Lord of the Frozen Winter: Starting with Daily Intelligence Reports

After the hunt concluded, the Knights excitedly gathered around the massive bodies of the wild oxen, whispering amongst themselves as they gazed at the colossal beasts lying in pools of blood.

"Your Highness, what should we do with these?" one Knight finally couldn't help but ask.

Louis Calvin surveyed the scattered remains of the giant beasts, his arms crossed as he pondered for a moment.

Truth be told, these Snow River Wild Oxen were thick-skinned and tough-fleshed. They weren't rare magical beasts, nor did they have any medicinal or alchemical value. The only thing worth mentioning was that their meat was quite delicious.

His gaze swept over everyone, and he smiled, saying, "Since we worked so hard to take them down, drag them all back. We'll hold a spring feast to celebrate the harvest."

"Oh—!" The Knights cheered, praising Louis Calvin's generosity and raising their morale to its peak.

However, Louis Calvin's thoughts had already turned to his true objective.

These oxen were not the key; the Frostleaf Vine was the reason he had put so much effort into his meticulous plan.

Of course, it was impossible to simply uproot the vines and take them back; that would be too short-sighted. The truly long-term approach was to properly domesticate and cultivate them.

"Go, call Agricultural Affairs Officer Mick," he commanded.

Soon, Agricultural Affairs Officer Mick of Red Tide Territory arrived with several experienced herbalists who specialized in transplanting, a hint of unsuppressed excitement still on his face.

"Your Highness, you summoned me!"

Louis Calvin raised a hand and pointed to the flourishing Frostleaf Vine, his tone calm: "Prepare to transplant this plant."

He swept his gaze over them, speaking unhurriedly:

"Remember to choose one to two-year-old saplings. Their roots must be blue-white, and their leaf veins must not be yellow. These have the highest survival rate.

When digging, be careful to keep the root system intact, with the soil ball attached; don't let it scatter. Don't break the vine stems, especially the newly grown tender branches, as that is the most crucial part of their spring growth.

If you can find root clumps with small lateral buds, that's even better, as those are the core of its expansion."

"Understood!" Mick grinned, his eyes lighting up. "Your Highness, rest assured, we will replicate this vine forest for you exactly as it is!"

Frost Halberd City, late at night.

Thick curtains blocked the wailing of the north wind outside the window. The fire in the fireplace was dim, and a piece of charcoal crackled, illuminating the room with a faint red glow.

Duke Edmund sat behind his desk, his fingertips slowly caressing the sealed letter with golden wax. The royal dragon crest on the envelope was still familiar.

He had long recognized that this letter was from the Emperor's own hand.

He opened it directly, without any extra ceremony.

He read it quietly, his eyes showing no ripples: "It's here after all."

His tone was neither sad nor happy, only a hint of weariness in his brows.

In fact, he had already learned the content of this letter several times from the Emperor's previous correspondence.

Only this time, it was an official issuance of the "Northland Reclamation Edict - Round Two."

This was not the first time he had received such an order.

The previous batch of so-called "noble scions" hadn't even grown a bag of wheat on the frozen soil before half of them died.

Those who survived were either mad or deserters, all becoming laughingstocks in the Northland.

Of course, there was also Louis Calvin, who stood out, but he was the only one.

He knew the true meaning of these orders: they weren't genuinely concerned with the development of the Northland, but rather the Emperor's push for a balance of power, to weaken the Eight Great Families, especially those old nobles deeply rooted in the south.

He himself, or rather, his Edmund Family, was already powerless to resist the Emperor's commands.

Two years ago, during the rebellion, the Northland ran red with blood, and Frost Halberd City almost fell.

Two-thirds of his family died, and more names were crossed out on the family tree than there were living members.

Although the Edmund Family was still listed among the Eight Great Families, in reality, apart from the command of the Northern Army, their other aspects like finances, influence, and trade routes were already in name only.

"That's fine..." he murmured.

He was not unwilling to see the weakening of the other Eight Great Families.

At least it could create a moment of respite for his own family in the surging tide of power within the Imperial Court.

Of course, the Emperor had also promised that local Northland nobles would later be eligible to participate in the development of new territories in the south, as an exchange.

Edmund was quite convinced of this, because he knew what kind of person the Emperor was; he would not lie to himself.

They were old acquaintances; when the Emperor was still a prince, he had been stationed in the Northland for three years, and they had drunk together and fought side by side.

The friendship of those years was genuine, and their correspondence had not ceased for several years thereafter.

Only in recent years, every action taken by this former friend had made him increasingly incomprehensible.

"Knock, knock."

Just as Edmund was gazing out the window, lost in thought, a few light knocks sounded from behind him.

"Father, may I come in?"

It was a sweet voice, like the first ray of sunlight falling on snow.

He didn't need to turn around to know who it was.

"Come in, Emily," Edmund's lips curved into a long-lost gentle smile.

The door gently pushed open, and a girl carrying a silver tray stepped into the study.

She wore a thick noble blue-and-white gown, an apron over it, and carried steaming coffee. Her steps were steady, yet her movements were as light as a cat's.

"I see you're staying up late again," Emily complained softly, placing the coffee steadily on the desk. "I had them add more milk; don't drink it so bitter anymore."

"Mm, I know," Edmund reached out and took the cup, the warmth of the coffee seeping through the cup wall into his palm.

He once told others that if Emily had been born in the Imperial Capital, she might have already become a princess.

In fact, the Emperor had offered to help arrange a marriage, but Emily was too young then, and he couldn't bear to part with her, so he had declined. Now, he looked up at her standing in the firelight and suddenly felt a lump in his throat.

She had indeed reached the age for marriage, and it couldn't be delayed any longer.

"What's wrong?" Emily noticed his silence and tilted her head to ask.

"Nothing," he smiled, taking a sip of coffee as if to cover up. "I just suddenly feel that time passes too quickly."

Emily didn't understand what he meant, or rather, she understood but chose not to reveal it, merely lowering her head and smiling softly.

Edmund looked at her smiling face, a complex emotion stirring in his heart.

This girl would probably end up with that boy, Louis Calvin.

His age was well-matched with the Calvin Family, he had military achievements, and his abilities were outstanding. Although the Emperor hadn't explicitly stated it, he hadn't objected either, which meant tacit approval.

And in the correspondence between the two families, the details were gradually being confirmed.

If nothing unexpected happened, the wedding would likely be held this year.

He always felt as if it should be a little later, that he should spend a few more years with her.

To see her walk in the door a few more times, carrying coffee, calling him "Father."

But alas, a person ultimately cannot keep his daughter by his side forever.

"Emily," Edmund finally spoke, his voice low and slow. "I had originally wanted to wait a bit longer for this matter—"

"Hmm?" Emily was busy fastening the clasp of his cape. Hearing him, she looked up, her face innocent and naive. "What matter, Father?"

He hesitated for a moment, but finally said, "You—you might be getting married."

Her hand paused slightly, but she didn't show too much surprise.

"Oh," she lowered her head, her eyelashes casting a soft shadow in the firelight.

"Actually, it's about time," her voice was soft. "I know I'm not young anymore. In other families, I'd probably already have my second child, wouldn't I?"

Edmund winced slightly, shaking his head with a bitter smile.

"Then—who has Father chosen for me?" She asked as if casually, yet couldn't hide the curiosity in her tone.

Edmund paused, as if weighing his words, then sighed and said, "Louis Calvin."

"Ah, is that the one—" Emily narrowed her eyes slightly, searching her memory. "From the Calvin Family? The pioneering lord from the south, right?"

"Mm," he nodded. "He's also one of the Eight Great Families—but a bit different from our family."

Emily nodded. Of course, she knew the name of that "young pioneer"; she had heard people mention him frequently in Frost Halberd City recently.

Things like the "Qingyu Ridge Ambush," "distinguished military achievements," and "an anomaly among the noble wastelanders" made him sound almost like a savior of the Northland.

She was actually quite curious about what kind of man he was—the one who could make her father show a serious expression and even consider marrying her off.

"I'll leave it all to Father's arrangement," she smiled obediently, her hands clasped in front of her skirt, her posture as proper as a noble lady's should be.

But the fleeting hint of cunning in her eyes still didn't escape Edmund's notice.

"Emily—" he warned her with a meaningful look. "You're not planning to run away from the marriage, are you?"

"No, no way," she widened her eyes, her face showing an expression of "I'm so innocent."

"I just think, well," she pursed her lips in feigned thought, her tone a little playful, "it's always necessary to meet beforehand—what if he's too fierce, smiles too fake, and has a bad temper? Then I, I'd have to consider how to escape, right?"

"You rascal," Edmund laughed helplessly, gently flicking her forehead. "If you run, I'll have to issue a military order to bring you back as a runaway bride."

"Ow, that hurts," Emily rubbed her forehead, grumbling, "Then I'll write him a letter beforehand telling him 'I'm very ugly.' Maybe he'll give up on his own."

"He's not that foolish—"

"Then I can only pray he's handsome, funny, and easy to bully," she said as she stood up, her skirt swaying gently. "You can't expect me to marry a fierce, bald old man, can you?"

"He's only nineteen," Edmund sighed, rubbing his forehead.

"A little brother, huh? Then I'll consider it," she said, humming a little tune ⊛ Nоvеlιght ⊛ (Read the full story) as she walked out the door, leaving behind only a warm scent of coffee.

After leaving her father's sight, Emily's expression slowly turned cold.

Her words just now were a joke with her father, but she did indeed want to meet her fiancé.

To see if he was worthy.

The new Northern Territory Reclamation Order was not only sent to Duke Edmund; thick royal envelopes were delivered to the study of every noble obligated to participate in the dispatch.

Duke Calvin had received a visit from the messenger early that morning.

He sat in his study, tapping his fingers on the envelope, a playful smile on his face.

"Here it is again—" he snorted lightly, pulling out the letter. "Almost identical to last year's, just with a few more requirements added, making it seem as if they're 'seriously selecting.'"

He skimmed over the pleasantries, his gaze falling on the key points:

Selection Criteria: Must be a direct blood relative of the family, of Elite Knight strength or above, possess war experience, and be able to lead a Knight squad of at least one hundred people.

"...Oh?" He raised an eyebrow, not angry but smiling instead. "They've gotten smarter this time, afraid we'll send more good-for-nothings to slack off?"

He recalled the absurd fit of pique from last year.

At the time, almost all nobles thought it was merely a "political gesture," with few taking it seriously.

So he had seized the opportunity to send his most mediocre and inconspicuous son, incidentally getting rid of a family hanger-on. Who would have thought that Louis Calvin, with his extremely poor talent and lack of presence, would be like a dragon entering the sea!

He couldn't help but wonder if his son had been feigning foolishness all these years.

Thus, facing a similar order now, he did not treat it lightly. Instead, he spent an entire night deliberating repeatedly among his dozen or so children.

Finally, he picked two people.

Not the most outstanding; the most outstanding had to remain in the Imperial Capital, by his side, as the family's successor seeds.

Nor the worst; those hopeless good-for-nothings would only become nameless bones in the Northland snow, failing to achieve his goals. He knew Louis Calvin was an exception.

These two were just right.

What he wanted was not to "send them to their deaths," but to "verify."

To verify whether Louis Calvin himself was capable, or if the Calvin bloodline was inherently more stable than others in the chaos of the Northland.

"Butler," he finally spoke.

"Yes, My Lord," a butler arrived. "Go, call Pal and Willis. Tell them—I have something to instruct."

"Understood."

Soon, footsteps sounded outside the door.

The study door was gently pushed open, and two figures entered one after another, their gazes steady, their postures tall and straight.

"Father."

"Father."

Duke Calvin nodded, his gaze sweeping over each of them.

Pal was twenty-one, had excelled since childhood, and was particularly outstanding in tactical studies, though somewhat arrogant.

Willis was twenty, steady and quiet, skilled in mounted combat and troop command.

These two would not cause too much turmoil in Imperial Capital politics, but they were sufficient to achieve a result in the Northland.

"Do you know that the Northern Territory Reclamation Order has come again?" he asked, his tone calm.

The two paused, then nodded. "Yes."

"I have submitted your names," he looked at them, his tone devoid of emotion. "Within three weeks, prepare to depart with the troops."

They exchanged glances but did not question their father's decision.

"Last time, your younger brother Louis Calvin went," Duke Calvin said slowly. "He did well, unexpectedly."

The two lowered their heads. "Yes."

"I want to know if that was his personal ability, or if the Calvin blood is naturally suited to conquering the Northland."

Duke Calvin stood up, a heavy sense of authority in his voice: "You will either establish yourselves there, or you will die in that snow."

"Understood," the two responded in low voices.