saw several children wearing thick felt boots from Red Tide, chasing in the snow.

The Lord glanced casually: "Oh, them? They are people with knightly blood talent in the territory; Lord Louis needs them, wants me to cultivate more knights, so I have to prepare in advance."

On another table, the lady of the house spoke softly: "My son is studying at Red Tide City’s school. When he grows up and returns to inherit the territory, he will move up another level."

Her tone held no trace of coercion, but rather a sense of satisfaction after calculation.

These words are not unique to this household.

All the way north, Sorel heard similar remarks in every territory joining the Red Tide system.

Not because the Lord suddenly became kind, nor for the happiness of the subjects.

But because the prosperity, market, and technology brought by Red Tide truly stabilize, enrich, and give the future to their families.

As for the improvement in subjects’ lives?

That’s merely a side effect, like some extra grain spilling over from a granary—not of concern to the Lords, but too lazy to oppose.

As the banquet continued, children’s laughter drifted from outside again. Sorel followed the sound and saw several children chasing in the snow, wearing thick Red Tide felt boots, no longer barefoot, no longer shrinking.

When patrol soldiers passed by, they bent down to retie the children’s shoelaces and continued their patrol.

Sorel realized he was being engulfed by these stories.

All the prosperity behind it came from Red Tide: food, roads, workshops, stoves, coal, glass, ironware, new farming tools.

The territory’s economy was transformed, the lifestyle of the subjects was rewritten, and the power structure of the Lord was redefined.

The second type of territory was starkly different.

On the surface, these Lords give the Prince’s messenger enough face: sending guards to greet, holding banquets, hanging up the family crest out of respect.

But as soon as Sorel alighted, he could smell the scent in the air—a stubbornness with no retreat forced by reality.

Inside the castle, what he always saw were damp walls, flickering candles, and servants huddled in corners trying to minimize their presence.

The food on the table was equally meager: a few plates of bread, salted meat bitter with brine, a pot of fish soup.

Yet these Lords still sat up straight, posing with the old Northern Nobility’s pride, as if this poverty were part of their glory.

Cold wind swept in through the window crevices, making the candles sway wildly.

But they defiantly refused to switch to Red Tide’s glass windows: "Our ancestors have always wintered like this."

Though their voices trembled with cold, they insist on using tradition as armor.

As the banquet opened, they always couldn’t wait to first curse Red Tide.

"That Calvin kid is too overbearing."

"He’s only flaunting because of his Duke Edmund son-in-law status."

"Alas, if only the old Duke were still alive..."

"We, the century-old nobility, won’t be led by him."

But after a few sips of wine, the gaps in their words began to leak:

"Hawk Territory didn’t have a single freeze death this year? Really?"

"Iron farm tools... two silver coins? Can’t be that cheap."

"Solid roads... I wish I had one too."

Sorel understood that look in their eyes at once—it wasn’t doubt, but jealousy, hatred, a suffocating feeling of being left behind by the times.

The most ironic part wasn’t even this.

Despite shouting the loudest to "uphold the Northern Territory’s glory."

Sorel saw the secret presents moved by servants—all Red Tide products, and of rather inferior quality.

They wouldn’t admit verbally, but their hands already reached out to Red Tide.