Lord of the Frozen Winter: Starting with Daily Intelligence Reports

The study's curtains were drawn tight; the heavy velvet blocked out the daylight and the distant noise from the Imperial Capital's streets.

Kalian sat behind the desk, where a freshly delivered parchment scroll lay spread out, its corners still creased.

The "Manifesto to Imperial Compatriots," written based on Louis's speech.

He read it line by line; the words were sharp and malicious, like deliberately honed blades.

"A kin-slaying beast? A tyrant who usurped the divine relic?" At this, Kalian's lips suddenly twitched.

A raspy, low laugh squeezed out of his throat, like a sense of gratification after the truth had finally been exposed.

"Beast?" he repeated the word in a low voice, his fingers slowly tightening, pinching a fold into the parchment.

"Ha... Louis, you're right." His gaze was cold and clear.

Kalian remembered how he had personally crushed Rhine's throat.

He remembered the rows of corpses hanging on the Avenue of Triumph, and the temperature of the blood as it flowed through the cracks in the stone slabs.

He never needed a fig leaf; this dragon throne was built on violence and blood.

Compared to Rhine's self-proclaimed civilized hypocrisy, he preferred this bluntness. 𝑓𝑟ℯ𝘦𝓌𝘦𝘣𝑛𝑜𝓋𝑒𝓁.𝑐ℴ𝓂

Kalian continued reading, and when his gaze rested on the sentence "Until His Majesty returns, the Empire's throne is vacant," the laughter slowly died down.

The study fell silent again.

Kalian looked up and leaned back against the chair, his fingers tapping lightly on the desk.

This was what truly interested him.

Everyone believed that his great father, the Emperor, would not return.

But Louis had occupied Grey Rock Province and swallowed the Remont Family, yet he pointedly refrained from reaching for that crown, choosing instead to wait for the Emperor who had been missing for years to return. He was clearly leaving himself a way out.

Kalian felt that it wasn't cowardice, but restraint.

"He knows he doesn't have the strength to swallow the whole Empire yet; holding two provinces is his current limit."

Kalian's lips curled again; this "Manifesto to Compatriots" was an insult on the surface, but in reality, it was drawing a line.

The North couldn't move south anymore, at least not for now.

He continued reading, and when he saw Louis using the most biting words to berate Fifth Prince Lampard, labeling him a "prostitute who sold his ancestors' glory," Kalian couldn't help but scoff.

"Old Fifth, that spineless coward," he shook his head, his tone full of contempt. "Actually sucking up to those religious fanatics."

At this moment, he even felt a sense of absurd relief.

Louis's letter cursed the puppet emperor of the Southeast even more harshly than it cursed him, personally pushing him into the mire of heresy.

The Empire's legitimate public opinion was sliced clean in half.

On one side was him, the blood-stained tyrant, and on the other was the traitor bowing to foreign theocracy.

While the North stood outside both, watching coldly.

Kalian slowly exhaled: "Interesting."

In the matter of opposing the Holy Eastern Empire, this man from the North might even become a useful pawn.

Not a friend, but not necessarily a mortal enemy either.

He tossed the parchment onto the desk, like discarding a hand he had already seen through.

"Keep watching the North," Kalian said flatly to the attendant in the shadows. "Don't provoke him."

Then Kalian leaned back and closed his eyes, his soldier's instinct overriding his emotions at this moment.

In his mind, a new map of the Empire slowly unfolded—not lines on parchment, but a real outline formed by blood, supply lines, legions, and intersecting ambitions.

To the north lay the direction of Louis Calvin.

Grey Rock Province had changed hands, but Louis had not continued his southward advance, nor was he in a hurry to wear that crown.

On the contrary, he even signaled a willingness to restore some trade.

Kalian saw it clearly; that wasn't weakness, it was a wolf that had eaten its fill and was now licking its claws in preparation for the next hunt.

"Unshakable," was his judgment of the North.

Remont hadn't been able to take Grey Rock back, and he himself certainly couldn't.

In that case, accept the status quo.

Let Louis become a wall in the northern part of the Empire.

Blocking foreign enemies and other ambitious men.

When necessary, he could let this wall bleed for the Empire, and perhaps eventually win him over with benefits. Making him King of the North wasn't out of the question.

To the Southeast were Fifth Prince Lampard and The Church behind him.

Kalian opened his eyes, his gaze turning cold and hard.

That was the enemy that truly had to be eliminated.

Inviting heretics into the country and using divine power to suppress imperial power was a direct challenge to the Empire's legitimacy.

"Heresy." He chewed on the word repeatedly in his mind.

It was the perfect target.

As long as all wars were directed toward the Southeast, he could use the name of purging heretics to reunite the nobles and establish his unshakable legitimate position.

Finally, there was the Imperial Capital, between himself and Remont.

His gaze bypassed the heavy curtains and cast toward the other side of the Imperial City.

That was the direction of Duke Remont's manor; although Duke Remont hadn't returned, many knights were still patrolling the area.

Once upon a time, that manor was like a mountain in the shadows, pressing down on him until he couldn't breathe.

Every matter of the Empire, even after his own judgment, would eventually circle back there to be decided once more by the Old Duke.

And he had always been just a blade held in someone else's hand; Kalian knew this well.

Now things were different; Grey Rock Province had fallen.

The Remont Family's centuries-old foundation was being gouged out inch by inch by the North's cold blade.

Kalian knew exactly what that meant.

Without the wealth of Grey Rock Province and the constant supply of private troops, Remont was no longer the true controller of the Empire.

He was just a loser who had fled back to the Imperial Capital in a panic with his defeated remnants.

"Your Excellency Grand Marshal..." Kalian slowly chewed on the title, an irrepressible surge of violent pleasure appearing at the corner of his mouth. "Do you still have the right to treat me as a pawn now?"

It was a strange feeling.

Louis's blade from the North hadn't struck him, but it had accurately pierced Remont's toughest armor.

So he was actually somewhat grateful to that wild wolf, Louis.

Kalian slowly withdrew his gaze; he knew Remont's character better than anyone, and the Old Duke was never a loyal subject.

Remont had only chosen him as a puppet; once the situation stabilized, Remont would surely act.

Replacing his guards, controlling his will with drugs, or even orchestrating an accident to replace him with a more obedient puppet.

In the past, he was powerless to resist because Remont possessed absolute strength.

But now this old wolf had lost its sharp claws and its way out.

But a beast with no way out would only become more frantic, more desperate to clutch its final chips.

"So..." Kalian whispered to himself, his voice so faint it was almost inaudible, "Remont, you are my greatest enemy now."

Before breaking with the North, before settling accounts with Old Fifth and those fanatics.

He had to personally devour his former benefactor within this cage of the Imperial Capital.

Otherwise, the next one served on the dinner table would be himself.

"Now, you are nothing more than an old dog that has lost its kennel." Kalian's lips curled into a cold smile.

He would be in the name of reclaiming the Southeast and defending the Southwest, he would repeatedly send Remont's remaining direct descendants into a literal meat grinder.

When those knights were all dead, when Remont could no longer produce gold coins or military merit, the people around him would naturally begin to waver.

At that time, he would use the Emperor's name to win over the minor nobles and low-level knights who had lost faith in Remont.

A Duke who had lost his territory and his purse,

what could he possibly use to buy loyalty?

Kalian slowly exhaled, picked up the wine glass on the desk, and gave a slight toast to the empty study.

"Thank you, Louis." His eyes gleamed with madness and cunning in the dim light.

"You pulled Remont's teeth for me. The remaining meat, I will eat it myself, bite by bite."

...There was almost no light in the prayer chamber.

Only a slender candlestick stood on the edge of the altar; ambergris slowly melted in the flame, releasing a sweet and heavy scent.

The candlelight flickered, stretching two figures long and casting them onto the giant golden feather flower holy emblem on the wall.

The emblem's outline distorted slightly in the light and shadow, like a giant bird nailed to the wall, wings spread but ready to break at any moment.

Fifth Prince Lampard stood with his back to the door.

He was looking down, wiping a ceremonial longsword; the silver blade gleamed coldly in the candlelight.

A crumpled ball of parchment was slowly burning in the brazier, the flames devouring the words and turning the manifesto into ashes bit by bit.

"Duke," Lampard's voice had no emotional fluctuation. "I sometimes think the Calvin Family is truly full of talent."

He continued wiping the sword without looking back.

"Your son is calling me a prostitute in the north. Yet you are managing my purse in the south. Are you father and son putting your eggs in two baskets, planning to have it both ways?"

Lampard suddenly stopped.

He turned around, the sword tip dropping, but in the next moment, it rose slightly, pointing vaguely at the ground.

Those eyes locked onto the Duke's throat like a venomous snake.

"Give me a reason. A reason not to send you to the gallows. And don't tell me some nonsense about how you can't control him either."

In the secret chamber, the air froze.

Duke Calvin stood where he was; he did not kneel, nor did he explain.

He was silent for a moment, but when he spoke, he did not mention Louis.

"Your Majesty," his voice was aged and slow. "The carrier pigeon from the Holy City has just arrived."

Lampard's brow twitched imperceptibly.

"I heard that the old golden feather flower blooming atop the Holy Mountain..." The Duke looked up at the emblem on the wall. "Its petals have already withered."

The sword tip trembled slightly, and Lampard's pupils contracted sharply.

He naturally understood the meaning of these words: the old Pope was dying.

Duke Calvin took half a step forward, as if stepping into a sacred forbidden zone, or perhaps approaching the edge of an abyss.

His voice dropped even lower, sounding like both a prayer and a temptation: "Winter is coming; flowers bloom and wither, it is a law of nature. But the next golden feather flower to bloom, upon whose crown will it fall..."

The candlelight flickered violently at this moment.

The Duke looked up: "Your Majesty, my third son, Eduardo, is currently standing on the second step of the Holy Stairs. He is only one step away from that White Throne that represents the supreme theocracy."

Hearing this, Lampard silently sat back in the uncomfortable prayer chair; its back was hard and straight, clearly not designed for long periods of rest.

He raised a hand to rub his brow, his knuckles pressing against his temples as if trying to force down some surging emotion.

The secret chamber fell silent again; the candle made a tiny crackling sound as it burned, and the scent of ambergris became even more potent, almost stifling.

Lampard's brain was working at high speed; he was calculating.

Whether to kill Duke Calvin or to keep him.

The pleasure and awe brought by the former lasted only a moment, while the latter maintained the reality of the Southeast Province barely holding together.

The Empire was already fragmented.

He possessed the powerful endorsement of the The Church's strength, yet lacked sufficient gold coins.

The national treasury was empty; even the knights' pay had begun to fall into arrears, and whether next month's wages could be issued remained an unknown.

The Calvin Family was not just a money bag, but the reason the old nobility of the Southeast was still willing to stand by his side.

Lampard was well aware of this fact.

His thoughts continued to project forward; if he killed the Duke now... Louis in the north would no longer have any scruples and would completely tear away the fig leaf.

The Second Prince in the Imperial Capital would not hesitate to take advantage of the chaos to march eastward.

And regarding the Holy City, if Eduardo truly stepped onto that White Throne... as his father's killer, he himself would have no way out.

This was a future of certain death.

Lampard slowly exhaled; he finally realized a cruel truth.

He actually didn't have the qualifications to flip the table.

The so-called Holy Eastern Empire looked grand on the surface, but it was actually an empty shell barely supported by three pillars... the Imperial bloodline, the The Church's legitimacy, and the Calvin Family.

If any one of them were broken, this edifice would collapse overnight.

When he raised his head again, the killing intent in his eyes had completely faded, replaced by a sense of exhaustion.

“Duke,” Lampard's voice lowered, “do you know why I have been tolerating that Special Envoy Bishop bossing people around in my palace?”

He didn't wait for an answer and continued on his own: “Because I lack one thing.”

He stood up and walked over to Duke Calvin.

This time there were no threats, only a deliberately lowered posture.

“If the future you spoke of is true.”

“If Eduardo really can stand upon that White Throne.” Lampard looked directly into the Duke's eyes, his tone rarely sincere, “You will help me, won't you?”

Duke Calvin bowed: “That is only natural.”

Lampard was silent for a moment, then he raised his hand and pointed to the closed door of the secret room.

“But how do we pass this current hurdle?” His voice was kept very low. “That Bishop Salomon outside has already insisted on launching a crusade against Louis. If I don't agree, he will question my piety.

If I do agree, I'll be throwing my military strength away onto the northern ice fields for nothing, fighting your son—that Guardian of the Empire—and letting the Second Prince watch the joke from the Imperial Capital.”

Duke Calvin did not answer immediately.

He only sighed softly, as if feeling weary of a situation he had long foreseen.

Then he raised his head, his expression becoming calm and composed once more.

“Your Majesty, there is no need for you to resist head-on at a time like this; resisting only allows others to see your weakness.” The Duke's voice was unhurried. “We stall for time and give him a sufficiently weighty empty promise.”

Lampard's brow twitched slightly.

The Duke continued: “As for Bishop Salomon... you can make him a promise. Once the Holy Eastern Empire achieves unification, three prosperous counties will be allocated as dioceses directly under the The Church, to be governed by him personally for life.”

This wasn't about faith; it was naked interest, enough to teach any Bishop patience.

Lampard did not immediately object.

He knew all too well what that Bishop's true faith was.

The Duke's words did not stop: “As for that rebellious son, Louis, we don't need to treat him as an enemy, but as a 'necessary evil'.”

As these words fell, the candlelight flickered slightly.

“Your Majesty.” The Duke leaned forward slightly, his voice hushed. “We tell the Bishop that Louis is the meat shield standing before the heathens.

He stands before the Second Prince, before the barbarians, and before all enemies who truly threaten the holy order. Letting him bleed is far more in line with God's will than bleeding ourselves.

Not only will we not campaign against him, we will grant him a chance at atonement by appointing him as the Guardian of the North, letting him die in our stead.”

The secret room fell silent again, and Lampard's breathing gradually became steady.

He fully understood now.

It was a closed loop.

Use the Bishop's greed to buy time, and use Louis's edge to wear down the Second Prince.

Meanwhile, they would retreat to the rear and put all their efforts into operating Eduardo's campaign.

Lampard nodded slowly, the light of a true ruler finally igniting in his eyes.

“Good, we shall do as you say. I will issue an edict rebuking Louis for his disrespect. But for your sake, I will allow him to redeem himself through service.”

By the time the conversation ended, the ambergris incense in the secret room had burned to its end.

Duke Calvin prepared to withdraw.

“Wait.” Lampard's voice sounded from behind him.

Duke Calvin stopped; the truly important content often lay in this final sentence.

Lampard did not scold him, nor did he put on any threatening posture.

Instead, he personally walked forward and raised his hand to straighten the Duke's slightly crooked cravat.

The movement was unhurried, almost as close as a father tidying his son's appearance.

In a blood relationship, this was intimacy; between monarch and subject, this was a binding.

Lampard's knuckles brushed against the old man's neck, feeling the loose, aged skin.

He looked at the white hair at Calvin's temples, his voice deepening with a sense of pressure.

“Old Calvin.” He rarely addressed the other this way. “I am staking my life and fortune on you and your sons.”

The candlelight flickered gently.

“Louis guards the gate in ★ 𝐍𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 ★ the north, Eduardo seizes power in the Holy City, and you stay by my side to manage the money bags, the nobility, and those allies who might bite back at any moment.”

Lampard paused, his lips pulling into a weary smile.

“Don't let me lose. If I lose, no one on this ship... not a single one will survive, and that includes the Calvin Family.”

Duke Calvin's shoulders trembled imperceptibly.

He bowed deeply, his movements even more respectful than when he arrived.

His aged body bent nearly ninety degrees, and then he reached out to perform a standard and pious hand-kissing rite on Lampard's hand.

“May Your Majesty's glory endure forever.” His voice was low and raspy, yet exceptionally firm. “The Calvin Family shall surely present that Triple Crown to you.”

With those words, the Duke turned and stepped into the deep, long corridor outside the secret room.

The candles behind him extinguished one by one, stretching his shadow until it was completely swallowed by the darkness.

Inside the secret room, only Lampard remained alone.

Lampard stood back in front of that massive map.

The territory of the Southeast was still small, like a chess piece squeezed into a corner.

But in his eyes, those boundaries had already begun to move, expand, and overlap.

He could almost hear the bells of the Holy City ringing in unison.

Upon the White Throne, the new Pope donned the Triple Crown.

And Lampard, with the endorsement of that supreme divine authority, would set out from the Southeast, crush the divided Empire, and sweep across the continent.

The candlelight reflected in Lampard's eyes.

There was no faith there, only the ambition of an Emperor... By the time Duke Calvin returned to his study, the night was already deep.

He felt no post-victory euphoria, nor even a hint of relief.

Old Calvin practically dragged his body to the desk and sank heavily into his chair.

This hurdle seemed to have been cleared.

But he knew better than anyone that this was merely using a small nail to temporarily hold up a situation on the verge of collapse.

Everything was built upon a fragile assumption.

Eduardo must ascend that White Throne.

As long as the bells of the Holy City did not ring for the name of Calvin, as long as the Pope's crown ultimately fell upon someone else's head...

Then all the understanding reached in the prayer chamber today would turn into waste paper overnight.

At that time, the The Church would immediately tear away its mask of gentleness, Lampard would lose his fig leaf of sanctity, and the Holy Eastern Empire would split in an instant.

It would no longer be a game between several parties, but a true power storm that would consume everything.

Spread out on the desk was a map of the world.

His gaze, however, remained fixed only on the north.

Grey Rock Province—that area was marked in red, exceptionally eye-catching, like a wound that had not yet dried.

Then Duke Calvin picked up his pen, writing very slowly this time.

The letter no longer contained a father's scolding, nor an elder's advice.

All phrasing had been precisely stripped of emotion, leaving only naked political judgment.

“Since you wish to be a lone wolf, then guard your gate well. I will block the pretexts for heresy trials for you at the The Church. And you must use your sword to secure a path of retreat for the family in these troubled times...”

This was an agreement between equals, a cold understanding.

After writing the last word, the Duke stopped his pen and tapped his finger lightly on the desk.

Once this letter was sent, the final fig leaf of 'fatherly warmth' for the Calvin Family would be completely torn away.

But this was exactly what Louis wanted.

And it was the approach that he, as a father, finally acknowledged.

The Duke stood up and walked to the window.

Under the night sky, the square outside the palace was brightly lit.

On one side hung the golden feather flower holy emblem high on the city walls, symbolizing the The Church's judgment and forgiveness.

On the other side was the Fifth Prince's imperial flag, flapping loudly in the night wind.

Divine power and Imperial power.

The two flags flew side by side, yet were wary of each other, like two blades that had not yet been unsheathed.

Duke Calvin watched this scene quietly, his gaze gradually becoming deep and complex.

A self-mocking smile slowly curled at the corners of his mouth.

“Gaius.” His voice was very soft, as if speaking to the air. “The most talented, the one given great expectations, the one pushed to the very front.

Yet he was gravely injured in the Battle of the Brood and became a vegetable. Along with the disappearance of the Emperor, he was buried by the era.”

The Duke closed his eyes and opened them again.

His gaze moved to a small piece of land in the Southeast corner of the map, separated from the continent by the sea, where the The Church's golden feather flower was marked.

“And Eduardo. Sent to the Papal States in his early years as an insignificant bargaining chip.”

“Now he has reached the Holy Stairs and is called a Saint. Just one more step, and he can don that Triple Crown and hold divine power in his hands.”

His gaze finally fell back to the north.

It landed on the red-covered Grey Rock Province, which connected to the Northern Border.

“As for the eighth... tossed to the Northern Border back then merely for the Northern Border Development Order. Unexpectedly, he raised a wolf truly capable of devouring people.

Two major provinces, an iron army. A name that makes everyone wary even without a crown.”

He chuckled lowly, looking out at those two flags, his voice deep: “The Calvin Family... shall never fall.”

Work is busy, can't slack off to write anymore; updates will be changed to the evening from now on.