Winter Lord: Starting with Daily Intelligence

Chapter 426: Becoming Emperor?

The banquet hall in Grayrock Castle has been thoroughly cleaned.

The bloodstains that had seeped into the cracks in the stone were repeatedly washed away, and a thick carpet covered the entire floor, insulating the cold stone slabs underneath.

The towering vaulted ceiling was relit, the scorch marks remaining on the walls were covered by decorative curtains, and the entire hall was restored to its luxurious appearance.

It was as if that bloody purge had never happened.

The musicians took their seats on the side of the hall and played the ancient Northern melody, "Frosty Night."

The melody is low and restrained, like a low murmur before a blizzard, flowing slowly in the warm air.

A crystal chandelier hangs above the long table, its light reflecting off the wine glasses, the shimmering shadows resembling flowing blood.

The nobles cut their steaks on their plates with very gentle movements.

The occasional clinking of knives and forks against the porcelain plate sounded unusually jarring at this moment, as if reminding someone of something.

They were wearing newly changed velvet gowns, which were well-tailored, but somehow felt a little unnatural.

Their eyes met briefly on the table before quickly looking away.

That was the look in the eyes of someone who was complicit in a conspiracy.

It's not about confirming positions, but about confirming whether everyone is ready to take the same step.

Finally, Count Abbott slowly stood up.

He picked up a silver spoon and gently tapped it on the thin, translucent surface of the crystal glass: "Clink—"

The sound was crisp and short.

The cellist immediately stopped playing, and the servants silently retreated into the shadows.

The entire banquet hall fell silent at that moment, all eyes drawn to the tiny sound.

Abette's gaze swept across the long table, finally settling on Louis.

"Gentlemen," his voice was low and hoarse, "look out the window."

The night outside the window was illuminated by the castle's torches, their light flickering.

"The flag of Grayrock Fortress has changed color, but our hearts are still hanging in suspense."

He paused, his tone becoming even slower.

"The capital has gone mad, the southeast is rotten, the empire is already half sunk, and we are now, holding gold in our hands, but standing on a floating ice floe."

No one in the banquet hall objected.

Abbott turned to Louis, his gaze no longer fixed on a lord, but rather on a monarch.

"My lord, the swords of the Northern Legion are too sharp, so sharp that everyone is afraid of them, including ourselves."

His hand tightened slightly in mid-air.

"If this sword doesn't have a scabbard, it will eventually injure the wielder's hand. And in these chaotic times, the only thing that can hold this sword is a scabbard..."

Abette's voice was very low as she looked directly into Louis's eyes: "Only the crown."

"Only the weight of the crown can suppress the restlessness of this chaotic world, and only a new legal system can transform us from warlords into the true cornerstone of the empire."

Upon hearing this, Jon's breathing became heavy.

The chubby boy had completely forgotten about table manners and etiquette; his eyes were wide open, staring intently at the direction of the head of the table.

As long as Louis nods.

That was the founding of the nation.

He will be a loyal minister who rises to power and become a key figure in the new empire.

The thought made his fingers tremble slightly, and his heart pounded painfully in his chest.

That almost beastly thirst for power surged through his veins, as if he could bite the throat of anyone who stood in his way for Louis's sake at any moment.

It's not just Jon.

The eyes of all the nobles on both sides of the long table converged on this spot without them even realizing it.

They weren't whispering to each other, but they were all waiting for the same thing: this wasn't an impromptu suggestion.

This is a possibility that has been repeatedly analyzed and calculated in private long ago.

And it's now readily available.

Excitement slowly built up in the air; some held their breath, while others unconsciously clenched their napkins.

Count Abbott slowly bent down to maintain the posture, remaining motionless.

This is a big gamble.

He was using his sixty years of reputation to force Louis to take a step forward.

He bet on Louis's ambition.

The banquet hall was eerily quiet.

Even the occasional crackling sound of the pine wood burning in the fireplace seemed exceptionally clear.

All eyes seemed to transform into tangible threads, wrapping around the young man in the main seat.

Louis sat in the shadows.

The light from the crystal chandelier didn't reach his face; it only reflected fragmented light and shadow on the edge of the table and the wine.

He toyed with the fragile crystal glass in his hand, his fingers slowly sliding along the inside of the glass.

His expression was obscured; his eyes were as calm as a bottomless pool of cold water.

Louis's fingers tightened slightly.

"Click."

The faint sound of shattering glass broke the silence of the banquet hall.

Like thunder.

He slowly raised his eyes, and a wisp of ancient aura quietly emanated from them.

The pen in the clerk Vico's hand fell to the ground with a thud.

In his field of vision, the shadow behind the main seat appeared strangely distorted.

The candlelight seemed to be swallowed and stretched by some force, and the shadow slowly rose, eventually condensing into a huge and blurry golden vertical pupil.

It is incomplete and has no physical form.

Yet it seemed to descend from the clouds, coldly overlooking everything in the banquet hall.

Almost the instant that aura appeared, Yorn's mind went blank.

"Pfft."

His buttocks slammed heavily onto the floor, the sound dull yet clear. He braced himself with his hands on the ground, panting heavily—a primal reaction forcibly awakened deep within the genes of a creature facing an incomprehensible predator.

Surrender.

It's not a choice, it's a conditioned reflex.

Count Abbott's situation was both much better and much worse.

As a knight who had stepped into the realm of the extraordinary, he clearly felt his fighting spirit being completely suppressed in an instant.

The power system he had been so proud of all his life was not on par with it here.

My heart suddenly tightened.

Cold sweat instantly soaked through his silk shirt down his back.

He gritted his teeth and barely managed not to kneel down.

When he looked up again, the fervor in his eyes had vanished, replaced by deep awe.

This is not due to external pressure, nor is it some kind of trickery or secret technique.

This is purely a difference in social hierarchy.

At least the peak knights, or even higher.

This conclusion made Abbott's throat tighten slightly.

Shock, joy, and undeniable fear surged within him simultaneously.

Shocked that Louis had hidden such strength so deeply, delighted that they had chosen the right side, and fearful of a fact that was all too clear.

Such a person never needs anyone's permission to ascend the throne.

The banquet hall was deathly silent.

Louis took the handkerchief that Weil offered.

The snow-white fabric unfolded between his fingers, and he lowered his head, casually wiping his fingers.

The wine had cooled and stained the handkerchief, turning a dark reddish-brown color resembling blood.

His movements were slow, and the golden vertical pupil still lingered in the shadows, not completely dissipating.

“Abette,” Louis finally spoke, his voice low but as cold as a blade against the skin, “you’re getting senile.”

He looked up at the old count, who was still bowing, his tone devoid of any mockery.

Abette lowered her head, not daring to say a word.

Louis stood up, the chair legs scraping against the stone floor with a short, sharp sound.

The next moment, his voice suddenly rose, drowning out the crackling of the pine wood in the fireplace, carrying an undisguised anger.

"Look at who's calling themselves emperor these days, oh, there's that beast Karen."

To seize power, he poisoned the regent, beheaded the fourth prince, and slaughtered eight powerful families. Did he really think he was emperor just because he sat in that chair stained with his brothers' blood?

Louis gave a cold laugh.

"No, he is a beast who murdered his own parents, a tyrant who usurped the divine artifact. Anyone who acknowledges him is an accomplice."

With a swift and decisive flick of his finger, he pointed southeast.

"And look at Lampard. This time, the disgust in his tone was almost undisguised. He had knelt before those charlatans in order to fight against the Second Prince."

They let the heretical Vatican into their home, creating this so-called Holy Eastern Empire.

He was not the emperor. He was a prostitute who betrayed the glory of his ancestors, a traitor who let the wolf into the house.

No one dared to utter a sound in the banquet hall.

Louis turned around.

The Red Tide flag hung behind him, its red hue seemingly still flowing in the candlelight.

He spread his arms wide, as if taking in the entire hall.

"In this time of moral decay... if I were to declare myself emperor, what difference would there be between me and these two pieces of trash?"

His voice lowered again, but it was sharper than before.

"Our great emperor has simply disappeared, not died."

When those words were spoken, it was as if all the air in the hall had been sucked out.

“Until His Majesty returns,” Louis raised his hand and slammed it heavily on the edge of the table, “the Empire will have no emperor.”

“Anyone who dares to sit on it—” he paused, “I’ll chop off their head.”

Count Abbott understood, and slowly straightened up. The fear in his eyes had disappeared, leaving only an almost devout reverence.

Louis suddenly turned his head and looked at the corner: "Vico."

Chief Secretary Vico shuddered and instinctively clutched the parchment scroll in his arms.

Louis walked up to him and tapped his fingers lightly twice on the parchment.

“Write down everything I just said, word for word. Especially the things I said to the two false emperors.” A cold, meaningful smile curved his lips. “Send copies to every noble in the empire.”

I want everyone to know how rotten those two sitting on the thrones are.

After a short silence.

Yorn, who was kneeling on the ground, suddenly raised his head, his face flushed red, his eyes filled with nothing but the most direct fanaticism: "The boss is right!"

He drew his sword, its blade flashing coldly in the candlelight, and planted it heavily in the ground.

"Salute to the Empire's sole guardian!"

This sound was like a fuse; the next moment, all the nobles rose in unison and knelt on one knee.

The sword was drawn, its tip touching the ground.

"Salute to the Guardians of the Empire!"

The sound echoed in the Platinum Council Chamber.

Everyone present was intelligent.

They knew exactly what Louis was doing, and they also knew what he didn't want to do for the time being.

Declaring himself emperor too quickly and displaying too much brilliance will only draw everyone's attention and hostility prematurely.

The crown now looked more like a target than a reward.

As long as the statement "the emperor has not returned" holds true, there is still room for maneuver in everything else.

Power can be granted first, while titles can be added later.

The knife was already in his hand; as for what to name it, that was something to discuss later.

(End of this chapter)