Winter Lord: Starting with Daily Intelligence

Chapter 380 The Fifth Prince's Ambition
The thick stone walls blocked out the cold wind and the noise of the outside world, leaving only the almost inaudible sound of lamp oil burning.

Regent Aarons leaned back in his chair, draped in a snow-white animal skin, but his face was even paler than his fur. Faint bluish lines under his eyes, like frost, sank downwards little by little.

His chest rose and fell at a frequency that was sometimes slow and sometimes short.

But there were no toxic spots, no swelling, and no fatal symptoms that a doctor could identify.

If you don't look closely, you might mistake it for a sleeping person rather than a regent who is constantly on the verge of death.

Moreover, a new Dragon Throne Conference will be held in two days.

This grand council, which concerns the future of the empire, should have been presided over by Arens himself.

The reason he is still barely conscious is only because he is holding on by sheer willpower; otherwise, he would have given up months ago.

More renowned physicians have arrived today than usual: Imperial Physician, Grand Mage, Dragon Ancestor Priest, Wind-Stopping Physician...

They took turns examining Aaron, placing their hands on his forehead, checking his pulse, using magic to see through him, and even offering prayers...

In the end, without exception, they all put their hands down, their expressions heavy.

"His Highness shows no abnormalities."

"It doesn't look like poisoning."

"It's more like... life being taken away without leaving a trace."

When these words were spoken, the bedroom was so quiet that even the flickering firelight sounded jarring.

In the shadows, a young guard stood stiffly.

He was transferred here three months ago to be a close attendant, a minor role that should have been just serving, reporting, and serving water and drinks.

I have watched the Regent go from being able to stand for half an hour in the morning council to now being so weak that he seems to be blown away by the wind even when he is sitting.

Today, His Highness was even unable to lift his eyelids at one point, and could only lie stiffly on the bed, motionless.

The small gold-patterned box on the table was half-open.

The ochre-leaved fruit lay quietly inside, its deep red and withered ochre colors resembling flesh roasted by fire, its skin tightened to the point of cracking, its shape like a shriveled heart.

This is no ordinary fruit; it is said that only one such fruit can be produced in the dense forests of the south every hundred years.

In the last hundred years, only two people in the entire empire have ever found one; its existence is more like a legend than a real product.

Its effects are extremely strong; it can forcibly activate mental power, stimulate the soul, and allow a person on the verge of death to briefly return to a state of consciousness, like putting a scorching shell on a dying fire.

But all it can offer is a brief respite on a spiritual level; it has no way to address physical decay or the passing of life.

The air still carried the faint sweetness and tartness of the fruit pulp after it had been bitten into. The smell was not pleasant; it was like the scent of some high-level alchemical elixir, stinging the nose and reminding one that it was merely a forced illusion.

Aarons took that small bite.

The moment he bit down, the young guard saw the Regent's gaze snap back from its complete daze, like a drowning person being pulled out of the ice at the last moment.

Aarons looked up, his voice soft yet commanding: "...Turn the lights up."

This moment of lucidity was almost a miracle for the young Konoe.

"Yes, sir." He quickly stepped forward and adjusted the wick.

The firelight rose a little as he moved, illuminating half of Aarons' face.

It was a face that was extremely weak, yet showed no signs of illness.

Pale yet clean, empty yet without the twisting pain.

It was as if someone was silently drawing away the fire from his body, while his physical form remained unchanged.

The young Konoe's heart skipped a beat.

If this isn't an illness... then does the clarity brought on by the fruit mean that His Highness is truly recovering?

He couldn't quite put his finger on what was wrong, but he pieced together the fragments into an answer he was willing to believe: His Highness was getting better.

This was a message he had to send.

After all, his other identity meant he couldn't afford to miss any clues about the Regent's life or death.

As night deepened, he quietly retreated to the corridor outside the sleeping quarters.

The snow and wind blew in through the window cracks, stirring up fine dust on the stone bricks.

The young guard made sure no one was watching before pulling the thin metal plate out of his boot.

His fingertips trembled slightly with nervousness, but he still tried his best to keep them straight.

"After the Crown Prince consumed the Ochre Leaf Spirit Fruit, his condition improved significantly. Renowned physicians all confirmed that there was no poison or illness involved. His Highness the Regent is now out of danger."

After using his fighting spirit to finish engraving the code, he took a deep breath, stuffed the metal piece into the letter box, and pressed the hidden pattern.

A soft rustling sound came from inside the building, and an inconspicuous gray-feathered pigeon hopped out from a hidden compartment in the corridor and shook its wings.

The next instant, it took flight, skimmed over the palace walls, and vanished silently into the heavy night wind.

The young guard watched the receding shadow, and the tension in his chest eased by half.

…………

On the other side of the capital, the night wind swept over the high walls of the residence of the fifth prince, Lampard, and the lights behind the thick windows shimmered with a faint golden glow.

A gray-feathered pigeon landed on a wooden post in the dark alley, and the letterbox gently bumped against each other, making a soft sound.

The gatekeeper recognized the letter as a secret pigeon, his expression changed slightly, and he immediately took the letterbox and sent it to the inner courtyard.

Before long, the secret letter was presented to Lampard.

He was sitting on the bench behind his desk when he heard that it was a hidden pigeon from the palace. He raised his eyelids slightly and said, "Put it here."

The servant handed over the metal plate.

Lampard, who had been nonchalant, slowly frowned when he saw the contents.

Has the Regent regained his senses? Is he free of poison and disease? Did he regain his senses through the fruit?

Lampard's fingers hovered over the edge of the postcard, his tone as cold as well water: "Prepare the horses."

The attendant hesitated for a moment: "Your Highness, now?"

“Now.” He put down the metal plate, stood up, and swiftly put on his outer robe.

Lampard walked through the side courtyards and wooden bridges before entering the depths of the mansion.

At the end of the stairs was only a wooden door sealed with an iron lock.

Lampard raised his hand, and the guards at the door immediately unlocked the hidden lock.

As the wooden door was pushed open, a damp, cold draft rushed out, and the depths of the basement were dark and quiet, like a secret waiting to be revealed.

Lampard stepped into the shadows and whispered, "Light the lamps."

As the firelight shone, he walked alone into the deeper part of the area, his expression remaining unchanged.

The lower you go, the colder the air gets, and the passageway at the end of the stairs is narrow, with ancient floral patterns carved on both sides of the walls. However, the patterns here are upside down, with the petals facing downwards, resembling some kind of overturned prayer.

Only when the light shone on the ground did the truly chilling scene become clear. The entire ground was covered with a dense array of Golden Feather Flower Cult "Reverse Flower Crown Magic Patterns".

Each line is as if carved into the stone with a knife, so deep it looks unnatural, with a faint dark golden light shining through the lines, pulsating slightly like a living thing.

The walls are covered with ancient scripture carvings, the characters blurred by time, yet still bearing a certain fervent brushstroke, as if the carver was at the cusp of extreme piety and madness.

The candlestick burned with a pale blue flame, not the normal color of fire, but a symbol of some alien power.

The cold light clung to the stone walls, making the entire underground space feel like it was immersed in the deep sea.

There was a faint metallic smell in the air, like the lingering traces left after blood has dissipated for too long.

At the end of the corridor, a round stone platform stands quietly.

The platform is carved from a single piece of rock, with intertwined patterns that spread along the surface like golden cracks, faintly glowing, as if something is breathing inside.

This is a place that would give an ordinary person a splitting headache just by getting close to it.

Lampard's gaze remained calm, and he did not stop.

In the center of the stone platform, a man sat cross-legged.

He sat barefoot, his physique as robust as a boulder sculpted by the mountain winds.

The skin wasn't just a bronze-colored texture; it was faintly permeated with a layer of misty black mist that slowly dissipated from the gaps in the collarbone, sides of the arms, and back, like a bound curse breathing beneath the flesh.

A crimson sacrificial robe was draped over his shoulders, the edges of the fabric slightly curled up as if touched by black energy, losing its original color as if it had been scorched.

The most glaring thing was the golden bone needles on his back, the gold color had been stained dark, and fine black wisps of energy kept seeping from their roots.

The man's eyes remained closed, and his eyelashes did not move at all.

However, the air around him seemed slightly distorted, as if an invisible hand was trying to break free from his body.

Lampard stopped in front of the stone platform, took a deep breath, and spoke respectfully, but in an even lower voice: "My Lord, I have come to report on the Regent's situation."

He slightly raised his eyes, looked at the motionless figure on the stone platform, and said directly without beating around the bush:

"The Regent is taking the Spirit Fruit. His condition is not declining as rapidly as it did two years ago. The Spirit Fruit keeps him in a state of... barely consciousness. He is weak, as if it is holding him up."

His tone grew softer and softer as he spoke, and he knew very well that this should not have happened.

Following the initial trajectory of that curse, the Regent's condition began to decline visibly every month two years ago, from standing during morning court sessions to only being able to sit for short periods of time, and now to almost being unable to leave his bedchamber.

All of this stems from the divine curse personally cast by Salomon's messenger: [Death Without a Trace].

Divine grace is a supernatural ability unique to the Golden Feather Flower Theocracy, much like the empire's bloodline talent. However, divine grace is always bestowed by bishops.

The skill activated by Salomon's messenger was: [Severing Life Without a Trace].

This is a curse, invisible and odorless, undetectable and undetectable by neutralization spells. Potions, prayers, and rituals cannot reach its source; it only weakens the target slowly, without causing immediate death.

It could silently kill a regent in the heart of the palace, under the protection of layers of knights, without leaving a single scar.

The only two drawbacks are that it is too slow and the caster must expend an equal amount of life energy.

Lampard knew this.

At this moment, he saw that the skin of Salomon's messenger exposed outside the gaps in his ceremonial robes was a darker shade than before, with veins faintly visible, as if ink were slowly flowing along the blood vessels.

That wasn't a feigned miracle, but the real price to pay. With every weakening of the Regent, Salomon was sinking with him.

However, he knew that this curse was the best way for him to take down the regent.

poison?
He had tried before; two years ago, he had planted a highly concealed poison during the circulation of plates, the replacement of utensils, and the rotation of maids.

The result only alerted a few guards, while the regent remained unharmed despite undergoing numerous tests, acupuncture, and prayers.

The royal family possesses the empire's best complete detoxification system, from food and maids to silver needles and reagents, every step must be done flawlessly.

Frankly, unless it could paralyze the entire palace, poisoning is a joke.

Suicide assassination?

The Second Prince's incident already proved its cost-effectiveness. Sacrificing a high-level superhuman assassin only resulted in the Second Prince losing an arm. Although it shook the foundation, the price was too high. Moreover, the First Prince was not as frivolous as the Second Prince.

Suicide squad attack?

The imperial guards and defensive formations are not just for show; even if ten squads were to die, they might not be able to penetrate the center of the palace. Instead, they would make everyone more vigilant.

Only this kind of curse leaves no trace, cannot be traced, and is inevitably fatal.

This was one of the forms of assistance the Golden Feather Flower Vatican provided to him.

Lampard continued, “I’m worried that the curse is being interfered with by the Spirit Fruit. Divine Messenger, could this affect… the outcome we’re pursuing?”

Salomon's messenger did not open his eyes, nor did he change the depth of his breathing. He responded with a barely perceptible whisper: "No, it will just take a little longer."

Lampard frowned slightly: "How long will it drag on?"

"It won't be more than two years." Salomon's voice was devoid of any emotion. "The cursed blade is in his heart, and it will fall sooner or later."

Then, the corner of his mouth twitched almost imperceptibly, carrying a hint of mockery: "What? Can't Your Highness wait any longer?"

Lampard did not respond immediately. He thought of his plans, the Papacy's arrangements, the future promised by the Golden Feather Kingdom, and the opportune moment when the throne would soon be vacant.

One by one, the clues in his mind clicked together again; it wasn't a simple usurpation, but a true conspiracy he had been brewing for years:

Lampard never wanted to inherit the empire; he wanted to divide it.

To drive the capital into chaos, every step he took was precise and covert:
He used curses to weaken the regent, causing the capital to lose its central authority, but did not let him die immediately, giving himself ample time.

Incite infighting among the princes' factions to disrupt the succession order.

Pirates and rebel armies secretly funded the empire's security, causing it to deteriorate continuously.

The Ministry of Military Affairs had to be broken down, so the assassination of the Second Prince left the military leaderless, with each faction acting independently, and some legion commanders even approaching him.

The economic chain must be broken. Duke Calvin is willing to support the split, but if the empire's finances were to turn to him, half of the empire's finances would collapse instantly.

The Duke of Calvin would support the secession, believing that the capital was doomed and that his second son, Eduardo, was the core of the Golden Feather Papacy.

Lampard has even begun contacting other eastern provinces, and even the North… after all, Louis Calvin is also a “Calvin”.

Ultimately, what he wanted to establish was not an empire, but an Eastern Empire.

A vassal state supported by the Golden Feather Flower Papacy, operating under a theocratic system.

Because he never had the foundation to swallow the entire empire, he had no military power, no noble alliance, no financial and tax base, and he didn't even have enough factions to support him in the capital.

Lampard's only solid backer is the Papacy.

He could not, and never intended to, rule the entire empire; what he wanted was a throne with a narrower scope, but one that was more secure.

He was not an emperor, but the "Lord of the East" recognized by the Papacy.

The more Lampard reflects on it, the more he feels that the path beneath his feet is becoming increasingly solid.

Lampard then said softly, "Then I'll leave it to you, Your Excellency."

(End of this chapter)