Lord of the Frozen Winter: Starting with Daily Intelligence Reports

In the Blue Jade Flower Pavilion at the end of the noble district, Eleanor Calvin leaned back on a soft couch behind a sandalwood screen, gently swirling the wine in her glass.

The amber Imperial Litchi Wine refracted shimmering light in the crystal glass, reflecting her cold gaze.

She was listening to someone quietly discussing the North.

"Is the young Lord of the Calvin Family said to have rushed to Buried Bone Canyon?"

"Is he leading the troops himself, or sending the knight order? Can he really turn the tide in such a battle?"

"Heh, who knows? News from the North is always like a frozen river—slow and unreliable."

She didn't interrupt, only a slight movement at the corner of her mouth revealed a faint smile.

That was her nephew, Duke Calvin's least noticed eighth son, exiled to the North, who had carved out a territory and now seemed to have achieved a great achievement.

Recently, Louis Calvin had even become a frequent topic of discussion in the Imperial Capital's noble circles—truly a troublesome yet interesting existence.

Eleanor lowered her head, looking at the unsealed letter on the desk.

She had already written half of it, drafting the wording to send to the North immediately after the war, to remind her brother, Duke Calvin.

It was time to leverage that 'meritorious' son to earn another achievement for the family; even if it was just a share of military honors, she had to add to the family's influence in the noble council.

Just then, a hurried and uneasy set of footsteps broke her contemplation.

"Madam—word has come from the Ministry of Military Affairs, saying that—His Majesty has been out of contact for five days since leaving the Imperial Capital."

A buzzing sound filled Eleanor's mind: "...What?"

"Also, the three legions His Majesty led on his inspection tour have vanished into thin air."

She stood up, her movements extremely slow: "Is it an official announcement?"

"No—it was leaked by the Ministry of Military Affairs; it's spread throughout the entire Imperial Capital."

Eleanor slowly took a breath.

The war, the family, her nephew's military achievements, the ownership of the North, the next round of seats at the Dragon Throne Council, the financial reform bill about to be issued by the Empire—

All of it, at this moment, seemed to be swept away by this hurricane.

The Emperor was missing.

An existence that had wielded supreme power at the Empire's apex for decades was missing.

What was worse, it wasn't just one person leaving; he had also taken his three sharpest spears.

The First Legion was the local garrison of the Imperial Capital, a direct subordinate of the Imperial City, permanently stationed on the outer ring of the Imperial Capital. It was the fastest-reacting elite legion in the entire Empire.

Its commander and deputy commander were both held by direct royal lineage, controlling the Imperial Capital's last line of defense.

The Royal Guard, the Emperor's personal bodyguard, though small in size, had the most Transcendental Knights.

They were the legendary "King's Blade," capable of "a thousand men against an army."

And the Soul of the Empire—the Dragon Blood Legion, with extremely strict selection criteria, only sons of the eight great families of the Imperial Capital were qualified to enter, the rest requiring a bloodline with "three generations of military merit" or more.

It was not only a symbol of military might but also a political hostage; the Emperor used it to control the hearts of all nobles.

They had all disappeared.

Not one or two knights, but the Emperor and the very blades he used to rule the Empire had vanished into thin air.

In the short few hours that followed, the Empire's core seemed to fall silent.

All the ministers closed their doors in silence. The only things visible were the knights constantly leaving the city and more blastbirds delivering messages.

Meanwhile, in the noble mansions of the Imperial Capital, candles burned through the night.

Eleanor Calvin, draped in a black satin robe, stood in the eaves corridor outside the Blue Jade Flower Pavilion, gazing at the rare moonless night in the Imperial Capital.

A chill spread down her spine.

She no longer cared about her original plans for the day; no matter how tragic the war in the North was, it couldn't compare to the terror of His Majesty and the three legions simultaneously losing contact.

Eleanor ordered a carriage to be prepared, returning swiftly to the Iris Tower Residence in the Seventh Political District, the Calvin Family's core intelligence hub in the Imperial Capital.

Night rain fell like a curtain in the Imperial Capital.

Eleanor stood before the candle-flickering writing desk, taking a deep breath to suppress the meticulous anxiety she felt while writing the letter.

She had organized all the intelligence. The secret letter contained no flowery words, only three short pages, summarizing the most important truths currently in the Imperial Capital.

"His Majesty's disappearance is not just a disturbance. It's a prelude to the collapse of the Empire's core."

She narrowed her eyes slightly, recalling the past three days, during which her subordinates had laid stack after stack of secret letters on the table.

There were no fancy methods, only the most traditional ears and eyes.

All came from spies, insiders, and servants in the major noble residences and government offices of the Imperial Capital.

The seemingly prosperous court and political halls were, in fact, like a frozen lake in deep winter, calm and waveless, yet ready to completely shatter at any moment from a single pebble.

Her judgment in the letter to her brother, Duke Calvin:

The Emperor's disappearance this time was most likely not "the work of an external enemy," but rather caused by some forbidden magic.

The collective loss of contact of the three legions symbolized the complete loss of the "iron fist" left by the Emperor, and the entire upper echelon of the Imperial Capital had lost its last bond of fear.

In other words, no one could control anyone anymore.

If a regent could not be established quickly, the Empire would inevitably fall into schism.

Based on the consolidated intelligence network of the Calvin Family, she judged that the upper nobility of the Empire had clearly divided into "four factions":

The Anxious Faction, like the Navin Family, had begun secretly transferring assets to the Emerald Federation and transporting direct family members via sea.

The Conservative Faction, represented by the New Political Nobility, called for "Imperial power is not vacant, await the Holy Judgment," which was actually a delay tactic to avoid conflict eruption.

The Stirring Faction, like the remnants of Calrad and the Roland Family, were holding secret {N•o•v•e•l•i•g•h•t} meetings and recruiting soldiers. They had waited too long for this moment.

The Cold-Eyed Faction, comprising the merchant guilds, Ministry of Finance, and Imperial Capital Foreign Trade Department that controlled the economic lifeline—they said nothing, but they were watching to see who would be the next center.

She wrote in the letter with delicate handwriting:

They were all waiting for the one who could be the first to step onto the high platform, present a new Emperor, or declare themselves regent.

And this was the gamble that would change the fate of the entire Empire.

At the end of the letter, she wrote specific action recommendations: Please, Duke, immediately and privately inform all Calvin distant relatives to be wary of the sweeping impact of "royal succession disputes" among the old nobility.

After finishing the secret letter, she lit the sealing wax and pressed the family crest seal down firmly.

The rain stopped.

She looked up at the palace roof, where the morning light was just breaking through the window. A cold drop of dew hit her fingertip, like a mysterious omen.

"Emperor—" she whispered, "If you have truly disappeared, then it will be our turn to take the stage."

The night was deep, and the wind blew through the iron-leaf cypress forest, stirring a corner of the study curtain, bringing a few frosty evening breezes.

Duke Calvin sat behind his desk, his expression grave.

Before him was a letter from the Imperial Capital.

"Ernst August lost contact on his return journey from the Northern Tour, with three legions accompanying him, all now without a trace—"

The entire study fell into a terrifying silence, broken only by the occasional crackle of charcoal in the fireplace.

"A heaven-sent opportunity, or a prelude to annihilation—"

Duke Calvin looked up, calmly uttering a self-remark, then refolded the letter.

He sealed it in a cloth bag.

Duke Calvin stood before the fireplace, staring at the flames for a long time, then slowly walked to the map.

He gazed at the wall-mounted map covering the entire Empire, his eyes stopping at the red dot marking the Imperial Capital, and sneered: "If it's true...ah."

Then his finger moved to the border of the Southeast Province: "But if it's false, then any action is rebellion, annihilation."

At this moment, he made up his mind.

"Do not show up, do not express an opinion, do not contact anyone. Order the knight order to guard the family territory's borders, defending against both internal and external threats. The Southeast Province, even if it loses the Imperial Capital, must protect itself."

He sat down and personally took up his pen, writing the first command letter, stamping it with the Calvin Family's official seal.

"Even if the Empire's ship is sinking, I must wait until I've chosen which mast it will be." He pondered for a long time, then called for someone again: "Draft a proposal to establish the First Prince as regent."

"This Highness is gentle in character, without military or political power, truly the best puppet. I will seize the initiative, send a letter to the Yuchen Hall, and let the political circles see the loyalty of our Calvin Family."

He paused for half a breath, then instructed: "But do not send it out immediately. Deliver it only when the Imperial Capital is in complete turmoil; it will then perfectly stabilize public sentiment."

Almost simultaneously, a blastbird carrying the Red Tide seal landed on the main mansion's writing desk.

When the letter was delivered to the study by the chief guard, Duke Calvin was still looking at the secret letter from the Imperial Capital.

"...A letter from the North?"

His brow furrowed slightly as he took the letter, the candlelight reflecting the Red Tide sun pattern on the sealing wax.

He tore open the envelope and his gaze swept over it.

"Buried Bone Canyon reinforcements counterattacked and defeated the barbarian army—the main force has returned."

His fingers tightened, and the paper crinkled slightly. After a few breaths, he looked up, his eyes unreadable.

Finally, his gaze rested on the familiar yet emotionless signature, "Louis Calvin, Red Tide Lord."

After reading the entire letter, he didn't speak immediately, only lowered his head in thought, as if immersed in the calm, waveless paper.

After a few breaths, he let out a soft, low sigh.

"That child has, after all, stepped out of the chessboard I set."

The letter only briefly mentioned the "Battle of Buried Bone Canyon," the surprise attack by reinforcements, the reversal of the battle, the narrow escape of the Northern Allied Army, and subsequent requests for support.

It was all rational phrasing, and a formulaic private greeting from a son to his father, without any emotional fluctuations.

The letters over the years had become increasingly cold, as if he were merely a superior, a family backer, rather than a father.

His heart was filled with complex emotions, his thoughts intertwined:

As the patriarch, he had successfully wagered on the North, and the Calvin Family now held the right to speak on "developing the North."

This would elevate the Calvin Family's status in the Empire's North.

This power rested with Louis, not in his own hands.

Moreover, Louis had never shown respect for his father.

The letter's tone was cold, its points precise, full of battle reports and resource allocation requests, as if reporting to a superior, not a father-son conversation.

Furthermore, the advisors he had sent to Red Tide were long unable to interfere with core affairs, and even Bradley, the old servant, had recently used vague language in his letters, avoiding key points.

That subtle shift in loyalty made him deeply uneasy.

Red Tide was now a "blurred tower" to him; he couldn't see its internal structure, nor did he know its true strength.

And he had an idea he hadn't told anyone: if he could somehow recall Louis to the Southeast, to be completely controlled by the Calvin Family, it would both consolidate the North and extend the family's life by a century.

But he knew it wouldn't be easy.

His eldest son, Gaius, was originally the undisputed choice for the next patriarch, serving as deputy commander of the Dragon Blood Legion, at the peak of his strength, skilled in both military and political affairs. But ever since he was severely wounded and fell into a coma during the Northern insect plague, his fate remained unknown.

The Emperor's chosen location for his recuperation was even more mysterious, and now with the Emperor also missing, Gaius was likely in grave danger.

Louis had become his most shining offspring.

He closed his eyes and pondered for a long time, finally slowly opening them: "...Perhaps, he does have the ability to become patriarch, but not now."

He picked up his quill and began to write new orders on the letter paper: to promptly dispatch a new trade envoy to Red Tide, ostensibly to negotiate trade routes, but in reality to investigate the true power structure.

The technical personnel Louis needed could be sent to him, but intelligence personnel must be embedded within them.

More chips could be injected, but whether he was truly willing to pass on the position of family head to him required further observation.

The air in the Imperial Capital, on the fifteenth day of Ernst August's "disappearance," had completely changed.

It was as if an invisible hand had suddenly swept away the Sword of Damocles hanging over the heads of all the powerful.

That once unbreakable pressure suddenly became ineffective, leaving behind a heart-pounding void.

On the surface, the Imperial Capital was still filled with song and dance, nobles still chatted and laughed in the halls, but beneath every greeting lay probing and a hidden blade.

The Emperor's children, like beasts smelling blood,

The Second Prince and Fourth Prince secretly contacted old subordinates, and rumors of the Third Prince's death were brought up again to stir up the situation.

Several princesses also contacted their maternal families and allies, planning for their own protection.

However, everyone knew: if the Emperor truly returned, all the small actions of today would be enough to annihilate their entire families.

So everyone pretended to be cautious, yet secretly surged like a tide.

"The Empire cannot be without a monarch for a single day." This was the sentence on everyone's lips in the political hall.

Therefore, after a brief and intense struggle, all parties miraculously reached a certain tacit understanding:

The frail and powerless First Prince was pushed to the forefront as interim regent.

He had no military power, no political allies, and no independent will.

Precisely because of this, he was the perfect puppet.

The real power, however, quickly slipped into the "Dragon Throne Council."

An alliance of representatives from major families and high-ranking Imperial Capital officials, originally used by the Emperor to control the great nobles, now became a meeting where the great nobles controlled the Emperor.

Thus, the Empire temporarily maintained a semblance of order.

Edicts were still issued, the court still held banquets, and the city's populace still believed that "His Majesty is gravely ill and the Crown Prince is temporarily acting as regent."

However, all the powerful knew: this was merely a thin veil, and beneath the surface, the waves were surging wildly.

Every family, every prince and princess, was waiting for the final answer:

Would the Emperor return, or disappear completely?

And in this delicate interim period, any slight disturbance could ignite the spark leading to a decade of turmoil.