"Winter... fishing ground?" Luke was taken aback, quickly understanding, "You mean ice fishing? We usually do that."

"Something like that." Louis nodded, "But I have a few improvements to make."

He took out a map, pointing to several tributaries on it, carefully choosing his words as he shared his ideas:

"Those areas with lower terrain, slower water flow, and slower freezing speeds can be prioritized.

First, chisel an ice hole, then reinforce the edges with thick planks and stones to prevent collapse.

Next, set a net under the ice and use small fish and minced meat as bait to create a fishing hole, then establish a fishermen rotation, fishing once each morning and evening.

You can also dig drainage ditches to direct hot spring runoff or geothermal water. Any warmth in the water helps, so the fish don't freeze to death.

Of course, these are just my ideas, and the specific operation is up to you. You don't have to follow exactly what I say, as long as you can catch more fish."

"Yes! I'll do my best!" Luke patted his chest, "If this works out, there won't be a shortage of meat in Red Tide Territory this winter!"

"You're exaggerating, but even if we catch only a few dozen pounds a day, it's better than nothing." Louis replied coldly.

Luke responded and left, quickly sketching something in his notebook while muttering to himself, "The master is truly a genius."

Although the first snow had yet to fall, the winter food stockpile battle in Red Tide Territory had already entered its second phase.

......

The sky was oppressively gray, and the wind howled through the gaps in the ruined rooftops, stirring up a layer of charred ashes on the ground.

Ian knelt in a dilapidated house, holding the unconscious Mia in his arms, his expression despairing.

The girl's small face was burning hot, her lips already cracked, and her eyelashes trembled lightly in the wind, like withered leaves in late autumn.

"Wake up... Mia, you have to wake up..."

Ian wiped her forehead with his sleeve, being so gentle as if afraid that any force would erase her from this world.

But Mia showed no response, her breath growing weaker by the moment.

Ian, in his futile efforts, lowered his head, burying his face in his daughter's shoulder, letting out a deeply suppressed sob.

But no one responded to him.

This place was once the village where their ancestors had lived for generations.

Two months ago, one could still hear the laughter of children by the stream, wives chatting cheerfully by the well while doing laundry, and men busy with wooden boards repairing houses for winter.

Ian's home was at the village entrance, not too big or small, with a virtuous wife and an adorable little daughter, Mia.

He never thought that everything would be gone in an instant.

The first attack was two months ago, when the Snow Swearers rode warhorses down the mountain pass, like an avalanche coming out of nowhere.

There were no horns, no warnings.

The men didn't even have time to grab their axes before they fell in pools of blood.

The women and children didn't have time to escape and were dragged into the sea of flames.

That day, Ian happened to be chopping wood in the back mountain, and by the time he returned, the village had already turned into a sea of red flames.

He only managed to rush into his house and carry out his daughter, who was hiding in the corner of a room.

He couldn't find his wife, nor did he see her body; he only found her apron and shoes by the shattered stove.

He had to take his daughter into the back mountain and hide in the woods for three days, surviving on spring water and tree bark.

A few days later, they returned to the village with other survivors.

The village had been completely looted.

The bodies had already decayed, some dragged away by wild animals, the warehouses emptied, even the well water shining with an oily, putrid gleam.

Someone tried to take a sip and never woke up the next day.

Ian covered that well, sealing it with rubble, not daring to let Mia near it even by a step.

Holding Mia, he searched house by house.

Every remaining mud house he meticulously searched, looking for anything edible, usable, or burnable.

Even just a piece of not completely moldy hard bread, a torn piece of animal skin.

At that time, he had only one thought: as long as Mia survived.

He cleared out a small wooden house in the back, nailing two large wooden boards horizontally where the door had burned down.

The roof was leaky, so he climbed up and patched it with thick layers of burlap and straw.

In the corner were moldy grains; he carefully sifted them clean, boiled them into porridge, and fed her mouthful by mouthful.

Every day, he had to go out to gather firewood, find wild vegetables, and turn over the muddy ground, hoping to find a not completely rotten turnip or catch a wild rabbit.

At first, things were still alright; Mia, though weak, could open her eyes, smile, and even make little jokes: "Dad, you stole the little mouse's meal again, it's going to be angry."

But two nights ago, she suddenly developed a high fever.

She kept shivering yet complained of feeling cold, her lips pale, her forehead burning hot.

Ian panicked, stuffing everything burnable into the stove, even placing his outer coat into the bedding.

He fed her herbal decoctions and small bits of dry food.

But nothing worked; Mia grew weaker by the day, spoke less and less, and her eyes wouldn't open.

Just a while ago, Old Eun made a special trip to visit.

He was one of the few elders who survived in the village, highly respected.

He bent over as he entered, glanced at the child on the bed, then looked at Ian, "She won't make it."

Ian said nothing, only tightened his grip on his daughter's hand.

Old Eun took a few steps closer and sighed, "This burning can't be saved... If you drag it out, you'll also drain yourself."

He pointed outside, "That little river out back hasn't frozen."

Ian raised his head, his pupils constricting instantly, "What are you trying to say?"

"Let her go, it'll be a release, and she'll suffer less," Old Eun said.

The air suddenly turned as cold as frozen snow.

"Say that again." Ian's voice was as hoarse as sandpaper.

Old Eun tried to persuade further, "Ian, be realistic! If she were awake, she wouldn't want you to... even risk your life..."

"Get out." Ian stood up, eyes devoid of human warmth, "Leave now."

Old Eun sighed, shrinking as he retreated.

The moment the door closed, the room returned to its deathly silence, with only the crackling sound of the fire and the girl's intermittent breathing.

Ian sat by the bed, holding Mia, carefully pressing her burning forehead against his chest.

She was so hot, as if she could burst into ashes at any moment.

He was helpless; he truly had no solution left.

The firewood was nearly gone, the clean water was running out.

Ian dared not close his eyes, dared not sleep, just hugging her repeatedly in his heart saying, "Hold on... just a bit longer... just a bit more..."

At this moment, the distant sound of hoofbeats suddenly emerged.

"Clip-clop, clip-clop, clip-clop..."

"Could it be those bandits again?"

Ian stiffened all over, his breath caught in his throat, his eyes crazily scanning for any escape route.

How to escape now? With what?

He was barely holding on, and Mia was still burning with fever, unable to even walk.

Ian clenched his teeth, his fingers reaching toward the firewood knife beside the stove, his eyes glued to the door.

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