Lord of the Frozen Winter: Starting with Daily Intelligence Reports

Imperial Capital, Yuchen Hall.

A dome cast from giant stones hung high in the sky.

In the center of the dome, a massive chandelier, forged from alchemy and permanent fire runes, slowly rotated, its blue flames burning fiercely yet emitting no heat.

It was the Eternal Flame, sealed by the Imperial Alchemists with starfire, burning for three hundred and seventy-two years without extinguishing, symbolizing the Empire's unyielding will.

Twelve colossal relics were embedded in the four walls, each from one of the Empire's original twelve ancient cities.

From Dragon's Breath City's shattered dragon shield to Ghostwind Ridge's crescent spear, each watched over this sanctuary of power in silent solemnity, like petrified embodiments of a thousand-year imperial rule.

At the highest tier, the Imperial Throne sat elevated, like a god gazing upon the multitude.

Emperor Ernst Augustus sat upon the throne, his black-gold dragon-patterned robe cascading down the steps, like a giant dragon coiled.

The eternal fire from the dome could not illuminate his face; the high-seated shadow enveloped him like a curtain, allowing only a faint glimpse of a stern silhouette,

but never revealing his expression.

By his side, only one person stood: Linze, the Chief Steward of Internal Affairs, draped in a dark silk robe.

Below, the long table curved like a new moon, forming a semicircle around the imperial steps.

More than twenty dignitaries, clad in official robes and bearing family crests, sat in order.

There were Grand Dukes, Princes, Privy Councilors, Legion Commanders, Chief Financial Supervisors, representatives of the Eight Great Families, and representatives of the New Nobility, their seats arranged according to their peerage, military achievements, bloodline, and actual power.

Every one of them held high positions and immense power, yet at this moment, they were as silent as cicadas in winter.

They conversed in low whispers, perused intelligence reports, some coughed, some feigned composure, but all eyes would involuntarily sweep towards the ✪ Nоvеlіgһt ✪ (Official version) Imperial Throne from time to time.

As if a sleeping giant dragon sat there, ready to decide the fate of each of them with a single opening of its eyes.

This was the Empire's highest council, the Dragon Throne Council, and also the true heart of this thousand-year Empire; every beat affected the joys and sorrows, the ups and downs of hundreds of thousands of lives.

Eleanor wore a family shawl with a red background and a moon pattern, her face expressionless, but her heartbeat was far from as steady as it appeared.

Even though she had served as the Calvin Family's representative in the Imperial Capital for over a decade, deeply understanding the overt and covert struggles among the various families in the Imperial Capital, her nerves would still subtly tighten every time she stepped into this “Yuchen Hall.”

This was not merely a meeting hall; it was a concretization of the Empire's will.

In the air, there was a faint, almost imperceptible scent of “dragon blood incense.”

It was a special incense used for sacrificial ceremonies, rumored to be mixed with the essence and blood of true dragon descendants, exclusively for the Emperor's presence, extremely faint, yet it permeated the bones, making one involuntarily clench their fingers in suppression.

What was even more unsettling was the “sound.”

Throughout the entire Yuchen Hall, whether it was footsteps, speech, or the rustling of paper, all were suppressed into a peculiar low frequency by the installed echo arrays, as if one were in a deep well.

Even the smallest sound in this deep well would become piercing and impossible to ignore.

And whenever the Emperor subtly shifted his body, the base of the black obsidian throne would emit a “humming” rhythm.

It wasn't a vibration of the eardrums, but a vibration of the soul.

In that instant, Eleanor would even feel her heart skip a beat, and a slight chill would run down her back.

She quietly adjusted her breathing, suppressing her tension; she had already read Duke Calvin's letter.

This time, she had to secure “the Empire's recognized de facto status in the Northern Territory” for Louis.

But she had to be extremely cautious, absolutely not allowing anyone to perceive this as an arrangement by the Calvin Family.

This was the ultimate test of social skill in the Empire's highest council.

Eleanor had already met with several old friends beforehand, all representatives of families in the Empire who had alliances or debts of gratitude with the Calvin Family, briefly exchanging positions and terminology before the meeting.

Whether they could truly speak in support of her proposal during the meeting remained unknown.

Eleanor's fingertips silently tightened, her hands clasped even more tightly beneath her shawl.

Pressure enveloped her like seawater.

This concerned not only Louis's future but also the critical juncture of whether the family could re-establish itself in the Northern Territory.

She subtly raised her head, looking at the throne that seemed to swallow all sound, and swallowed a mouthful of saliva.

The atmosphere in the hall was as if covered in frost.

Although the Yuchen Hall was not lacking in renowned dignitaries,

every person sitting at the table was an existence capable of making a province or a county tremble, yet at this moment, no one dared to speak rashly.

Everyone's breathing was suppressed to the lowest, even coughs were deliberately held back, as if fearing to disturb the deadly silence before the throne.

In fact, before the meeting was officially convened, several noble-born councilors had already voiced protests.

Their descendants, as members of the Imperial Dragon Blood Legion, had died in the Northern Territory during the Doomsday Mother Nest campaign.

Many of them were exceptionally talented and of prominent bloodlines.

They were all outstanding family members, even “seeds” hoped to become the next family heads.

They fell on the twilight front lines of the insect tide, their bones scattered.

Some were enraged by this, some resentful.

They tried to bring these emotions into the meeting, to issue “gentle inquiries” to the throne.

Why was the deployment so hasty? Why was the battle line so isolated? Why was the Empire's support so late?

However, those voices were coldly suppressed without any echo by Chief Steward Linze with a single phrase, “The Empire will provide full compensation,” during the preliminary briefing before the meeting began.

No one continued to question.

Those sitting at the table knew full well.

Some answers, the Emperor might have already prepared, just waiting for someone to voice them.

The time had come.

The dome of the Yuchen Hall hummed softly, and beneath the throne, all sounds froze.

Chief Steward of Internal Affairs, Linze, slowly walked out of the shadow of the imperial steps.

After stopping, he unfurled a thin scroll of mithril-threaded paper, his tone icy cold with every word:

“Thirty-six days after the end of the Northern Territory campaign, preliminary intelligence has been archived and is now formally presented.”

He raised his eyes, his gaze slowly sweeping over the nobles and ministers on both sides of the long table, then spoke mercilessly:

“According to the joint field investigation team of the Auditing Department and the Privy Council—first item: population loss, preliminary estimate, the Northern Territory has lost four-fifths of its population.”

Someone in the hall stirred slightly, but no one spoke.

“Second item: territorial collapse, most of the remaining Northern Territory lands have fallen or are in an ungovernable state.

The insect nest explosion triggered crustal fracturing, accompanied by drastic topographical changes, roads are completely destroyed, rivers have reversed flow, lakes have dried up, and some areas have formed dead ash zones, making survival impossible.

Third item: military disintegration.

The original Scarlet Iron Defense Line has completely collapsed, and the First, Seventh, and Ninth Regiments of the Scarlet Iron Army were completely annihilated along the Snowpeak and Frost Halberd lines.

Currently, only scattered garrison units remain, having lost their organizational command.” 𝒇𝒓𝒆𝒆𝙬𝒆𝒃𝓷𝒐𝓿𝙚𝙡.𝒄𝓸𝒎

“Conclusion,” Linze's tone remained unchanged, as if reading a verdict, “the Northern Territory has become a ‘vacuum zone’ on the Empire's northern edge.”

He paused, gently closing the secret report in his hand, as if shutting a coffin lid.

Upon the Imperial Throne, Ernst Augustus had remained silent throughout.

His face was hidden in the shadow cast by the high-backed throne, even his eyes were indistinct, leaving only a stern silhouette, like a colossal dragon.

But no one dared to underestimate his silence at this moment.

Linze stepped back half a pace, bowing calmly: “Your Majesty, that concludes the post-war intelligence summary.”

The Emperor did not respond, only subtly raised a finger, making a soft, almost inaudible gesture.

A movement so light, yet it seemed to strike the heart of every participant.

The power struggle had officially begun.

After Linze withdrew, the Yuchen Hall fell into a dreadful silence.

No one spoke first, as if even thinking had to be extra cautious in front of the Emperor.

However, this silence did not last too long.

“Your Majesty, allow me to speak.” A trembling but irrepressibly agitated voice rose from the back right side of the long table, from the seat of the Herland Family of the Western Territory.

It was a noble representative, about fifty years old, with a gray face; he stood up and bowed, his head lowered, yet unable to conceal the anger in his eyes.

“My Herland family's eldest son, an extraordinary knight of the Dragon Blood Legion, died in the Northern Territory... his bones scattered, not even a fragment of his armor recovered.”

He clutched the post-war roster in his hand, his knuckles white, his voice almost choking: “The brutality of this war is evident. We never shirk the fate of sacrifice, but I humbly ask—

Why was the defense force deployment so slow? Why did the entire Northern Territory collapse completely within a few days?”

His tone grew more urgent, his gaze sweeping towards the several old nobles seated at the left end of the long table, his words as sharp as blades: “Did Governor Duke Edmund ‘engage the enemy without permission,’ leading the Northern Territory to disaster? Please thoroughly investigate Duke Edmund!”

This last sentence was almost shouted, its echo reverberating endlessly in the hall.

Two nobles sitting beside him also nodded, their tones veiled but their positions clear:

“While the calamity of war is irreversible, if there were no contingency plans or proper troop deployments, then it is a dereliction of duty.”

“Though the Empire is strong, it cannot fall into disorder due to disaster, otherwise what will deter governors elsewhere?”

They occasionally cast glances towards the elevated Imperial Throne, hoping to discern the Emperor's attitude from his silence.

However, there was not a single movement within that shadow.

Just as the atmosphere approached freezing, another deep, stern voice spoke: “If we speak of responsibility, who should defend the shattered frontier?”

The speaker was General Yoda Brutus, the commander of the Third Legion, clad in military robes and bearing dragon insignias on his shoulders—one of the hawkish leaders of the Imperial Capital's military command.

He stood up, straightening his back, his gaze like a knife.

“To ensure the speedy restoration of order in the Northern Territory, I propose that the Imperial Capital dispatch the Third, Sixth, and Twelfth Legions to temporarily station in the Northern Territory as a ‘Joint Legion’.”

He walked slowly forward, his fingertip resting on the intelligence map scroll, his tone resolute: “The garrison area will be the Northern Territory's outer line, establishing a Northern Territory Unified Military District, integrated into Ministry of Military Affairs's unified command, and can even counterattack the barbarians.”

He glared at the Herland representative, saying sarcastically: “Blaming a white-haired old man for failing to resist a disaster? It would be better to hand over this Mace to truly capable legions to resolve.

The path to reconstruction cannot rely on remnant private soldiers and surviving vassals, but should maintain order with an iron-blooded, strong army.”

Having said that, he also carefully looked towards the Emperor.

Hoping to find even a hint of a nod or an assent from the shadow of that black obsidian throne.

But the Emperor remained motionless.

The next moment, a cool, restrained voice came from the other side: “The General's suggestion is indeed strong, but also a bit too crude.”

The speaker was Mace, the chief envoy of the Surveillance Council, a middle-aged official wearing thin-rimmed glasses and a dark blue ceremonial robe.

His voice was not loud, but clear and calm: “The problem in the Northern Territory now is not just a lack of troops; the bigger problem is the inability to unify command, no one dares to make decisions, and no one can take responsibility.”

He looked at the post-war intelligence report on the table and continued: “I propose establishing a new institution—the ‘Imperial Direct Northern Territory Military and Political Office.’

It will be jointly supervised by the Auditing Department, the Ministry of Finance, and Ministry of Military Affairs. This institution will temporarily take over all resources, taxation, and defense lines in the Northern Territory, coordinating all reconstruction affairs, reporting directly to the Imperial Capital, without being constrained by local nobles.”

He said this without hesitation, clearly having prepared it long ago.

Then, his gaze fell back to General Yoda's position, his tone chilling slightly: “The ‘Joint Legion’ the General mentioned is theoretically a good thing, but without checks and balances, it will only create another problem.

Armies stationed locally for long periods, overstepping their authority and interfering in politics, eventually become a hot potato that no one can control. Are you trying to break free from His Majesty's control and establish yourself as king in the Northern Territory?”

General Yoda Brutus's eyebrow twitched, and the color instantly drained from his face.

“I—I certainly have no intention of—”

He hastily stood up, trying to explain, but his voice trembled slightly, because the phrase “break free from His Majesty's control” struck a nerve.

“I proposed sending troops to restore imperial order! Absolutely no—”

Yoda's words were cut short as he realized he had drawn several cold gazes, from the noble seats, the civil official seats, and also from his military-political colleagues who had once been close to him.

No one spoke for him, no one even responded.

The entire Yuchen Hall was eerily silent.

Yoda's Adam's apple bobbed, and a bead of sweat appeared on his forehead; he could only force himself to remain calm, clenching his hands slightly into fists, and sinking back into his seat.

Mace also ignored him, then surveyed the entire hall, his tone growing sterner:

“The void left by the disaster in the Northern Territory cannot be filled with old methods. What is needed now is a central structure with control, efficiency, and a chain of command.

Rebuilding the Northern Territory is not one person's business, nor should it be monopolized by a few. I suggest that all families present at the meeting should bear a portion of the garrison's establishment and material allocations.

The Northern Territory's defense line, from today onwards, will be jointly borne by all of us.”

A silence fell over the hall.

The nobles exchanged glances, some furrowing their brows, others looking towards the throne.

This proposal was too meticulous, perfectly crafted, not like an impromptu speech, but more like a political decree written long ago, just waiting for someone to read it aloud.

Some even began to suspect: Was this a plan authorized by the Emperor?

Because making other nobles contribute money and effort to restore the Northern Territory was very much like the Emperor's style.

Mace, however, remained composed, as if completely unconcerned by these gazes.

He merely bowed slightly towards the imperial steps.

But on the dais, the Emperor remained silent.

His right hand rested lightly on the armrest of the dragon throne, seemingly unintentional, yet it made everyone hold their breath.

The air in the hall seemed to grow even colder.

Every representative secretly pondered whether to continue raising their voice, or to restrain their sharpness and wait for the next opportunity to test the Emperor's will.

And at this moment, a thin, middle-aged man sitting at the far end of the east side finally slowly rose.