Winter Lord: Starting with Daily Intelligence

Chapter 236 Secret Meeting
On a deep winter night in Chichao, the cold air seeped into the old hall through the cracks in the stone walls. The fire in the fireplace was dim, and only a few oil lamps could barely illuminate the table.

This conference room was originally a refuge for nobles, but it has now been converted into a conference room that is already operating in secret.

The doors and windows were tightly shut, the guards had retreated, and the air was filled with the smell of burning charcoal and the lingering damp musty odor, along with a sense of unsettling anxiety.

Viscount Brooke, the owner of the conference room, sat in the center, his gaze slowly sweeping over everyone present.

He was an old nobleman from the northern border of Snowpeak County. He had actually been unhappy with Louis for a long time, but he had to lie low because he was afraid of Louis’s power. However, he did not expect that when disaster struck, it was Louis who took him in.

He appeared calm, but the deep lines around his eyes suggested that he was not content with his current safety and mere survival.

"Gentlemen," he said in a low but firm voice, "we all know who is in charge of Xuefeng County now, but that doesn't mean we should be at their mercy."

Baron Harris crossed his arms, leaned back in his chair, and sneered, "Manipulate? You make it sound so easy, Brooke. My family's private army, passed down for four generations, has been disbanded and so-called temporarily conscripted. Now, a nobleman like myself is living with servants and eating their black bread."

He tore open a densely written "Coal Rationing Application Form" and threw it on the table.

“Look at this stuff. Even a bag of charcoal has to specify its ‘purpose,’ ‘identity,’ and ‘whether it can be shared’. Ha, is this still considered noble? Even vagrants are more respectable than us.”

“They have their reasons, special measures for special times.” Sirius sneered, anger flashing across his young face.

He couldn't sit still at all, and paced to the table. "You're all too docile. My Sirius family is a powerful clan from another county. My whole family died in battle, and I was the only one who led thirty knights out. Yet here I am, living under someone else's roof?"

He raised his chin and scoffed, "These knights have to be handed over to the Red Tide Territory for 'temporary management'? What makes that kid think he can do that?"

Sirius Karan, who now calls himself the "new Earl of Sirius," is actually just the second son of the family, whose father and brother are both dead.

He held a cup of cold tea in his hand, but drank it down in one gulp, as if it were strong liquor.

"Why should we be suppressed by him? When I was in my hometown, Chichao was just a wasteland without even a name on the map." His eyes were aggressive. "Just because he married the duke's daughter, does that give him the right to ride roughshod over all the nobles?"

"What do you want to say?" Viscount Roland's brow twitched slightly, his voice weak. He was the oldest man in the room, his snow-white goatee trembling slightly, revealing his hesitation about the gathering.

In the past, no one dared to underestimate this old nobleman at the Xuefeng County government meetings. After all, as a long-established nobleman, he had some power.

But times have changed. His fiefdom was swallowed up by a swarm of insects three months ago, leaving only a handful of his people, and even his family crest was burned to ashes.

Now, he is just an old nobleman living under someone else's roof, relying on his former status to maintain a semblance of respect.

"I...I'm just listening to what you're saying...to see if there's a proper solution." His gaze darted among the crowd, as if worried about being misunderstood or ignored.

In fact, he originally refused to come here today.

When Viscount Brooke sent someone to visit, he was very polite, saying that it was just a "small tea talk among the old nobles" to hear about current events and talk about the future, and it was entirely a private exchange of pleasantries.

He also had his grandson read him two passages from Brooke's "views on the future status of the old aristocracy," and sent him a bottle of fine old wine.

He was easily swayed by others, and was also caught up in the melancholy of losing his "aristocratic status." After being praised as "the most virtuous representative of the old school," he was "invited" in a daze.

At that moment, listening to the barbed words and hints at a desire to regain power, Roland felt a sense of panic.

He regretted it, but unfortunately he was already seated and couldn't leave because of his pride.

He tugged at the hem of his cloak and added in a low voice, "But I don't approve... I don't approve of acting rashly, everyone."

No one responded to him.

Only the firewood in the stove crackled and sparked.

Brooke narrowed his eyes and said casually, "I'm not against the Red Tide Territory. I just... want our voices to be heard again. For example, we should have a say in the post-war division of fiefdoms."

"That sounds nice," Harris sneered. "You want to be the one to 'speak out,' don't you? You gathered us here just to get us to 'sign a petition'?"

"It's less of a joint petition and more of a self-rescue effort." Brooke gently patted a draft document on the table, which was densely covered with "suggestions for the allocation of supplies" and "proposals for the rotation of seats for noble representatives," among other things.

“We just want Lord Louis to understand that we are not his vassals. We are also pillars of Snowpeak County, nobles of the Empire, not livestock he keeps.”

“Will he listen?” Roland said in a low voice. “That boy…you’ve never seen him truly angry. Don’t forget how swiftly he ‘deales’ with those disobedient nobles.”

The brief silence was like a bucket of cold water, extinguishing the anger on Sirius's face.

The group looked at each other, and the room fell silent once again.

They cursed fiercely, but no one dared to actually mention "leaving the Red Tide Territory," let alone actually take action to "take back the territory."

Because they all knew that it was the young lord who had dragged them out of the black fog of the Mother Nest with knights, food, and fortifications.

But they remained anxious, angry, humiliated, and afraid.

Because nobles without a plan for the future are nothing more than vagrants;
Because lineage no longer represents privileges, military power, fiefdoms, and resources all require review and registration;

Because the Red Tide's surveillance system, knight system, and intelligence network were more calm and meticulous than they had anticipated.

They have tried to make changes:
Someone wanted to secretly recall his family's old troops and rebuild the personal guard battalion, but the supervisory office knocked on his door at night, and he was exiled to Zhucheng without even taking his saddle with him.

Some people secretly slipped gold leaves to the officials in charge of supplies, asking for a few more bags of salt and meat, only to have their rations halved for three days and their names posted on the Red Tide bulletin board with the words "attempted bribery".

Some nobles even spread rumors in taverns while Louis was away, saying they would hold a Snow Peak Council to redefine the rules, only to have their doors sealed off the moment they stepped in.

Viscount Brooke was unwilling to accept this.

He was the most organized among the group, and he incited discontent among the refugees three times under the pretext of "unfair food rations" and "the withholding of aristocratic supplies".

He secretly instigated several small-scale mutinies, which were all quickly suppressed, but they still caused chaos and panic in a certain area.

He didn't want to rebel immediately, but was testing where the Red Tide Territory's bottom line was.

Louis was not in Red Tide Territory; his two wives and the old butler handled everything on his behalf.

Their methods were relatively mild, which gave Brook a bit of courage. He didn't dare to think about overthrowing the Red Tide Territory, but he wanted to get some military power and some distribution rights.

All the nobles wanted to make a move, but none dared to make the first one.

The snowy night was deep, with only a faint glow from the fireplace inside the house.

The "Draft Regulations on Land Fiefdoms" on the table remained unread, but the "Red Tide Civil Code Notice" on the wall was glanced at unconsciously by everyone.

Seeing that the time was right, Brooke added softly, "We just want one chance. A chance to live on our feet."

“Lord Louis is a meritorious official, we all acknowledge that.” He coughed lightly, “But now he monopolizes military power, granaries, and distribution rights. Where is there any room for us in the entire Red Tide Territory? We are not here to enjoy the benefits, but to plot the reconstruction of Snow Peak.”

Baron Harris gave a cold laugh and tapped the floor with his silver-edged cane: "Yes, which of us isn't of noble blood? And now, we're treated like servants, lining up to receive our rations."

The young Earl Sirius sat with his arms crossed, his tone even more vehement: "Even my father's former subordinates have to register and be audited. In the eyes of his Crimson Tide Knights, is my name any different from that of a vagrant?"

"Stop talking." Viscount Roland's voice was soft, but he still tried to dissuade them. "These are extraordinary times... After all, Red Tide Territory saved us... Being too radical might..."

Viscount Brooke smiled and changed the subject: "Sir, we didn't say we were rebelling, it's just... if we unite with most of the nobles at the Snow Peak Conference..."

Demanding the restoration of their respective families' military power, or... proposing that the Snow Peak Conference coordinate resources to prevent the Red Tide from dominating, would be reasonable, wouldn't it?

"You, the senior official, should write the petition. It's reasonable and carries weight." He handed over a draft document, his eyes sincere, yet sharp as a knife.

Viscount Roland hesitated for a long time, but ultimately did not dare to accept.

The atmosphere briefly fell into an awkward silence.

A moment later, Sirius muttered under his breath, "Coward."

Sirius's use of the word "softie" seemed to shatter the last veil.

Baron Harris sneered, rose with his cane, walked to Viscount Roland's side, and looked down at him.

His tone was calm, almost gentle, yet it felt like ice water running down his spine: "Old Viscount, you are the living face of Snow Peak County. Don't take the young man's harsh words to heart, but you must know that you have great prestige, and everyone is watching you now."

Brooke smiled, got up, and walked over.

He gently placed a hand on Roland's shoulder, as if to kindly smooth out the wrinkles in his collar, but in reality, the pressure made Roland's breath catch in his throat: "Your presence is most appropriate. You carry more weight than us younger generation."

Besides, this isn't an act of rashness; it's merely 'expressing an opinion.' The Xuefeng Conference should have the right to speak out, shouldn't it?

Another young nobleman chimed in, “Yes, Your Excellency Roland, you just need to sign your name and submit the document. Even if Louis disagrees… that’s because he’s being unreasonable; we’re just following the rules.”

Sirius smirked again: "You don't really want to spend the winter in Red Tide's wooden house, do you? I heard they plan to give priority to the new civilians when it comes to firewood. You can't outcompete them."

All eyes fell on the elderly viscount, neither sharp nor kind, but more like silent hands "lifting" him from the high-backed wooden chair.

Roland's face flushed crimson, and his mustache trembled slightly at the corner of his lips. He knew perfectly well that this was inappropriate, dangerous, and likely to anger the young prefect.

But with everyone's eyes on him, he had nowhere to retreat.

He felt a chill run down his spine, as if he had been pushed onto this stage long ago, only to realize it now.

This was not a "discussion".

It was a conspiracy.

In fact, the direction of this so-called "discussion" had already been determined a few days earlier through secret letters and private meetings.

Viscount Brooke was the mastermind behind it all. He used “reconstruction,” “union,” and “the dignity of the old aristocracy” as bait to knock on the doors of these nobles one by one.

Their families were either in ruins, had lost land and soldiers, or were receiving rations like refugees during the Red Tide.

He strung together the discontents of each individual, uniting the nobles into a single force.

The ultimate goal of all this was to force Roland to speak out for them collectively at the Snow Peak Conference, thereby breaking through Louis's tightly controlled power fortress.

“All we need is a ‘sounding word’,” Brooke had said earlier. “Once Lord Roland speaks, the other nobles will readily agree.”

In their eyes, Roland was not a member of parliament, nor a senior, but a stone.

Together they pushed it down the mountain, letting it smash open the gates of power. Whether he would be smashed to pieces was not a consideration.

Now that "stone" has finally loosened.

Roland stared at the documents on the table, his throat tightening.

He knew that once the letter was sent, it would not only question the Red Tide's rule but also enrage the young and decisive lord. But what was even more terrifying was that if he didn't send it, these "allies" sitting in the room would see him as a coward obstructing the restoration of power and isolate him from the noble community.

They have agreed, they have spoken in unison, and they have made arrangements.

He was merely a piece that had been pushed to the center of the chessboard.

A piece that must be moved.

Roland took the letter with trembling hands, as if it were hot iron rather than paper.

"I...I'll try to hand it over...and see his attitude."

The moment the words fell, it seemed as if everyone in the room breathed a sigh of relief.

Brooke's lips curled slightly, Sirius raised his chin, and Harris gave a low, cold laugh.

No one pressured them anymore, no one said anything more, because they were already certain that Roland would do it.

Viscount Brooke smiled and raised his hand in agreement: "That's right. The future of the Snow Peak Conference must be fought for by us, bit by bit."

Before the applause even began, everyone nodded in agreement.

No one mentioned the danger, no one mentioned the consequences.

At that moment, Roland understood that he was never their "representative".

It's just an excuse for them to gain power.

Once that letter is sent out, they can openly proclaim at the Snow Peak Conference: "This is not my suggestion, but that of Viscount Roland. Lord Calvin, please consider it carefully."

But if they really anger Louis, they can simply say, "We just seconded it."

After the business was over, a relaxed but superficial atmosphere filled the air.

Viscount Brooke was the first to laugh out loud, crossed his legs, picked up his teacup, and started talking about the post-war ball.

"In the end, no matter how chaotic things get, etiquette cannot be abandoned. For example, if no one presided over the opening ceremony of the first ball after the war, the whole county would laugh at us 'refugee nobles'."

Baron Harris gave a cold snort, but also chimed in, "I've heard that the nobles in the south live a very comfortable life. Black tea, roses, and lace gloves—the dignity of the nobility should be reclaimed little by little from the details."

"Did you know that Viscount Palan's youngest daughter tripped and fell in front of three noble ladies at the winter banquet last month? She was even wearing an old-fashioned long dress and still dared to call herself 'of noble blood'."

The crowd chuckled softly, and a murmur of aristocratic gossip quickly spread.

Whose daughter eloped? Whose son owes a debt? Who forgot his speech at the ball? Who gave the Duchess a fake jewel as a gift?

These topics, like delicate and ethereal bubbles, rose one after another amidst the aroma of tea, laughter, and the slanting candlelight.

They crossed their cups and cups, their sleeves slightly tucked in, as if they were still in the carefree banquet hall of yesteryear, rather than this temporary council chamber.

Even if they don't know anything about the war, they still need to know the gossip among the nobles—it's a world they're familiar with and proud of.

It doesn't talk about strength or winning or losing; it only cares about whose child is handsome or whose banquet is lavish.

Even after their families were destroyed and they were forced to flee, they still tried to use the gold thread of the past to weave a veil to cover up their shame, as if as long as the topic remained etiquette and ridicule, they were still "true nobles".

Only the old viscount Roland, who was huddled in the corner, remained silent.

His face was pale, as if he had just been chilled by the cold wind of a winter night.

But nobody paid attention to him.

They've used him up.

"Boom, boom, boom."

Suddenly, three slow, steady knocks on the door, like an invisible hand, abruptly shattered the lively atmosphere inside.

The laughter stopped abruptly, and the conversation abruptly ceased.

The air seemed to freeze.

Viscount Brooke's teacup trembled slightly, the rim of the cup touching the saucer with a crisp "clink".

Sirius instinctively reached for his waist, where he used to wear a sword, but it had long since been handed over.

Harris had the coldest expression, but his fists clenched silently.

Viscount Roland even jerked in his chair, nearly falling back down, his first thought being:
Did they hear what we said?
They hadn't been unaware of the possibility that "walls have ears."

The Red Tide Surveillance Bureau was always on high alert. Anyone who drank too much at a tavern or complained about the lack of food at the ration station could be summoned for a "talk" the next day.

They had also heard that Louis liked to plant "spies" in the shadows.

That young lord might be in the place you thought was the safest, quietly listening to every word you say.

"...Who?" Viscount Brooke asked, trying to appear calm, but his voice was very low, as if he were praying that it was just a servant bringing tea.

Instead, a slightly aged but familiar voice came through.

"Master, it's me."

Viscount Brooke was taken aback, then breathed a sigh of relief, his expression relaxing slightly, and said, "He's my family's old butler, no need to be nervous."

He waved towards the door: "Come in."

The door was pushed open, and an elderly man in a dark gray suit with gray hair bowed as he entered, his steps steady.

It was Milton, the old butler of the Brooke family.

The nobles breathed a sigh of relief when they saw who it was.

Count Sirius even patted his chest discreetly, while Baron Harris simply and quietly withdrew his trembling hand under his cloak.

Milton nervously relayed the information he had just received: "Lord Louis has sent an envoy to convene a meeting of nobles in the council hall at dawn tomorrow."

He paused, glanced at the slightly stiff faces of the crowd, and added, "It's not like you can be absent without a reason."

That short sentence was like cold water poured into a stove, instantly extinguishing the remaining heat in the room.

Count Sirius's lips moved, but he ultimately said nothing.

No one said anything.

Viscount Brooke's expression remained unchanged; he simply nodded and said, "Understood. Milton, go and tell the messenger that we will certainly attend the meeting on time."

Milton bowed again: "Your subordinate takes his leave."

As the aged figure slowly departed and the door closed again, the relaxed and lively atmosphere inside the room was gone.

They were certainly prepared, so Louis's summons was not unexpected.

Upon his return from the Battle of Frostspear, he will undoubtedly reorganize the situation and consolidate order.

Their "meeting" tonight is, in a sense, a gamble to set the tone in advance and gain an advantage.

“It’s time,” Viscount Brooke said calmly. “We’ve had enough to talk about today, so let’s stop here. Everyone, go back and rest, and prepare for tomorrow’s formal council meeting.”

He didn't laugh.

Because he knew that this game had only just begun.

The nobles rose one after another, some silent, some lost in thought.

No one talked about the ball, etiquette, or gossip anymore; all that remained in their eyes was the flicker of their own calculations.

They left silently, as if afraid that if they lingered even a moment longer, the Lord of the Crimson Tide would see through their every thought through the wooden door.

Inside the room, only Viscount Brooke remained.

The candlelight flickered on the silver candlestick, reflecting a faint smile on his face.

He slowly walked to the window and looked out at the quiet street under the red tide night, as if he could see the nobles gradually disappearing into the winter night with their own thoughts.

"Heh... Just as expected."

He slowly sat down, his fingers tapping on the table, where the draft petition, which had not been accepted by Viscount Roland but had been "tacitly approved," was still lying.

He didn't rush to put it away; instead, he gazed at it for a long time, as if admiring a fine work of art.

"Old Roland may be weak, but he's still a useful old man. As he gets older, he's most afraid of losing power... With just a little push, he knows how to stand firm."

Harris... ambitious but lacking in skill, a good lackey. Sirius, on the other hand, hot-blooded and emotional, the easiest to manipulate.

As for the others… be cold when necessary, and aggressive when appropriate. Pawns don't need to be clever, they just need to be useful.

He slowly took off his cloak and placed it on a high-backed chair beside him, then poured himself a glass of warmed red wine from the wine cabinet and swirled it gently.

“Louis…you have indeed saved a lot of people, but you are still too young.”

He downed the drink in one gulp, a smug smile playing on his lips.

"Those who gain power at a young age always believe that what they hold in their hands belongs to them."

"But what they don't know is that true power is pried away little by little at the negotiating table, in the parliament hall, when you have to deal with a group of 'former nobles'."

Brooke got up, unbuttoned her coat, and slowly walked towards the bedroom.

Before leaving, he glanced back at the draft and the conference table illuminated by candlelight, his eyes resolute.

"Tomorrow's parliament is just the beginning. I, Brooke, will not bow down to a mere twenty-year-old brat. I'll show him what true nobility and true power play are all about!"

He turned off the light and walked into the darkness.

(End of this chapter)