Lord of the Frozen Winter: Starting with Daily Intelligence Reports

Inside the temporary council hall of Frost Halberd, the fire in the hearth burned brightly, casting flickering shadows on the thick stone walls.

Thirteen seats were arranged according to custom in the hall, but the atmosphere was as still as the snowstorm outside, outwardly quiet, yet with undercurrents surging.

The Sixth Prince, Astar, sat calmly on the left side of the main guest seat, his eyes quietly sweeping over each speaker in the hall.

Placed in the center of the room, he seemed a bit uneasy; compared to the old foxes present, he was too young and could only cautiously witness this silent confrontation of blades.

The first to speak was Herudda, who sat in a forward position on the right side. He was the representative of the Imperial Capital’s Logistics Bureau, and his words and actions carried an inherent aristocratic arrogance of “of course.”

He looked around and said gently, “Gentlemen, I believe everyone here is clearer than I am about the current situation in the North.

Insufficient storage, strained transportation, and frequent breaks in the frozen roads along the line. If we let each region rebuild and dispatch resources independently, resource waste will be unavoidable.”

Herudda said, bowing slightly towards Duke Edmund, “Our Logistics Bureau could assist various regions in establishing a unified storage and distribution system, but if a coordinating agency is not established now, efficiency will be difficult to guarantee.

For this reason, I suggest establishing the Northern United Logistics Coordination Department, with our bureau temporarily taking the lead in its execution. Of course, this is only for the needs of the Empire’s overall dispatch, with no other intentions.”

His words were very well-measured; he didn’t directly say “deprive dispatch authority,” but subtly shifted the core of Duke Edmund’s power.

Edmund did not answer immediately, only raising his eyes to look at him for a moment, his expression as steady as ever, but with a barely perceptible shadow in his eyes.

“I understand Mr. Herudda’s concerns. However, the situation in various parts of the North is complex, and storage, transportation, and distribution are closely linked to civil affairs. If a department is established, it might lead to overlapping decisions—” The Duke’s words were polite and restrained.

Before he finished speaking, a thin, dry voice sounded at the end of his sentence: “His Majesty once said in the Dragon Throne Council, ‘The North must not repeat the path of disaster.’ These words are still fresh in my memory.”

Mace, the representative of the Surveillance Council, calmly added, “Centralized resources and unified supervision are the best response to His Majesty’s decree. If management is decentralized and further oversights occur, the Surveillance Council will indeed find it difficult to account for.”

This phrase, “will indeed find it difficult to account for,” had subtly shifted to an indirect warning to Edmund. Kant Kafir, the representative of the Ministry of Finance, also smiled and said languidly, “The Surveillance Council is right; if local areas act independently, the financial accounts won’t look good. To avoid wasting imperial gold coins, I think Herudda’s proposal is indeed efficient.”

The attitudes of the three were all respectful, with hardly a single offensive word, but every sentence was stripping the dispatch authority from Duke Edmund’s hands.

Edmund frowned slightly.

This was not an ordinary meeting, but an ambush, a political maneuver disguised as “imperial decree.”

They seemed to say nothing, but they twisted the phrase “the Emperor also hopes you give up power” in ten different ways, making it watertight.

Duke Edmund frowned slightly, his voice carrying a hint of inquiry: “Since you all insist on the policy of resource coordination, perhaps we could invite the Royal Observation Group, with His Royal Highness taking the core role?”

As soon as his voice fell, the atmosphere in the meeting room paused slightly.

Astar, sitting beside the main guest seat, remained calm, his eyelids slightly lowered, as if deliberating his words.

Suddenly, his silver cup on the table was lightly tapped twice by someone’s knuckle, the sound extremely faint, yet precisely reaching his ears.

Seifer, behind him, retracted his index finger, his expression still composed, but his eyes had quietly given a warning.

This was a reminder—do not respond, do not get ✧ NоvеIight ✧ (Original source) drawn in. Astar nodded lightly, his expression unchanged, his tone even more humble: “My Imperial Father ordered me to expedite the development matters. As for the various details of the North’s reconstruction—I have just arrived and still need to consult widely; I dare not speak rashly.”

He neither supported nor opposed, simply glossing over the issue with a light touch.

However, this vague response, falling into Edmund’s ears, instead made his heart sink.

Was it that he was unwilling to state his position, or that the Emperor had no intention of telling him the truth at all?

Edmund appeared composed on the surface, but his mind was turbulent.

Although the three did not mention “imperial decree,” their words constantly revolved around “imperial will” and “coordinated allocation,” their tone ambiguous yet undeniable.

In fact, there were loopholes in the words of these people, but he was unable to calmly discern them at this moment.

Most of the intelligence he had received in recent months had been very serious bad news, which had exhausted him and made him less astute than he used to be.

“The Emperor still won’t let me go.” He looked down at his calloused hands, his heart tightening.

Perhaps from the moment his family’s power was severely damaged by the Mother Nest, in His Majesty’s eyes, he was already an old-timer who should be abandoned.

Anxiety surged like a tide, making him almost certain that this time, they were indeed moving to strip him of his power.

The atmosphere in the meeting hall grew increasingly oppressive, as if the coldness in the words had extinguished some of the hearth fire.

The Northern nobles had varied expressions; some looked down, some glanced sideways, but none actively expressed their stance.

Towards the four department representatives from the Imperial Capital, they felt both fear and suspicion.

At this moment, even their leader, Edmund, had fallen silent, so they also found it difficult to say anything.

Astar sat on the side seat, his hands clasped on his knees, seemingly respectful, but in reality silently observing every word.

He did not speak, but his heart was already stirred. Was this the clash of top-tier power?

As the atmosphere continued to grow heavy, a young but steady voice suddenly broke the silence.

“What the lords have said seems to deviate slightly from His Majesty’s previous decree.”

Everyone paused, their gazes following the sound. It was the youngest de facto lord of the North—Louis Calvin.

“Since the established resource allocation process of the Dragon Throne is to be modified, I humbly believe that this matter should first be reported to the Dragon Throne Council, or decided personally by His Majesty the Emperor, otherwise there might be a suspicion of overstepping authority.”

He had not finished speaking, but his words were like a needle of ice piercing still water, and the faces of the four department representatives instantly changed slightly.

At that very moment, Duke Edmund’s gaze swept over the expressions of the four departmental officials opposite him.

Herudda, the representative of the Logistics Bureau, maintained his expression, a forced smile on his lips.

Kant, from the Ministry of Finance, twitched an eyebrow and murmured, “There’s no need to trouble His Majesty with small matters—”

Mace, from the Surveillance Council, his pupils contracted slightly, then he lowered his gaze to conceal it.

Only Gareth, the military representative, showed a trace of imperceptible annoyance.

And in that brief moment, Edmund finally realized: they were putting on a coordinated act, and he had almost fallen into it.

Even if—this truly was His Majesty’s intention, what harm was there in kicking the ball back to the throne? It could also buy some time. “Indeed.” He spoke slowly, his voice tinged with a hint of mockery, “Such matters, after all, should be decided by His Majesty.”

As soon as these words were uttered, the atmosphere in the meeting hall suddenly turned cold.

The four department representatives all sobered their expressions and said no more.

Kant let out two dry laughs, trying to smooth things over: “Since it’s just a proposal, it can naturally still be deliberated.”

Meanwhile, on one side of the council hall, Astar slowly raised his head, looking at Louis’s profile.

This was the first time he had truly seen the legendary Viscount of Red Tide.

He was silent, calm, not eager to speak, yet when he made his move, he cut through the situation. He didn’t resort to sophistry; he merely offered a gentle reminder, causing his opponents to lose their composure.

This man was even younger than himself, yet he sat in the meeting hall with more composure than anyone else.

Thus, the meeting drew to a close. The Reconstruction General Office was still presided over by Edmund, and the proposal for the Logistics Coordination Department was shelved.

The military representative took the opportunity to suggest strengthening front-line military dispatch and offered to send additional legions to help defend the Northern border, attempting to find another way out and avoid being implicated.

And all of this was naturally thanks to Louis, who had exposed the false hints from the four Imperial Capital departments.

In fact, he had already learned of the private alliance among several Imperial Capital representatives a few days earlier, through the Daily Intelligence System, with the aim of jointly profiting and undermining the local nobility.

So he had already prepared and was just watching their performance.

At this moment, Edmund, though still somewhat fearful, also calmed down internally.

It wasn’t that he didn’t know there were loopholes in the words of those three; it was just that—the anxiety of that moment and the “danger of a lone minister” had almost caused him to misinterpret all signals.

If Louis hadn’t pointed it out in time, he might have truly given up the coordination authority in today’s meeting.

Once it fell into the hands of the other party, taking it back would be as difficult as ascending to heaven.

After the meeting, everyone rose and left their seats.

Edmund did not leave immediately; instead, he waited quietly in his original spot until that familiar young figure walked towards him.

He rarely showed a relaxed smile, reaching out to pat Louis’s shoulder, and whispered, “...Well done, Louis.”

Louis Calvin smiled faintly, then laughed humbly, "Actually, it's nothing. If I hadn't spoken, you would have reacted sooner or later; I merely spoke a bit earlier."

Edmund shook his head, gazing at the still-burning fireplace flames: "You think too highly of it. The trap those people set was too deep; before the Dragon Throne Council, they even gave me—I really believed them a bit at that time."

He paused, his voice softening, "Perhaps it's been too long since I left the core of power. I almost truly believed that was the Emperor's intention. Indeed—I was a bit anxious."

After a moment of silence, Edmund seemed to realize something, and his tone returned to its usual strictness: "Today was just the opening; tomorrow is the real tug-of-war.

Your performance today was sufficient to let them know that the North is not soft soil to be kneaded. Next, there are still materials, fiefs, military settlements, and grain taxes, one after another, and none of them can bypass you. But for tonight, go back and rest well."

His tone carried a rare hint of concern: "Tomorrow, I'll still need your help."

Louis Calvin nodded in agreement and bowed: "I understand, Duke. Then I shall take my leave."

Duke Edmund nodded, allowing Louis Calvin to return and rest.

Just as Louis Calvin was about to leave, a gentle greeting came from behind him: "Viscount Calvin—please wait."

Turning around, he saw the Sixth Prince Astal steadily approaching.

"Your Highness." Louis Calvin stopped and bowed, his tone respectful yet not subservient.

Astal nodded slightly: "I heard you also graduated from the Imperial Capital's Knight Academy? Although our enrollment times were different, being from the same school, we have some connection."

Louis Calvin showed a polite smile: "That is indeed true. If I recall correctly, Your Highness, you were a few years ahead of me. Even when I was still in the Southeast Province, I heard that 'Sir Augustus' tactical assessment was the top of his year."

"That was only back then," Astal chuckled, changing the subject naturally, "Meeting you today, although the Viscount is young, he makes this senior feel a bit ashamed."

"How could I dare? There are many complicated matters in the North. If we speak of caution, it is Your Highness's handling today that is admirable."

The two smiled at each other, both taking a step back, conceding a point. Their words maintained grace and avoided speaking too deeply too soon.

This was the most standard etiquette for initial rapport-building in aristocratic circles.

Astal said slowly: "If the Viscount has leisure, why not come to my place for a sit-down? My station is still being organized, but I can at least brew some warm tea."

Louis Calvin cupped his hands in a bow: "If Your Highness doesn't mind the humbleness of my abode, Red Tide Territory also has several jars of strong liquor readily available, willing to warm Your Highness and relieve your fatigue."

The two exchanged thanks, and in their words, they had already forged an initial friendship in the thawing frost and snow of the North, before each departing.

A little further down the corridor, Seifer, holding his cane, watched the young Viscount turn and leave after accepting the bow, narrowing his eyes and muttering, "This young man from the Calvin family is truly remarkable."

The three-day Dragon Throne Council continued, like melting frost and snow; though the flow was slow, it never ceased.

After the confrontation on the first day, the four departments of the Imperial Capital seemed to have been doused with cold water. Although they did not admit defeat, they knew in their hearts that they could not push too hard.

Over the next two days, their tone noticeably softened, and their proposals became more cautious, frequently concluding with "negotiation" and "joint discussion."

The framework of authority for the reconstructed General Administration was thus solidified, and the North's parliamentary power was no longer as weak as it had initially been.

Under the threats and inducements of Duke Edmund, the Imperial Capital's four departments also began to slowly split.

Finance representative Kant and logistics representative Khruda gradually felt frustrated, their words becoming more cautious each day.

Meanwhile, military affairs representative Gareth, after several conversations with Duke Edmund, began to shift towards a pragmatic stance, gaining the right to station troops in the North.

Mace from the Surveillance Council continued to observe coldly, as if everything was written in his small notebook, but no one could discern his true inner attitude.

Thus, the parchment scrolls piled higher and higher on the table, their words outlining the fate of the North for the next few years:

Who will preside over the reconstruction of the territories amidst the ruins?

From where and to where will the first batch of grain and iron materials be transported?

How should the displaced people be registered, taxed, and resettled?

Should local soldiers return to camps? Should military settlements be established? Or should land be leased for reclamation?

In this gradually stabilizing situation, Louis Calvin was like a quiet stream, subtly permeating every crevice.

He almost never actively sought to seize power, yet he always managed to spread his web of interests through unnoticed details.

It was as if those resolutions were meant to be so, not out of contention, but out of "reasonableness," and they brought immense benefits.

As soon as the three-day Dragon Throne Council concluded, Louis Calvin did not linger.

He merely nodded to Astal and a few local nobles, exchanged a few reserved pleasantries, and then turned to leave the Frost Halberd Council Hall.

In the howling cold wind, Red Tide's carriage awaited at the street corner.

Louis Calvin boarded the carriage; the door closed, the curtains were drawn, and the sound of the wind was instantly blocked outside the window.

Then he untied his scarf, leaned back between the cushions, closed his eyes, and exhaled a long breath.

It's done!

Louis Calvin's mind rapidly reviewed every agenda item and every "suggestion" from the three-day Dragon Throne Council. He had not directly put forward a single demand, nor had he directly contended for any specific area, but what he ultimately gained was even more than he had anticipated.

Over 800,000 square kilometers of temporary reconstruction zone were cleverly assigned to Red Tide, becoming his territory.

It was concentrated in the Southeast Province of the North, and according to the Daily Intelligence System, it contained vast resources.

Of course, he couldn't show it off.

A Viscount holding land on the scale of a Marquis or even a Duke should naturally be low-key and discreet.

He only needed to ensure that the population truly settled, villages and towns took shape, and granaries operated; then it would become a fait accompli.

In addition, there were people: 23,000 displaced people were registered as permanent residents and Tun Gong of Red Tide, forming the lowest tier of labor and the future "New Red Tide people."

Another 20,000 slaves were assigned to support teams and would be delivered in batches within a month.

They had no names or registrations, yet they were the indispensable flesh and blood for farming and construction.

Furthermore, in the "North Revival Priority" plan, he was in the first tier.

Displaced people, artisans, merchants, wandering knights—as long as he provided a meal, a piece of land, and a protection contract, they would become part of Red Tide.

No other noble could "eat up" this marginalized population faster than him.

As for resources, he did not return empty-handed either.

What he truly took away this time was a complete set of core material systems sufficient to bring Red Tide Territory into full recovery.

He obtained priority for grain allocation: the first batch of 2,500 tons of emergency pre-spring relief grain would be directly allocated by the Imperial Capital's Grain Storage Bureau and prioritized for delivery to Red Tide Territory's warehouses.

This meant that all displaced person resettlement sites and reclaimed land areas would have food coverage before spring, winning the crucial planting window.

Thirty tons each of salt and cheese, forty tons of cured meat, and a batch of medicinal herbs and basic medical supplies.

In addition, he received priority to claim 500 sets of agricultural iron tools, including hoes, plows, hammers, and shovels.

He also obtained approval for two primary forging furnaces, three spare magic energy cores, and 100 tons of raw ore for smelting, although the quantity was not large.

It was enough to ignite the first spark for Red Tide's "self-manufacturing" system.

Thus, the resources in Louis Calvin's hands were already sufficient to emerge from disaster and winter.

Spring plowing had plowing oxen and iron tools, construction sites could light furnaces to hammer iron, displaced people no longer had to survive by gnawing on tree bark, and simple shelters could be built before the snow melted.

Louis Calvin leaned back in the carriage seat, his heart like a deep, still current.

He did not contend for speaking rights at the Dragon Throne Council table, but when he turned to leave, he held the initiative for the entire spring planting in his hands.

Not empty-handed, but fully loaded.

At this moment, the North was still covered in unthawed ice and snow, and the wind howled through the trees like a lament.

But in Red Tide Territory, the displaced people had already begun to turn over the frozen earth, artisans were building warm sheds by geothermal wells, and furnace fires breathed in the snow.

Hope was ignited in the hearts of people suffering from hunger and cold.

Just one more month until spring plowing begins, when iron tools hit the ground and cooking smoke rises, he will no longer be a young lord, but a true founder of the New North.

This was a gamble.

What he wagered on was not the Emperor's favor, nor the Duke's protection.

But every hungry stomach, every longing face on this frozen land.

Gambling on what they could bring him.