Lord of the Frozen Winter: Starting with Daily Intelligence Reports

The spiral stone staircase leading to the top of the clock tower was dark and long.

The stone walls were gnawed rough and uneven by time and rain, and the candlelight flickered in the airflow, casting long, distorted shadows.

Seldon Calvin ascended the steps, his expensive boots striking the stone with a rhythmic "tap, tap" that echoed repeatedly in the narrow space.

Despite the thousands of steps, his breathing rhythm remained undisturbed.

It wasn't just because of his knightly physique, but because the adrenaline surging through his body at this moment suppressed all fatigue and discomfort.

The stone steps extended upward, layer by layer.

With every step he took, Seldon could clearly feel a psychological sense of displacement spreading from the soles of his feet, as if he were being slowly lifted off the ground.

Leaving behind the hesitation of the old nobility, the indecision of his father's generation, and those long-expired decencies and promises that were still worshipped as paragons.

The scenes in the square replayed uncontrollably in his mind.

The flames rose, the golden exotic fire devouring the execution rack, while his father remained silent two streets away.

That silence was more piercing than any plea.

That old fellow known as the Fox of the Southeast now had even his tail dragging in the dust, leaving only a dull and futile caution.

This proved that the decision he had made two years ago was not wrong.

Seldon sneered in his heart.

That outdated noble dignity would only drag the entire family into the fire together.

The current Southeast Province needed someone who knew how ➤ NоvеⅠight ➤ (Read more on our source) to calculate, someone who could rebuild upon the ruins.

It needed a new master.

He did not believe he was bowing to the Church; on the contrary, in his view, this was a cooperation where the costs and returns had long been calculated.

Divine power was ultimately hollow.

Taxes, grain, ports, storage, and ledgers—these were the things that could control the entire Holy Eastern Empire.

Salomon and his priests were outsiders; without the administrative network the Calvin Family had laid down for centuries, they wouldn't be able to collect even a single copper coin in taxes, nor transport a single wagon of grain, let alone maintain the surface order of this city.

If the Church wanted to take root here, it had to borrow a hand familiar with the terrain, and that hand could only be his.

At the end of the stone steps, the heavy wooden door at the top of the tower stood quietly.

Worn prayers were carved into the thick door panels, and the iron hinges showed the dark hue of age.

Seldon stopped in front of the door.

He didn't push the door open immediately; instead, he unhurriedly straightened the family crest on his collar, ensuring it was impeccable.

He also raised his hand to smooth his hair, making sure it hadn't been disarrayed by the draft.

Finally, facing the empty air at the top of the tower, he adjusted his expression.

He suppressed the lingering contempt and ambition deep within his eyes, replacing them with a face that was shrewd, reliable, and showed just the right amount of respect.

Then, Seldon reached out and pushed open the door leading to the top of the clock tower.

The wild wind howled at the tower's peak, like some invisible beast circling above the city.

Bishop Salomon stood at the edge of the clock tower, which had no guardrail, with his back to the entrance, overlooking the Southeast Capital below, which was filled with bright lights but surging undercurrents.

Seldon stepped onto the tower top, and the heavy wooden door closed behind him, sealing out the city's clamor.

Standing just a few steps away, his voice was stretched by the wind but remained clear.

“Your Eminence, it seems the Purification Ceremony was a success.” His gaze swept over the smoke that had yet to dissipate in the square below. “But to truly quiet this city, faith alone is not enough. Fear can only make people kneel, but it cannot make them obey long-term. This place still needs a more secular power.”

Salomon slowly turned around, wearing his usual gentle smile, the curve of his lips precise, like a mask carved in advance.

“God heals the soul,” he said in a soft tone. “The secular manages the flesh.”

He looked at Seldon and nodded slightly, as if scrutinizing a chess piece that had approached voluntarily: “Mr. Seldon, the Church has always respected obedient partners.”

Seldon walked forward a few steps and stood side-by-side with Salomon at the edge of the clock tower: “That is precisely why I came up.”

He didn't beat around the bush and directly threw out his chips: “As you said, my father's health can no longer cope with the current situation, but I am different. I can fully cooperate with the Church's taxation system, assist in integrating the provincial accounts, and even...”

He paused, as if weighing the gravity of his words.

“...cede half of the grain monopoly controlled by the Calvin Family to be jointly managed by the Church.”

Seldon turned his head and looked at Salomon, his gaze as frank as it was sincere.

“I want the glory of the golden feather flower to bloom in every city and every pier in the Southeast.”

The sound of the wind whistled between the two, as if waiting for the next hammer blow.

“Of course,” Seldon's tone shifted, becoming sharp and clear, “cooperation requires a title.”

“I want the title of Lord Protector bestowed by the imperial family.” He spoke the words without any hesitation. “the Church must publicly crown me.”

Then, he added a second condition.

“Within the family, there are still some stubborn individuals.” Seldon's gaze turned cold. “They are not pious enough toward the crown and lack an understanding of order. I currently do not have enough troops to deal with these internal threats.”

He looked at Salomon, his tone low and direct.

“I need to borrow your Temple Knight Regiment to help me clean house.”

The top of the clock tower fell into a brief silence.

Salomon did not respond immediately; his gray eyes stared unblinkingly at Seldon, his gaze seemingly piercing through flesh to measure his value.

Finally, the bishop chuckled softly: “Mr. Seldon, your vision is too small. As long as you serve the crown sincerely, the Church will not only support you in becoming the Lord Protector.”

He leaned in slightly, his voice low and seductive: “We can even support you in founding a nation.”

“As for those who oppose you...” Salomon waved his hand dismissively, his tone nonchalant, “the Heresy Inquisition is most skilled at this kind of work.”

When the words “founding a nation” fell from Bishop Salomon's mouth, Seldon Calvin's heart contracted sharply for a moment.

But it was only for a moment; years of experience navigating between chambers of commerce and noble halls allowed him to instinctively suppress all emotion.

Only his eyes narrowed slightly, hiding that fleeting glint in the shadows.

His mind was racing at high speed.

The blueprint drawn by the Church was vast and tempting, but not without logic.

The imperial family was fracturing, the iron of the North was approaching, and the old order could no longer sustain itself.

the Church needed a secular face, an agent who could be accepted by the locals and could mobilize the administrative and wealth networks.

And the Southeast Province happened to need a new banner.

This thought was like a cool, sharp chip, weighed repeatedly in his heart.

As for the risks?

The corners of Seldon's mouth tightened imperceptibly.

Using the Church's blade to purge the stubborn factions inside and outside the family was indeed dangerous.

But it was a worthwhile deal.

As long as the old nobility was uprooted, the real administrative power, ports, storage, and ledgers would still be firmly held in the hands of the Calvin Family.

By then, the Church would be nothing more than a sharp blade in his hand that needed to be used with caution.

He took a deep breath, straightened the folds of his cuffs, and made his posture appear calm and equal, rather than a humble plea.

Then Seldon looked up, staring directly into Bishop Salomon's gray eyes, his tone steady and solemn: “Your Eminence, since our goals are aligned, then the Calvin Family is willing to become this foundation.”

He extended his right hand, his movements elegant and restrained: “For the order of the Southeast.”

The wind whistled past the two of them.

Salomon gazed at Seldon with that almost compassionate look for about a second before he slowly reached out his hand.

The moment their hands met, Seldon's brow twitched imperceptibly.

That hand was abnormally cold.

Even with the biting wind at the top of the tower, a normal person's body temperature shouldn't be like this.

A trace of instinctive repulsion crawled up his spine, making him almost want to pull his hand away immediately.

But he endured it.

Seldon forced himself to grip the other's hand, with just the right amount of force, to prove to the other that this was a well-considered choice.

Salomon's fingers then slowly closed, the force not brutal, but carrying a sense of unquestionable locking.

The bishop's expression remained gentle, his gray eyes calm and rippleless, with only the corners of his mouth hooked into a perfect arc.

“A wise choice.” His voice was low and soft. “My child, you will see that new world.”

The wind continued to howl at the peak of the clock tower.

And high above in this invisible sky, a chess piece that would decide the fate of countless people had already fallen... Late at night, in the deepest bedroom of the Duke's mansion.

Thick stone walls blocked out all external sounds, and even the wind was kept at a distance.

Expensive refined charcoal burned in the fireplace, the flames steady and restrained, yet unable to dispel the lingering chill in the room.

A secret door slid open silently behind the fireplace; Fifth Prince Lampard did not enter through the main door.

His figure emerged from the secret passage known only to successive heads of the Calvin Family and core members, his movements as light as a shadow.

Outside the door, the Duke's only loyal guard captain had been sent away in advance and was currently responsible for guarding the end of the hallway.

This bedroom had become an absolutely sealed secret room.

Duke Calvin reclined on the bed, cushioned by thick velvet blankets, yet his shoulders and back were still slightly hunched.

He held an exquisite porcelain teacup in his hand, but the hand holding it was now as thin as a withered branch.

His breathing carried a hiss like a broken bellows, every breath seeming like a struggle against some invisible resistance.

Even though the fire was burning brightly, he was still wrapped in three layers of thick velvet blankets, his face a bloodless pale.

Two years ago, it was just easy to get tired.

Later, his hands and feet became cold, and the hand holding his sword in the morning would shake uncontrollably; he no longer even had the strength to lift a sword to his chest.

Every priest said it was overwork, and every alchemist could find no trace of toxins.

The results of the examinations were cleaner every time; his mind remained terrifyingly clear, yet his body was collapsing for no logical reason.

Because of this, he turned his gaze toward the past imperial palace.

The Regent's death had been too quiet; it was said to be heart disease, said to be overwork.

But the Duke knew that way of dying was identical to the decay he was currently experiencing.

That was the only clue.

And yesterday, Lampard had taken the initiative to contact him, saying he knew everything.

Now that Lampard stood before the bed, the Duke raised his cloudy but sharp eyes, his voice hoarse and direct: “Your Highness, where is the answer I wanted?”

Lampard did not exchange pleasantries. He took a roll of coverless parchment from his robe and placed it on the bedside: “As you suspected, this is not a disease; it is murder.”

He sat by the bed, his tone as calm as if discussing the weather: “The Regent did not die of heart disease. I watched him with my own eyes being drained into a dried corpse within two years.”

The Duke's gaze did not shift, but his breathing paused for half a beat at that moment.

Lampard continued, his voice even lower: “I'm not afraid to tell you that I was involved at the time because the Church promised to let me take the throne.”

He paused, a self-deprecating sneer appearing at the corners of his mouth: “But I regret it now, because I am next.”

He briefly described the method known as 【Life-Severing Trace】.

“A curse that requires no ingestion.”

“Through a Reverse Corolla Magic Pattern, a life transmission channel is established. The caster is below ground, the target is above; as long as the distance conditions are met, life force will be continuously drained away like water flowing to lower ground.”

The Duke listened with extreme focus, his thin fingers lightly tapping the cover of the tax law book beside him, as if listening to a clear academic lecture.

“No wonder no poison could be found,” he whispered, even nodding slightly. “It turns out it was my life.，Moved remotely.”

He raised his eyelids, a hint of cold praise in his tone:

“the Church's craftsmanship is indeed exquisite.”

Lampard stared at him, then threw out the final and most cruel truth:

“This kind of remote extraction efficiency isn't high, unless... you have a living anchor by your side, someone who stays with you for a long time every day to locate and accelerate the transmission.”

His gaze fell on the cup of tea on the bedside that had long since gone cold.

“It's not that the tea is poisoned,” Lampard whispered, “but that the person who brings the tea is himself a part of the curse.”

The room fell silent.

The Duke slowly turned his head and looked at the teacup. It had been personally delivered by Seldon not long ago, its porcelain surface white and without a single crack.

He was silent for three seconds, and then the corners of his mouth curled into a faint, almost mocking smile.

“Seldon,” he whispered the name, his tone devoid of anger or sorrow, containing only indifference.

“My son has turned himself into the blade that kills his father.”

He let out a soft breath and reached a clear conclusion: “This shows that in his eyes, the Church's offer is more valuable than I, his father.”

Watching this overly calm reaction, Lampard couldn't help but ask: “You aren't angry?”

“Anger is the expression of the incompetent.”

The Duke's voice was low but every word was clear: “Since Seldon has chosen the Church, then he is no longer my son, but an enemy.”

“Toward an enemy, one only needs to calculate how to deal with them; there is no need for emotion.”

He looked up, his gaze falling back on Lampard, like a weak but not yet dead lion recalibrating its target in the darkness.

“Your Highness,” the Duke said, “since that boy wants to take over early, I will grant his wish.”