Lord of the Frozen Winter: Starting with Daily Intelligence Reports

As dawn broke, Viscount Brook opened his eyes.

He sat up and donned a black robe with silver patterns, perfectly tailored, its shoulder ornaments still retaining the Northern Territory's traditional wolf-tooth leather decorations, exuding stability without losing its noble air.

He gently smoothed the cuffs and adjusted his tie in front of the bronze mirror, then lightly draped a cloak emblazoned with his family crest over his shoulders.

“Hmm, truly worthy of a Northern Territory noble,” he murmured to himself, a satisfied smile appearing in his eyes.

Dressed, he calmly boarded his carriage.

The carriage interior was lined with furs, and outside stood his only remaining three personal guards, a bit lower in rank but still spirited.

He pulled back the curtain and looked out; the streets of Red Tide Territory were already awake in the morning light.

The streets of Red Tide were still bustling.

Under the morning glow, neat rows of new wooden houses and semi-subterranean dwellings lined the streets, with steaming geothermal bacon rising and falling.

The roads were all paved, and many refugees were orderly queuing to receive hot porridge and clean water.

Children chased and played by the clay roads, and security knights wearing Red Tide insignias patrolled.

In the distance, several artisans were hoisting some kind of boiler device, and a Fireback Turtle was dozing beside a heating relay point.

“He’s done really well,” Viscount Brook observed, a hint of admiration in his eyes. “Better than many seasoned old nobles.”

He stroked the wooden frame by the carriage window, narrowing his eyes. “He can fight, and he understands the common people’s lives. If only my son had a tenth of his ability.”

But then, Brook’s smile gradually faded: “It’s a pity he doesn’t understand the rules among nobles. We are not commoners, not these pitiful wretches living on porridge.”

He gripped the carriage window frame, his gaze deepening slightly.

Keep military power in hand, lock supplies in granaries, and stuff the right to speak into a few secret orders and the eyes and ears of the Auditing Department.

Even if he came from an Empire Eight Great Families, even if he made a great contribution, even if the Governor of the Northern Territory said he saved the Northern Territory—so what?

“I’m not trying to seize anything—” some right to speak, a few hundred men, that’s all,” Brook murmured, as if trying to convince himself. “I’m willing to submit to him, truly. But one must at least be given room to breathe.”

The carriage turned a few corners on the familiar cobblestone road and stopped outside the inner castle district of Red Tide Territory.

The black stone gate of the earthen castle remained heavy; the gate guards had been replaced by a new batch, each with clean armor and a straight posture.

Brook remembered his last visit here was in the early stages of the worm corpse disaster.

At that time, he had humbly pledged loyalty, handing over all his knights, only to preserve his family’s bloodline.

This time, he donned the dignity of a noble, bringing a joint proposal and the support of many Snowpeak nobles.

“This time, I will not simply obey.”

He straightened his chest and entered the hall, his steps steady, as if stepping onto a stage for a power struggle.

Inside the Red Tide Lord’s Council Hall.

The morning light streamed through the high windows, slanting across the neatly arranged long tables. The iron lamp stands embedded in the stone walls dispelled the chill, but could not dispel the heavy sense of oppression in the air.

The Red Tide banner hung high at the front of the hall; its sun-like emblem, illuminated by the sunlight, resembled a burning eye, overseeing the entire assembly.

Tables and chairs were arranged meticulously, with noble representatives seated according to their family status and post-war registration order, their names written in red on the seat cards.

Viscount Brook sat in a central position, casually toying with a silver ring on his left hand.

His expression was indifferent, but his gaze swept past the many guests in the hall, landing on the still-empty main seat at the very top.

That was his true focus today.

Among that row of upper seats, already seated were several core figures of Louis’s faction from the Snowpeak Conference.

First to catch the eye was Baron Willis, Louis’s brother, and also Duke Calvin’s son, who had arrived in the Northern Territory a year after Louis and rapidly risen with him.

Next was Baron Yoen, from the wealthy new noble Harvey family, whose father was the Earl Harvey, whose influence had been growing in recent years.

But this young Baron was wholeheartedly devoted to Louis; external rumors claimed they were close friends even before coming to the Northern Territory.

Further down were several new nobles personally promoted and supported by Louis, who, despite their humble origins, wielded real power and were all steadfastly loyal.

Of course, there were also a few dissenters in the council hall.

Though they sat calmly, their faces composed, their eyes occasionally exchanged signals with Brook.

These people were the “pawns” he had secretly aligned beforehand.

And in the two seats further up, sat two young women.

Emily, with elegant blue hair and a composed expression, was the daughter of the Governor of the Northern Territory, Duke Edmond, and also Louis’s lawful wife.

Sif, with cold silver hair and a sharp demeanor, though silent, exuded an imposing presence, and despite her unknown origin, commanded respect.

The main seat between them was empty, as the true protagonist of the day had yet to arrive—Viscount Louis Calvin.

Brook subtly raised his head, looking at the high-backed chair that was not yet occupied, a hint of mockery in his eyes.

“Louis, ah—” he whispered in his heart, “I’m ready. Let’s see how you handle it today.”

As he pondered this, Brook watched the pendulum in the hall slowly approach the appointed time.

The moment the council bell chimed, the large doors slowly opened.

A gust of cold wind swept over the heavy threshold, bringing in the young man everyone was waiting for.

Louis’s steps were unhurried, clad in a crimson robe, his sword still at his waist, and the Northern Territory Shield emblem on his chest.

A gentle, slightly weary smile played on his face, a smile like winter sunlight, very approachable.

The moment he entered, everyone almost instinctively stood up and saluted.

“Lord Louis.”

“Congratulations on your victorious return, Lord Louis!”

“It is our fortune to have you in Snowpeak.”

“Light of the Northern Territory, truly deserving of the title!”

The compliments poured in like a tide, the nobles’ faces wreathed in smiles. Among these words, there was sincerity, and there was also pretense, but regardless of their inner thoughts, their outward demeanor was uniformly respectful.

Brook also stood up, smiling and clapping twice, but his gaze remained fixed on Louis’s eyes.

The young man’s face showed no ripples, as if these praises were merely wind rustling leaves, not even bothering to respond with a “thank you.”

“Still the image of a true young hero,” he thought to himself, his tone full of envy.

“Gentlemen.” Louis sat in the main seat, his gaze sweeping across the hall. “The ❀ Nоvеlігht ❀ (Don’t copy, read here) war is over; we are entering the recovery phase. I know every family has suffered severe losses and has their own ideas, so today’s meeting will be straight to the point, no nonsense. Everyone, if you have any opinions, please speak them.”

He lightly tapped the table, getting straight to the point, even skipping pleasantries.

This was unexpected by everyone, and the entire hall instantly fell silent.

An awkward silence.

Many exchanged glances; they had clearly prepared beforehand, even planning what to contend for and what to propose. But at this moment, no one was willing to speak first.

The atmosphere was like congealed honey, thick and sluggish, as if fearing that one wrong move would break an invisible thread.

Brook frowned slightly; he had hoped Roland would speak first, but the old man was cowering like a field mouse.

Just as the air was about to freeze, Baron Yoen chuckled lightly and raised his hand to speak:

“Boss, now that you’re back, we have food, shelter, and even hot springs here. After the war, we finally have a home. Honestly, I have no complaints.”

Louis turned to look at him and smiled.

Then he calmly continued: “Since there are no suggestions, let’s move on to the next agenda item.”

Seeing Louis about to skip the proposal section, Brook felt a restless anxiety stir within him.

Something was wrong.

This was not what he had expected.

The few leaders he had arranged were now all cowering, not even daring to meet Louis’s gaze. The very ones who had been most aggressive in private now looked like wooden carvings frozen in their seats.

Didn’t you say that as soon as Louis returned, he needed to be taught some “rules”?

He glanced at his few previously “aligned” allies.

Baron Harris was looking down at his shoes, even that kid Siris was uncharacteristically quiet, his eyes darting around.

And Viscount Roland, as expected, looked like he was trembling, staring at the corner of the table as if he were a chair himself.

All useless—

Just last night, they had thumped their chests, saying they “could speak directly at the meeting,” but now they didn’t even dare to raise their heads.

Brook felt the opportunity slipping through his fingers, and he gritted his teeth.

Can’t wait any longer.

He slowly stood up, a gentle, humble smile on his face, his voice steady yet respectful: “Lord Louis.”

It began with a respectful opening, "First, allow me, on behalf of all the nobles present, to express our sincerest respect and gratitude for your achievements in the Frost Halberd War.

Had you not stepped forward, the Northern Territory would likely have become a Doomsday Mother Nest. It was you who brought back hope, and it was you who guarded the last flicker of light on Snowpeak."

A few murmurs of agreement echoed through the hall.

Not many, but enough for Viscount Brook to continue.

He changed his tone, slowing his voice, like a seasoned family elder

kindly reminding

a junior:

"However, as you said, post-war reconstruction is indeed a long and arduous task, and it is precisely for this reason that we are willing to put our heads together to share the burden and solve the problems."

With that, he gently raised a hand.

Viscount Roland, sitting beside him, flinched as if pricked by a needle, trembling as he pulled a parchment document from his sleeve.

"This is a

Snowpeak Joint Proposal

drafted by several nobles present, mainly proposing two points," Viscount Brook smiled, as if announcing a humble request rather than a forced abdication.

"First, we humbly request that a portion of military power be appropriately returned to the various old factions to stabilize the border and alleviate the pressure from displaced people.

Second, regarding material distribution and territory recovery, could the Snowpeak Council establish a special committee to jointly review it with Red Tide Territory?

We do not distrust Red Tide Territory; rather, we hope to enhance the confidence of the populace through

joint governance

."

At this point, he looked up at the young Lord at the head of the table: "Do you think this is feasible?"

Meanwhile, Viscount Roland's face was pale, holding the letter as if it were a hot potato, not daring to meet Louis's gaze, muttering in a low voice: "I... I'm just delivering it—"

Gazes from all directions fell upon him, like invisible hands, lifting him from his chair and sending him to the altar.

Viscount Brook watched as the document finally reached the table, quietly exhaling a breath.

He stood, smiling, his words impeccable, and even felt a hint of triumph in his heart.

Everything was going according to plan.

Not a single noble objected, and even Viscount Roland obediently handed over the letter.

Coupled with his own art of rhetoric, first respect then counsel, first praise then persuade, with appropriate advance and retreat, and proper measure.

This was the social tactic that Viscount Brook excelled at.

"Well done."

He was about to show a perfectly composed smile when he suddenly realized that the young man at the head of the table had not said a single word the entire time.

Louis merely sat there, his fingertips tapping rhythmically and softly on the solid wood tabletop, like a distant war drum.

No response, no refutation, and no expression.

Only his gaze, like a blade in the cold night, swept from one side of the seating to the other.

Those who had just echoed Viscount Brook's words lowered their heads, as if a sharp sword was pressed against their necks, not daring to look away.

Viscount Brook's smile slowly froze.

He suddenly felt a little cold, and beads of sweat slowly emerged on the back of his neck.

Why wasn't he speaking? Why wasn't he refuting?

Not taking the bait was the most ruthless counterattack.

He simply didn't care about the so-called

Snowpeak Noble Joint Proposal

, not even bothering to refute its legitimacy.

Was he waiting for him to finish speaking so he could make a decisive move?

At that moment, a ridiculous and terrifying thought flashed through Viscount Brook's mind: He already knew.

"Viscount Brook." Louis spoke, his voice as cold as snow.

"Are you the principal drafter of this proposal?"

Viscount Brook straightened his back, trying to maintain his composure: "I am. But this is the consensus of everyone—"

"Understood." Louis nodded, his tone not heavy, but like the fall of a judge's gavel.

He raised his right hand and gently waved it.

"Take him away."

The door was pushed open with a

boom

, and several Auditing Department Knights and Bradley stepped steadily into the hall, stirring up a low rumble of combat boots.

They held a document aloft, and Bradley stood to one side, clearing his throat and reading in his usual official tone: "Red Tide Auditing Department intelligence states that Viscount Brook secretly colluded with displaced bandits to attack granaries and military outposts, creating multiple displaced people riots, and attempting to seize military power amidst the chaos.

During wartime, he conspired with noble groups, attempting to disrupt the internal order of Red Tide and presumptuously trying to influence the reconstruction structure of the Snowpeak Conference, plotting illicit acts."

The entire conference hall seemed to freeze instantly.

Everyone dared not move.

Viscount Brook froze, his lips moving, unable to make a sound. He instinctively wanted to deny, to cry injustice, even to rush over, snatch the document, and tear it to shreds.

But he couldn't move because at that moment he clearly saw: Louis's gaze was not anger, but weariness.

A superior's indifference towards an unworthy plaything.

As Viscount Brook was dragged out the door, he struggled, his voice hoarse.

But the thick, heavy arms of the Knights were like iron bands, clamping him tightly.

He couldn't understand how he had arranged everything, with layers of transfers, avoiding surveillance, and even the contacts were absolutely trustworthy people.

"How could he possibly know—"

This thought lingered in his mind, like a whirlpool in stagnant water, drowning him between absurdity and terror.

He couldn't possibly know that Louis had a cheat-like Daily Intelligence System.

In fact, even without the Daily Intelligence System, even if Louis didn't know anything about Viscount Brook's actions,

He could easily assign a sufficiently grave charge, pull him from his high seat, drag him out of the council hall, throw him into the mud, and have him beheaded.

Because it was simple: most of the

nobles

present were no longer nobles.

They no longer had Knight Orders, their estates were burned to cinders, their fiefs buried under snow, their relatives either dead or fled.

They also had no backing; the mansions of the various great nobles of the Northern Territory had long since collapsed in the calamity of the Doomsday Mother Nest.

And they were merely displaced people who had escaped from the ruins, just displaced people wearing noble attire.

Louis granted them dignity as a courtesy to the Empire's

Noble Law

.

What right did they have to bargain with Louis?

Bouncing around in front of him would only annoy him.

And what was even more absurd: they knew it themselves.

So when Viscount Brook was dragged out and his bloody head fell to the ground, no one was truly surprised, and no one dared to cry out for injustice.

Their eyes held fear, not indignation.

What they were thinking quickly was:

"Good thing I didn't say too much."

"Did he also find out about me?"

"Next, I need to be more discreet."

The conference hall was in a dead silence, with only the crackling of the fireplace remaining.

Louis did not get up.

He merely leaned back in the high-backed chair, his gaze coldly sweeping the room.

"Bradley," he said faintly, "continue."

The old butler stood up, unfolded the document in his hand, his voice clear and merciless.

"Baron Harris, three times attempted to bribe transport officials, intending to allocate materials not belonging to his quota."

"Siris Karlan, seven days ago attempted to secretly contact former family retainers and tried to privately organize remnants of Knights, violating the military power unification order..."

With each name and charge read out, the air in the hall seemed to grow colder.

Some lowered their heads, some turned pale, and others quietly pushed their chairs back, as if to avoid the sweeping gazes.

Siris Karlan suddenly stood up. He was still young, full of vigor, his face flushed, and he shouted almost hysterically: "How dare you?! I am an Earl, a legitimate noble of the Northern Territory! You are just a Viscount! Who gave you the guts to judge me!"

Before he finished speaking, Louis finally moved.

He merely tilted his head slightly, impatiently glancing at him, then turned to the Red Tide Knight Commander beside him, his tone as indifferent as if discussing the weather: "Shut his mouth and drag him out."

The order fell, and the action was like lightning.

Two fully armored Red Tide Knights stepped out almost simultaneously; one pulled out a rag and roughly stuffed it into Siris's wide-open mouth,

The other grabbed his collar, pulling him and his chair to the ground, and dragging him out of the hall.

"Ugh! Mmph—!"

The screams turned into muffled whimpers, and his boots scraped harshly on the stone floor.

Not a single person stopped them, and not a single person spoke.

Even the few nobles who had just been secretly conferring with him at the same table lowered their heads, as if they didn't know him.

Louis lowered his eyelashes, raised his teacup, and took a sip, as if the commotion was not worth his pause.