Lord of the Frozen Winter: Starting with Daily Intelligence Reports

Grey Rock Fortress's banquet hall had been thoroughly cleaned.

Bloodstains that had seeped into the cracks of the stone were repeatedly washed away, and thick carpets covered the entire floor, isolating the cold flagstones beneath.

The towering arch ceiling was re-lit, the scorch marks on the walls were hidden by decorative drapes, and the entire hall was restored to its luxurious appearance.

It was as if that bloody purge had never happened.

Musicians were seated at the side of the hall, playing the ancient Northern tune, “Night of Frost's Breath.”

The melody was low and restrained, like a prelude to a blizzard, slowly flowing through the warm air.

Crystal chandeliers hung above the long table, their light reflecting in the red wine glasses, the flickering shadows like flowing blood.

The nobles cut the steaks on their plates, their movements very light.

The occasional clink of cutlery against porcelain sounded unusually harsh at this moment, as if reminding them of something.

They wore newly changed velvet gowns, well-tailored, yet making them feel subtly unnatural.

Their gazes briefly met across the table, then quickly shifted away.

It was a look only conspirators would share.

Not to confirm their stance, but to confirm if everyone was ready to take the same step.

Finally, Count Aibote slowly stood up.

He picked up a silver spoon and gently tapped the wafer-thin crystal glass: “Ding—”

The sound was crisp and brief.

The cellist immediately stopped playing, and the attendants silently retreated into the shadows.

The entire banquet hall fell silent at this moment, all eyes drawn by this tiny sound.

Aibote's gaze swept across the long table, finally resting on Louis.

“Gentlemen,” his voice was low and hoarse, “look outside the window.”

The night outside the window flickered between bright and dark, illuminated by the castle's torches.

“The flag of Grey Rock Fortress has changed color, but our hearts are still suspended.”

He paused, his tone becoming even slower.

“The Imperial Capital is insane, the Southeast is rotten, half of the Empire's ship has sunk, and we now hold gold, yet stand on a drifting iceberg.”

No one in the banquet hall refuted him.

Aibote turned to Louis, his gaze no longer that of looking at a lord, but more like directly facing a monarch.

“My Lord, the sword of the Northern Army is too sharp, so sharp that it frightens everyone, including ourselves.”

His hand tightened slightly in mid-air.

“If this sword has no sheath, it will eventually wound the hand that wields it. And in today's chaotic world, the only sheath that can contain this sword...”

Aibote's voice was extremely low, his gaze fixed ❀ Nоvеlігht ❀ (Don’t copy, read here) on Louis: “Is only the crown.”

“Only the weight of the crown can suppress the restlessness of this chaotic world, and only a new legitimate rule can transform us from separatist warlords into the true cornerstones of the Empire.”

Upon hearing this, Yoen's breathing became heavy.

The chubby man had completely forgotten about the dinner table and etiquette, his eyes wide, staring intently in the direction of the main seat.

As long as Louis nodded.

That would be the founding of a nation.

He would be a founding minister, a high official of the new empire.

This thought made his fingers tremble slightly, and his heart pounded painfully in his chest.

That almost bestial craving for power surged through his veins, as if in the next second, he could bite off the throat of anyone who stood in Louis's way.

It wasn't just Yoen.

On both sides of the long table, all the nobles' gazes converged without them realizing it.

They didn't whisper, but they were all waiting for the same thing; this was not an impromptu suggestion.

This was a possibility that had been repeatedly rehearsed and calculated in private.

And now it was within reach.

Excitement slowly built in the air, some held their breath, others instinctively clutched their napkins.

Count Aibote slowly bent over, maintaining his posture, motionless.

This was a huge gamble.

He was using his sixty years of prestige to force Louis to take a step forward.

He was betting on Louis's ambition.

The banquet hall was terrifyingly quiet.

Even the occasional crackle of pine logs burning in the fireplace sounded exceptionally clear.

Everyone's gaze seemed to materialize into threads, one by one, wrapping around the young man in the main seat.

Louis sat in the shadows.

The light from the crystal chandelier did not reach his face, only reflecting fragmented light and shadow on the edge of the table and in the wine.

He toyed with the fragile crystal glass in his hand, his fingers slowly sliding along the rim.

His expression was indiscernible, his eyes as calm as a bottomless pool of cold water.

Louis's fingers tightened slightly.

“Crack.”

The faint sound of glass shattering erupted in the dead silent banquet hall.

Like a clap of thunder.

He slowly raised his eyes, and a wisp of ancient aura quietly spilled out.

The scribe Vico's pen clattered to the ground.

In his vision, the shadow behind the main seat twisted strangely.

The candlelight seemed to be devoured and stretched by some force, and the shadow slowly swelled, finally condensing into a huge, blurry golden vertical pupil.

It was not complete, nor did it have a physical form.

Yet, it seemed to descend from the clouds, indifferently looking down upon everything in the banquet hall.

Almost the instant that aura appeared, Yoen's mind went blank.

“Thud.”

His backside hit the floor heavily, the sound dull and clear.

He braced himself with his hands, gasping for breath, an instinctive reaction forcibly awakened in the depths of a creature's genes when facing an incomprehensible predator.

Submission.

Not a choice, but a reflex.

Count Aibote was much better, and much worse.

As a knight who had stepped into the extraordinary realm, he clearly felt his fighting spirit instantly suppressed.

The power system he had been proud of his entire life did not possess equal qualifications here.

His heart tightened abruptly.

Cold sweat instantly soaked his silk shirt down his spine.

He gritted his teeth, barely managing not to kneel.

When he looked up again, there was no longer fanaticism in his eyes, only deep reverence.

This was not pressure relying on external objects, nor some clever secret art.

This was a pure difference in hierarchy.

At least a peak knight, or even higher.

This conclusion made Aibote's throat tighten slightly.

Shock, joy, and undeniable fear surged simultaneously in his chest.

Shock that Louis had hidden such strength so deeply, joy that he had chosen the right side, and fear stemming from a fact that was all too clear.

Such a person, if he wished to ascend to the throne, never needed anyone's permission.

In the banquet hall, there was a deathly silence.

Louis took the handkerchief Weil handed him.

The snow-white cloth unfolded between his fingers, and he lowered his head, casually wiping his fingers.

The wine had cooled, staining the handkerchief a dark red, almost blood-like.

His movements were slow, and the golden vertical pupil still hung in the shadows, not entirely dispersed.

“Aibote.” Louis finally spoke, his voice not loud, but cold as a blade pressed against skin, “You've gone senile.”

He looked up at the old count, who still maintained his bowed posture, without a hint of jest in his tone.

Aibote lowered his head, not daring to speak.

Louis stood up, the chair legs scraping against the stone floor with a brief sound.

The next moment, his voice suddenly rose, overpowering the crackling of pine in the fireplace, carrying an undisguised anger.

“Look at who is calling themselves emperor now. Oh, there's that beast Kalian.

To ascend, he poisoned the Regent and beheaded the Fourth Prince, slaughtering the Eight Great Families. Does he think he's the emperor just by sitting on that chair stained with his brothers' blood?”

Louis sneered.

“No, he is a kin-slaying beast, a despot and traitor who usurped a divine artifact. Anyone who recognizes him is an accomplice.”

His finger turned decisively, pointing towards the Southeast.

“And then there's Lampard. This time, the disgust in his tone was almost unconcealed. To oppose the Second Prince, he knelt before those cultists.

He invited the heretical church in, establishing some Holy Eastern Empire.

He is not an emperor. He is a prostitute who sold out his ancestors' glory, a traitor who invited wolves into the house.”

No one in the banquet hall dared to make a sound.

Louis turned around.

The Red Tide banner hung behind him, its red seeming to still flow in the candlelight.

He spread his arms, as if encompassing the entire hall within his gaze.

“At this time of collapsed rites and ruined music... if I also claim the throne, what difference would there be between me and these two pieces of garbage?”

His voice lowered again, but it was sharper than before.

“Our great Emperor has merely gone missing, not died.”

When these words fell, the air in the hall seemed to be completely sucked out.

“Until His Majesty returns,” Louis raised his hand and slammed it heavily on the edge of the table, “the Empire has no emperor.”

“Whoever dares to sit on it—” he paused, “I'll chop off their head.”

Count Aibote understood, slowly straightened up, the panic in his eyes gone, replaced by a nearly devout submission.

Louis suddenly turned and looked into the corner: “Vico.”

Chief Scribe Vico trembled all over, instinctively clutching the parchment in his arms.

Louis walked up to him, tapping the parchment twice with his finger.

“Write down every word I just said, especially those curses against the two false emperors.” His lips curved into a cold and meaningful arc, “Send copies to every noble in the Empire.

I want everyone to know how foul those two things sitting on the imperial throne are.”

After a brief silence.

Yoen, kneeling on the ground, suddenly looked up, his face flushed, his eyes filled with nothing but raw fanaticism: “Boss is right!”

He drew his sword, the blade flashing coldly in the candlelight, and plunged it heavily into the ground.

“Hail to the Empire's sole guardian!”

This cry was like a fuse; the next moment, all the nobles rose in unison and knelt on one knee.

Swords drawn, their tips touching the ground.

“Hail to the Empire's guardian!”

The sound echoed in the Platinum Council Chamber.

Everyone present was intelligent.

They clearly understood what Louis was doing, and what he temporarily did not want to do.

Claiming the throne too quickly, with too much ostentation, would only draw everyone's attention and hostility prematurely.

That crown was more like a target than a reward at this moment.

As long as the phrase “the Emperor has not returned” held true, everything else had room for maneuver.

Power could come first, legitimacy could follow later.

The sword was already in hand; as for what it would be called, that was a matter for future discussion.