Free Web NovelTop floor of the Administrative Center, Louis Calvin's private office.
Pine wood burned in the fireplace, creating a warm environment that contrasted sharply with the cold wind and flying snow of early autumn outside the window, forming two distinct worlds.
Louis Calvin was not sitting behind the large desk piled with documents. Instead, he had changed into his casual clothes and was sitting in the armchair by the fireplace.
He picked up the silver pot and slowly poured the amber liquid into two crystal glasses, pushing one of them to the empty seat opposite him.
A knock sounded at the door.
"Enter."
Lambert pushed the door open, his cloak still carrying the lingering chill, and instinctively prepared to execute a standard knight's salute.
"No need for that formality in private," Louis Calvin said, raising his eyes with a smile and pressing a hand on the armrest. "Sit. This is newly brewed Golden Wheat Ale from Wheat Wave Territory, just delivered."
Lambert still habitually lowered his head, gave a brief half-salute, and then sat down on the opposite sofa.
As he took the wine glass, his fingertips touched the cold glass, and it was then that he seemed to slowly emerge from the shock of the day's experiment.
He looked at the composed young man before him, an indescribable emotion welling up in his heart.
A few years ago, Louis Calvin was still the abandoned son of the Calvin Family, exiled for his lack of talent, his eyes gloomy and lost, forsaken by fate.
At that time, he himself was merely a sworn protector with the title of a High-ranking Knight but with no bright future.
Now, Louis Calvin was the Lord of the North, controlling unprecedented industrial and military power.
And he, too, with the resources bestowed by Louis Calvin, had broken through a bottleneck that had plagued him for years, becoming an Extraordinary Knight, commanding thousands of troops.
These few short years felt like a lifetime ago.
But the cold touch of the wine in the glass told him that all of this was real.
"My Lord, this wine is strong," Lambert took a sip. "But it's good."
"I think it's acceptable, ready for export," Louis Calvin gently swirled the glass, holding the rim to the firelight. The amber wine was reflected by the fire, showing a dark golden luster.
Lambert recalled the recent scene and whispered, "That steam war chariot—it's simply a monster. A traditional knight formation wouldn't last a single charge against it."
He was an Extraordinary Knight. His body, his battle qi, his martial arts, by old-era standards, already placed him among the small, elite group at the very top of the entire continent.
But at the moment of the artillery test fire, he knew very well that even if it were him, without preparation, standing on that snowy ground, the outcome would be the same.
Louis Calvin put down his wine glass, his voice calm: "It's not just a monster; it's the iron wheel of a new era. No matter how brave a person is, no matter how thick their armor, in front of something like this, honor won't save their life."
He paused, his gaze slightly heavy: "So we must build more such monsters."
He looked up at Lambert: "Because the time left for us is shorter than I originally thought."
Lambert knew Louis Calvin wasn't referring to the barbarians.
He placed his glass on the table and leaned slightly forward: "Is there a new development?"
Louis Calvin didn't beat around the bush: "The Regent's body has reached its limit."
The firewood in the fireplace crackled.
"Two years at most, perhaps even less," Louis Calvin said calmly.
Lambert's brows furrowed: "Once His Highness breathes his last—"
"The moment he dies," Louis Calvin finished Lambert's unspoken words, "the last stone weighing on the Empire will be gone."
He walked to the window and gently tapped the frame. Outside, the wind and snow blurred against the glass.
"The princes will begin to contend, the nobles will begin to take sides, legions will be pulled away, some provinces will want to treat their borders as their own fences, and the Empire will slowly be torn apart."
Louis Calvin's voice was calm: "Civil war is inevitable."
Lambert was silent for a few breaths before speaking: "Then how does Red Tide Territory plan to take sides?"
"Red Tide Territory doesn't take sides," Louis Calvin looked out at the snowy expanse. "Red Tide Territory, along with the North, must survive."
He said calmly: "What we need to prepare for is to still have the strength to raise our swords after they've fought each other to exhaustion.
Red Tide Territory cannot be a small boat drifting with the current, but an iron ship sailing against the waves. When the Empire descends into chaos, we must not only defend the North but also have the capital to hunt south at any time."
"Expanding the army and building war chariots is a bottomless pit," Lambert stated. "Didn't you say last time that the Calvin Family's merchant guild is already taking action?"
This was his most realistic concern.
Soldiers could be trained, war chariots could be built, but without money, even the best forging blueprints were just paper.
Louis Calvin's lips, however, curved into a smile. The smile was not gentle, carrying a faint chill.
"They acted too late," Louis Calvin said. "Two years ago, such tactics could indeed crush us, but now—"
He walked back and casually pulled a financial brief from a stack of documents on the desk.
"Red Tide's minerals and industrial products have already flooded into the Emerald Federation, and the North has enough grain for everyone to eat for three winters."
Louis Calvin looked up at Lambert: "You don't need to worry about money. As long as you can train the soldiers, I can find a way to make the money appear."
Lambert looked at him, suddenly feeling that this statement was not an exaggeration at all.
From when they only had a dilapidated fief to now, with Red Tide's warehouses and banners everywhere across this entire snowy plain.
Lambert had witnessed this young man conjure food, weapons, workshops, and territories out of thin air time and again.
Lambert took a breath. He knew what Louis Calvin wanted to know, so he reported the numbers at hand: "My Lord, the total number of legions has reached 8,650 men.
Three thousand six hundred and fifty are from the Red Tide main force, all absolutely loyal, and currently equipped with the latest gear.
Duke Edmund's former subordinates, the Broken Blade, Cold Iron, and Silver Fang legions, have been merged into five thousand men.
They've fought together and received salaries and land together these past few years, especially that Cold Iron group. Now, they no longer only recognize Edmund's banner; they recognize Red Tide's military orders."
"The quantity is sufficient," Louis Calvin nodded, "but it's not enough."
The words sounded contradictory, but Lambert understood his meaning.
In the old era, military strength was judged solely by numbers, but after the Battle of the Broodmother, no one dared to look only at figures.
Louis Calvin extended a finger and began to list things one by one: "You need to keep a close eye on the next few matters."
"First, coordinated operations must be perfected. Put aside the knight order's arrogance; get used to charging under the cover of steam war chariots, and get used to fighting alongside Demonic Blast Grenadier Knights.
When we go to battle in the future, it will no longer be knights in front and infantry behind, but the entire front line advancing together."
"Second, specialized expansion. Double the size of the White Bear Heavy Cavalry to specifically breach defenses.
Also, form a few more flamethrower and demolition teams. These two types of units will be needed for monster tides and urban street fighting."
Lambert nodded slightly.
Then Louis Calvin put down his wine glass, leaned slightly forward, and said solemnly, "But Lambert, what I'm about to say is even more important than that steam war chariot. I want to establish new rules for this army."
Lambert immediately sat up straight: "Please speak."
"It's very simple," Louis Calvin raised a finger. "From today onwards, Red Tide Knights, whether they are suppressing bandits or patrolling, are not allowed to take even a piece of dry bread from civilians.
They are not allowed to ride horses recklessly into villages, and anything borrowed must be returned. If anyone dares to act like before, thinking 'I'm risking my life to protect you, what's wrong with taking a chicken?', then you strip them of their medals and kick them out of the ranks."
Lambert was stunned for a moment, his brow furrowing slightly: "My Lord—this might be difficult."
The commander spoke frankly: "If your demands are so strict, I fear the brothers below will complain, thinking we are too—too fussy."
"Complaints?" Louis Calvin smiled, a hint of deeper meaning in his expression. "Lambert, what do you think we should fear most if we expand Red Tide Territory and take over others' lands in the future?"
"Most afraid of the enemy's knight orders counterattacking, or enemy sneak attacks," Lambert replied from a military perspective.
"No," Louis Calvin shook his head. "What we should fear most is having to leave half our troops to guard against riots in every city we capture."
Louis Calvin stood up and walked to the huge map of the North, his finger tracing over territories that did not belong to Red Tide.
"Lambert, if we, like other lords, sweep through like locusts, plundering money, food, and women, how will the common people view us?
They will see us as just another group of bandits. They will hide their food and tip off the enemy—"
Louis Calvin turned and looked at Lambert, his tone becoming extremely plain and direct: "But what if we are different?"
"Imagine, if our soldiers enter a village without disturbing the populace, pay for what they take, and even help repair roads. Then, to those subjects who have suffered enough exploitation, what are we?"
Lambert subconsciously replied: "Are—good people?"
"Saviors," Louis Calvin corrected. "They're our own people, whom they can't wait to open their gates and welcome in."
Louis Calvin walked back to the sofa, picked up his wine glass again, his tone relaxed yet revealing a cold calculation: "This is the popular support I want. It's not about being a moral saint, but about saving money and saving soldiers.
If our reputation spreads, when our army marches south in the future, the common people in other territories, hearing that the Red Tide Army has arrived, will not run away, but will breathe a sigh of relief.
At that time, to take over a city, we'll only need to send a tax collector to plant a flag; there will be no need to leave troops to garrison it."
Lambert was dumbfounded. He had fought battles his entire life, always thinking about how to kill the enemy, and had never considered that not disturbing the populace could be a more brilliant method of siege.
"This is called winning hearts and minds," Louis Calvin pointed to his chest. "I want the name Red Tide to be more effective in the hearts of the common people than the Emperor's."
"So Lambert, even if they have to pretend, make them act like gentlemen for me."
Louis Calvin's voice deepened, carrying an undeniable command: "Tell the people below, whoever dares to ruin Red Tide's reputation is smashing everyone's rice bowl."
If they win the war, the spoils go to the public coffers, and I will use the treasury's money to reward them until their hands are soft. But anyone who dares to secretly reach into a civilian's pocket, I will chop off his hand.
Knights are not street thugs. They must be like people carrying torches on a night road—too rough and the sparks will fall and burn the house down; too weak and they won't light the way. You must teach them this balance.
Lambert took a deep breath; the confusion in his eyes vanished completely, replaced by a profound sense of awe.
He had originally thought this was just some kind of fastidiousness on the part of the young Lord, never expecting it concealed the ambition to conquer the world.
"I understand, my Lord."
Lambert stood up, and this time, his bow was more solemn than ever. "This army will not only be the sword in your hand, but also the Red Tide's cleanest banner."
Louis nodded in satisfaction: "Go, sharpen this blade a little. Soon we will use it to cut open the veins of this decaying empire."
Once the Imperial Civil War begins, the blood of this old beast of an Empire will flow in all directions.
What I need you to guarantee is that when it's our turn to strike, this blade will land precisely where it needs to cut."
Lambert stood up, ready to leave, taking one last look at the young silhouette by the window.
That frail youth who had once been cast out to the Northern Territory now stood at the pinnacle of the snowy plains, seemingly speaking to the entire continent.
Lambert said no more, simply walking to the table, placing his right fist lightly against his chest, and performing a chest salute that was standard to the point of being rigid.
"My Lord," his voice was low and steady, "no matter where your sword points, the Red Tide Legion will not disappoint you. I will go make the arrangements now."
Louis tilted his head, glanced at him, nodded, and said nothing further.
When the door closed, the sound of the wind was muffled by the gap, and the room instantly fell silent.
Only the fire in the fireplace was burning, along with the map of the entire Empire hanging on the wall.
Louis walked back to the table, his gaze sliding south from the Snowpeak in the Northern Territory, stopping at the small area marked as the Imperial Capital.
The red dot there was still quietly affixed to the parchment.
Louis reached out and gently tapped the blank space between the Imperial Capital and the Northern Territory.
"Come," he murmured, "let's see who breaks first."
Graystone Fortress was wedged in the throat between the Empire's Northern Territory and Grayrock Province, like a black iron sluice gate, coldly observing both the north and south sides.
This was the boundary of order.
To the south was a prosperous world flowing with gold coins and wine. To the north was a land of exile belonging to ice, snow, and savagery.
Inside the fortress, there was a suffocating sense of deadly seriousness.
Torches were placed every five meters in the corridor, illuminating the heads of magical beasts and captured barbarian weapons hung on the walls. Although they had been treated, one could still sense the stench of blood.
The floor was polished bright, a sheen created by countless iron boots treading upon it year after year.
The door to the Seventeenth Legion Commander's study was open. freewebnøvel.coɱ
Commander Ackerman Grell sat behind a massive Black Iron Wood desk.
He was not wearing plate armor, only a finely tailored silk shirt, with his collar slightly open.
As a Knight who had stepped into the Extraordinary realm, the cold wind of the Northern Land was nothing more than a cool breeze to him.
He was built like an upright brown bear, and even sitting casually, the oppressive aura belonging to a high-level Extraordinary filled the entire room as if it were tangible.
Hearing footsteps at the door, Ackerman did not immediately look up.
He was studying a military map in front of him, his finger lightly tracing several red lines, his expression focused and arrogant.
"If you were sent by the Ministry of Military Affairs to audit supplies, go wait in the side hall. When I am in a better mood, I will naturally see you."
"I am here to deliver wine, General Grell."
The voice that answered him was steady, unshaken by the pressure of the Extraordinary.
Sorrell stood at the doorway, elegantly unfastening his snow-dusted cloak and handing it to the slightly trembling attendant behind him. He wore a well-tailored dark hunting suit, and a longsword bearing the Remont Family crest hung at his waist. freeweɓnovel.cøm
Ackerman finally looked up. A sharp glint flashed in his deep brown eyes, as if he were sizing up a hunting dog daring to trespass into a lion's territory.
"Not many people can stand so straight under my pressure." Ackerman set down the crystal cup in his hand, producing a crisp sound. "From the Royal Knights Regiment?"
"The Third Legion, former Deputy Commander." Sorrell nodded slightly and performed an impeccable military salute. "I had the honor of witnessing the General's bearing on the training grounds once."
"That was ten years ago." Ackerman leaned back in his chair, his posture languid. "Sit. Since you are someone who knows the rules, I won't throw you out. What does the Second Highness want my Seventeenth Legion to do by sending you here?"
"It's not about what he wants you to do, but what he doesn't want you to do."
Sorrell did not stand on ceremony, walking directly across from Ackerman and sitting down. He did not touch the wine the attendant offered, instead looking straight into the Commander's eyes.
"General, you are the Empire's sharp sword. But now, this sword is stuck in this frozen ground. What can it do besides frighten a few barbarians? Rust?"
"Mind your words." Ackerman's eyes narrowed, and the air in the study instantly grew heavy. "I am guarding the nation's gate for the Empire."
"Guarding the nation's gate is an honor, but merely being a gatekeeper does not match the ambition of the Grell Family."
Sorrell maintained his steady tone despite the suffocating pressure: "I checked. Your eldest son died on the battlefield; he was a hero."
But your second son—he has great business acumen. He is even secretly operating two smuggling routes to the Emerald Federation. Not only did you not blame him, but you secretly sent your personal guard to protect those convoys."
Ackerman's murderous intent subsided slightly, replaced by a playful smile: "What? Does the Second Highness need to manage even this small business?"
"No, His Highness considers it a waste." Sorrell leaned forward. "A Legion Commander's son resorting to smuggling? That's beneath him. He should be sitting in a southern manor, drinking afternoon tea with the Minister of Finance, discussing the trade quotas for an entire province."
Ackerman fell silent.
He gently rotated the ruby ring on his thumb.
He wasn't short on money; after being a Legion Commander for over a decade, his profits were considerable.
But what he lacked was foundation—a ticket into the Empire's core circle.
In the eyes of those great nobles whose lineages spanned centuries, Ackerman was still nothing more than a highly skilled guard.
"Continue," Ackerman uttered a single word.
Sorrell took a document sealed with wax from his coat and pushed it across.
"The conditions offered by the Second Prince are the largest winery in the Valencia River Valley, along with a Viscount title." Sorrell's voice was full of allure.
"It's not a handout of money, but a sharing of power. Your son will formally enter the Southern noble social circle as a partner."
Ackerman picked up the document, his fingertips feeling the heavy texture of the parchment.
This single document meant that the Grell Family would no longer be mere Northern Territory warriors, but genuine regional magnates.
His descendants would completely wash away the scent of being upstarts.
"And the price?" Ackerman closed the document, his gaze sharp as a knife. "The Second Highness doesn't strike me as a charitable man."
"It's simple." Sorrell spread his hands. "When the Northern Territory banner appears at the pass, we hope the Seventeenth Legion's vision will be slightly clearer.
And—if, at certain critical moments in the future, something changes in the Imperial Capital, we hope the General will remember today's friendship and maintain a noble silence."
Ackerman stared at Sorrell for a long time, then suddenly burst into loud laughter. The sound shook the books on the shelves.
"A noble silence—a fine phrase."
Ackerman stood up, walked to the wine cabinet, personally picked up a bottle of cherished Southern red wine, and poured a glass for Sorrell.
"This damned place is truly too cold; even I am starting to feel tired of it." Ackerman pushed the wine glass toward Sorrell and raised his own crystal cup. "My sword belongs to the Empire, but my family belongs to me."
Sorrell raised his cup, and the two glasses gently clinked in the air: "Deal, General Grell."
Half an hour later.
The fortress's heavy iron gate slowly rose. Sorrell's carriage drove out of the massive shadow of Graystone Fortress.
The wind and snow were still fierce, but the carriage interior was warm like spring.
"My Lord, Ackerman was harder to deal with than expected," the attendant whispered beside him, clutching his hands, which were slick with cold sweat. "In the study just now, I felt like I was being watched by a ferocious beast, ready to be torn apart at any moment."
"Of course he's a beast. Anyone who can firmly hold the position of Seventeenth Legion Commander could not be an ordinary person."
Sorrell leaned back against the cushion and released his tightly gripped sword hilt.
A thin layer of sweat coated his palm as well; the confrontation just now was not just verbal, but a mental struggle.
"He is arrogant because he has the capability. He is dissatisfied because he has seen the ceiling." Sorrell looked at the snowscape flashing past the window and commented lightly.
"He doesn't lack money; he lacks the ladder for class ascension. We gave him the ladder, and this lion will temporarily sheath its claws."
"So, should we return to the Imperial Capital now?"
"No."
Sorrell's gaze turned north, seemingly trying to pierce the snowstorm and see through the vast white wilderness beyond.
"Ackerman is just a lion guarding the gate; feed him and he'll sleep. But I am more interested in the person behind that gate."
"The Red Tide Territory?" the attendant asked hesitantly.
Sorrell let out a cold laugh: "To be able to control the entire Northern Territory in such desperate circumstances, and even make someone like Ackerman feel wary—a person like that is either a lunatic or a monster more terrifying than Ackerman."
The carriage wheels carved a deep rut in the snow, driving not south, but resolutely into the depths of the northern wind and snow.
"Let's go. # Nоvеlight # Let's meet Louis Calvin and see what his ambitions are."
