Lord of Winter: Beginning with Daily Intelligence - Chapter 568 - 341: Factory and Training (Part 2)

Chapter 568: Chapter 341: Factory and Training (Part 2)

Steam-powered looms signify more than just increased efficiency; they mark Red Tide Territory’s first true step into mass production.

……

The number of barbarian youths moving into the domed houses increased, now seventy-six in total, not just the original seventeen.

On their fourth day here, Halom brought another group of fresh faces.

As soon as they entered, they looked around warily, hands subconsciously reaching for their waists as if checking for their customary daggers.

Despite having been asked to surrender all weapons before entering the city.

Meanwhile, the old residents had gradually adapted to the rhythm of life in Red Tide.

“Don’t be nervous.” Beisha was the first to stand up, walking over to the newcomers and patting one of them on the shoulder, “We were like this when we first came, but you’ll get used to it soon enough.”

Beisha’s expression was natural, his tone as though welcoming a lost relative home.

He even seemed a bit proud: “I can almost recite the great Lord’s heroic deeds backwards now.”

The newcomer stared at him, a bit puzzled: “Are you… one of them?”

Beisha grinned broadly, “I’m one of the Red Tide people now.”

He spoke with conviction, even a bit of pride, while inviting everyone to eat.

Hot rye bread, stew, and roasted vegetables were neatly laid out on the long table, one portion per person.

The food wasn’t luxurious, but for these barbarian youths who were used to nibbling on dried meat in the snow, it was a rare delicacy.

The new arrivals rushed over, grabbing bread and stuffing it into their mouths.

“Don’t run off after you’re done eating; go take a bath later,” Beisha reminded them, “It’s with hot water, not heated by firewood, but from underground pipes.”

The new youth pouted, mumbling “You’re kidding,” but kept eating faster, not wanting to waste a single piece of meat.

Seeing him eat faster and faster, Kosa, sitting in the corner, just lightly snorted.

Kosa chewed on bread slowly, as usual, without speaking.

But his gaze was much gentler than when he first arrived.

Kosa still remembered standing suspiciously at the hot water bathhouse’s entrance on his first day, like facing some sort of trap.

But when he actually stepped in and the hot water flowed down through the copper pipes, that warmth almost overwhelmed him.

Now, he had learned how to adjust the temperature, hang towels, and when to take clean clothes.

Their schedule was posted at the entrance, printed in standard Imperial language, with instructors checking daily if tasks were completed.

Initially, he resisted, believing it was a process of enslavement and conditioning.

But he started to realize that if he followed the rules, no one yelled at him, he ate well, stayed warm, and slept in draft-free houses.

“It’s not so bad, actually,” he muttered to himself.

Beisha, sitting beside him, spoke eagerly: “Next week, we’ll visit the workshop; I hear the steam hammer there can break rocks.”

“Do you really want to become one of the Red Tide people?” Kosa suddenly asked.

Beisha didn’t hesitate at all: “Of course. I had no home, no land, nothing to eat before. Now I have a house, clothes, food… Red Tide Territory gave me everything, and I want to stay and become an official, like Lord Halom.”

Halom had clearly become an idol to Beisha.

Upon hearing this, Kosa said no more, burying his head to continue eating.

……

Besides living, the training was also somewhat different.

Once all the barbarian youths had gathered, the training at Red Tide officially began.

Kosa wasn’t afraid in the least, having followed his tribe into actual battle before.

The Imperial and barbarian youths were interspersed without any distinction or special precautions.

Kosa stood at the end of the lineup, scanning those around him.

“The operation of Fighting Energy… almost identical to what I learned,” he silently judged to himself.

Whether it was the standard Fighting Energy cultivated by Imperial Knights, or the primal battle spirit invoked by barbarian warriors, they all derived from the same power system.

Both channels internal energy to enhance strength, speed, and endurance, though its principles remain a mystery.

However, unlike the new barbarian youths, Red Tide youths’ movements were orderly, rhythms distinct, having long adapted to this discipline.

When the instructor commanded a turn, there were no shouts, no whips; everyone complied.

Kosa was slow to follow initially, but a gray-haired boy beside him whispered a reminder: “Your step count is off, half a step to the right and you’re good.”

He grunted but wasn’t adept at expressing thanks, so he said nothing else.

That day was their first combat techniques drilling session.

The leader’s instructor was a burly man with a scarred cheek, wearing Red Tide Standard light armor, striding into the snowy ground to stand at the front.

“I’m Bruch, training officer for the youth camp at Red Tide Territory.”

His voice was deep yet pierced the entire training ground, no one dared to speak, and not even a cough was heard.

“I don’t care whose aristocratic brat you are. Once you step into this lineup, you’re part of the Red Tide.”

His gaze swept the crowd, landing on a few particularly wary barbarian youths.

“I won’t teach you Fighting Energy operation; some of you know more than I do. Today, we start with combat techniques, beginning with the low stance slash.”

He paused, face growing sterner: “Don’t think these are just flowery punches and kicks. If your last step is unstable, the person next to you may lose their head.”

“In Red Tide, discipline is a warrior’s lifeline. You can lack Fighting Energy, but you cannot disobey orders. If you don’t understand the orders, go herd sheep instead.”

He finished by throwing his short sword with a clang into the snow, pointing at a row of training dummies behind:

“Ten low stance slashes per person, in groups of three, change styles in an hour, whoever fails doesn’t eat dinner.”

There was no commotion in the ranks; everyone complied.

Kosa initially thought Imperial training was just writing exercises and putting on airs, surprised that the first lesson was real combat technique.

Although the practice swords were wooden, they were terribly heavy.

His first low slash had too low an angle, hitting sloppily, the second was slightly quicker, the rebound leaving his wrist numb.

No one laughed at him because all the Apprentice Knights were not much different.

The gray-haired boy in his group even frowned, reminding him: “Your sword is too high; it will ruin the formation.”

“Will ruin the formation,” rather than “will hurt me.”

Kosa began to understand what discipline meant to the Red Tide people.

During their practice of the fifth style, another squad encountered a problem next to them.

A barbarian youth deliberately slashed a beat too fast, misaligning his move, and the Imperial youth beside him could not keep up. The entire formation fell into chaos, with one nearly being clipped at the knee, crying out in surprise.

Instructor Bruch walked over, sternly stating: “If that slash was on a real battlefield, your comrade would already be dead.”

The barbarian youth tried to argue: “I just wanted to speed up a little…”

“You prioritize speed and disregard orders, endangering your comrades?”

Bruch stared at him, voice still not loud yet chillingly firm.

“Punishment: ten rounds of continuous low stance combat; everyone else watches.”

The entire training field fell silent.

The barbarian youth’s face turned beet red, biting his lip and complying.

The Imperial youth who was harmed said nothing, silently returning to the formation.

“Discipline is not for show,” Bruch glanced across the field, “If your last step falters, someone behind you pays with their life.”

“Don’t treat what we teach as slogans, nor your comrades’ lives as trifles.”

Subsequent training switched to battle array drills.

Groups of three, two in front, one behind, rotating slashes, practicing segmented mutual-cover basic techniques.

Movements needed synchronization, every strike required control over distance, angle, and timing, without a hint of error.

“This is not a duel,” emphasized the instructor, “battle arrays are about mutual survival.”

“If you want to continue like this, become a hunter, not a knight.”

Kosa gritted his teeth, persisting; his movements were agile, slashes accurate, but coordinating perfectly with others was much harder than solo combat tenfold.

If the formation missed by an inch, the whole action collapsed.

But he gradually understood Bruch’s intent, the significance of discipline.