Free Web NovelThe early summer sunlight pierced through the thin morning mist of the Northern Border.
Looking down from above, the viewing stands surrounding the Red Tide Territory's First Parade Ground were completely submerged by the crowds.
This was not a chaotic and noisy refugee gathering spot, but an ocean of people rising and falling slowly.
Swathes of dark cotton clothing swayed gently in the wind, continuous like the tide, stretching out to the horizon.
Even the distant hillsides, exposed rocky ridges, and tree branches were covered with people.
To secure a spot with a clear view of the entire parade, some people had carried their bedrolls and camped out here three days in advance.
But there was no sour, rotten smell in the air; instead, there was the aroma of roasted potatoes warmed by charcoal, the faint sizzle of butter melting on a griddle, and the unique sweetness of maltose, drifting faintly in the morning breeze.
Vendors weaved back and forth through the crowd, carrying wooden boxes on their shoulders. As soon as a lid was lifted, children immediately swarmed around.
Almost everyone was wearing thick, clean cotton clothes.
The dark cotton clothes were not luxuriously tailored, but they were crisp and well-fitting.
These were standard goods mass-produced by the Red Tide Textile Factory. While commoners in the Southern Province could not afford them, here they were just ordinary daily wear.
The patched, grease-stained linen cloth of the old era had long been relegated to memory.
But the more obvious changes were written on their faces.
They were rosy and full faces; their eyes were no longer sunken, and their cheekbones were no longer protruding.
The physical strength gained from a long-term diet of meat and fat allowed their shoulders and backs to naturally straighten, and their postures were upright when they stood.
It was a posture only held by those who didn't worry about tomorrow.
A sturdy father lifted his daughter onto his neck.
The little girl gripped his neatly trimmed hair, waving a small flag bearing the Sun Emblem in her other hand, red stickers pasted on her cheeks, screaming excitedly.
The father looked up, letting the child sway on his shoulders, his face showing unconcealed pride.
In a corner of the crowd, a family of three was conspicuously quiet.
They were a family of artisans from the Greyrock Province who had moved to the Red Tide Territory two years ago.
The father had once improved a steam piston in a workshop in Greyrock, was later recruited to Red Tide, and was now an official resident.
The child clutched a string of candied berries, something he had only ever heard rumors of being served at noble banquets.
The man's hand unconsciously touched the brand-new cotton clothes on his body, his fingertips repeatedly rubbing the texture of the fabric, as if afraid that if he let go, everything would vanish.
The woman's eyes were slightly red. She did not look at the center of the parade ground but gazed toward the distant castle, clasping her hands and whispering a prayer.
A few years ago, they were still worrying about the heavy taxes imposed by the Remont Family, even secretly discussing whether they should hang themselves together.
Now they stood in the sunlight, their stomachs full of white bread, and the child's lips still sticky with candy.
To them, Louis was not an abstract title of a lord; he was the savior who allowed them to eat well and dress warmly.
Among the crowd, many outsiders could also be seen.
Traveling merchants from the Northern Border, wandering knights from other regions, and even some minor nobles originating from the South.
They, too, were dressed neatly and respectably, trying hard to imitate the clothing and behavior of the Red Tide residents, hoping that one day they might be accepted by this land.
Whispers rolled low in the air.
The populace of Red Tide was not ignorant.
The proliferation of night schools and literacy rates made them exceptionally sensitive to external events.
“Did you hear? The Iron Can Factory has already produced the third generation of steam war chariots.”
“The iron things that can run by themselves and also breathe fire?”
“Shh! My second uncle works at the factory... but I can't say anything.”
The conversation quickly shifted to the South.
“Those bastards from the Church in the South, how dare they cut off our food supply route?”
A retired knight missing an arm stood in the crowd, clenching his remaining hand into a fist: “My life was given by Lord Louis. If anyone dares to touch him, I'll fight them to the death!”
No one feared war.
On the contrary, the air was filled with an almost burning anticipation.
They knew better than anyone who had given them this dream-like life.
But because they had only truly lived well for about ten years, they feared being dragged back into the hell of hunger, cold, and being slaughtered at will... Countless gazes were simultaneously cast toward the center of the parade ground.
Gray stood at the command platform in the center of the parade ground.
He wore a brand-new, pure black general's ceremonial uniform, sharply tailored with no unnecessary embellishments.
However, his chest was covered in heavy medals, marks left by four years of campaigning. The most prominent among them were the Gray Rock Conquest Medal and the First Class Red Tide Sun Badge, representing Red Tide's highest military achievement.
His hair was immaculately combed, his hairline fitting as if measured with a ruler.
On his still-young face, it was difficult to find any trace of youthful inexperience.
The authority forged by years of giving commands settled steadily between his brows and eyes, like an invisible layer of armor.
Only he knew that this composure was not entirely genuine.
He repeatedly adjusted the position of his collar and subconsciously tugged at the edges of his white gloves, ensuring every crease was smooth and proper.
His left hand, resting on the command saber, was still trembling almost imperceptibly.
As the Commander-in-Chief of this parade, he knew better than anyone what stood behind him.
That was neither a hastily assembled mercenary force nor a Knight Regiment upheld by noble bloodlines.
It was an army shaped by discipline, industry, and cold calculation—the first truly and fully industrialized army in human history.
His thoughts uncontrollably drifted back; his earliest memory was the Orphan Camp.
Back then, like many children, he was abandoned by disaster on the roadside. In other territories, orphans meant slaves, mines, and short lives.
But in the Red Tide Territory, Louis gave them milk, meat, and the qualifications to cultivate Battle Qi.
That wasn't pity; it was more like a calm and direct investment.
Later, he was selected for the Lord's Guard, standing behind Louis, holding a longsword and shield, acting as the iron wall that blocked hidden arrows.
Until that day, Louis took the shield that had been with him for years and handed him a command sword instead.
“Your swordsmanship is good, but in the Red Tide Territory, I want you to learn to use your mind to protect Red Tide.”
The following five years were like an inescapable, forced indoctrination.
Ballistics, trench construction, logistics coordination, multi-branch synergy... all the military knowledge that didn't exist in the old era was crammed into his mind.
And this wasn't just theoretical knowledge.
During the conquest of the Greyrock Province, Louis entrusted the front-line command authority entirely to him for the first time.
How steam war chariots should clear the path, when cavalry should be deployed for the harvest... followed by the cleanup of residual noble forces, the hunting of mountain bandits, and the repeated suppression and reconstruction involving the old noble factions.
Repeated low-intensity, yet long and dirty battles honed him into a commander truly capable of controlling the situation.
He trained repeatedly through blueprint simulations and real battlefields, forcibly matured into a general by Louis.
Now he glanced behind him, and stretching to the horizon was an endless steel dragon.
Steam tanks covered by canvas were breathing softly, like a pack of fierce beasts lying in wait.
The scent of metal, engine oil, and steam hung heavily in the air.
“No bloodline, no family background. Yet Lord Louis handed this army, capable of crushing the world, over to me.”
Gray knew very well that seated in the viewing stands were established nobles of the Northern Border, and important figures he once didn't even have the right to look up to.
But today, the person standing here was him.
“I will make them understand that the people chosen by the Red Tide Territory are ten thousand times stronger than those noble knights propped up by bloodline.”
In the distance, a steam whistle sounded low.
The countdown to the parade had begun.
Gray closed his eyes and took a deep breath. That air, mixed with the smell of engine oil, was the unique scent of the Red Tide Territory.
When he opened his eyes again, all distracting thoughts were suppressed back into his heart.
He straightened his white gloves and tightly gripped the command saber at his waist; his hand no longer trembled... Nico changed into a set of clean civilian clothes.
It was neither a military uniform nor a ceremonial robe, just a well-tailored dark jacket.
His face still looked pale, the weakness left by fatigue not having fully receded.
If it weren't for the foundation built by years of cultivation, he likely wouldn't have recovered so quickly.
As a representative of the Calvin Family, he was seated next to the main seat, surrounded by Red Tide executives and major nobles from the Northern Border.
Sitting beside him was Bradley.
The Old Butler had swapped his usual steward's uniform for a formal suit; his back was still straight, and his hands rested naturally on his knees.
Were it not for the extra Gray hairs at his temples, he would look almost identical to how he did twenty years ago, standing behind Duke Calvin.
Nico spoke first, his voice low and hoarse, yet carrying a hint of long-lost ease: “Old friend, you've aged.”
As he spoke, his gaze rested on Bradley's eyes, as if confirming something anew.
“However,” Nico paused and nodded slightly, “your spirit and vitality are better than they were in the Southeast.”
Bradley smiled slightly and raised a hand to pour Nico a cup of hot tea. White steam slowly rose from the rim, dispelling some of the Northern Border morning chill.
“Because there is hope here.” He pushed the teacup toward Nico, his tone calm and certain: “The Young Master has created too many miracles here.”
Nico picked up the teacup and looked down along the direction of the viewing stand.
Below, the formations were perfectly aligned. The black troops were like slabs of steel embedded in the wasteland, their spacing precise and their formation stable, emanating a heart-stopping sense of oppression even before they began to move.
Nico murmured, “I know the Greyrock Province and the Northern Border Province aren't made of paper. To be able to swallow those territories and stabilize the situation...”
He let out a soft breath: “Although I don't want to admit it, the Young Master has already surpassed the Old Duke.”
His judgment was not flattery, but the instinctive assessment of a veteran knight.
Before coming, he had already envisioned the scene of this parade in his mind.
A highly disciplined Knight Regiment, dozens of Extraordinary Knights, supplemented by some new equipment. That would already be enough to be called a powerful army.
But as he truly sat here, watching those silent steel formations with his own eyes, he realized his expectations were still too conservative.
Nico's fingers tightened slightly around the teacup.
“Let me see.” His voice was very soft, almost as if he were speaking only to himself.
“If we are to march south for revenge, we must have teeth.” His gaze was fixed on the formations about to move below, and a long-unseen sharpness appeared in his eyes. “I hope the Young Master's teeth... are hard enough.”
Exactly ten o'clock.
The giant Steam Clock Tower in ◈ Nоvеlіgһт ◈ (Continue reading) the center of the parade ground issued a low, heavy mechanical echo, and the hands settled steadily into position amid the hiss of white steam.
“Woooo—!!”
The sound of the horn suddenly tore through the air.
It was not an ordinary military horn, but a low-frequency sound wave amplified by an Alchemy Amplification Array, dull and prolonged, as if striking directly at the heart.
The audience, which had been surging like a tsunami, was instantly muted as if someone had pressed the silence button on the world the moment the horn sounded.
Dead silence.
Tens of thousands of people fell silent simultaneously, their movements chillingly synchronized.
All eyes lifted at the same moment, focusing on the Lord's Reviewing Stand at the highest point of the parade ground.
That natural, uncommanded obedience sent shivers down the spines of the nobles in the VIP viewing stands. This was not excitement; this was order that had been fully domesticated.
From the shadow of the reviewing stand, a figure slowly stepped forward.
Louis Calvin walked out.
He did not wear the complicated, bulky noble formal wear, nor the heavy plate armor of a traditional knight.
It was a sharply cut, deep black Marshal's uniform, a style unique to the Red Tide Territory.
Golden Sun Epaulets were cold and restrained under the sunlight, and the scarlet cloak behind him flapped loudly in the north wind, like a silent, burning battle flag.
The early summer sunlight fell upon him, yet seemed to be entirely swallowed by the black fabric.
Young, excessively young.
This was the thought of all the nobles. Although they all knew Louis's age, every time they saw him in person, they couldn't help but be shocked by the youthful appearance of the ruler who controlled two major provinces.
But beneath that stern face, his eyes were terrifyingly calm.
In the VIP section, Nico instinctively held his breath.
He could not gauge the young lord's depth, nor could he feel the traditional sense of Battle Qi suppression; it was absolute confidence, as if the world were held in his grasp.
Louis walked to the railing, simply removed his gloves, and casually waved downward.
“Boom—!!”
In the next instant, the silence that had been suppressed for too long completely exploded.
Countless people roared the same name; some were weeping, and others immediately knelt, knocking their foreheads heavily on the ground.
“Lord Louis!!”
To them, the young man on the stage was not an abstract lord or a distant noble, but the savior who had dragged them out of hunger, cold, and humiliation.
He allowed them to live, and to live with dignity—that was enough.
Louis then raised his hand, palm down, making an extremely simple gesture of suppression.
Three seconds, just three seconds.
The sound wave, powerful enough to topple city walls, was pressed back down to the ground by an invisible giant hand.
The cheering stopped abruptly, leaving only the sound of the wind and the low breathing of the steam engines.
This effortless control was more chilling than the earlier fervor.
Louis did not give a brief speech. Instead, he reached out and slowly drew the Cold Iron longsword from his waist.
The moment the blade left the scabbard, a crisp, cold metallic chime echoed in the air.
The sword point aimed straight at the sky, reflecting a blinding cold light in the sun, like a line of judgment stretching between heaven and earth.
The amplification array carried his voice to every corner of the parade ground. fɾeeweɓnѳveɭ.com
“The sharp blade of Red Tide, drawn.”
