Lord of the Frozen Winter: Starting with Daily Intelligence Reports

Seldon Calvin sat in a black-and-gold carriage emblazoned with the family crest, his fingertips pinching a copy of the "Autumn Harvest Statistics" that still smelled of ink.

Expensive ambergris burned inside the carriage, but even so, the strange odor drifting in from outside stubbornly penetrated the wooden walls.

Seldon frowned and pulled back the velvet curtain of the carriage window just a crack.

The streets outside were busier than at any other time in previous years.

Heavy grain-hauling carriages lined up one after another in a long queue, their ruts making the flagstone road creak and groan.

What was visible through the tears in the sacks were golden wheat grains so plump they were almost overflowing—a genuine harvest, without any exaggeration.

He looked down and scanned the report in his hand.

Production had increased by thirty percent year-on-year, yet the warehouse storage rate was only fifteen percent.

"Damn it." The quill pen slashed across the paper, leaving a glaring red line.

This wasn't an accounting error; Seldon knew very well that this grain hadn't simply vanished.

The carriage slowed down at an intersection, and he saw that the grain trucks didn't head toward the Calvin Family's merchant district when turning; instead, they turned in unison toward the harbor area—which belonged to the Holy See.

White grain ships from the Holy City were moored by the docks, their hulls so pristine they were almost blinding, like a row of sea beasts quietly baring their fangs.

Sack after sack of grain was unloaded, disappearing into the depths of the holds.

Seldon wasn't angry because the grain was being shipped away.

He was angry because this grain hadn't passed through his hands, denying him a cut of the profit.

The carriage continued forward, entering the capital's most prosperous main thoroughfare.

On both sides of the street, every fifty paces, stood a brand-new statue of a golden feather flower.

The statues were entirely gilded, with leaves unfurled in elegant poses, as if in eternal bloom.

But as Seldon took a few more looks through the gap in the curtains, an inexplicable chill rose in his heart.

The roots of those flowers weren't simply inserted into the stone bases.

He clearly saw some kind of dark red veins extending downward from the base, disappearing beneath the ground.

Occasionally, the golden leaves would heave ever so slightly, like lungs, opening and closing.

As the carriage passed the statues, the commoners on the street instinctively slowed their pace when passing these flowers.

They no longer bowed their heads in prayer as they had in the past, nor was it exactly reverence.

It was a kind of animalistic stiffness.

Like the instinctive contraction of a herd of herbivores sensing a predator's scent near a watering hole.

Seldon gave a cold snort and let the curtain fall.

"Tasteless decoration," he critiqued inwardly. "That old charlatan Salomon has turned a perfectly good commercial city into a nouveau riche's garden."

The carriage suddenly slowed down, and the clamor of a crowd reached him—a mix of prayers, weeping, and a low murmur bordering on ecstasy; it was the Holy See's soup kitchen.

Seldon leaned forward; the intersection was completely blocked.

Under simple white cloth sheds, a row of nuns was handing out bowls of golden soup to the commoners.

He subconsciously scanned the surroundings.

In a year where the warehouses were bursting, the people on the street were all sallow and emaciated, their eye sockets sunken like withered grass that had been drained of moisture for a long time.

What they were scrambling for wasn't bread or wheat cakes.

It was just that bowl of soup.

Seldon was about to sneer, but the next scene made his expression freeze.

A ragged dock laborer took a soup bowl and gulped it down almost greedily.

One second, he was hunched over, having difficulty even standing straight.

The next second, he suddenly straightened his body.

His pupils dilated, and his face quickly flushed with an abnormal redness.

His originally shriveled muscles bulged as if inflated, and the veins under his skin popped out.

He threw his head back and let out an excited roar: "Praise The Crown! I can do the work of ten men!"

The surrounding crowd erupted into a cheer that was almost worshipful.

A fine cold sweat broke out on Seldon's back; even though he had seen it several times, it still made his skin crawl.

What was this?

An alchemical potion? A divine solution? Or some kind of modified drug?

What was the cost? Was the formula complex? Could it be mass-produced?

If the Calvin Merchant Guild could get the formula for this thing and sell it to miners, loggers, road crews... how many times more profit would that be compared to the grain trade?

At this thought, the chill in his heart was quickly ◈ Nоvеlіgһт ◈ (Continue reading) replaced by a familiar annoyance.

Annoyance that this thing hadn't gone through the market, hadn't gone through the guild, hadn't gone through him.

"Giving such good medicine to these consumables is a total waste," Seldon muttered under his breath, his tone devoid of any pity.

The carriage continued slowly along the prosperous avenue, its wheels making a dull, rhythmic sound against the flagstones.

Just then, a soft and restrained tapping came from outside the carriage.

"Young Master." It was the voice of the family butler.

The carriage stopped briefly by the roadside, the window was pushed open a crack from the outside, and a hand wearing a white glove handed in a small wooden box. The exterior of the box was sealed with the Holy See's wax, the thorn crest clearly visible.

"This is the payment just settled by the Holy See," the butler's voice was very low, with a hint of hesitation in his tone. "Bishop Salomon personally looked it over."

Seldon didn't respond immediately, signaling the butler to withdraw.

The carriage window closed again, and the velvet curtains fell, shutting out the outside clamor.

Only then did Seldon reach out, place the box on his lap, and flip open the latch.

There was no crisp sound of gold coins clinking.

Inside the box, a stack of coins was neatly arranged.

They weren't gold coins minted by the Empire, nor were they silver coins of stable purity.

The coins were unnervingly light, as if they had no weight. The surface was a material similar to bone, smooth to the touch yet carrying an uncomfortable coolness.

The coins were minted with an intertwined thorn pattern, and deep within the lines, a very faint golden glow could be seen.

Seldon picked one up and slowly rolled it between his fingertips.

He knew very well what this was: debased currency.

This kind of thing couldn't circulate anywhere outside the Holy See's controlled areas; it was just a pile of scrap metal—no, not even scrap metal.

His reason issued a clear warning at this moment.

This was a trap; the Holy See was using another system to replace the Empire's monetary blood vessels.

Accepting it meant giving up control over pricing, circulation, and settlement.

Seldon closed his eyes.

Yet Bishop Salomon's gentle face uncontrollably surfaced in his mind.

He had no right to refuse at all; the grain had already been intercepted by the Holy See.

The port was in their hands.

The soup kitchens controlled the lowest level of labor.

And now even the settlement method was being rewritten.

This wasn't a negotiation; it was a notification that the rules had changed.

Seldon slowly exhaled, opened his eyes, and pressed down the lid of the box with a soft click: "Accept it."

Outside the window, the butler bowed again.

Seldon continued, his gaze already shifting to the street scene outside: "Additionally, pass on my order. Starting tomorrow, all grain and oil shops under the family..."

He paused, as if confirming that he had no way back.

"...will refuse to accept Imperial gold coins and prioritize accepting Holy Vouchers."

The butler's pupils contracted imperceptibly, but he didn't argue, simply bowing in acknowledgment.

The carriage started up again.

Seldon knew exactly what he had done; he had personally severed the last uncorrupted blood vessel between the Calvin Family and the Empire's economic system.

He had voluntarily stuck his neck into the Holy See's invisible financial noose.

But he also knew just as well that he actually had no choice.

At the end of the street, a sudden wave of orderly and fanatical voices erupted.

"Praise The Crown!" 𝕗𝚛𝚎𝚎𝐰𝗲𝗯𝗻𝚘𝚟𝚎𝗹.𝕔𝐨𝕞

"Praise the golden feather flower!"

The commoners who had drunk the golden soup formed a procession, holding high the banners of the Holy See, marching in unison with almost blissful smiles on their faces.

Golden sunlight spilled over them, making the entire street so dazzling it was unsettling.

Seldon's brow furrowed sharply.

An indescribable irritability surged from deep within his chest.

He reached out and yanked the velvet curtains shut, closed his eyes, and silently repeated a sentence in his heart that even he didn't fully believe.

"As long as I can make money... as long as I can take that position, or even higher..."

A barely perceptible curve formed at the corner of his mouth: "I don't care what god it is."

...In the council chamber of the temporary imperial palace in the Southeast Province.

Lampard stood at one side of the long table, clutching a piece of intelligence that had just arrived.

The paper rustled slightly between his fingers.

He knew better than anyone what this regime above him, called the "Holy Eastern Empire," truly was.

In the north, Louis was clearing the sea; pirates were being wiped out in swaths, routes were being redefined, and the warships of the Red Tide Territory were using live targets to calibrate their cannons, with a blockade already established at sea.

To the west, Kalian's army was advancing; it was an undisguised military invasion, and they didn't even bother to find an excuse.

And beside him, this Holy Eastern Empire, endowed with a grand name, was more like an infant suffering from gigantism.

Its body was massive, but its bones were fragile.

Golden shells were piled up layer by layer, but inside was unformed soft tissue.

Lampard took a deep breath, slow and deliberate, and then he adjusted his facial muscles.

Brows lowered, jaw tightened, and a hint of anger and impatience pressed into his gaze—it was the face of an irritable monarch backed into a corner but still putting up a front.

This was a performance for two people: one was Salomon, draped in clerical robes and sitting at the other end of the long table, and the other was Seldon, sitting a bit further away.

Lampard suddenly raised his hand and slammed the military intelligence report hard onto the mahogany table.

"Bang—!"

The loud noise echoed in the council chamber; the candlestick shook slightly, and the flames elongated then contracted.

He took a step forward, raising his voice, his tone carrying a deliberately suppressed yet out-of-control fury.

"Louis's warships are already using pirates for target practice!"

His gaze swept over Salomon, then over Seldon, as if questioning, as if accusing.

"Outside the northern ports, unidentified fast boats are circling every day! And my army?" Lampard slammed a fist on the edge of the table, "They haven't even been issued full sets of armor!"

He paused for a moment, as if finally unable to hold back, tossing out his long-accumulated anger.

"Is this the God-Blessed Land you promised?!"

Lampard braced his hands on the mahogany table, leaning forward, his gaze locked onto the Cardinal in the shadows.

"Salomon! The False Emperor in the west is assembling three heavy divisions. I need money, I need food, and I need to take those laborers who are building churches to build fortresses."

He no longer even hid the threat in his tone.

"If the Southeast Province is lost," Lampard said word for word, "where will the Holy See go to collect the faith of these millions of people?"

But Cardinal Salomon only slowly removed his monocle and gently wiped the lens with a piece of golden velvet, as if dealing with a trivial matter that had nothing to do with him.

"Your Highness, you are too anxious." His voice was distant. "The Emerald Federation is but an army of mortals, while the Holy Eastern Empire is The Crown's kingdom of God on earth."

As he spoke, he pushed a new list out from his sleeve.

"As for military expenses... unfortunately, the Holy City's White Ships encountered a storm last night, and there is a massive shortage of supplies. According to the Holy See's decree, this month's tithe needs to be increased by twenty percent and prioritized for transport to the Holy City via inland waterways."

Lampard's heart sank completely at that moment.

He understood.

The Holy See had never intended to hold the Southeast Province from the start.

In their eyes, this was not territory, not subjects, not even the foundation of faith, but just a beast that had been tied up and could be slaughtered at any time.

Their only concern was whether they could squeeze out every last drop of blood, every last piece of meat, and every last bit of profit before the blade fell.

This thought was like an ice needle, piercing into Lampard's mind.

But on his face, there could be no flaw.

He suddenly slammed a fist on the mahogany table; the dull sound echoed in the council chamber, and several gilded candlesticks shook with it.

"Then what will the knights on the front line eat?" He almost roared, his voice full of the resentment of being driven to a dead end, "Eat dirt?!"

As his voice fell, he seemed to be drained of strength, slumped back into the chair that symbolized imperial power but did not belong to him, his shoulders sagging slightly.

At the end of the long table, Seldon Calvin never looked up.

As the royal financial advisor, he was as quiet as a background prop, but behind his thick lenses, his gaze was moving inconspicuously.

He saw through this farce clearly.

"The Fifth Prince is not stupid." Seldon made a judgment in his heart. "That slam just now was very imposing. He wants to use the righteous cause of resisting foreign enemies to force the Holy See to cough up equipment and food.

Unfortunately, as clever as he is, he doesn't have a single decent card in his hand."

His gaze swept over the Cardinal's composed back as he left his seat, and the corners of his mouth tightened imperceptibly for a moment.

"As for that old charlatan..." Seldon's evaluation was simple and cruel, "He doesn't respect imperial power at all."

This was not a guess, but a merchant's instinctive sense for risk.

The Holy See probably sensed long ago that this land could not be held, which is why they wanted to pack up and ship away all the food, gold, people, and faith before the war truly broke out.

Seldon looked down at the financial deficit report in his hand; those shocking numbers seemed to be mocking his professionalism.

In his heart, he passed the final judgment on this great ship called the Holy Eastern Empire: it's sinking.

When he looked at Lampard again, there was no longer the initial awe in his gaze, only a calm, distant evaluation.

He had to find a way out for himself before the ship completely sank... The Cardinal left the room on the grounds that "it's time for prayer."

The heavy doors of the council chamber slowly closed, cutting off the sound of footsteps from outside.

The moment the doors shut, all the exaggerated rage on Lampard's face seemed to be wiped away by an invisible hand, leaving only a somber exhaustion.

He didn't speak immediately, but leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, his gaze landed on Seldon: "Seldon."

This time, his voice no longer roared, but was kept very low, with an almost earnest undertone: "The Calvin Family's trade routes in the west... are they still usable?"

Seldon's hand holding the quill paused slightly.

This was an unmistakable signal.

Lampard wanted to bypass the Holy See and establish a logistics line that belonged only to him.

"The price is negotiable," Lampard added.

Seldon closed his notebook with composed movements, an impeccable professional smile appearing on his face.

"Your Highness, you know." His tone was gentle and detached. "Since my father fell seriously ill, the control over many trade routes... has not been very smooth."

He paused, as if weighing his words.

"Moreover, without the Cardinal's signature, goods cannot pass through the checkpoints at all."

Lampard stared at him for a full three seconds.

That gaze held no anger, only a soul-piercing exhaustion.

He saw through it.

He saw through Seldon's reservations and saw that this merchant had already begun preparing an escape route for himself.

Ultimately, Lampard only gave a bitter laugh and waved his hand: "Dismissed."

The council chamber was empty.

Lampard sat alone on that makeshift "throne," his body sinking into the soft yet cold cushion.

This chair had never belonged to him.

He stood up and walked to the high window, pulling back the curtains.

In the square, the giant golden feather flower sculpture shone with a false brilliance under the sunlight, but the shadow it cast perfectly covered the entire palace.

Like a net slowly tightening.

"Louis is building ships in the north," Lampard whispered to himself. "That is for conquest. My second brother is assembling an army in the west. That is for unification."

His voice gradually grew lower.

"And I... I am just a watchdog guarding the gate for this group of monsters."

He knew very well that once the front line collapsed, or if the Holy See felt he was no longer of use...

He would be abandoned without a sound.

Lampard's fingers slowly tightened. "If I don't do something... I will die silently."

Finally, a dangerous ferocity flickered in his eyes.

He decided to make a risky move.