Lord of Winter: Beginning with Daily Intelligence

Chapter 807 - 441: Dawn Port Status_3

Louis stopped in his tracks, his gaze not immediately drawn to the bottom of the dock, but instead attracted by the figure on the scaffold.

That was an old man utterly out of place here.

He stood on the steel frame mid-air, back to the entrance, not tall, yet unusually straight.

He wore a pair of linen overalls stained black with machine oil, sleeves rolled up to the elbow, revealing wrists covered in calluses.

In stark contrast to this outfit was the meticulously knotted, slightly yellowed silk scarf at his collar.

His hair, graying, was carefully combed back and even slicked with pomade, gleaming subtly under the lights.

In his hand was not a wrench, but a piece of chalk.

A blackboard stood by the steel frame, covered with densely packed lines. Not an outline, but complex stress structure diagrams that made one’s scalp tingle.

"This rib’s angle is incorrect. It may not show in still water, but under full load, crosswaves, and headwinds combined, it’ll crack first. Shipbuilding isn’t about piling wood."

He firmly pointed with chalk on the diagram: "It’s about providing sailors a living home in rough seas and heavy loads. Even if a rivet snaps, the structure must hold. Remember that, children?"

A few engineers stood below, clutching papers, sweating slightly, yet not daring to argue, only nodding repeatedly.

At that moment, he seemed less a craftsman and more a master passing on the flame.

Eliot softly reported something.

Only then did the old man turn around.

When he saw Louis, he was neither flustered nor in a hurry to descend.

He took off his reading glasses, slowly wiped away the chalk dust with a handkerchief, and then reached out to adjust the tarnished badge on his chest.

It was an old Calvin Clan badge, oxidized almost beyond its original sheen, but polished very clean.

Then, he steadied himself on the swaying scaffold.

At that moment, his back was ramrod straight, as if raising his last dignity together.

He performed a courtly salute from the Old Empire, as standard as it could be.

This was his homage as a shipwright, to a person who truly understood ships, craftsmen, and this era.

The old man’s posture was very straight, yet still showed a momentary tension.

He was controlling his emotions, as if striving not to appear inappropriate.

"Lord Louis." His voice was lower than before but steadier, "Without you, these hands of mine should have long been taken away."

He paused, his gaze briefly sweeping over the surrounding steel beams, scaffolding, and those young engineers standing silently.

"It’s because of you I can still stand in this dock, and these children are willing to listen to an old man. To me, that is the greatest kindness."

Having said this, he no longer explained further.

He just took a deep breath, as if pushing all the weight in his chest back down, then quickly composed himself.

Then, he stepped aside, gesturing towards the depths of the dock, for the first time unable to hide the urgency in his tone.

"Please."

The spotlights lit up one by one, peeling away layers of shadow.

Two massive steel beasts lay quietly at the dry dock’s bottom.

No sleek lines, no embellishments.

Like black bastions forcibly pressed onto the water’s surface.

On the left ship’s bow armor, the prominent name was cast in brass — [Fernando].

Louis’s gaze lingered on those words for a moment: "I never go back on my word, Orland, your surname will be engraved on the Red Tide Navy’s flagship."

The old shipwright’s Adam’s apple noticeably moved.

He didn’t reply, only stared intently at that ship, as if confirming it still existed.

This ship did not belong to this era at all.

The hull was broad, freeboard towering, with a suffocating sense of oppression.

Completely black, not a single plank exposed, entirely wrapped in thick, surface-hardened steel armor.

The hull featured two cold gun ports, resembling fortress firing holes, silently gaping.

In the middle of the ship, two massive smokestacks tilted back.

Even when extinguished, one could imagine them belching black smoke, obscuring the skies.

Orland’s voice echoed in the empty dock, filled with almost manic pride: "It’s not pretty or gentle, my lord, it was born to end this era."

He looked at that ship as if it were his most cherished child.

And Louis, standing in the shadow of steel, reached out to touch the cold armor: "No, Orland, this is the era’s finest work of art."