Lord of the Frozen Winter: Starting with Daily Intelligence Reports

The central square of the Southeast Province's capital was like being dragged into a melting alchemy furnace.

The sky was no longer azure; the thick smoke rising from burning wood and grease had stained the dome a sickly waxen yellow, making even the sunlight appear murky and hesitant.

An sickening odor permeated the air—the smell of charred meat and the acrid scent of burnt fabric, mingled with the overly intense fragrance of the golden feather flowers.

This fragrance, which should have been used to mask the stench of corpses, had now become a prelude to death, causing one's stomach to cramp upon catching a whiff.

In the center of the square, three black iron execution racks stood tall.

【Remember this site's domain name; for Taiwan novels, look for Chao Shun Chang.】

Piles of alchemically treated firewood were stacked beneath the racks; the wood grain had been stained a uniform dark brown, clearly having been used repeatedly for such occasions.

Tied to the execution racks were three elderly men.

Though they were in a wretched state, with disheveled hair and faces covered in soot and sweat, the distinct, dignified outlines of nobility were still visible.

Their tattered formal attire barely hung on their bodies; the fabric was torn, yet the corners still retained ancient patterns.

On the chests of all three hung medals symbolizing generations of family honor—symbols belonging only to the old nobility—shimmering with a dim and stubborn light amidst the smoke and dust.

At their feet lay piles of evidence seized from the secret rooms of their respective houses.

The bridge of the nose on an ancient Dragon Ancestor stone carving had been broken off; a scroll made of dragon skin was trampled into the mud; several ancient dragon scale amulets, enshrined for generations, were tossed carelessly onto the firewood, reflecting a faint, cold light.

These holy relics, once regarded as sources of glory and protection, were now being trampled like trash and used as kindling.

There was no judge's bench in the square, nor was there any defense.

Only a golden-robed Tribunal Inquisitor stood before the execution racks.

His robes shimmered with a soft golden glow in the firelight, his face wearing a cold indifference that bordered on mercy.

In his ❀ Nоvеlігht ❀ (Don’t copy, read here) hand, he held a long-handled golden ladle filled with viscous golden grease that flowed slowly under the light.

An amplification spell magnified his voice, carrying it across the entire square, every word clear and solemn.

"Fire will not burn the innocent," the Inquisitor's voice was certain, as if stating a fundamental truth. "If the Dragon Ancestor you speak of is a true god, it will naturally extinguish this mortal flame."

He paused for a moment, letting the words ferment in the air.

"If it does not come, it proves that it is a false god—a lie woven by the devil."

As his voice fell, the Inquisitor raised the golden ladle.

The golden grease was poured from above, flowing slowly down the white hair and wrinkled cheeks of the old counts, as if plating them with a false glory before death.

The grease dripped onto their formal clothes and the firewood, making a faint, sticky sound.

The crowd in the square erupted in response.

Tens of thousands of people were packed here, yet they seemed divided by an invisible wall into two halves.

The side near the execution racks was an ocean of fanaticism; most of those people were young or poor folk in thin clothing.

Many of them had drunk the golden soup bestowed by the Holy See; an unnatural golden luster gleamed deep within their pupils, and their emotions were heightened to the point of being nearly out of control.

They waved branches in their hands as if celebrating a festival.

"Burn them to death!"

"Purify the Southeast!"

"Sweep the trash of the old era into hell!"

The shouts rose wave after wave.

In their eyes, seeing these once-high-and-mighty nobles bound to the pyre was a sweet act of revenge.

On the edge of the crowd, however, was a completely different presence.

These were mostly elderly people or believers who still secretly worshipped the old gods.

They lowered their hat brims and hunched their necks, their bodies trembling uncontrollably, yet they dared not make a sound.

A wrinkled old woman stood on the outermost edge of the crowd.

Her hand was hidden in her tattered sleeve, tightly clutching a crude wooden dragon amulet.

The firelight reflected in her murky eyes; she didn't dare cry out loud, only letting the tears slide down silently.

Her lips moved slightly, but no sound came out.

"Dragon Ancestor... please open your eyes and see..."

Before the prayer could take shape, it was strangled by a force beside her.

A hand reached out from the side, firmly pressing down on her shoulder.

Her daughter lowered her voice, hissing into her ear with terror and anger, "Are you crazy? Do you want to get the whole family killed?!"

Not far away, someone subconsciously took a step forward, wanting to rush out of the crowd, but was immediately pulled back by several hands.

There were even young faces tightly covering their parents' mouths, their eyes filled with fear.

"Boom—!"

What rose up was not ordinary crimson flames, but a brilliant gold.

That was a deviant fire tuned by the Holy See's Alchemists; under the high temperature, the air emitted a distorted hum, and even shadows were scorched white.

A low resonance was faintly mixed within the flames, as if they were directly licking at one's soul.

The three execution racks were ignited simultaneously.

"Aaaaah!"

Screams of agony erupted, yet they did not sound like anything a human could produce.

Even those who had been cheering fanatically just a moment ago paused briefly, their smiles freezing on their faces.

At the base of the racks, those ancient dragon scale amulets—once seen as symbols of glory and faith—were undergoing a transformation under the roasting of the golden deviant fire.

The scales, originally incredibly hard and reputedly invulnerable, first turned an eerie dark red at the edges, then began to soften and curl, writhing like living things.

Finally, they could no longer maintain their form.

A pitch-black, viscous liquid dripped from the amulets onto the scorching stone slabs, making a faint "sizzle" sound.

The sight looked very much like a pair of invisible eyes weeping.

Among the onlookers, the old nobles who had not yet been purged instantly lost all color in their faces.

Some stumbled back, others covered their mouths tightly, fearing they might make even a single sound and become the next target... just two streets away.

In front of the Duke Calvin's manor, however, there was a dead silence that stood in stark contrast to the square.

The heavy ironwood gates were tightly shut, like a sealed giant mouth, keeping all sounds outside.

A dozen figures were kneeling on the stone steps.

They were all relatives and allies of the counts being executed.

Their foreheads were already bloody from kowtowing, blood flowing down the cracks of the stone steps and staining the Calvin Family wolf-head emblem embedded in the ground.

Leading them was the One-armed Baron Cass.

That missing arm was the price he paid thirty years ago for blocking an assassination attempt for the Duke.

Now, with his remaining hand, he gripped the iron railings of the Duke's manor tightly, roaring toward the interior in a voice ground hoarse and nearly broken.

"Lord Duke! Please open the door! Those are your old brothers who followed you for forty years! That is Count Green, who carried you out of a pile of corpses!"

His voice echoed through the empty street, but received no response.

"I don't ask you to save their lives..."

At this point, his voice suddenly dropped, as if something had caught his throat, leaving only a humble and desperate plea.

"I know the Holy See is powerful... but if... if you could just ask the Bishop for mercy, give them a quick death... stop the burning... please stop the burning..."

The only response he received were the faint screams of agony from afar.

The sounds were torn and intermittent in the wind, yet they were like rusty nails, driven hard into the hearts of everyone kneeling on the steps.

The knights of the Duke's manor stood straight before the gates.

They wore fine armor and held long spears; they should have been the most reliable protectors of this city.

But now, their heads were bowed, and not one dared to look the One-armed Baron in the eye.

A young knight's hand was trembling slightly, tears welling in his eyes but never falling.

Not until the flames in the square gradually died down and those chilling screams completely vanished.

The gates of the Duke's manor still did not open.

The One-armed Baron Cass slowly released his grip on the railings.

He stood up, his movements stiff, the light in his eyes gone.

He spat a mouthful of bloody saliva toward the tightly shut gates.

Then he turned and left... the heavy curtains were drawn shut.

Sunlight never reached the master bedroom; the air was murky and thick, the bitterness of repeatedly boiled herbs mixing with the peculiar decaying scent of an old man, settling into every breath, impossible to dispel.

Seldon stood behind a screen on one side of the room.

Nominally, he was there to check on his father's condition.

In reality, he was more like a patient hyena, guarding a piece of rotting meat, waiting for one final confirmation.

In his hand, he clutched a blood-letter that had just been passed in from outside.

The pages were soaked with blood, clearly written by repeatedly pressing a finger onto a wound.

Every line on it consisted of familiar surnames, familiar oaths, and familiar pleas.

He didn't even need to unfold it to know what was written.

Seldon had no intention of handing this letter over.

Duke Calvin lay in a reclining chair covered with a thick velvet blanket.

That body had visibly thinned, yet it did not look wretched.

The oversized nightgown had been carefully arranged, the shoulder lines still straight, though they appeared much emptier.

His eyes were sunken, and his skin had the characteristic gray-white of the chronically ill, yet he still retained the restraint and dignity of the old nobility.

Outside, heart-wrenching shouts could be faintly heard.

That was the voice of the One-armed Baron.

The man who had once blocked a blade for the Duke on the battlefield, the man once called the "Loyal Dog" by the entire Calvin Family.

That voice, hoarse and broken, crashed against the heavy outer walls of the Duke's manor again and again, only to be bounced back.

The old man in the reclining chair was not entirely unresponsive; his eyelashes fluttered very slightly, but in the end, he said nothing.

His eyes remained half-open and half-closed, his gaze murky and deep, as if looking past the cries outside the window and into old memories.

Seldon had originally been slightly worried.

He worried his father might suddenly wake up, rise in rebellion, or make some foolish decision consistent with the honor of the old era.

But now he was completely reassured—and completely disappointed.

He stepped out from behind the screen, his footsteps very light, and stood by the reclining chair, bowing slightly with a posture that was perfectly polite.

"Father," he said in a very low, submissive voice, like a son performing his duty at a sickbed. "It's a bit noisy outside."

He reached out to tidy the corners of the Duke's blanket, his movements skilled and patient, as if he had done it countless times.

"It's a few old subordinates... their emotions have gotten out of control. I've already had people persuade them; they won't disturb your rest anymore."

The old man in the reclining chair did not respond.

Seldon straightened up, his face still maintaining that proper expression, as if everything that had just happened was merely a matter of course.

But deep in his heart, another voice emerged, cool and somber.

Do you hear it?

The old man outside who spent half his life working for you is crying and begging you.

You were once called the "Fox of the Southeast," a figure even the Emperor had to weigh carefully.

And now, you don't even have the strength to open your eyes and make a choice.

These thoughts rippled through his heart like cold water, only to quickly return to silence.

Seldon stood tall.

He took one last look at his father in the reclining chair, confirming that the steady, restrained breathing remained undisturbed, before turning to walk toward the door.

Before opening the door, he stopped and gave a low instruction to the old servant waiting nearby: "Keep two more people on watch tonight; Father is a light sleeper."

The door closed softly behind him, sealing off that dim bedroom.

It wasn't until he walked out of the corridor and back to his own bedroom, confirming that no one could see him, that Seldon stopped.

Only then did he take the blood-letter from his sleeve, glance down at it, and gently rub the dried blood with his finger.

Then he crumpled the paper into a ball.

The fire in the fireplace was burning brightly.

Seldon threw the ball of paper into it.

The tongues of flame immediately devoured the bloodstains; the paper curled, blackened, and turned to ash.

The flickering firelight reflected on his face, making his already cold and hard features look somewhat distorted.

The cries outside the window continued... at the very top of the cathedral's bell tower.

Violent winds buffeted the exposed stone walls, enough to hurl an ordinary person from a height of a hundred meters.

The entire city's clamor, prayers, and cries were torn apart by the wind, turning into a jumbled and distant noise.

Bishop Salomon, however, stood at the edge of the bell tower.

His red robes flapped loudly in the gale like an unfurled battle flag, yet his body remained motionless, his feet planted firmly on the stone surface as if he were standing on a carpet in his own study rather than at a great height.

In his hand, he held a slender crystal wine glass.

The pale golden liquid in the glass did not ripple in the slightest, reflecting the flickering firelight from the square below—the residual heat of the golden deviant fire that had not yet completely died out.

Salomon looked down; thousands of figures writhed, knelt, and cheered in the square, only to fall into a brief, hollow silence after the pyres went out.

There was no smile on his lips; his gaze held a certain coldness.

Standing behind him was a knight of the Holy See wearing a cloak with a white-gold emblem.

The wind forced the knight to hunch slightly, yet he maintained a standard posture of solemn attention, his gaze beneath the helmet not daring to cross the Bishop's back in the slightest.

Salomon swirled his wine glass and finally turned around.

"Notify Seldon Calvin," his voice was not loud, yet it clearly pierced through the sound of the wind, as if the command itself possessed weight. "Have him come up."

He paused for a moment, his gaze returning to the distant sky, stained a waxen yellow by the smoke.

"I have some things I need to discuss with him in person."

The knight immediately knelt on one knee, answered in a low voice, and then turned to retreat into the shadows of the bell tower.