Free Web NovelAs the snowstorm passed Graystone Fortress, the old trade route, mixed with frozen soil and mud, was so bumpy it made people dizzy.
Even the wheels of the luxurious carriage groaned under the strain when they sank into the potholes, as if protesting the harshness of the wilderness.
Sorell sat steadily inside the carriage, reaching out to check the door and window seams. Only after confirming they were tightly sealed did he take out the worn silver pendant from the hidden layer of his close-fitting shirt.
He opened the clasp, revealing a thumb-sized charcoal sketch of a little girl hugging a doll.
Her face was pale, her eyes disproportionately large, yet she tried hard to smile slightly at the viewer. She held the doll tightly.
Sorell's fingertips gently traced the image, and he briefly closed his eyes.
Then he clipped the pendant back into place, as if tucking a secret back into the seams of his armor.
Sorell lifted a corner of the window curtain and looked outside.
The sound of the wind immediately rushed in, cold as needle pricks.
Patches of dead black pine forest were leaning precariously under the weight of the snow. Corpses lay huddled by the roadside, some buried so deep that only half a face was visible.
Refugees, resembling beasts, lived in broken shacks. When they looked up at the carriage, their eyes were so numb they seemed to have long given up the will to live.
Chimney smoke was almost nonexistent in this stretch of wilderness. The air smelled only of decay and cold wind.
Sorell stared at the scene.
He knew he should maintain the diplomatic restraint expected of a royal envoy, but the arrogance stemming from his Southern noble lineage still surged uncontrollably.
Sorell let out a low, humorless laugh.
"Now this looks like the Northern Territory."
Barren, crude, disorderly, and worthless.
This was the Imperial Capital's consensus regarding the Northern Territory, and everything he saw now perfectly confirmed that prejudice.
"To be able to claim kingship in a place like this—it's nothing special, really."
He knew that Louis was skilled in political maneuvering, but since this was the Northern Territory, he felt that the terms he brought from the Second Prince would be entirely unnecessary.
"As long as I'm willing to grant a small amount of Southern trade rights—he'll know how to kneel and welcome civilization."
The carriage continued to sway northwards. The snowstorm lashed against the window panels, making sounds like urgent, fatal knocks.
It had been three days since leaving Graystone Fortress, and the snowstorm still raged.
But the carriage's jarring suddenly stopped at a certain moment, as if it had abruptly driven out of one world and into another.
Sorell opened his eyes, his brow slightly furrowed, clearly sensing that something was wrong.
He could feel that the wheels were no longer being dragged down by mud pits; the ease made even the horses' steps steady.
He lifted a corner of the curtain.
Cold wind rushed in, but the first thing he saw was not snow, but a vast expanse of—
Gray-black, smooth, hardened road surface.
The surface was pressed extremely flat. Rain and snow falling upon it did not turn into mud, but were instead blown by the wind toward the sides along a subtle slope.
A straight white line was painted down the center of the road, neat and precise, looking less like a casual manual application and more like a measured marker.
Sorell was stunned for a moment before slowly uttering, "Is this—the Northern Territory?"
He had traveled the main roads in the South and visited the road-building workshops in the Imperial Capital, but the road surface before him was even better than many places in the South.
The carriage continued forward, and soon the first building appeared in the snowstorm.
Red Tide Post.
The building wasn't large, but its lines were clean and sharp. The walls were made of regular gray stone bricks, and a bright red flag bearing a crimson sun pattern hung at the entrance.
Stable white smoke rose from the chimney, indicating continuous heating inside.
More eye-catching than the building itself were the people busy outside the post.
A team of road workers in dark red uniforms were pushing iron snow scrapers to clear the road.
Their movements were orderly. Occasionally, someone whistled, the rhythm so relaxed it didn't seem like they were working on the frozen ground of the Northern Territory.
No shackles, no whips, no supervisory knights.
The foreman held a clipboard, recording the snow volume and road conditions, and occasionally looked up at the sky, seemingly judging when the next clearing would be needed.
Sorell watched for a long time before exclaiming, "The people of the Northern Territory—are smiling?"
This quiet self-talk carried an air of unacceptable absurdity.
In his impression, the common people of the Northern Territory were either cold or starving, either numb or terrified.
Those people should be huddled and trembling in broken shacks, not whistling while working in the snow.
Sorell slowly lowered the curtain, his brow visibly furrowed.
He even wondered if he had accidentally strayed into a territory completely absorbed by Red Tide, as the scene here was utterly different from the desolation he had witnessed in the Northern Territory over the past few days.
As the carriage continued north, invitations came one after another.
At almost every castle or fortified town, Sorell would be stopped by the /N_o_v_e_l_i_g_h_t/ lord's attendants, who insisted he honor them with his presence, even if only for a quarter of an hour.
Given his status as the Second Prince's special envoy, these lords had to maintain respect, even if they harbored ulterior motives.
But Sorell quickly discovered that the differences between these banquets were almost absurdly large.
It was as if he was traveling down the same road yet being pulled into two completely different worlds: prosperity and ruin, warmth and harshness, hope and decay.
The content of the banquets, the attitude of the lords, and the mental state of the common people were all split into two distinct and opposing halves.
The first type of territory were those that displayed the "Red Tide Emblem" at the main street entrance.
For instance, when Sorell arrived at the first location, it was in the gray light just before dusk. The sky seemed suffocated by the snow, but the castle gates opened quickly, as if they had been waiting there all along.
The lord, nearly fifty years old, came out personally to greet him, wrapped in a cloak that had been warmed by a stove.
His face was red from the cold, and he grabbed Sorell's forearm: "It is an honor for my entire territory that His Highness's envoy could visit."
Saying this, he took a Red Tide glass cup from an attendant and presented it with both hands, his expression solemn. This wasn't for some grand principle, but because the item had become formal merchandise in his family's warehouse, which he could trade with neighboring territories for tangible profit.
"In previous years, I couldn't even give decent gifts to my own family," the lord whispered, as if boasting about his foresight. "It's different now. This glass cup sells extremely well. I hear the noble ladies in the South are scrambling for it. Your Highness, please accept it; this cup is quite valuable."
Then the old lord saw Sorell's carriage, which was creaking from the cold, and frowned again: "That shoddy carriage is an embarrassment here. I will exchange it for a new one for you—a Red Tide chassis. It runs steadily and holds its value better."
He spoke with righteous confidence, as if worried that Sorell might compromise his family's dignity rather than concerned for Sorell's personal safety, exhibiting the full demeanor of a nouveau riche.
Sorell was also curious why a lord with such a nouveau riche attitude would appear in such a remote small place, especially since the gifts he offered were indeed quite valuable.
Thus, Sorell stepped into the lord's manor, wanting to investigate further.
The banquet hall was overly warm and brightly lit. The dishes on the table were plentiful.
During the small talk at the banquet, the old lord couldn't hide the pride in his voice: "Three years ago, over forty people froze to death in my territory; last year, fifteen. This year, none. That's not because of me, but because of Lord Calvin."
Sorell raised an eyebrow.
The lord continued: "The workshops, roads, and stoves in my territory—they were all acquired by doing business with Red Tide."
"And I won't hide this from you, Your Highness's envoy: my family's dividend this year is seven times the tax revenue of previous years. I don't care who Calvin is; as long as he can make my family prosper, he is the man I'm willing to follow."
Laughter from children drifted in from outside the window.
Sorell followed the sound with his gaze. Several children wearing crimson thick felt boots were chasing each other in the snow.
The lord glanced casually: "Oh, them? They are people in the territory with Knight bloodline talent. Lord Louis needs them and wants to help me cultivate more knights, so I have to prepare people in advance."
The mistress at another table said softly, "My son is studying at the academy in Red Tide City. When he grows up and comes back to inherit the territory, he'll definitely take us to the next level."
There was no hint of coercion in her tone, but rather the satisfaction of a calculated decision.
These words were not unique to this household.
Traveling north, Sorell heard similar rhetoric in almost all territories that had joined the Red Tide system.
It wasn't because the lords had suddenly become benevolent, nor was it for the happiness of the common people.
It was because the prosperity, market, and technology brought by Red Tide genuinely made their families more stable, wealthier, and provided a better future.
As for the lives of the common people improving?
That was just a side effect, like surplus grain spilling out of the granary. The lords didn't care, but they weren't bothered to oppose it either.
As the banquet continued, children's laughter came from outside the window. Sorell looked out, seeing several children chasing each other in the snow, wearing Red Tide thick felt boots on their feet, no longer barefoot or timid.
When a patrolling night guard passed by, he would bend down to re-tie a child's shoelace before continuing his patrol.
Sorell realized he was being overwhelmed by these stories.
Behind all this prosperity, everything originated from Red Tide: grain, roads, workshops, stoves, coal, glass,
ironware, and new farm tools.
The territory's economy was reformed, the residents' way of life was rewritten, and the lord's power structure was redefined.
The second type of territory, however, was completely different.
On the surface, these lords gave the Prince's envoy plenty of face: sending guards to welcome him, hosting banquets, and displaying the family crest as a sign of respect.
But the moment Sorell stepped out of the carriage, he could smell the stubbornness in the air, a defiance born from being cornered by reality.
As he walked into 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, bitter pickled salted meat, and a pot of fish soup.
Yet these lords still straightened their backs, putting on the arrogance of old Northern nobles, as if this poverty were part of their glory.
The cold wind poured in through the window cracks, making the candles dance wildly.
They stubbornly refused to replace their windows with Red Tide glass: "This is how our ancestors survived the winter."
Their voices were clearly trembling from the cold, but they insisted on using tradition as armor.
When the banquet began, they were always impatient to start by cursing Red Tide.
"That Calvin boy is too arrogant."
"He only gets to flaunt his power because he's Duke Edmund's son-in-law."
"Ah, if only the Old Duke were still alive—"
"We century-old nobles won't be led around by him."
But after a few cups of wine, leaks started appearing in their speech: "The Huo Ke Territory didn't have a single person freeze to death this year? Really?"
"Iron farm tools—two silver coins? It can't possibly be that cheap."
"Hardened roads—I wish I had one too."
Sorell understood the look in their eyes instantly: it wasn't suspicion, but jealousy, hatred, and the suffocating feeling of being left behind by the times.
And that wasn't even the most ironic part.
Although they were the loudest in shouting about "upholding the glory of the North."
Sorell saw the gifts the servants secretly moved past him—all Red Tide products, and rather inferior ones at that.
Their mouths refused to admit it, but their hands were already reaching out to Red Tide.
As if, as long as the Red Tide caravan didn't see it, they could maintain their shattered dignity.
Sorell didn't expose them, merely accepting the gifts with a smile.
As he left, he glanced back at the gloomy castle, like looking at a dying old beast still trying to raise its mane.
He came to a harsher conclusion in his heart: these lords didn't just feel simple hostility toward Louis; they hated him for making them see their own backwardness.
They envied Red Tide's prosperity, regretted not joining years ago, yet stubbornly clung to their arrogance, refusing to admit reality.
He sat back in the carriage, clenching his gloved fingers.
"This isn't a matter of character—it's a gap in civilization."
And the Red Tide system was dragging the entire North toward a new era with a silent yet irresistible force.
And these people could only be left behind, appearing more ridiculous the harder they struggled.
Traveling north, Sorell had initially focused only on the various lords.
But gradually, he realized that the truest reflection of a land's condition wasn't the banquets or the castles, but the ordinary people living in the wind and snow.
When the carriage passed through the old territories that rejected the Red Tide system, the scene was too stark to ignore—
In the winter night, the streets were pitch black, lacking even a decent oil lamp. When the wind blew, the cold was real, not the warmth resisted by a hearth fire.
Outside broken houses, he saw vagrants huddled at the edge of the snow, wrapped in torn sacks.
Some avoided the carriage as if frightened; others looked numb, habitually lowering their heads and hunching their shoulders.
Children hid in the corners of shanties, their eyes large but devoid of light.
Occasionally staring at passersby, they looked like shadows that would bring no good news. freewёbnoνel.com
What made Sorell frown the most were the knights.
Squads of knights in tattered cloaks charged recklessly through the streets, completely disregarding the whereabouts of the commoners.
Their horses scattered the vagrants; one woman was forced to slam against a wall to avoid being trampled.
Sorell watched the scene from the carriage, unconsciously clenching his fists.
"This is the North I remember."
But a few days further north, the scene changed as if switched from the root.
After entering the sphere of influence of the Red Tide system, the night was still cold, but it was sustained by scattered points of light.
Iron furnaces were burning by the roadside, and Magic Stone Lamps hung on wooden poles, emitting a steady white light, allowing people to travel at night without stumbling in the dark.
Porridge stalls appeared on the side of the road, steam rising at the entrance of the stall. Several elderly people were queuing for hot porridge, with two lazy stray cats curled up at their feet.
Further away was a small clinic, its wooden sign painted with the Red Tide sun crest.
The female medic at the door, wrapped in a thick shawl, was softly comforting a mother holding a child.
Sorell gazed at these scenes, a strange confusion rising in his heart for the first time.
Children played in the street, their laughter cleaner than the snow. Someone threw a snowball, someone fell, and an adult immediately rushed over to help.
A woman was mending a fence using a Red Tide iron farm tool; the tool was effortless to use, and the woman's technique was skilled, as if she had used it for a long time.
A granary stood in the distance against the snow line, its external walls of new wood-and-stone construction, stable like a small mountain.
Several workers were moving sacks of grain back and forth from the warehouse, their faces showing clear warmth and vitality.
But it was the patrolling knights that held Sorell's gaze longer.
The knight squads under the Red Tide system moved in formation, cloaked in deep red, their horses' hooves quiet. When they passed an intersection, they actively pulled the reins to slow down, giving way to pedestrians.
One knight even bowed slightly and exchanged a greeting with a passerby: "Watch out for the ice underfoot."
That tone was unlike any knight's tone Sorell had ever imagined.
"Is this—the reformed North?"
Sorell spoke softly, his eyes resting on the interplay of light and shadow cast by the distant granary and the Magic Stone Lamps.
"Or—a completely new nation?" ƒreeωebnovel.ƈom
The faces of the lords could be disguised. But the lives of the residents do not lie.
Moving further east, the wind and snow grew denser.
The carriage window was covered in a layer of frost, but the outline of the city still pushed through from afar.
When Sorell lifted the curtain for the first time, he didn't see a single city, but two entirely different colossal shadows standing side by side.
On the left, a brilliant glow of lights spread out in the snow mist.
The city walls were towering, the streets linear, and the light from the Magic Stone Lamps was like gold dust scattered by the wind, layer upon layer, illuminating half the sky. Even from this distance, he could feel the pressure of scale and order, like a highly perfected prosperity.
And on the right, in the shadows further away, there was a different scene.
Gray smoke rose there—not chaotic plumes, but stable, orderly, evenly spaced columns of smoke.
The snow was dyed light gray by these smoke columns, and several massive buildings spanned the landscape like mountain ridges, their lines straight, devoid of any aristocratic ornamentation.
Sorell stared for a long time before realizing they were workshops—but their scale far surpassed the Imperial Capital Military Workshop he had seen.
But he knew nothing of the details, only that the area resembled the body of a steel behemoth, while the prosperous city on the left was the behemoth's head.
Together, they formed Red Tide City.
He lowered the curtain and sat back on the cushion, his chest feeling constricted.
He placed his hand in his coat, gripping the silver pendant.
The image of Ellie inside the pendant was familiar and gentle, but now it only made his heart feel more anxious.
He repeatedly reviewed his mission along the way.
Imperial grace? Enfeoffment? A seat? Legal endorsement?
These words spun in his mind, but quickly softened, like paper soaked in water.
He had assumed the chaos of the North would make these bargaining chips useful, but the lords he had met along the way—they looked at Louis not as a fellow lord, but as the patron they relied on for wealth.
They were thinking about dividends, workshops, roads, and warm stoves, not Imperial noble titles.
Even the most stubborn old nobles showed uncontrollable desire when talking about Red Tide's glass and hardened roads.
Sorell closed his eyes, his fingertips unconsciously pinching the pendant.
Imperial noble titles held no attraction here, Imperial law held no authority here, and as for money—he thought of the lords boasting about dividends, the mountains of grain in Red Tide's granaries, and the workshops and goods he had seen along the way—
He could no longer lie to himself: Red Tide was richer than most Imperial provinces, perhaps much richer.
He couldn't possibly offer them anything they would value.
Sorell closed the pendant, his palm cold, sweat already seeping out.
When he looked up again, Red Tide City was drawing closer. The two cities standing side by side, one prosperous and one of steel, opened up like a giant maw on the horizon.
