Lord of the Frozen Winter: Starting with Daily Intelligence Reports

The meeting hall of Frost Halberd City, like the heart of a wounded giant beast, slowly pulsed amidst the aftermath of war.

The deep gray dome of this hall, which served as the political center of the North, resembled heavy clouds pressing down.

On the walls, the silver eagle banner of the Edmund Family hung high, alongside the golden dragon banner of the Empire, symbolizing that order still existed, yet also revealing a hint of precariousness.

Duke Edmund, clad in a gray robe, leaned back in his chair, his pale fingers tightly gripping a wooden staff.

He was still majestic, but his physical appearance could no longer conceal the signs of death.

Seated to his right was Louis Calvin, wearing a Red Tide cloak.

He wore a smile, and his gaze, as it fell upon each attendee, conveyed warmth, as if to use that tranquility to dispel the unease in the room.

The meeting had not yet begun, but the air was already heavy as lead.

Everyone knew that today was a crucial moment for the great changes in the North.

Edmund slowly stood with the aid of his staff, his voice not loud, but everyone had to listen carefully: “Gentlemen, thank you for still being here.”

His gaze swept across those seated: there were representatives of the old North nobility with their grizzled hair, Gareth from Ministry of Military Affairs showing signs of exhaustion,

Mace, the Inspector, observing in secret, as well as the reserved and silent pioneering nobles from the South, and the Sixth Prince Asta with deep dark circles under his eyes.

“This war—it almost annihilated the North. The monster legion led by Titus was an unprecedented catastrophe.

We lost so much, even over thirty families were forever erased from the annals of the North, our warriors died in battle, and the streets were littered with the bodies of civilians.”

Edmund lowered his head, sighing softly: “And the Imperial Capital—the promised disaster relief will arrive in succession, but more resources and reinforcements still require His Majesty the Emperor’s decision.”

He changed his tone, revealing a heavy truth: “But now, the Emperor has been missing for dozens of days.”

As soon as these words were uttered, the entire Frost Halberd meeting hall seemed to be swept by a chill, falling into an instant of dead silence.

After this period, most of these high-ranking officials also knew this news, and they were already uneasy. Now that Edmund had personally pointed it out, they still couldn't help but hold their breath.

The reactions of the four department representatives from the Imperial Capital were particularly obvious, because they knew that if the Emperor was truly missing, these “power parasites” of theirs might fall into the abyss overnight.

In contrast, the local noble representatives of the North reacted much more indifferently.

After all, the North had always been far from the Imperial Capital; they were more concerned about whether their land could recover, whether their clansmen could survive, and whether their fiefdoms could continue.

And the Sixth Prince Asta, seated at the head of the left side, had a pale face.

He was not a key figure in the power struggles of the imperial family; on the contrary, he was precisely the kind of marginalized prince who, once assigned to the frontier, was never heard from again.

His becoming a North Lord was merely because His Majesty wanted him to serve as an example to silence others.

He knew that his own strength was not enough to contend for supremacy in a chaotic world, but if the Emperor were alive, he could at least still rely on his “imperial bloodline” to obtain considerable resources and barely hold his ground.

If the new emperor, who truly held power, disliked him, or even resented him, then what he would receive next would not just be disfavor, but possibly even a reckoning.

Even a single decree abolishing his pioneering title would be enough to make him lose all his resources, military power, and standing overnight.

Moreover, he was now isolated and helpless in the North; if he fell into a political vortex, he lowered his eyelashes, suppressing the unease in his heart without showing it, but his pale face had already exposed his inner turmoil. “Of course,” Edmund said, seeing the atmosphere was off, then suddenly smiled as if to ease the tension, “Perhaps His Majesty is just traveling and hasn’t returned, no need to worry too much.”

He did not elaborate further, but instead tilted his head slightly: “Now, let our young hero preside over this meeting. He knows the specific conditions of various places after the war better than I do.”

Louis, called upon, immediately rose from his seat, bowing with a composed expression: “As you command, Duke.”

At one side of the long conference table, several old nobles exchanged glances.

They did not hear the word “succession,” but they all understood this ceremonial act symbolizing the transfer of power.

The young Lord had already begun to try to take the reins.

Louis did not return to his seat; with a wave of his hand, a simplified map covering the territory of the North was immediately unrolled by his attendant.

“First,” his voice had a convincing steadiness, “is the issue of food.”

On the grayish-white map, more than seventy locations marked with granary symbols were highlighted in red.

“Currently, there are seventy-six usable granaries within the North. After verification, the total winter grain reserves are less than 20% of what they were before the disaster.

This means that relying solely on existing grain reserves, spring plowing will be difficult, and not all disaster victims will survive.”

As soon as these words were uttered, low murmurs began to spread among the attendees.

“Of the relief grain promised by the Imperial Capital, only 30% has been transported so far. Whether subsequent deliveries will be on time and in full...” Louis paused slightly, glancing at the Treasurer and Quartermaster seated at the very end, “I dare not be optimistic.”

“Therefore, I propose that Red Tide and Frost Halberd areas first allocate their surplus grain, prioritizing relief for the seventeen old vassal territories most severely ✪ Nоvеlіgһt ✪ (Official version) affected.”

As soon as the words fell, another round of clamor erupted, as no one knew who was most severely affected.

Louis then added, with a touch more humility in his tone: “I am also willing to take the lead with Red Tide Territory and additionally provide eight thousand tons of stored grain for use across the entire territory.”

As Louis’s words fell, the meeting hall became silent for a moment.

“Red Tide Territory will provide eight thousand tons of surplus grain for deployment across the entire territory.” These words struck the heart of every attendee like a heavy hammer.

They had long known that Red Tide Territory had sufficient food, being one of the few areas in the North not swallowed by the disaster, but they had not expected Louis to be so generous as to offer such a large portion of stored grain at once.

Eight thousand tons—that was no small sum.

Even the wealthiest old vassals in the North now had barely over a thousand tons in their granaries, and some fiefdoms were even empty. After Louis finished explaining the grain allocation plan, as if fearing misunderstanding, he added: “These eight thousand tons represent two-thirds of our current grain reserves in Red Tide Territory.”

His tone carried a hint of helplessness, as if he were truly forcing himself to dig out his last remaining resources.

Of course, he knew better than everyone present that this so-called eight thousand tons of “concession” was actually just the tip of the iceberg.

The true foundation behind Red Tide’s abundant food supply was Wheat Wave Territory,

that miraculous large grain field, which last autumn harvest had almost covered Red Tide Territory’s grain needs for two years.

Moreover, at that time, to maintain a sense of frugality within Red Tide, he had long ago ordered the promotion of “grain saving orders” and “prohibition of extravagant eating,”

so there was basically more than enough.

Now, by releasing a little, he could win hearts, stabilize the overall situation, and exchange it for power.

Most importantly, it was far from a significant loss.

However, the other Lords did not object to Louis’s words.

People in the North understood that this land had always been unsuitable for farming, with harsh climates and barren soil, and even a slight change in weather could lead to crop failure.

After the disaster, the land was even more broken, so even if Louis claimed, “This is two-thirds of our stored grain,” no one doubted it.

“I’m not trying to take credit,” Louis added, “I just want everyone to understand that we are all doing our utmost.”

He shed a tear, like a young man truly gritting his teeth and fighting for the North, even appearing somewhat put on the spot.

But those truly sitting on the chessboard of power had long been churning with thoughts.

They knew this was a plea of poverty, but also a setting of price.

This young Lord used limited grain reserves to create an impression of extreme concession, both winning hearts and suppressing doubts.

Even the old fox nobles who saw through his intentions could only remain silent.

Because he played it too precisely.

What the North lacked most now was grain, and he controlled the grain.

Whether willingly or not, they had to offer loyalty or compromise in exchange for even a tiny seed of hope.

An old North noble was the first to applaud, saying in a deep voice: “In such a situation, His Highness Louis is still willing to generously help, which is truly a blessing for the North.”

Then more applause followed, one after another.

In fact, even before the meeting, Louis had secretly coordinated the grain distribution plan and power promises with several key nobles.

They knew they would receive preferential treatment on the “grain line,” and the applause now was merely a part of the script.

The hall was filled with praise, and the situation instantly turned around.

Even Duke Edmund slowly nodded, a hint of solace in his eyes, seemingly having backed the right person.

With this round of public approval, the subsequent meeting proceeded much more smoothly.

Although the council members each had their own thoughts, the overall situation was set, and no one wanted to be seen as the one disrupting order.

The subsequent numerous topics were swiftly advanced:

Regarding post-war resource allocation, each vassal was to be allotted resources based on the extent of their disaster and their contribution to the military.

The medical team of Frost Halberd City jointly established the North Post-Disaster Health Affairs Office, responsible for epidemic suppression and disaster victim management.

Red Tide Territory was willing to be the first to open its borders, establishing seven Concentration Point (settlement points) to prioritize the reception of refugees.

Louis’s performance throughout the reconstruction meeting was almost perfect.

He was neither autocratic nor yielding.

In all major military and political matters, he based his arguments on detailed data and used calm and meticulous analysis as his weapon, secretly securing benefits for his own faction.

“I suggest that the allocation of spring plowing materials prioritize the seventeen old vassal territories with higher returns in disaster-stricken areas. The first batch of seeds and iron farm tools can be allocated from Frost Halberd.”

“Regarding the epidemic issue, we have consulted with the physicians of Frost Halberd City and recommend establishing isolation zones around the ruins and setting up three temporary medical camps.”

Every word was watertight. Every proposal allowed the nobles to save face while subtly consolidating real power into his own hands.

Even more remarkably, he showed no trace of arrogance or condescension, maintaining a consistently gentle tone.

He was precisely a polite mediator, not an autocratic superior.

And those few nobles who had received his promises also, at just the right moment, offered their agreement and guided public opinion to his favor.

All possible doubts and oppositions were dissolved into nothingness by Louis’s words.

Although he did not yet have the title of Governor, and had not even been formally appointed to any official position in the North.

But everyone in the meeting hall at this moment understood: this meeting was led by him.

And the next direction of the North would also be decided by him.

Even Caffil, the usually critical representative of the Ministry of Finance, had to write in the official document: “Young, steady, with the ability to govern.”

Duke Edmund, seated at the side of the main seat, quietly watched all this, his eyes full of relief.

He didn't need to clarify anything, because in everyone's hearts at this moment, that steady-eyed young man, clad in his cloak, had already become the de facto “heir to the North.”

As the meeting drew to a close, the flames in the fireplace gradually subsided, and the night deepened over Frost Halberd City.

Everyone’s gaze, without them realizing when, had gathered on the young Lord of Red Tide.

Louis slowly rose, looking around.

He still wore a gentle smile, his demeanor composed, as if unaware that the invisible flow of power in the hall had long since shifted to his feet.

“I—after all, am still young.” He began, his voice not loud, but exceptionally clear in the silence, “Many things,

still require much guidance from you, seniors and sirs.”

A humble remark caused several older nobles to nod in praise, while others curled their lips, finding him hypocritical.

“But since I am presiding over the meeting today,” Louis ignored those people and said directly, “then I will make a summary and propose three directions, which can also be considered setting a preliminary tone for the reconstruction of our North.”

Louis held up a finger: “First, defend our land. Although the North is far from the Imperial Capital, this land is not a place to be abandoned.

No matter what the future holds for the Empire, we ourselves cannot fall into chaos first. Protecting our territories and our people is the duty of every Lord.”

Many people nodded subconsciously.

“Second, the people’s livelihood.” Louis paused, his tone slightly softening: “Spring plowing is approaching, but now there is a shortage of seeds, a shortage of farm tools,

too many displaced people, and epidemics are starting to spread. If these problems are not solved, even surviving will be an issue, let alone talking about reconstruction?

I suggest that from today onwards, all territories immediately formulate plans and apply for disaster relief resources proportionally. All allocations will be jointly reviewed by the Reconstruction Council.”

Someone whispered softly, but there was no objection, after all, most Lords could barely protect their own territories, so what right did they have to question?

“Third, unity.” Louis’s tone suddenly softened, yet it carried more weight than the previous two points.

“The situation in the North is complex now, imperial resources are unstable, and the future of the imperial family is unpredictable—my only request is that everyone cooperates with the meeting’s arrangements and temporarily submits to unified coordination, to avoid division and harming the country.”

As these words were uttered, everyone’s expressions varied; Louis was clearly trying to seize power, but no one voiced opposition.

Louis raised his wine glass, looking around at every noble, general, and envoy present. In his eyes, there was no longer the humility of a young noble, but the responsibility of an heir.

He said slowly: “The North is our common North.”

His voice was not loud, but it echoed in the meeting hall for a long time.

“It is on the verge of collapse now, but you and I are still here. After today, battle flags will rise from the ruins, plows will tread over scorched earth, and vows will cut through the wind and snow.”

He raised his wine glass high, his gaze as sincere as a torch: “Together, let us make the North great again.”

The moment his words landed, silence fell for an instant.

The next second, applause erupted, in waves. Some were genuinely moved, others were swept up by the momentum, but all silently acknowledged one fact:

This young Lord of Red Tide had ascended to the true core of power in the North.

Duke Edmund also gently raised his wine glass, looking at him as if seeing off the new captain of the North, about to set sail.