Winter Lord: Starting with Daily Intelligence

Chapter 202 Eduardo's Abilities

The firelight flickered in the cold, damp cellar.

The coffin was placed right in the center, made of solid black wood, with the lid not fully closed.

Inside was the corpse of a boy, Ike, a twelve-year-old Snowsworn.

Louis had the shipment sent back from the Winter Dawn territory a few days ahead of schedule, for a simple reason: there might be some disease involved, and it was being sent back for research.

He didn't have any particular feelings for the corpse itself; he brought it back mainly because it was related to the mother nest.

“Seriously,” Louis sniffed lightly twice, tilting his head to look at his brother beside him, “did you fall into a cesspool one day and not wash yourself properly? This smell… is more complicated than a corpse?”

“Because there’s a pile of shit next to me.” Eduardo glanced at him, his tone flat. “If this weren’t the inappropriate occasion, I would have pinned you against the wall right now.”

"Tsk, you really know how to talk." Louis's lips curled up, not angry at all, but instead he turned his head and took a serious sniff.

After several encounters, the two brothers became quite familiar with each other, and since they both had a playful personality, it wasn't a bad thing for them to joke around.

"I'm going to use my bloodline talent. You can leave for a moment," Eduardo said calmly.

Louis didn't move, as if he hadn't understood the meaning of "please leave" at all. Instead, he raised an eyebrow: "Huh? Your talent is something you can't show to others, and you still have to use it alone."

“Louis,” Eduardo said, his tone becoming more serious, “I’m serious. Get out.”

"The more serious you are, the more I think there's something wrong with you." Louis shrugged, giving me a look that said, 'I really can't do anything with you.' "Does your talent require you to be completely naked to use it?"

“I’m saying this for the last time.” Eduardo looked up.

Louis shrugged and finally walked toward the door, muttering as he went, "Tsk tsk, even his own brother is wary of him, his father's parenting is a complete failure."

Eduardo's expression remained unchanged, but he subconsciously tightened the front of his cloak, as if trying to conceal something.

He didn't want to lie, but he couldn't tell the truth either.

Because in the Golden Feather Flower Theocracy, he is an envoy of the bishop; while in this imperial territory, he is the son of eight dukes.

Special circumstances led him to navigate between two opposing forces, maintaining a delicate and dangerous balance.

The hatred between the Iron-Blooded Empire and the Golden Feather Flower runs too deep for them to bridge on their own.

But what he didn't know was that Louis had already secretly learned all of this through the daily intelligence system.

He knew that Eduardo came from the Papacy and that his true mission in this trip to the North was to investigate the disappearance of Archmage Jürgen Locken.

However, Louis never brought it up.

Firstly, because it's unnecessary.

Secondly, because... Eduardo is still needed.

The door slammed shut, the echo reverberating beneath the stone archway.

The basement fell silent again, leaving only Eduardo and the boy's coffin.

He sighed softly.

This younger brother, to be precise, is someone I've only met a few times.

He had assumed he would be a calm, composed, and cautious person.

After all, to thrive in a place like the North and become a viscount in a short period of time is not something an ordinary person can do.

That was indeed my initial impression, but after spending time with him, I discovered that he was actually quite good at making some nonsensical jokes, and sometimes even I couldn't keep up with his response.

"Tsk." Eduardo clicked his tongue lightly and shook his head.

He then abandoned his frivolous thoughts, and his expression gradually became solemn.

Eduardo slowly exhaled, extending his right hand. A golden pattern, resembling a feather yet not quite, appeared in his palm, its golden light trembling slightly, like holy radiance unfolding and quietly blooming within flesh and blood.

He leaned down and gently placed his palm on Ike's chest.

The next instant, divine grace was activated.

The faint light of the patterns surged like a tide, spreading along the flesh, bones, and the lingering echoes of memory.

Ike's short and tragic life, like fragments, quietly emerged, entangled, and echoed in the depths of his consciousness.

Eduardo "saw" Ike's childhood...

A baby was born crying amidst a sudden, fiery attack.

The woman, pale-faced, clutched her abdomen and trembling, handed the child to a man whose face was covered in blood.

“His name is Ike,” she whispered one last time, before she went out like a candle in the wind.

Ike's childhood was devoid of a mother's embrace, filled only with the rough hands of soldiers and the lingering smoke of gunpowder in tents.

Every morning, Ike would stand guard on the snowdrift, his cloak billowing in the cold wind, making him look like a little adult.

His favorite time was at dusk when he returned to the camp, sat around the fire, and listened to his father tell stories of "glory."

“One day, you will wear it too.” Takalin pointed to his Glory Cloak.

At that moment, Ike believed he would eventually become a hero.

He nodded, his eyes youthful yet resolute.

Eduardo "senses" the child's barely suppressed fear...

But one day, Herrick suddenly stopped joking. Ula stood motionless in the snow by the camp at night, staring at the sky.

My father gritted his teeth and mumbled incoherently in his sleep at night.

The camp he instinctively felt was beginning to feel unfamiliar.

He gritted his teeth and buried his fear deep in his chest.

The boy didn't know what had happened; he only knew he couldn't worry his father.

Eduardo "experienced" that escape...

In the dead of night, Ike's father held his hand tightly as they fled.

The cold wind tore at their cloaks, and he fell countless times, his knees already worn raw, blood freezing into ice along his trouser legs.

"Go south, and don't look back."

The father spoke in a low voice, his tone so calm it was almost inhuman, yet it felt as if a knife had been plunged into his ear and into his heart.

"And you?" Ike asked softly.

His answer came from a series of footsteps that suddenly appeared in the snowy forest not far away.

They turned around, and there stood familiar figures on the snow: Bro, Him...

The uncles and elders who had drunk with my father and fought alongside him now approached slowly, like puppets being dragged along.

The father drew his sword and roared as he faced his former brother.

Blood stained the snow, and roars pierced the night sky.

Ike looked back; that was the last time he saw his father.

Eduardo "witnessed" the dawn of the end...

Alone, Ike staggered through the white forest.

He fell, got up, fell again, and finally never stood up again.

The tiny feet on the ground were already splattered with blood, and before he fell, he still gripped the badge and the tattered short sword tightly.

It's as if it's protecting something, or waiting for someone.

Sunlight filtered through the trees, falling on the stiff, small body, like a silent farewell. The scene ended.

Eduardo slowly straightened up, his eyes already wet with tears.

It was not an illusion, nor a bystander's observation of a memory, but an embedded experience of life as if one were witnessing it firsthand.

Divine grace is not a gentle gift, but a sympathetic understanding that comes at a heavy price.

Ike's fear, despair, stubbornness, and unfulfilled longing pierced his nerves like steel needles.

"Ha..." He gasped, wiping away tears with the back of his hand, but the more he wiped, the more blurred his vision became.

He gripped his cuffs tightly, trying to stop the trembling, but the overwhelming fatigue made him almost unable to stand.

This is a kind of pain caused by being crushed by emotions, not one's own, yet as profound as a broken heart.

Eduardo leaned against the cold stone wall, closed his eyes, and remained silent for a long time.

The painful emotions finally subsided slightly, receding from his fingertips like the receding tide, leaving only reason slowly returning.

He took a deep breath, exhaled a cloud of cold air, and began to process what he had just seen and felt.

"First Ekko did indeed come into contact with the 'Mother Nest' before he died, or... he had some residual spiritual power."

The contamination of the second maternal nest is not limited to corpses; it possesses the ability to erode the minds of the living—slowly, insidiously, and silently.

He looked at the coffin, which was not yet fully closed, and his eyes showed an undisguised pity.

"Third... the 'Snowsworn Outpost' where the Ekko father and son last escaped, judging from the mental echoes, is very likely not an ordinary camp. It is very likely a...bringer's nest disguised as an outpost."

The door slammed open with a loud bang, releasing a cool, damp cellar smell.

Louis, who was getting bored waiting outside, shrugged: "Finally let me in? I thought you were going to take off your clothes and dance in there."

"Stop joking around." Eduardo's voice was low, his face serious. "Something's up."

Louis's expression hardened, and he instantly stopped joking.

He followed Eduardo into the room, and after listening to his report, his expression grew increasingly grim.

“Contaminate living people, hide outposts, and may even breed right under our noses…” Louis repeated in a low voice, a dangerous glint flashing in his eyes.

Without uttering any unnecessary words, he simply raised his hand and snapped his fingers.

"Scout knights are dispatched. Their target is a 30-mile radius around Winter's Dawn Territory. They must locate the Snowsworn's stronghold."

A response immediately rang out from outside the door, armor clashed, knights galloped, and figures retreated in an orderly fashion.

Louis then turned his head, his gaze falling on his silent brother, his voice so low it was almost a whisper:

“If that place… really is the Mother Nest.” He paused for a moment, then a malicious smile suddenly appeared on his lips. “That’s perfect. I’ve been wanting to see how sharp my sword is.”

…………

Fallen leaves drifted down the hillside, the swirling wind rustled the bare branches, and the forest was utterly silent; even the birds seemed afraid to sing.

Under Louis's orders, the Red Tide Scout Knights launched a thorough search of the area surrounding the "Oathsworn Outpost" in batches.

After two days and two nights of exploration, a small team finally discovered a settlement that was not on the map, deep in the dense forests of the North.

Caslo lay behind the rock, his brow furrowed.

He was the captain of this scout squad, experienced and composed. At this moment, his gaze was fixed on the unfamiliar village below the hillside.

“There’s a complete outpost in a place that’s not even on the map. Damn rats…” he said in a low voice.

The settlement houses are simple and crude, mostly crooked wooden houses and walls built with stone slabs.

Strangely, several well-preserved watchtowers and wooden arrow towers are still in operation, as if they have been carefully repaired.

This is not a naturally formed village, but rather some kind of organized military outpost.

However, what's even stranger is the people.

They were not ordinary villagers, but the Oath-Swearers.

The marks on each person's shoulders and back, the armor scars, the calluses on their hands, and the remaining insignia on their belts all testify to this:
This is a complete team.

A grown man, strong and healthy, who once vowed to follow his beliefs to the death and was a brave and skilled fighter.

But now they stand motionless on the streets, under the eaves, and in the watchtowers, like statues whose souls have been removed.

Caslo stared intently at them, his throat dry.

He saw with his own eyes a man as big as a bear, wearing tattered leather armor and holding a rusty axe, standing straight in front of the wooden house, staring intently at a certain corner, without even twitching his brow for a full half hour.

It's not alertness, it's not vigilance, it's addiction.

"Are they spacing out?" Alan whispered.

“No,” Leo’s voice was barely audible, “they…don’t want to move at all.”

Caslow slowly narrowed his eyes: "It's not that they're not moving, it's that they don't want to move. They're trapped, like... being pressed down by a dream, forgetting even to contract their muscles."

The scouts saw a Snow Oath warrior sitting with his back against a wooden pillar, his head tilted back stiffly, his mouth slightly open, as if he were reciting some ancient words.

But the shape of the lips, the tone, the rhythm... it was like a distorted echo underwater, almost making one's heart itch.

"Don't you guys feel like they're not... like living people anymore?" Alan gritted his teeth. "But they're still breathing."

They continued to observe, and the more they looked, the more horrified they became.

A Snowsworn warrior was wiping his sword, but he was wiping the air; he didn't actually have a sword in his hand.

Someone was practicing archery, their posture was perfect, but there was nothing in front of them.

There was also a tall female soldier standing on the sun terrace, her whole body bathed in sunlight. She raised her arms as if welcoming something.

“…This is sleepwalking,” Leo finally said. “They still remember their fighting moves and training habits, but for some reason, it’s like the whole village is trapped in some kind of shared dream, endlessly repeating those things that have long since lost their meaning.”

“They are not out-of-control lunatics,” Caslow said in a low voice, “they are lucid puppets.”

Suddenly Alan was startled and looked into the distance.

At the village entrance stands a Snow Oath-taker, motionless beside a wooden fence, like a guardian statue.

Suddenly—slightly, almost imperceptibly—the man turned his eyes, looking in the direction where they were hiding.

A few streaks of blood appeared in those lifeless pupils, tangled and shifting like spider silk.

"He...he saw us?" Alan's voice trembled.

“No,” Caslo grabbed them, “he didn’t see us, he saw something in his dream.”

"We can't watch anymore." He made a sudden decision, his voice cold and hard. "If we keep watching, we'll get trapped too."

Alan gritted his teeth and whispered, "Should we... set a fire now?"

Caslo glanced back at him, his voice low but remarkably firm: "No. The lord needs intelligence, and it's easy to make things worse."

Alan and Leo nodded in unison: "Understood."

They quickly descended the mountain without saying another word.

The wind blew through the mountains and forests, fluttering the edges of the cloak, and also blowing towards the eerily slumbering village in the valley below.

There were no barking dogs, and no smoke from cooking fires.

Only that group of people, whispering and seemingly both alive and sleepwalking, were slowly repeating those meaningless sentences.

(End of this chapter)