Winter Lord: Starting with Daily Intelligence

Chapter 395 Chess Player
Late at night, the study still held the warmth left by the family members who had left.

But as the door closed gently, the warmth receded like a tide, leaving only a lamp casting a long shadow of Louis.

He sat alone at his desk, the gentleness in his eyes gradually fading, replaced by the calmness characteristic of a lord.

That kind of aura is like a blade being sheathed again; its sharpness is unseen, yet it possesses a unique imposing presence.

There was a knock on the door.

Bradley pushed open the door and entered, holding a letter sealed with dark red wax.

The wax seal was engraved with the Calvin family's wave crest, indicating the family's highest-level urgent secret letter.

"My lord, this is a letter addressed to the Duke personally."

Louis looked up, his expression so calm that it betrayed no emotion; he didn't even show surprise.

Because the daily intelligence system had already updated the relevant information half a month ago.

Duke Calvin held a secret meeting with Papal envoy Salomon and reached a secret agreement to provide financial support to Louis in order to destabilize the North and contain the Imperial Northern Army.

This letter is now just a belated prop in the script.

But Louis took the letter anyway, picked up a paper cutter, and unfolded the letter.

The content, however, inexplicably evokes a sense of weariness, as if veteran actors are repeating old tropes.

The gist of the letter was: the empire is in turmoil, and this is an opportunity for the Calvin family to return to its former glory.

Louis, you are the sharpest sword in the family, the hope of the North.

For the sake of the North and for the sake of your family, you should cut off the Imperial Northern Army's supplies and create border friction.

Once this is accomplished, your family will fully support you in becoming the true king of the North.

Beautiful words, exaggerated visions, and ambiguous promises.

But the Duke never mentioned a word about the huge sum of military funds he received from the Papacy.

As Louis finished reading, a cool smile slowly crept onto his lips.

To outsiders, this letter was a father's entrustment to his son and a testament to the family's trust.

But in his eyes, it was nothing short of a poorly executed clownish performance.

"Put the real gold and silver into your own treasury first, and then let me use the blood of the Red Tide Territory to fulfill your dream... Father, do you think I don't understand, or do you think I'll pretend not to understand?"

Louis's eyes held a detached indifference and boredom that came from seeing through calculations.

Louis handed the letter to Bradley: "Take a look, this is my father's grand plan."

Bradley took the letter and read it line by line, his brow furrowing deeper and deeper.

He was unaware that the Duke had embezzled the military funds, but he was smart enough to see the extent of the danger this posed to the Red Tide Territory.

Cutting off supplies and provoking the Northern Army are like putting the entire Red Tide Territory on a powder keg.

This is not supporting Louis, but pushing him to the brink.

The old steward's hand trembled slightly as he held the letter; he knew his former master's cunning.

“Young Master,” Bradley lowered his voice, “this matter… is too risky. Although the Empire is in chaos now, the Northern Army is still an iron army. If we touch the supplies, they will list the Red Tide as traitors. No matter how good the family’s promise is, we have to survive that first blow first.”

Louis chuckled softly and said casually, "You figured it out too? He's trying to get something for nothing."

Louis casually crumpled the letter into a ball and tossed it into the nearby trash can.

“Since Father thinks I can handle things on my own,” Louis stood up, his gaze falling on the huge map of the North on the wall, “then I will do it my own way.”

But it will no longer be the Calvin family making the decisions for him; it will be him making the decisions for the entire North.

“Bradley, the reason your father is so eager to jump out at this critical moment is because he also smells blood.”

The night was still, and only the flickering firelight from the fireplace filled the study.

Louis stood by the window, his shadow stretched long. His tone was calm and unhurried, yet it sent chills down one's spine.

Bradley was stunned: "Young Master means...?"

Louis looked up at the dark sky in the distance, as if he could see the chaos in the capital through the darkness.

“My sources tell me that the Regent is dying.”

“What…” Bradley’s breath hitched, and he almost lost his voice.

In the present situation, the regent is the last pillar of order in the empire.

Once it collapses, the princes will not hesitate to tear each other apart, the legion commanders will take their own flags and begin to declare independence, and the empire will crack from top to bottom like a giant house with its steel beams removed.

Louis continued, “With the Regent dead, the South will be in chaos, and the Imperial City will be even more chaotic. As for the North… those legion commanders will sense an opportunity; they will test the waters and form factions.”

Bradley lowered his head, cold sweat beading on his forehead: "This... the empire is truly fragmented..."

“It’s a done deal.” Louis was eerily calm. “Duke Calvin was just one of those who smelled the scent earlier than others. He just wanted to speculate, and so did I.”

He slowly turned around, his steps steady and composed, and walked towards the map of the North.

The firelight illuminated the enormous sheepskin map, showing mountains, valleys, provinces, castles...

The territories of the old nobles of the North are scattered across the landscape like chess pieces.

Louis raised his hand and placed his fingertips in the center of the picture.

"But who did I vote for?" he asked softly.

Bradley's Adam's apple bobbed: "You... what did you vote for?"

Louis smiled slightly, his eyes sharp as drawn knives. "I'm betting on myself."

That's not arrogance, but a kind of self-confidence that naturally settles down after countless victories and countless calculations.

"If the empire is going to collapse, let it collapse. The important thing is that the North must become a unified whole in this chaotic world."

He spoke softly, but every word struck Bradley like a nail.

“At this time, we must not be pawns of others. We must integrate all the nobles, all the armed forces, and all the productive forces in the North.”

Bradley stared at him, stunned.

Louis continued, "Not only to survive the coming storm, but also... to go further."

Bradley looked up abruptly, and in a daze, he seemed to see the outline of a new empire slowly taking shape in Louis's eyes.

That wasn't ambition, but rather an inevitability bestowed upon him by the times.

“By the way,” Louis suddenly asked, “how are the preparations for the Northern Reconstruction Conference going?”

Bradley immediately snapped back to reality: "Everything is as you instructed. The location is set in Frostspear City, and the time is autumn."

Frostspear, the former capital of the North, a political center and spiritual symbol.

The city that was reduced to ashes in the war between the Mother Nest and the barbarians was secretly rebuilt by Louis.

A cold glint flashed in Louis's eyes: "The official purpose of this meeting is still reconstruction, but the real purpose is to unify military power."

I will reorganize all the armed forces in the North and bring them under a unified command structure.

He raised his hand and traced the map across Raymond's territory, then across the Imperial Northern Army's garrison, finally landing his fingertip on Red Tide City.

"Father wants me to tie down the Union Army?" Louis sneered. "No, he underestimates me."

"A true chess player... never plays according to someone else's chessboard."

…………

Graystone Fortress.

The cold wind lashed against the iron walls, and the sound of the wind was like wild beasts gnawing at the door from outside.

The Graystone Fortress stands between north and south, like a gate forged from black iron, tearing the entire northern territory in two. Every five meters along the corridor, a torch is placed, its flames dancing in the cold wind, illuminating the dried monster heads on the walls, making them appear both grotesque and menacing, like spoils of war or warnings.

Inside the meeting room, the fireplace flickered.

Ackerman Greer sat in the main seat, his imposing figure resembling an upright brown bear.

He sat casually, yet the entire room felt as if the air had been lowered—a sense of oppression unique to a legion commander with many years of experience.

Fernand, the deputy commander of the 14th Army Corps, and Soros, the commander of the 7th Army Corps, sat on either side of him. Both were trusted subordinates of their respective corps commanders and were responsible for representing their superiors at such high-level border meetings.

The two men sat on either side of Ackerman, their collars soaked with sweat, but neither dared to unbutton their shirts.

Fernán's voice was slightly strained as he spoke: "Lord Grell, didn't we have an agreement? According to the agreement with the Second Prince's envoy, Sorel, we only need to maintain a blurred vision and a noble silence regarding the North."

Why are we suddenly being summoned to discuss joint defense? This... will be seen as overstepping our bounds.

Ackerman did not answer immediately.

He poured himself a glass of strong liquor, smuggled from the Jade Border, and ridiculously expensive.

He took a sip before letting out a low, hoarse laugh.

"What the Second Prince promised me was just a winery in the Valencia Valley and a viscount's title," Ackerman scoffed. "He wants me to be a watchdog that sleeps after being fed. What he's offering you is about the same, isn't it?"

Fernand's brow furrowed even deeper, as if he wanted to say something but hesitated: "But..."

“Do you know what? Right now,” Ackerman slammed his glass on the table, splashing wine everywhere, “the Regent is dying.”

The two officers gasped.

Ackerman continued, "If the capital falls into chaos, the princes will tear each other apart like hungry wolves. If the Second Prince is defeated, we, the border legions, will be the first to be thrown out."

He lowered his voice, a glint of ambition in his eyes: "But what if I were on the other side of the storm? What if I could become the Governor of the North, holding the Empire's hardest steel and the most coal..."

Whoever becomes the new emperor, he must grant me a hereditary dukedom, and of course, you will all receive your share of the benefits as well.

Soros licked his chapped lips: "My lord... do you really intend to devour the North?"

Ackerman stood up, walked to the map, and slammed his finger down on Frostspear City: "Open your eyes and look! Since the War of the Brood and the War of the Burial Grounds, the Edmund family has been wiped out! Nine out of ten of the Knights of Honor in the North are gone!"

He gave a disdainful smile: "As for that Louis? He's just a kid. Don't be fooled by his fancy tricks. The real strongmen of the North have all died at the hands of the Mother Nest and the barbarians."

Ackerman slapped open the parchment on the table, revealing a document titled "Draft of the Northern Joint Defense."

Inside, however, was written a terrifyingly detailed plan for dividing the spoils.

The 17th Army Corps controlled all the passes and tax revenues in the North, effectively seizing the throat of the entire North.

The 14th Army Corps occupied the western black iron mining area, securing a stable source of soldiers, armor, and equipment.

The 7th Army Corps controlled the eastern plains and trade routes, directly controlling the most fertile and abundant trade lifeline in the north.

Soros's breathing quickened: "Is this... cutting the North in two?"

Ackerman's smile was like a razor's edge: "Leave Louis a main city and let him continue being a rich man. Don't worry about him. As long as he makes money obediently, we won't touch him."

He paused for a moment, then raised his hand and made a throat-slitting gesture: "If you don't behave... we'll find you a more obedient one."

Fernand's expression changed slightly: "I do not have the authority to sign military alliances; these decisions must be made by the legion commander himself."

Colonel Fernand and Commander Soros exchanged a glance, both knowing why they were in this secret meeting on a snowy night.

They were the legion commander's most trusted eyes and ears, and they had to bring back every word spoken tonight, verbatim, so that their superior could judge the direction of the situation.

Ackerman, having anticipated this, handed over a new parchment: "No treaty is needed, just a memorandum of understanding."

“Take them back and let them choose for themselves, whether they want a piece of meat at the feast.”

“Anyway,” Ackerman said in a low voice, “I’m not in a hurry to make a move.”

The firelight reflected on his face, as if casting a shadow over his burning ambition.

The storm lashed against the windows, as if the entire North were plummeting into an abyss.

Ackerman sat in the main seat, outwardly calm, but inwardly felt as if he were being burned by fire.

He had a vague feeling that this might be the only chance in his life to break into the true aristocracy.

The glory of the 17th Army Corps is just a line on the list of military merits.

True aristocratic status requires land, hereditary status, and resources that make the royal family wary.

Now, with the empire on the verge of collapse, the seemingly barren land of the North holds the most crucial mineral veins, food routes, and the emerging Red Tide industry.

If he can secure this position, he can etch the name Ackerman into the new history of the empire.

Ackerman's fist clenched silently under the table: "We must not let that Calvin family outcast monopolize the North. It is the only ladder for my Ackerman family to step into the upper echelons of the Empire."

After the two left, Ackerman leaned back in his chair, as if he had just laid out the chessboard in his mind.

"Next, let's not rush into a full-blown conflict." He gestured with his chin, indicating for his trusted officer to step forward.

He slowly traced his finger across the map, bypassing Crimson Tide Territory and Frostspear City... finally stopping at an inconspicuous little territory—Morkan Territory.

That place was so poorly marked that even the northern border wasn't drawn clearly; it was simply shown as a gray area.

It is not part of the Red Tide system, but due to its terrain and mineral resources, it has its own caravans and is quite financially powerful. Moreover, it is close to the Graystone Fortress.

Ackerman tapped the gray area with his finger: "Start with him."

The trusted officer frowned: "...Baron Morkan?"

“That’s right.” Ackerman gave that contemptuous smile.

“Wait for his next caravan to arrive.” He waved to his adjutant: “Send two battalions of cavalry over there. Directly cite the supplementary clauses of the Imperial Wartime Emergency Requisition Act, saying that this shipment needs to be temporarily requisitioned in order to defend against barbarians.”

The trusted officer frowned: "What if the baron resists?"

Ackerman's voice was as flat as if he were talking about the weather: "Break the team leader's arms and legs and throw him in the snow."

The room fell silent.

It turns out Ackerman really did intend to annex the North.

The trusted officer couldn't help but lower his voice: "But... if the Red Tide Territory intervenes..."

“Red Tide?” Ackerman sneered as if he had heard a joke.

“I’m giving him face by not touching his caravans or his group of fanatical supporters.”

He gestured in the air, "But Morcan is different. He's not Louis's vassal, and he's not part of the Red Tide system. If Louis dares to interfere..."

Ackerman lowered his hand and lightly flicked the corner of the table: "Then I can immediately accuse him of interfering in military affairs and having an army to support himself."

The trusted officer gasped, feeling a chill run down his spine.

Ackerman had prepared excuses for every step, and no matter how Louis reacted, he could find a reason to continue expanding.

Ackerman stepped forward and slammed his fist on Morkan's collar: "If he remains silent, it means the Red Tide is just a paper tiger."

Those hesitant nobles in the North will immediately side with me. This land is like a buffet; I can eat whichever piece I want.

If he steps forward, I'll seize the opportunity to push him to the opposite side of the empire and brand him a traitor.

The firelight danced on his face, casting a dangerous arc.

"No matter what, this knife will fall."

Ackerman drew his dagger and planted the tip firmly in the Morkan territory, causing the wooden plank to crack slightly.

He stared at the knife, a slow, dangerous smirk playing on his lips: "Let this sheep bleat for two days."

I'd like to see if that young master sitting in the heated room truly has the ambition to become the Warden of the North... or if he's only good at keeping quiet and calculating in his castle.

(End of this chapter)