Winter Lord: Starting with Daily Intelligence

Chapter 277 The Frost Halberd's Predicament
Winter is coming soon.

The first full year after the Brood Wars will also come to an end.

Duke Edmund, however, still maintained his old-fashioned tradition of convening a Northern Council before the end of autumn and the beginning of the snow season.

This year, however, the venue for the meeting is no longer the magnificent, imposing, and chilling Frostspear City of my memories.

That city is dead.

After being repeatedly devoured, gnawed, and burrowed through by insect venom, the entire city had long since become like a gigantic corpse that had recently died.

Streets and alleys collapsed, eaves caved in, and wells dried up; some even oozed a black, viscous liquid, and no one dared to approach anymore.

It doesn't look like a city; it looks like a cemetery.

The three characters "Frostspear City" that remain on the map today are just an empty name.

The real new town was built two miles northwest of the old town, nestled against the mountains and ridges; it was a temporary site.

It is called "New Frost Spear", but it is more like a haven built with gray bricks, boards and recycled scraps. Every brick and tile here seems hastily made and in dire need.

Even so, the Duke insisted on naming it "Frostspear City".

In his view, if even the name is lost, then the North will truly be without a skeleton.

However, the reconstruction of New Frostspear City is not yet complete, and it cannot even be called "formed". It is just a rough framework built according to the terrain.

Only the three main buildings—the core government office, the command tower, and the barracks—have taken shape, while the rest of the area is constructed with a large number of prefabricated wooden houses, temporary wooden walls, and simple roofs.

Walking into the street, you can see unpainted gray bricks everywhere, low eaves, temporarily fixed drainage channels, and lingering dampness.

With everyone moving in, the house feels cramped.

During the day, the sounds of sawing wood and hammering nails could be heard one after another, while at night, the crackling of fires could be heard from one house to another.

Children ran through the mud, women dried wet clothes and bedding, and soldiers exchanged a few words with street vendors during their patrols.

Soldiers jokingly called this place "Canvas Fortress," while civilians privately referred to it as "Winter Camp."

But the Duke insisted on one name: "It is Frosthalberd, and we will not give up this name, just as we should not give up this frozen land."

This was also one of the reasons why he insisted on holding a "Frost and Halberd Conference" before winter.

The meeting was held in the new governor's mansion in Frostspear City, which was actually just a hastily renovated abandoned fortress.

But after the fall of Old Frostspear, it became the last meeting place in the entire North.

The nobles of the North have never been concerned with pomp and circumstance, especially after the Brood War; they are more concerned with whether there is enough firewood and whether the guards are well-fed.

Even so, they still dressed up a bit for the meeting.

The dome of the conference hall was painted dark gray, curtains were hung, the wooden podium and long table were polished and repainted, and a few oil lamps tried to create a warm glow.

It wasn't exactly solemn or comfortable, but compared to holding meetings in a tent, it was already considered "decent."

This was an internal high-level meeting of the Edmund family.

Only those who truly held real power, retained the bloodline of the Edmund family, or were long-time retainers who had managed to maintain order in their region even after the insect plague were allowed to attend.

Not just anyone can come; even Louis, the Red Tide Lord who is currently at the height of his power, was not included on the list.

There was no whispering or pointless small talk; the meeting room fell into a tense and oppressive silence.

Most of them understood just how much power the Duke of Edmund still possessed.

And how difficult that year must have been for the entire old noble family of the North.

The people around the table had different expressions, all looking exhausted. The year's wind and snow, the year's decaying corpses, and the year's insect poison seemed to be etched into their eyes.

The door was pushed open from the outside at that moment.

It was a burly man wearing a black and red cloak.

His appearance seemed to make the air in the entire hall a little heavier.

Beneath the cloak was a simple yet heavy military uniform, with golden dragon emblems inlaid on the shoulder straps, and a shield symbolizing the empire pinned to the chest, extremely conspicuous.

He was Duke Edmund, one of the most prestigious generals in the northern part of the empire.

Although the years have etched some wrinkles on his face and turned his temples gray, his physique remains as strong as iron.

He didn't look like an old man; he looked more like a cast-iron statue that had stepped out of an ancient battlefield.

However, no matter how composed his face was, he couldn't hide the weariness that occasionally flashed in his eyes.

That's not a pathological state of aging, but a deep weariness from mental exhaustion.

Like a giant who once held up mountains, still struggling to hold on, but with faint cracks beginning to appear deep within his bones.

Edmund walked to the head of the table, paused briefly, and then swept his gaze across the crowd, exuding an invisible pressure that made everyone involuntarily straighten their backs.
"Let's skip the pleasantries," he said, sitting down and resting one hand on the edge of the table. "Let's get straight to the recent situation."

Cavill, the librarian, opened the leather ledger and, without elaboration, stated directly: "As of this winter, the total population of the North is less than one-fifth of what it was before the insect plague."

No one in the council chamber was surprised, but a few vassal representatives still sighed with their heads down.

"The current population is mainly concentrated in several areas that are still able to maintain autonomy and order, such as New Frostspear, Silver Bay Valley, and Red Tide Territory."

In addition, the newly arrived settlers from the south brought with them many refugees and slaves, which were helpful, but the overall situation... was far worse than before.

He turned a page and continued, "Regarding the total amount of grain: the capital received 650 cartloads of grain, two-thirds of which were under our control. The remainder were supervised by military supervisors and foreign envoys appointed by the empire and allocated to their respective regions."

"This year's autumn harvest is not ideal." He said briefly, but clearly enough: "Too little land has been cultivated, and the land is severely abandoned. Those who are supposed to farm are either dead or recovering from injuries. There aren't even enough farmers to go to the fields to grow plows."

A moment of silence fell over the council chamber.

"...In addition, from the Red Tide Territory—Viscount Calvin sent five thousand tons of green wheat. It was transferred to the warehouse yesterday via the West Coast Corridor."

Everyone in the council chamber was taken aback.

Five thousand tons?

“At this point, who else can produce five thousand tons of surplus grain?” Count Haigel frowned, his voice filled with disbelief.

"Is it a 'gift'?" someone asked in a low voice. "Not a transaction, not a loan?"

Cavill nodded, his voice calm: "It is indeed supplies. There's no price tag. According to the letter, it was 'gifted' by Louis."

Everyone turned to look at Duke Edmund, who was seated in the main seat.

The Duke simply nodded silently, his face showing no obvious emotion, but his eyes narrowed slightly, as if suppressing some complex emotion.

He certainly knew about this, even earlier than anyone else present.

The night before the grain wagons departed, Louis had already written him a letter in his own hand, saying that this year's harvest was bountiful and that he was sending him some grain.

Less than three days after that letter, his youngest daughter, Emily, also sent a letter from the Red Tide Territory.

The content remained understated: "Father, this year's harvest is much better than expected. Louis and I have agreed that this time the supplies from the Empire don't need to be allocated to us; we can even send some over."

The so-called "little bit" refers to 5,000 tons of green wheat.

Duke Edmund shook his head, a barely perceptible smile appearing at the corner of his mouth, like a long-awaited comfort in the midst of a long, blizzard-filled night.

"...This is a piece of good news amidst all the bad news lately," he thought.

Seeing that he made no comment, the meeting continued. "Where's the charcoal?" a vassal nobleman in the corner asked in a low voice.

Cavill nodded in agreement and continued reading: "Currently, the stock of charcoal is less than 40%. Priority will be given to the city's outposts, command center, noble district, and key shelters. Ordinary residents mostly rely on rotten wood for heating."

He turned to the next page, his tone becoming even more somber: "In terms of medicine, reserves are also running low, and small-scale outbreaks have been reported in many places."

The capital's medical supplies are running out. Therefore, we must... prepare for the combined effects of severe cold and epidemic.

No one spoke immediately.

These important figures bowed their heads and remained silent, their faces filled with helplessness and exhaustion.

Duke Edmund, seated high above, merely closed his eyes slightly.

He was already aware of these circumstances.

His desk was piled high with even more reports, each page bearing frozen, brittle corners and cracked handwriting.

“…There really isn’t a better way.” Cavill finally spoke.

He scanned the crowd and proposed his plan: "My suggestion is to fully implement a population reduction plan before the official snowfall this winter."

He opened the new form and pointed to several marked areas: "Relocate people to the 'core shelter' as much as possible, and provide centralized heating and coal distribution."

The grain rationing standard will remain at three levels, with priority given to military and government personnel, and porridge rations limited to civilians. This is all we can do at this stage.

He closed the booklet and looked at the person on the high seat: "At least... we can avoid mass freezing and starvation deaths."

After he finished speaking, the hall remained silent.

Because everyone knows that this is indeed the safest way to live right now.

Edmund didn't respond immediately; he simply exhaled deeply, as if slowly releasing the chill that had been building up in his chest all winter: "Let's do it this way."

As soon as Cavill sat down, the chamber fell silent for a moment.

At this moment, a gray-haired nobleman near the north side of the round table said in a deep voice, "How many people can we still mobilize now?"

There was no provocation in his tone; he simply asked the question dryly, a question everyone wanted to know the answer to, yet no one was willing to say it aloud.

Cavill hesitated for a moment, then finally turned to a page of the document:
“...There were originally sixty-three vassals in the North,” he said in a low voice. “As of this winter, only twenty-three of them still have the ability to mobilize effective troops.”

"The rest either perished in the insect plague, or... lost contact with other forces."

The expressions on everyone's faces varied, and many of them had their brows furrowed.

“The aristocratic system in the North is crumbling,” Cavill added. “We can no longer rely on hierarchical orders to organize defenses and allocate supplies as we used to.”

"Can this even be considered 'noble'?" A young general couldn't help but sneer in a low voice.

Just then, General Barrett spoke up: "In addition, after the insect plague subsided, the Imperial Military Affairs Department, under the pretext of 'security patrols,' forcibly dispatched three temporary knightly orders to take over several important strongholds on the old southern front."

"They are entrenched in Jiutiegang, Serankou, and Yinsongling, nominally obeying orders, but in reality... each acting independently." He spoke slowly, but every word was firm. "Soldiers have clashed with them on the border."

He concluded coldly, "They are not here to defend the North; they are here to seize power and territory."

The air in the council chamber seemed to freeze.

At this moment, Edmund finally spoke slowly: "These are all minor issues. The most important thing is the barbarian forces outside. None of the five scouts we've sent out recently have returned. I have a very bad feeling about this."

He turned to Barrett: "Starting tomorrow, select thirty elite knights and divide them into six groups. Head straight to the barbarian territory to scout."

“Tell them,” he said, emphasizing each word, “that even if only one person is left…they must bring back a message.”

His voice wasn't loud, but it sent a chill down the spines of everyone in the hall.

No one spoke anymore.

They all knew that if the barbarians took advantage of the chaos to move south, the already fragile northern border of the empire would be plunged into an unprecedented crisis.

The meeting also discussed several secondary issues in the latter part, such as a recent letter from the Ministry of Finance proposing that a special commissioner be appointed in the capital to oversee the distribution of the next round of disaster relief grain, which aroused dissatisfaction among several noble representatives.

In addition, several new noble armies from the south have entered the northern border, and have had frequent frictions with the local old nobles over the division of garrisons and the distribution of supplies, and the situation is gradually becoming tense.

And other relatively less important issues.

These issues sparked some debate, but the Duke of Edmund remained silent, listening quietly until the meeting officially ended.

By the time the meeting ended, it was completely dark.

One by one, the lanterns on the command tower of New Frostspear City were lit, and the wind and snow swept over the temporary wooden eaves, stirring up a chill along the stone-paved street.

People gradually left the room, some whispering, others with complicated expressions.

The Duke of Edmund simply rose from his high-backed chair, nodded in acknowledgment, and slowly walked away.

The meeting did indeed resolve some urgent issues: the allocation plan was finalized, the patrol plan was able to proceed, and even the troop deployment of some vassal nobles was approved in principle.

These are all like patching up a broken ship, but no one knows how long it can stay afloat.

He himself knew better than anyone that the bottom of the ship was already riddled with cracks.

The Duke of Edmund returned to the inner quarters of the Governor's residence.

He didn't go to the study first, nor did he change out of his heavy armor. Instead, he pushed open the door to the warm room on the west side.

Inside, Duchess Elena was sitting on a low couch, gently coaxing the baby in her arms.

Hearing footsteps, she looked up and smiled faintly: "You're back quite early."

Edmund didn't say anything, but walked over, sat down beside her, and took the baby from her arms.

The child was sleeping soundly, with a little dried milk stain still on the corner of his mouth, his little fists tucked into his chest, as soft as a ball of cotton.

Edmund looked down at him and gently touched the child's forehead with his rough fingers.

He smiled, a rare and tender expression on his face.

But the smile only lasted a moment before quietly disappearing into the deep gray of his eyes.

Elena sat down next to him: "You were sitting up straight when you left today... and now you've slumped down again."

He didn't answer, but simply exhaled slowly.

In the final battle of the Brood War, those monsters nearly killed him, and coupled with his old wounds, he knew his time was running out.

Maybe a few years, maybe even less.

But he couldn't bear to fall down.

He looked at the child in his arms, that little life that was still unaware of the dangers of the world, his flesh and blood, the next generation of his family.

I also saw Elena's tired but still gentle eyes.

And there was that unfinished city in the snowstorm, hundreds of thousands of broken but resilient people, the cold wind, ruins, and cries of anguish everywhere...

It can't fall yet.

He would drag himself along, bleeding, even if it meant taking every single step.

"Let's hold on for a few more years," he whispered, as if speaking to himself. "What will happen to them if I'm gone?"

(End of this chapter)