Free Web NovelAfter Louis Calvin departed, the council hall remained filled with a heavy silence.
Bradley slowly stepped forward, standing below the main seat. He took a stack of documents bearing the Red Tide seal from his adjutant and announced expressionlessly, "This is the 'Snowpeak Reconstruction Agreement Draft.' Please sign it in order."
The document was concise, yet its wording was as cold and hard as iron:
In the Red Tide Territory, all nobles must obey Red Tide laws, are forbidden from establishing private armies, and are not allowed to interfere in military or political affairs.
All noble affairs must be subject to Red Tide's dispatch, with unified cooperation in winter transition and reconstruction deployment.
Any violator will be treated as a rebel.
"This agreement is considered a formal commitment by the nobility to voluntarily participate in Red Tide's reconstruction. If there are no objections, please sign immediately." Bradley's voice was not loud, but it carried an undeniable pressure.
Yoen was the first to step forward and sign, followed by Willis. Their expressions were calm; they even actively pressed their signet rings onto the document.
After that, silence fell over the hall for a few breaths.
The other nobles began to sign one after another.
Each name falling onto the paper felt like a debt bond, a vow, an invisible noose.
No one protested, not because they didn't want to, but because they didn't dare.
Those who had signed bowed their heads and left, filing out without a word.
Only the echo of boots remained in the stone pillar corridor, a silence so profound it was unsettling.
The nobles who once conversed and laughed now dared not look each other in the eye, nor did anyone mention the fates of Siris, Harris, or Xiluke.
Outside the door, the cold wind was like a blade, and snow fell silently.
They walked out of the earthen building step by step, their hearts heavier than the stone bricks beneath their feet.
The wind stirred their cloaks, but no one dared to look back at the Red Tide banner on the tall building. freewёbnoνel.com
The noble representatives filed out of the Red Tide Territory's council hall. They should have returned to their respective residences, but as they stepped down the castle's stone steps, their pace involuntarily slowed.
At the end of the street, a clamor of human voices could be heard. It wasn't the bustle of a market, but a surging tide of sound.
"What's going on?" someone asked in a low voice.
Towards the plaza, there was an immense crowd.
Tens of thousands of heads moved, and the surging crowd, coming from all directions, completely blocked the main street and side alleys. Even the cobblestone road seemed to vibrate slightly from the pressure.
The nobles stood on the steps, not moving for a moment.
"Did you—see that?" A Viscount frowned, "Over there, is that an execution platform?"
"It looks like it." Another person strained to see, but could only make out a corner of a high platform's shadow, and rows of Red Tide Knights lined up like a forest.
Viscount Roland leaned against a stone pillar, taking two gasping breaths, and finally couldn't resist calling over a Red Tide Knight who was maintaining order nearby: "Hey, what's happening up ahead?"
The young Knight's expression was serious. Seeing their noble attire, he replied, "Reporting, My Lord, the Auditing Department is carrying out a public trial of the principal rebels as ordered."
"Rebels?" Roland's expression changed slightly, "Who rebelled?!"
"It's the vagrant bandits." The Knight didn't know how to explain, so he pulled out a neatly folded, rough leaflet from his In arms and respectfully handed it over.
The leaflet had few words, but it combined text and images, making it highly inflammatory.
A crude woodcut depicted a bustling crowd and a judgment platform surrounded by armored Knights. On the platform stood several disheveled prisoners, facing the execution posts, with the words "Red Tide Law" hanging behind them.
The text below was concise and direct:
"On the fifteenth of this month, the Auditing Department investigated and confirmed that some vagrant leaders, taking advantage of the Red Tide's main force being on campaign, gathered crowds to cause trouble, looted military provisions, and attacked the garrison, leading to severe public safety incidents and material losses. This morning, they were tried and dealt with according to law in Red Tide Plaza."
The nobles exchanged glances.
"It's those vagrants again, as expected."
"These people are always insatiable."
"The main force just returned, and there are already unruly elements causing trouble. If Red Tide doesn't suppress this—this chaos won't stop."
They spoke calmly, but uneasiness grew in their hearts.
The Knight, seeing their hesitation, proactively offered, "If you wish to observe the trial, My Lords, there are prepared positions ahead. I can take you there."
The nobles looked at each other. Someone nodded first, and eventually, they followed him.
They didn't have to wait long. The morning bell chimed three times, its deep resonance echoing across the sky above Red Tide City.
The thick fog had not yet dispersed, and the wind carried ~Nоvеl𝕚ght~ snowflakes. In Red Tide Plaza, banners flew high, scarlet like fire, flapping loudly.
Over a thousand Red Tide Territory citizens had already gathered here, from East Street to South Alley, from inside the city to the newly expanded vagrant district. Dense crowds surrounded the plaza, with people even sitting on rooftops.
The City Defense Force and Auditing Department Knights formed a triple iron cavalry blockade, their armor clanking, swords drawn, emitting a chilling gleam.
The atmosphere was so oppressive it was almost solidified.
As the last bell chime faded, a black-robed Auditing Department officer slowly ascended the judgment platform.
Quinn, Chief of the Red Tide Territory's Auditing Department.
His tone was steady: "The public trial begins. By Red Tide Law, the source of chaos shall be judged."
As his words fell, several prisoners were dragged onto the high platform.
They wore prison clothes, covered in dust and blood, bound by iron chains, kneeling in the muddy snow. Some had already fainted, some glared with wide eyes, and some cried and begged for mercy.
But only one person caused a low stir among the nobles in the VIP section.
It was Viscount Brook.
Just moments ago, he had been impeccably dressed, eloquently discussing and directing affairs in the Lord's meeting.
Now, however, he was stripped of his fine clothes, wearing a prison uniform, his hands tied behind his back, his face ashen, his eyes vacant as if dead.
A Viscount who once prided himself as an old noble of the North, now knelt before everyone, like a dehydrated old dog.
Quinn loudly read out each charge, his voice like a great bell, piercing through the crowd:
"Firstly, inciting crowds: Viscount Brook secretly colluded with vagrant leaders 'Skinny Horse' and 'Hed,' secretly ordering them to incite public opinion at various food distribution points, spreading rumors that 'Red Tide is hoarding food and not distributing it,' attempting to provoke a scramble."
"Secondly, his partisans ambushed a Red Tide Knight squad at night, leaving an Apprentice Knight severely wounded on the ground. The injured person is named Allen Tyne, and he is still in a coma."
"Thirdly, taking advantage of the chaotic order in the city, Brook instructed his subordinates to forcibly pry open the west granary, stealing three boxes of wartime medicine and over thirty winter charcoal stoves, causing material shortages along multiple defense lines."
"Fourthly, causing a riot at the food distribution site, resulting in a child, only four years old, being trampled to death; additionally, three post-operative wounded soldiers' conditions worsened due to medicine shortages, and one of them died."
"Fifthly, disrupting order by setting fire to West Street, creating panic. The fire spread, leading to nighttime flight and stampedes, injuring thirteen people, with two suffering severe bone fractures."
Each charge read caused a stir in the crowd.
Every sentence was accompanied by eyewitness testimonies, signed records from Red Tide soldiers, and physical evidence, detailing numerous heinous acts with irrefutable proof.
Quinn's tone was like cast iron, calm yet heavy. Every word, every sentence, seemed to nail Brook's head to the judgment platform.
The low murmurs of the crowd began to swell.
When they heard "four-year-old child trampled to death," an old woman began to sob quietly, and others angrily cursed: "That was my neighbor's granddaughter!" "Only a beast would do such a thing!"
On the high platform, Brook hung his head, his lips trembling, his entire body limp as if his bones had been removed, his face ashen with despair.
He wanted to defend himself, but no sound came from his throat.
Beside him, Quinn's voice thundered, as he sternly declared: "Such a traitor is unforgivable! Today, we shall sacrifice blood to the law, and establish our might through punishment!"
As his words fell, the Red Tide Iron Guards below the platform responded in unison, and the executioners on both sides were already in position.
On the execution platform, several principal offenders were heavily pressed down, forced to kneel, their throats clamped, struggling powerlessly.
A cold glint flashed, and the blade rose.
Blood spurted three feet high.
The bodies tumbled down the wooden steps, rolling into the snow, drawing winding crimson lines on the cold ground.
Brook struggled to turn his head one last time, his lips trembling as if he wanted to shout something, but only a mouthful of thick blood gushed out, his voice cut off in his throat.
The former noble, the former councilor, now couldn't even utter a single word of defense, his eyes filled with the shock of death, ultimately swallowed by the snow and fresh blood.
The common people below were silent for a moment, then erupted:
"Well killed!"
"These scoundrels should have been dealt with long ago!"
An old woman with white hair in the back row covered her face and wept, muttering, "My son died unjustly—but today, there's finally some closure—"
Emotions spread, with roars of anger, cries of sorrow, and even near-fanatical cheers—a release of long-suppressed emotions after the war.
And in the noble representatives' section, the group of "survivors" had already turned ashen.
They watched with their own eyes as Brook, who had been sitting and conspiring with them just last night, was beheaded in broad daylight, with no one daring to utter a word of plea.
"He—he actually just directly cut off Brook's head—"
"He's mad—is he mad—"
Whispers rose, but no one dared to speak loudly.
Some had their backs soaked with cold sweat, others' fingers were stiff as wood, almost unable to grip their scepters.
Though they hadn't been named, it felt as if the executioner's blade was already at their necks.
Immediately after the execution of the principal offenders, the plaza had not yet dispersed.
On the platform, the Iron Guards quickly cleaned up the bloodstains. The red liquid dripping from the executioner's blade had not yet congealed, but Quinn did not pause. He flipped through the scroll in his hand, and his voice sounded again: "Secondary implicated personnel, twenty-three people, bring them up one by one."
As the order was given, another squad of Red Tide guards escorted prisoners onto the platform.
These people were dressed in rags, their steps faltering, young and old, male and female, their expressions either blank, panicked, or glaring with gritted teeth—yet not one dared to cry out.
“These twenty-three individuals, though not the masterminds, provided assistance in this rebellion.
Firstly, the vagrant Joseph, spread rumors claiming ‘Red Tide hoards grain and does not distribute it,’ inciting over a hundred people to gather at the South Street tavern.
Secondly, the vagrant woman Melinda, leaked information, covering the escape of the main culprits multiple times.
Thirdly, the member of the foreign caravan, ‘Marcel,’ secretly gathered intelligence on Red Tide’s mobilization and military depot deployments.”
As each charge was read, soldiers at the scene dragged the implicated individuals to the whipping posts, either tying them up or forcing them to kneel.
The flogging was carried out immediately.
Only the sound of the leather whip tearing through the air, like a whirlwind arrow, could be heard, landing heavily on flesh.
“Ah, ah, ah—!”
The first prisoner screamed, and before the sound had faded, the second whip struck.
Blood splattered, dust swirled, and the audience erupted in a commotion.
“Serves them right!” someone roared, shaking a fist, “My spouse was tricked into going out by these people! Almost didn’t come back!”
“These rebel lackeys, even if they’re not killed, their skins should be flayed!” another woman shouted forcefully, her eyes red-rimmed.
A child beside her shrunk into his mother’s arms in fright, yet he kept his eyes wide open, staring at the execution platform, not daring to blink.
On the platform, Quinn calmly announced: “Those with lighter offenses will receive ten to fifty lashes, and will also be sentenced to service in the Red Tide labor corps, digging canals and building walls, not to be discharged before winter.”
And on the execution platform, the sound of the whip continued.
That was the sound of iron law smashing into flesh and blood, Red Tide Territory’s clearest and most ruthless declaration of justice in the cold winter.
Below the execution platform, in the small alleys closest to the edge of the square, some vagrants who were unwilling to “queue obediently” had been hiding.
They were black market food stamp dealers, messengers who spread rumors late at night, and the group of “onlookers” who had injured Red Tide soldiers the day before.
At the moment heads rolled, some almost fell to the ground, some turned and fled, and some bit down on a piece of ragged cloth, desperately covering their mouths, fearing that even a single breath would invite disaster.
After witnessing the entire public trial and execution, these vagrants, who had originally been stirring, no longer dared to act rashly.
They quietly dispersed, like sand scattered by the wind, spreading into alleys, ruins, and crowds, as if they had never existed.
In just one day, the undercurrents of the entire Red Tide City seemed to be cut off by a heavy blade.
No one mentioned “Red Tide hoarding grain” anymore, and no one dared to gather for discussions.
They suddenly understood:
This land was not the northern wasteland where one could “rob and burn at will.”
It belonged to the man who dared to kill nobles, execute rebels, and show no mercy.
This was Red Tide.
In Red Tide, those who disobeyed, broke the law, and feared no death, would die very quickly.
The sound of the whip finally ceased, the bloodstains on the execution platform were not yet dry, but the crowd in the square was already surging like a tide.
Some knelt on the ground with tears streaming down their faces, kowtowing repeatedly, muttering, “Thank you, Lord, thank you, Red Tide—thank you for saving our lives.”
Others shouted excitedly, “It was Red Tide that gave us a place to live!”
“We were hiding in caves, almost freezing to death, and they brought us out!”
“We can drink porridge because Lord Louis sent people to cook it!”
“My spouse is in the medic camp, Red Tide treated his wounds three times, and they’re almost healed!”
Shouts rose and fell, and the previously suppressed square seemed to welcome the first ray of sunshine after the melting of spring snow.
That was the joy of surviving a catastrophe, the fervor of grasping a lifeline in despair.
A middle-aged man held up a tattered half-flag—it was an old banner he had picked up from the ruins during the insect tide, and now it had Red Tide’s moon emblem painted on it with dye.
“Long live Lord Louis!”
He was the first to shout this slogan, his voice hoarse but deafening.
The next moment, as if ignited by a raging fire, the entire square boiled over:
“Long live Red Tide!”
“Long live Lord Louis!!”
“We swear to defend Red Tide to the death!!”
The common people raised their tattered hats, frostbitten hands, and unhealed palms, waving them high, their throats hoarse but still shouting.
Children also followed suit, even if they didn’t understand the meaning, they knew it was “the Lord who protected them.”
Amidst the cheers of tens of thousands, a deep yet majestic voice came from the south end of the square.
“Silence.”
The voice was not loud, but it was like a heavy hammer pressing down from the heart, instantly quieting the boiling crowd.
Following everyone’s gaze, they saw the most typical red and black cloaks of the Red Tide Knights, their wax-sealed edges gleaming in the morning sun.
Louis slowly ascended the high platform.
He wore his cloak, his expression stern, and each step he took was as steady as an iron hammer.
But when he stood still, his gaze swept over the people below the platform, yet he did not reprimand them; instead, he spoke calmly:
“You are able to stand here because you have upheld the bottom line.
Red Tide Territory is your dwelling place,
But remember—the reason this land is safe is not because someone granted a favor, but because there is an iron law here.”
The wind howled, and Louis raised his hand, pointing below the platform:
“As long as you are willing to abide by Red Tide’s rules, as long as you are willing to unite, obey orders, not cause trouble, and not harm others, then this iron law will protect you!”
The moment his words fell, there was a moment of silence in the square, followed by thunderous applause and cheers.
“We are willing to abide by Red Tide’s law!”
“We are willing to devote ourselves to the Lord!”
“As long as we can survive, we are willing to do anything!”
Some even knelt and shouted, “This is not a place of exile, it is our home! It is Red Tide that allows us to have a home to return to!”
And Louis stood on the execution platform, his red cloak fluttering in the wind, amidst the blood-stained snow and the cheers of the masses, like a true emperor ascending his throne.
Millions of vagrants, paralyzed grain routes, the old system collapsed, and a new system not yet established—the entire Northern Region was like a severely wounded beast, its skin torn, bleeding profusely, and only a strong medicine could stop the loss of its lifeblood.
And before Red Tide’s true laws, grain routes, and allocation system were established, Louis knew that human nature could not be trusted.
So he chose the most egregious chaos and wielded the sharpest blade.
The instinct for survival would drive vagrants to loot granaries, hunger and hatred would ignite brawls, and the struggle for territory and interests would re-enact the madness before the collapse of the Northern Region.
He could not wait.
He could not wait for laws to be perfected, for city defenses to be built, or for negotiations with the old nobles to conclude.
He had to kill a group of people first.
Kill them ruthlessly, and conspicuously.
Kill them so that the people on this land would hear the sound of a hammer striking bone, and only then would the first semblance of “rules” begin to form.
This public trial was a bloody bugle call, a vanguard for reconstruction, and a “bottom line” that Louis carved out in a chaotic world.
And from that day onward, no one dared to engage in private fights or armed robberies in Red Tide Territory.
No vagrant dared to trespass into the granary.
No one even dared to disrespect the name Louis Calvin.
Because everyone knew that it was not just the name of a lord, but a new legal code, just written in blood, that superseded the old nobility.
In the center of the square, that familiar flag slowly rose.
The Red Tide flag, a sun like a raging flame, fluttered in the cold wind of the Northern Region, like an undying ember, illuminating the ice and snow, and also reddening the still-wet bloodstains beneath the execution platform.
The two shades of red echoed each other, and that single color spoke volumes.
It symbolized order, guardianship, and even more, the name that had pulled everyone back from the brink of death in the darkest night, “Long live Red Tide!”
“Long live Lord Louis!!”
The shouts surged like waves, spreading from the heart of the square to the city walls, alleys, and even to the crowds huddled on rooftops.
It was not commanded by anyone, nor led by anyone, but an eruption of the most primitive, most instinctive emotions.
The noble representatives stood aside, their expressions complex. They had intended to seize the opportunity to leave, but were momentarily dazed by the sudden surge of sound.
Many felt a chill in their hearts, and their steps involuntarily retreated half a step.
Someone whispered, “These are no longer vagrants? These are—believers.”
They dared not linger after all, and could only lower their heads and quickly leave, without a word.
They dared not look back at the high platform, feeling as if the Red Tide flag was silently staring at them.
But the native residents and newly arrived people in the square still stood in the cold wind, gazing at the figure who had once stood amidst fire and insect tides, their eyes filled with tears held back for too long.
After one loud cheer, there were ten, then a hundred, then a thousand— “Long live Red Tide!”
“Long live Lord Louis!!”
That was a vow beneath the wind and snow, loyalty amidst the ruins, and the common people’s most fervent gratitude and allegiance to their protector.
After this upheaval, on this blood-stained square, the order belonging to Red Tide finally took root completely.
