Lord of Winter: Beginning with Daily Intelligence - Chapter 534 - 325: A Day in the Life of Bradley (2)

Chapter 534: Chapter 325: A Day in the Life of Bradley (2)

In front of the medical facility, a few physicians returning from night patrol were exchanging shifts, wrapped in thick felt, their faces showing the fatigue of an overnight vigil.

Upon seeing Bradley approaching, Dr. Murray, the person in charge, quickly came out to greet him respectfully.

“Last night, four new cases of fever were reported: two from refugee residences and two from local households. They have been transferred to the special hospital according to protocol.” She paused, “No severe coughing or vomiting observed, preliminary diagnosis suggests common flu.”

Bradley nodded, looking toward the wooden house, which had long been converted into a special hospital following the “Red Tide Epidemic Emergency Protocol.”

“Have you tried the batch of medicine sent from the South?” he asked.

Murray nodded: “We have. It’s most stable for the children. It controls body temperature an hour faster than the local medication of the Northern Territory.”

“If the medicine is not enough, submit a request.” Bradley’s tone was firm, “Do not let paperwork delay treatment for anyone.”

This was not a casual order; it was stipulated in the regulations.

The ordinance personally set by Louis clearly stated: “Winter epidemic control prioritizes efficiency; medication standard prioritizes the severely ill; there must be no suppression of batches or intentional delays.”

Bradley added another sentence: “Are the case files compiled?”

“Submitted daily, unified processing by the archives; if a red line index is triggered, immediate transition to patient mode.”

“Very well.” He gently patted Murray’s shoulder, “You’re doing great.”

Murray said nothing, only bowed his head, and waited until Bradley’s carriage had gone far before he heaved a sigh of relief.

These seemingly ordinary procedures had long become a system.

After all, any minor illness could become a disaster in winter.

And now not only Murray, but the entire Red Tide medical team could execute each response accurately and calmly because they had clear guidelines to follow.

After leaving the medical facility, the snowfall lessened a bit, but the sky remained overcast.

The small road leading to the outskirts of the Artisan District was covered in uncleared snow, making it impassable for the carriage, so Bradley, cloaked, walked with two attendants.

Footfalls crunched on the snow, mingling with the cold air and the distant smell of coal smoke.

Most of the shops on the Artisan District street were already closed for the winter, with seals on their doors and snow piled high, except for the small building at the end of the street which still puffed white steam.

That was the Red Tide heating center, where the central team responsible for maintaining the entire town’s winter geothermal system worked.

As one approached, one could hear the hissing of steam, like some living beast breathing in the snow.

A few technicians at the door, wrapped in sheepskin aprons, were squatting in front of an open pipe, adjusting gear valves, their faces red with cold, yet no one stopped working.

Bradley approached quietly: “Thank you for your hard work. I came to check on things.”

The technicians turned, surprised, especially the youngest, who took a moment to react.

He stood up hastily, holding a wrench, his face flushed: “Th-thank you, sir!”

This young man was the deputy leader of the steam engine construction team, Hamilton.

Bradley smiled slightly, his gaze falling on the new installation.

It was a steam pressure regulator boiler half-buried in a brick foundation, with copper pipes and a thermal channel extending out crookedly like steel snakes emerging from the ground.

A sign welded on its side had writing blurred by high temperatures, leaving only “Red Tide Number One · Winter Use” barely legible.

“Is it thanks to this machine that the West District didn’t freeze?” Bradley looked at the constantly steaming valve.

Hamilton, squatting nearby checking the pressure gauge, turned around, a hint of pride in his tone: “It… well, it can probably raise the temperature from twenty degrees geothermal to thirty-seven or eight degrees.”

He scratched his head, adding: “But the technology isn’t completely matured; it needs daily monitoring. If a pipe swells and cracks, the whole section must be dug up and redone.”

Bradley did not laugh, but nodded.

This thing was far from elegant or precise, looking more like a monstrous concoction of steam, iron sheets, and heat welding.

But it was indeed useful, truly able to prevent Red Tide’s warm shelters from turning into icehouses.

Bradley turned to look toward the end of the pipeline: “Oh, someone from the East District reported yesterday that the temperature in the warm rooms at the far end was low and heat wasn’t reaching. Have you checked it?”

“Checked!” an older technician answered quickly, “That section of the pipeline is buried, pressure is insufficient; we’re sending a part there today, it’ll be restored tonight.”

“Good.” Bradley nodded, sweeping his gaze through the snow mist, “Thank you all for your hard work. Tonight, I’ll have Logistics send another batch of hot meals.”

He said no more and turned to leave.

…

When he returned to the administrative square, the sky had already darkened, but the conference hall was brightly lit, the fire and steam pipes warming the hall like spring.

Bradley sat at the main seat, a pot of still-warm tea at hand.

Artisan Office, smoked fish factory, education department… representatives from each district had arrived one after another.

The bustling meeting hall was filled with interwoven voices, and a few bowls of stewed meat were placed on the table, a night snack sent from the kitchen in advance.

Bradley turned a page of his notes, speaking briefly: “You all did well for last year’s celebrations. This year’s Spring Festival plans started earlier than usual, so it must be even better.”

Subsequently, each district presented their Spring Festival plans.

The Artisan District representative stood up, enthusiastically rolling up his sleeves: “We’ve prepared a ’Winter Iron Punching Challenge!’ Using thick steel plates provided by the workshop, punching holes on the spot to see who has steady hands and strength.”

“What’s interesting about that? It’s not as good as last year’s sword forging,” someone laughed lightly.

“The smoked fish factory is hosting a ’Pickled Fish King Contest’ this year, with each fishing household presenting a barrel, and the judging panel will find the best flavor! We want the taste of sea brine to fill the square!”