Lord of the Frozen Winter: Starting with Daily Intelligence Reports

The downpour weighed on the eaves, striking the bronze rain gutter with a dull, rhythmic sound.

Only a single fireplace was lit inside the room, its flame too weak to illuminate the rafters.

Second Prince Kalian sat at the desk, his shoulders slightly hunched.

He had been staring at the military and political list for a long time; the stitches where his arm had been reattached ached intermittently, like damp, cold air seeping into his bones.

The quill in his hand lightly swept across the paper, crossing out the third name on the list.

That was the Commander of the 23rd Legion, who had personally sworn allegiance to him, and with whom he had fought side by side.

Today's intelligence reported that the main force stationed in the outer ring of the Royal Capital had submitted a request for rotation to the Ministry of Finance, which was controlled by the Fourth Prince, this morning.

Kalian stared at the name where the ink was spreading, his throat feeling constricted.

Compared to the drastic reduction in his power, this feeling of being abandoned bit by bit was far more lethal.

Like a tree hollowed out by termites, still standing, yet ready to collapse at any moment.

A soft knock on the door broke the dead silence.

"Your Highness," the personal attendant lowered his voice, but couldn't hide his panic, "Duke Remont requests an audience."

The quill slipped from Kalian's fingers and rolled once on the desk surface.

He suddenly looked up, his face first showing confusion, then disbelief.

Remont? The giant figure who could make nobles yield three steps on both the northern and southern fronts of the Empire?

He should, by all accounts, be in the Gray Rock Province, tens of thousands of miles away, at this moment.

Why would he appear in the Imperial Capital during a downpour?

The shock lasted only an instant, quickly replaced by a surge of almost greedy ecstasy.

When everyone else was preparing to abandon him, this Duke had actually braved the storm to see him.

"Quick! Let him in!" Kalian suddenly stood up, his chair scraping harshly against the stone floor. "Guard the door, no one is allowed near!"

Thunder rolled across the Imperial Palace roof, as if sounding the prelude to this secret meeting.

The moment Remont stepped into the side hall, the air seemed to grow heavier.

He shook the rain off his shoulders, unfastened the soaked black cloak, and casually hung it on the iron hook by the door.

Beneath it was a set of dark leather armor without any family crest, simple yet radiating danger.

Although he carried the chill of the downpour, his posture remained perfectly straight, like hardwood that wouldn't bend even slightly in a storm.

Kalian rushed forward almost impatiently: "Duke, how could you... how dare you come to the Imperial Capital at a time like this?"

Remont did not reply. His gaze fell upon the list on the table with the names crossed out, lingering for half a second.

"Your Highness," his tone was calm, yet it sliced like a knife cutting a wound. "Rotten flesh should be cut away."

He looked up and added: "Keeping it will only drag down the entire body."

Kalian's breath hitched.

Remont took a few steps forward, pulled out a chair, and sat down, his movements as relaxed as if he were in his own mansion.

"It's a good thing those fence-sitters left," he continued. "At least now, you can finally see clearly who is still useful and who has long belonged to others."

Kalian clenched his back teeth, his voice tight: "The Legion... it shouldn't be like this. The 23rd Army defected to the Fourth Prince because those civil officials used threats and inducements..."

"It wasn't just threats and inducements," Remont cut off his complaint directly. "It was seizing their lifelines."

He reached out and pushed the list back toward Kalian.

"The Fourth Prince controls the Ministry of Finance, and he also controls the Audit Office. He uses provisions, military funds, and audits to grind the families of these old-school legion commanders into the dirt."

"Without provisions, they can't last two months. Without audit exemptions, their family accounts won't survive until next year. Without official records of military achievements, their nephews and sons won't even pass the nobility promotion assessment."

Remont looked up at Kalian: "These old legion commanders are never loyal to anyone. They are loyal to their own families. The Fourth Prince gives them what they need to stabilize their families, and you can't... naturally, they turn away."

Silence paused between the two men for an instant.

Remont leaned back against the chair, summarizing bluntly: "The Ministry of Military Affairs is now an empty shell. You cannot command a single complete army."

Thunder rolled over the roof again.

Remont seemed to have anticipated this step long ago, taking another roll of parchment from the side of his chair and slapping it onto the table.

It wasn't a list, but a dusty, corner-worn map of the Empire's Border Defense Garrison.

"Your Highness, not being able to command the armies in the Royal Capital doesn't mean you have no armies."

Kalian stared at the old map, his brow slowly furrowing.

Remont raised his hand and pointed to the mountain region bordering the Emerald Federation in the west: "The 31st Legion."

Then he pointed toward the southern barbarian border: "The 11th Legion."

"These two legions constantly fight mixed battles against demonic beasts and foreign races on the border. They are forces forged in genuine combat," Remont's fingertip rested on the map, his tone calm and assured. "Their combat power is the strongest among all the Empire's numbered legions."

He paused: "And they are the most forgotten by the Imperial Capital."

Kalian's breath tightened slightly, but he didn't interrupt.

Remont continued: "They are too far from the political center and are treated by the Ministry of Finance as a bottomless pit that swallows money.

Their annual military pay is delayed and deducted whenever possible. Do you know how dilapidated their equipment is? A ten-year-old worn-out sword is considered good if it can still be used after being patched up.

Those men have long hated the civil officials in the Imperial Capital who only use audit forms to deduct supplies, as well as the Fourth Prince's influence."

He looked up at Kalian, his gaze like a sharp dagger: "They don't care whether the Imperial Capital's directives are compliant, nor do they care who is fighting for what in the Imperial Palace. They only understand two things: whether they are given supplies, and whether they are respected."

"A general in the field is not bound by the sovereign's command." Remont quietly repeated an ancient military maxim. "These men are more independent than you imagine. As long as you feed them, they will help you tear through the Imperial Capital's northern defenses."

Kalian stared at the legion garrisons, a long-absent light appearing in his eyes.

Remont seized upon this slight change and offered his leverage at the right moment: "The Remont Family's private vault holds enough fine military equipment to re-arm three legions, plus two years' worth of grain reserves. I am willing to take it out and deliver it to the 31st and 11th Legions."

"The prerequisite is that they know who is feeding them." Kalian stared at the border defense map, his chest feeling as if something had been forced open.

The dull ache and humiliation caused by his severed arm, the suppressed rage that had been building in his heart, finally found an outlet to burn. 𝚏𝕣𝕖𝚎𝚠𝚎𝚋𝚗𝐨𝐯𝕖𝕝.𝕔𝐨𝕞

The downpour hammered against the window frame, yet his breathing grew increasingly rapid.

"Duke..." Kalian's voice was slightly hoarse. "You are willing to take this risk for me... I..."

Before he could finish, his eyes were already burning.

In this Imperial Capital, everyone was leaving him.

Only this man before him had returned against the wind and rain at the most dangerous time, pushing his family's entire fortune toward him.

The ache at the site of his severed arm seemed to be somewhat diluted by this surge of emotion.

To secure the only person still willing to support him, Kalian blurted out, almost overwhelmed by emotion:

"Remont! When I ascend the throne, pick one of the Three Fertile Counties! No... I'll give you all three counties!"

Kalian looked up, his tone urgent and resolute: "Furthermore, the Grand Marshal title shall be hereditary! From now on, the Empire's military forces will be under your control!"

Remont was slightly stunned for a moment.

Not out of emotion.

But because the Second Prince's reaction was even easier to manipulate than he had imagined.

Nevertheless, he displayed the perfectly appropriate expression—both shocked and subtly impassioned.

"Your Highness..." he murmured. "The Remont Family, from top to bottom, swears to follow you until death."

The tears in Kalian's eyes finally slipped down. He didn't wipe them, just nodded fiercely.

Remont stood up, put the soaked cloak back on, and rose like a black wall.

"I will leave through the secret passage." He said simply, then pushed the door open, his figure swallowed by the downpour.

After retreating into the black carriage without insignia, Remont retracted all his emotions.

The passion and loyalty he had just displayed seemed as if they had never existed.

He raised his hand, took out a clean handkerchief, and carefully wiped his pauldron.

That was the spot the Second Prince had just patted.

His movements were slow and deliberate, yet carried a coldness, as if he were wiping away some unpleasant taint that disgusted him.

The rain outside hammered loudly on the carriage roof.

Remont leaned back in the shadows, his eyes as cold as a deep-sea predator... Deep inside the Calvin Grand Duke's Mansion.

The Obsidian Door closed behind him, its heavy echo dissipating in the narrow corridor, isolating the sea breeze and lamplight outside.

The secret chamber was small and simply furnished.

Against the wall was a row of bookcases secured with iron clasps. In the center were only a black walnut table and two chairs, and a silver hourglass sat on the corner of the table, the fine sand slowly dropping.

Grand Duke Calvin sat in the backlit position, his fingertips lightly tapping the tabletop.

His attire was restrained, with only a slightly worn family crest pinned to his chest—the one his father had passed down to him.

The Fifth Prince and the envoy from the Golden Feather Flower Theocracy, Divine Emissary Salomon, took seats opposite him.

He wore a gray robe, his white gloves were almost deliberately clean, and the silver holy emblem around his neck shimmered slightly in the firelight.

After a moment of silence, Salomon spoke first.

"Your Grace the Duke, His Highness and the Curia send you their blessings." His voice was neither fast nor slow, his tone gentle. "At this time when the Empire is precarious, to still be able to stabilize the Southeast shipping route and deliver the spices needed by the Holy See on time—this reputation... is praised by everyone, even in the Holy City."

Calvin gave a casual laugh: "Praise from the Holy City usually comes with a hefty price tag."

Salomon didn't deny it, but instead followed up: "Not at ~Nоvеl𝕚ght~ all. I have brought a surprise this time."

As he spoke, he took a smaller roll of parchment from his sleeve and gently spread it on the table.

The map only depicted the current boundaries of the Southeast Province.

"The Empire's fracture is already a reality." Salomon extended a finger and tapped the map. "There aren't many provinces left that can still maintain a complete military and political system."

"What do you mean?" the Duke asked mildly.

"The current Southeast Province is the only relatively intact skeleton on the eastern side of the Empire," Salomon looked at him.

"But this skeleton is too fragmented. The coastal cities and the major inland families are all acting independently. If this continues, His Highness, who intends to start his base in the Southeast, will be dragged down by these minor feudal lords."

Calvin did not deny this point. Over the years, during the process of unifying the Southeast, he had dealt too much with these fragmented families.

"So?" He asked again.

Salomon finally mentioned the specific bargaining chips for the first time: “His Highness is willing to push the Parliament and the Curia in the Imperial Capital to acknowledge...

...the concentration of all military and administrative power of the entire Southeast Province under your name alone. All command authority originally belonging to the Royal Family and the Provincial Council will be handed over to you via written decree.”

The Duke raised an eyebrow slightly: “It sounds more like dumping a pile of bad debts for me to clean up.”

“Cleaning up bad debts is a necessary step before establishing a new order.” Salomon did not shy away. “As long as you agree, His Highness will push for the issuance of the Southeast Reorganization Order within three months. From that moment on, the Southeast Province will have only one master.”

The stakes of this step were not astonishing, but they were sufficiently pragmatic.

Calvin looked down at the small map and tapped the desk lightly with his knuckles: “Given His Highness’s current influence, this order might not necessarily pass.”

“You are correct.”

Salomon admitted it readily, then changed the subject: “Therefore, this is just an opening letter. The real invitation is yet to come.”

After speaking, he pulled a second, larger map from the leather tube he carried.

This time, the parchment unrolled, covering half the desktop.

A red line started from the Southeast coast, traveled north, encircled the Golden Wheat Plains, and then turned west, incorporating the inland river port area of Oakhaven Province.

The lamplight on the table flickered across the parchment, as if the red line were truly expanding outward.

Salomon’s finger lightly pressed the end of the line: “If the plan succeeds, His Highness intends to support a Guardian to prevent the Eastern order from collapsing along with it.”

He spoke calmly, yet his words struck the Duke’s heart one by one: “This circled area will form a new political entity.

Nominally, it will be the Holy Eastern Empire, acknowledging the spiritual symbol of the royal bloodline. Practically—it requires a Regent with sufficient prestige and resources.”

Calvin’s gaze slowly moved from the red line back to Salomon’s face.

“You already have a candidate in mind?”

“Other than you,” Salomon stated as if reciting a fact, “there is no second name to write down.”

He did not use words like “Emperor,” but simply pushed the conversation forward: “Spiritual authority will be handed over to the Holy City and the Royal Family.

The secular authority of the Southeast Province—such as legislation, minting currency, presiding over the Noble Council, and granting fiefs—will all be concentrated in the hands of the Executive Officer.”

“To put it another way, once the Holy Eastern Empire is established,” he added, “on this circled territory, apart from religious ceremonies, every single command must be issued by you.”

The secret chamber fell silent.

Only the fine sand in the hourglass continued to fall, making an extremely faint scratching sound.

Calvin looked at the red line, remaining silent for a long time.

This promise went far beyond the provincial integration he had expected; he even suspected that the condition was merely thrown out randomly.

It was not just handing over a larger fiefdom; it was a proposition.

To strip the granary and the money bag of the Empire's Southeast Province, along with the nominal right to rule, and place them into his palm.

“His Highness is quite daring.” The Duke finally spoke, his voice soft. “But there is a problem.”

Salomon made a gesture for him to continue.

“This land,” Calvin tapped the Golden Wheat Plains with his fingertip, “does not belong to him yet. Isn't it ridiculous for him to promise me something that isn't in his own pocket?”

The corner of Salomon’s mouth moved imperceptibly: “Therefore, the purpose of my visit today is not to make you immediately believe the outcome, but to ask you to see the direction.”

“Direction?”

“The Empire is sinking.” Salomon looked at him. “His Highness and the Holy See are unwilling to be dragged down with it. We need someone to prop up a piece of ground on the east side that won't immediately shatter.”

He paused, lowering his voice: “If you are willing to stand on this ground, the future distribution of spoils can be discussed later. The red line on the map is also not immutable.”

At this point, the real game of chess had just begun.

Salomon was not in a hurry to continue expanding the red line; he simply took a letter slowly from his inner pocket.

The envelope was unsigned, sealed with pure gold wax bearing the crest of a wave combined with a golden feathered flower.

As Duke Calvin's fingertip touched the wax seal, his heart tightened slightly.

He did not need to open it to know the contents.

Three days ago, he had received the same mark through the most secretive family channels.

It was a personal family letter from his third son, Eduardo.

The secret letter contained only a few short lines, yet they were enough to change the future of the entire continent.

Eduardo confirmed the Fifth Prince's actions and the internal leanings of the Curia, finally writing down a piece of news that he himself had pondered for a long time before committing to paper—

The current Pope is critically ill, and the various factions within the Holy See have begun to eliminate each other's power.

Eduardo Calvin, in that perilous struggle, eliminated the two strongest opponents using Divine Miracles and a massive amount of Hidden Family Funds.

He has now entered the final list of three candidates, and he said his chances of winning are seventy percent.

After reading the letter, the Duke showed no excitement, only closing his eyes and pondering for a long time.

Eduardo was the calmest and most truthful of his children.

If he said seventy percent, it was seventy percent.

Salomon seemed to fully grasp the Duke’s thoughts. He pushed the letter closer, his tone still calm: “Land, perhaps, must be acquired through the sword.”

“But authority...” He looked up. “Is already in your hands.”

Calvin's gaze darkened.

Salomon the Divine Envoy leaned forward slightly, his voice lowered as if plotting a monumental secret: “Your Grace, imagine if the future Pope bore the surname Calvin.”

The flickering light of the brazier reflected in his eyes, like a thin line that dared not be looked at directly.

“That means that no matter how many nations are born on the continent, and regardless of whether the Empire continues to exist... the Calvin Family will stand above both Imperial and Divine Authority. That is a height even the Founding Emperor could not reach.”

The air felt compressed.

Grand Duke Calvin did not immediately refute, nor did he show greed.

He simply looked down at the wax seal, his fingertip gently tracing the edge.

It was an era handing the reins over to him.

Seeing that the Duke's emotions had been pushed to the perfect position, Salomon slowly withdrew his hand: “Your Grace, having spoken this far, I must propose a necessary condition.”

The charcoal in the brazier popped with a faint sound.

“To ensure the stability of the Eastern Front,” Salomon’s tone was gentle, yet carried an undeniable implication, “we need the North to descend into chaos.”

Duke Calvin's fingers stopped moving.

The Divine Envoy continued: “Lord Louis of the Red Tide Territory has strong troops and abundant resources. If he simply cuts off supplies to the Empire and ties down the Imperial Northern Army... the Northern front will immediately become unbalanced. His Highness can then easily advance the plan.”

The secret chamber was so quiet that one could almost hear the muffled sound of the tide hitting the harbor.

Duke Calvin did not respond immediately.

Since the last failure to incorporate Red Tide by leveraging trade routes, Louis was no longer a young wolf anyone could keep on a leash.

The way that child is now... he resembles a member of the Edmund Family more than a member of the Calvin Family.

He was like a beast grown out of the Northern Territory's snows, finding his own direction, expanding on his own, and establishing his own order.

Ask such a person to incite a civil war in the North?

Ha, he might even use the letter to wipe his boots.

The problem was that Salomon the Divine Envoy must absolutely not know this.

If the Holy See and the Fifth Prince realized, “You cannot control the Wolf of the North,” the entire negotiation would instantly lose value.

Thus, the Duke composed himself and, in a few short seconds, rewrote "uncontrollable" into "expensive."

He frowned, feigning a heavy sigh: “Louis... that child listens to me.”

He paused, as if weighing the options: “But he is also a Regional Lord now, feeding tens of thousands of people. Asking him to fight at the risk of being swallowed by the Empire...”

The Duke looked up, his gaze shining like a knife: “This was not in the original price.”

The Holy Emblem in Salomon's hand swayed slightly.

“If you want the Wolves of the North to bite,” the Duke's tone was calm but applied pressure step by step, “you must add meat.”

The air paused for half a breath.

Salomon finally nodded: “Agreed.”

He took another piece of parchment from his pocket and pushed it toward the Duke: “His Highness and the Curia are willing to add three years of military expenditure to the original conditions, to support the Red Tide Territory’s Northern Defense Line.”

He added: “Furthermore, the Sacerdotal Corps will provide blessings, protection, and pre-battle sacred rites to the Red Tide Army free of charge.”

Duke Calvin chuckled inwardly.

How could Louis possibly allow the Sacerdotal Corps to step even half a pace into Red Tide.

However, these three years of military expenditure... he could pocket them first, and then slowly consider how to relay the funds to the North, if the opportunity arose.

Anyway, they wouldn't know where the money went. As for Louis, he would just write a letter to him, see if he wanted the help; if not, there was nothing he could do.

Having settled this matter, the two then lowered their voices and finalized several key details one by one: how the legions would make contact, the routes for material transport, and the overt and covert pieces the Fifth Prince needed to position within the Imperial Capital beforehand.

The atmosphere was as heavy as the rain outside the secret chamber; every detail confirmed was like shoving another stone into the Empire's widening cracks.

Until the Divine Envoy departed.

Grand Duke Calvin sat alone in his chair, tapping the desktop with his fingers, remaining motionless for a long time.

He knew, of course, that the Fifth Prince's ambition was unrealistically grand. Yet the direction Salomon proposed... did indeed hold some truth.

The Calvin Family would be forced to choose a side sooner or later.

But choosing now meant throwing the family's fate into the storm.

If the situation became clearer, or if Eduardo truly ascended to the position of Pope, he could naturally take the reins at that opportune moment. After all, he hadn't signed any oaths or pressed his fingerprint today.

If the Fifth Prince could indeed stabilize the situation, he would naturally align himself perfectly.

If he couldn't hold it? Then he hadn't promised anything.