Winter Lord: Starting with Daily Intelligence

Chapter 427 Turbulence Arises
The curtains in the study were drawn tightly, the heavy velvet blocking out the natural light and the faint noise from the streets of the capital.

Kalein sat behind his desk, on which lay a newly delivered parchment scroll, its edges still creased.

"A Letter to My Fellow Countrymen of the Empire," based on a speech by Louis.

He read it line by line, the words sharp and undisguised, like a deliberately sharpened blade.

"A beast who murdered his own parents? A tyrant who stole the divine artifact?" Upon seeing this, Karen's lips twitched slightly.

A hoarse, low laugh escaped his throat, like the satisfaction of finally having the truth revealed.

“Beast?” he repeated the word in a low voice, his fingers slowly tightening, creating a crease in the parchment scroll.

“Ha…Louis, you’re right.” His eyes were cold and clear.

Kalein remembered how he had crushed Rhine's throat with his own hands.

I remember the rows of corpses hanging down the Victory Avenue, and the temperature of the blood flowing through the cracks in the stone slabs.

He never needed a fig leaf; this throne was built with violence and bloodshed.

He preferred this straightforwardness to the hypocrisy of Rhine's self-proclaimed civilization.

Karen continued reading, and when his gaze fell upon the line, "Until His Majesty returns, the throne of the Empire will be empty," his laughter slowly subsided.

The study fell silent again.

Kalein looked up, leaned back in his chair, and tapped his fingers lightly on the table.

This is what truly interests him.

Everyone believed that their great father would not return.

But Louis, having taken over the Gray Rock Province and swallowed up the Raymond family, deliberately didn't reach for the crown, waiting for the emperor, who had been missing for several years, to return, clearly leaving himself an escape route.

Kalein felt that it wasn't cowardice, but restraint.

"He knows he is not yet capable of taking over the entire empire; holding onto two major provinces is his current limit."

Kalen's lips curled up again. This "Letter to My Fellow Countrymen" was ostensibly a rant, but in reality, it was a call to action.

It's impossible for those in the north to move south, at least not now.

He continued reading, and when he saw Louis use the most cutting words to denounce the fifth prince Lampard, characterizing him as a "whore who betrayed the glory of his ancestors," Karen couldn't help but sneer.

"That spineless fifth brother." He shook his head, his tone full of contempt, "He actually kowtows to those charlatans."

At that moment, he even felt a ridiculous sense of relief.

In this letter, Louis condemned the pseudo-emperor of the Southeast even more harshly than he condemned himself, personally dragging him into the quagmire of heresy.

The empire's orthodox public opinion was cut in two.

On one side was a tyrant with blood on his hands, and on the other side was a traitor who bowed down to foreign divine authority.

The North, however, remained aloof and observed from the sidelines.

Kalein slowly exhaled: "Interesting."

In the fight against the Holy Eastern Empire, this man from the North might even become a pawn that can be used.

They are not friends, but they are not necessarily enemies who will fight to the death immediately.

He casually tossed the parchment onto the table, as if dropping a card he already knew.

“Keep an eye on the North,” Karen said calmly to his servant in the shadows. “Don’t provoke him.”

Then Kalein leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, his soldier's instincts overriding his emotions at that moment.

In his mind, a new map of the empire slowly unfolded, not as lines on parchment, but as a real outline composed of blood, supply lines, legions, and ambition.

North is the direction Louis Calvin is heading.

The province of Limestone had changed hands, but Louis did not continue his southward advance, nor was he in a hurry to don the crown.

On the contrary, he even signaled a willingness to resume some trade.

Kalein saw it clearly: it wasn't weakness, it was a wolf that had eaten its fill and was licking its claws in preparation for the next hunt.

"It can't be moved." That was his assessment of the North.

Raymond failed to retrieve the gray rock, and he himself was even less likely to.

Since that's the case, let's accept the status quo.

Let Louis become a wall in the north of the empire.

It not only blocked external enemies, but also other ambitious individuals.

If necessary, this wall can be made to shed blood for the empire, and it's not impossible to eventually win him over with benefits and make him the King of the North.

In the southeast, there is Prince Lampard, the fifth prince, and the Papacy behind him.

Karen opened his eyes, his gaze hardening.

That is the real enemy that must be eliminated.

Introducing heresy into the country and using divine authority to suppress imperial power was a direct challenge to the legitimacy of the empire.

The word "heretic" kept nagging at him.

This is the best target.

By directing all wars towards the southeast, he could reunite the nobility and solidify his unshakeable legitimacy under the pretext of expelling heretics.

Finally, there's the capital city, between him and Raymond.

His gaze passed over the heavy curtains and landed on the other side of the imperial city.

That's the direction of Duke Raymond's mansion. Although Duke Raymond hasn't returned yet, there are still quite a few knights patrolling around.

There was a time when that mansion felt like a mountain in the shadows, suffocating him.

Even after the empire has made its own judgment, all matters, big and small, will ultimately come back to that old duke for a final decision.

Karen knew very well that he was always just a knife being held in someone's hand.

Things are different now; the Limestone Province has fallen.

The centuries-old foundation of the Raymond family was inch by inch carved out by the cold blade of the North.

Kalein knew exactly what that meant.

Without the wealth of the Grayrock Province and the constant supply of private armies, Raymond would no longer be the true ruler of the empire.

He was just a loser who fled back to the capital in a panic with his remaining troops.

"Grand Marshal..." Karen slowly savored the title in his mind, a savage pleasure rising at the corner of his mouth, "Do you still have the right to treat me as a pawn?"

That feeling is amazing.

Louis's sword from the North did not strike him, but instead pierced Raymond's toughest armor with pinpoint accuracy.

So I am still somewhat grateful to Louis, that wild wolf.

Carlene slowly withdrew his gaze. He knew Raymond's character better than anyone else; the old duke had never been a loyal subject.

Raymond merely chose to be a puppet; once the situation stabilizes, Raymond will definitely take action.

Replace his bodyguards, or use drugs to control his will, or even create an accident to replace him with a more obedient puppet.

He was powerless to resist in the past because Raymond possessed absolute power.

Now the old wolf has lost its sharp claws and its escape route.

But a beast with no way out will only become more frantic and more eager to hold onto its last remaining chips.

“So…” Karen muttered to himself, his voice so soft it was almost inaudible, “Raymont, you are now my greatest enemy.”

Before breaking with the North, before settling scores with the Fifth Prince and those charlatans.

He must first devour his former benefactor himself in this cage of the capital.

Otherwise, he himself will be the next one served at the dinner table.

"Now you're nothing more than an old dog that's lost its kennel." Karen's lips curled into a cold smile.

He would use the pretext of retaking the southeast and guarding the southwest to send Raymond's remaining loyal followers to the real meat grinder time and time again.

Once all the knights are dead, and Raymond can no longer produce gold coins or battle merits, those around him will naturally begin to waver.

Then, in the name of the emperor, he would try to win over the lower-ranking nobles and knights who had lost faith in Raymond.

A duke who lost his lands and treasury,
What else can be used to buy loyalty?
Kalein slowly exhaled, picked up the wine glass on the table, and gently raised it towards the empty study.

“Thank you, Louis.” His eyes gleamed with madness and cunning in the dim light.

“You pulled out Raymond’s teeth for me. I’ll eat the rest of the meat myself, bite by bite.”

…………

There was almost no light in the prayer room.

Only a slender candlestick stood at the edge of the altar, the ambergris slowly melting in the flames, releasing a sweet and heavy aroma.

The flickering candlelight cast long shadows of the two figures onto the huge golden feathered holy emblem on the wall.

The outline of the emblem is slightly distorted in the light and shadow, like a giant bird nailed to the wall, its wings spread but about to break at any moment.

The fifth prince, Lampard, had his back to the door.

He was bending down to wipe a ceremonial longsword, its silvery blade gleaming coldly in the candlelight.

A crumpled parchment was slowly burning in the brazier, the flames devouring the writing and gradually turning the manifesto into ashes.

“Duke,” Lampard said in a flat tone, “sometimes I think the Calvin family really produces talented people.”

He continued wiping the sword without turning around.

"Your son calls me a prostitute in the north, while you manage my finances in the south. Are you two putting your eggs in two baskets, trying to profit from both?"

Lampard suddenly stopped moving.

He turned around, the tip of his sword hanging down, but then he raised it slightly in the next moment, pointing it at the ground.

Those eyes, like venomous snakes, were locked onto the Duke's throat.

"Give me a reason. A reason not to send you to the gallows. Don't tell me you can't control his nonsense either."

The air in the sealed room seemed to freeze.

Duke Calvin stood still; he neither knelt nor offered any explanation.

He remained silent for a moment, but when he spoke, he did not mention Louis.

“Your Majesty,” his voice was old and low, “the carrier pigeon from the Holy City has just arrived.”

Lampard's brow twitched almost imperceptibly.

"I've heard that the old golden-feathered flower that bloomed atop the sacred mountain," the Duke said, raising his eyes to look at the holy emblem on the wall. "The petals have withered."

The sword tip trembled slightly, and Lampard's pupils contracted sharply.

He certainly understood what those words meant: the old Pope is dying.

Duke Calvin took half a step forward, as if stepping into a sacred forbidden zone, or approaching the edge of an abyss.

His voice was lowered, sounding both like a prayer and a temptation: "Winter is coming, flowers bloom and fade, that's the natural order. But on whose crown will the next golden-feathered flower fall..."

The candlelight flickered violently at that moment.

The Duke raised his head: "Your Majesty, my third son, Eduardo, is currently standing at the second level of the Holy Steps. He is only one step away from the white throne that represents the supreme divine authority."

Upon hearing this, Lampard silently and slowly sat back down in the uncomfortable prayer chair. The back of the chair was hard and straight, clearly not prepared for a long rest.

He raised his hand and rubbed his temples, his knuckles pressing against his temples, as if forcibly suppressing some surging emotion.

The room fell silent again, the candlelight crackling faintly as it burned, and the scent of ambergris grew stronger, almost suffocating.

Lampard's mind was racing; he was calculating.

Kill Duke Calvin or save him.

The pleasure and shock brought by the former lasted only a moment, while the latter maintained the reality that the entire Southeast Province was barely on the verge of collapse.

The empire has fallen apart.

He had the powerful backing of the Papacy, but not enough gold.

The national treasury is empty, and the knights' pay has even begun to be delayed. It is still unknown whether it will be paid next month.

The Calvin family was more than just a source of wealth; they were the reason why the old aristocracy of the Southeast was still willing to stand by him. Lampard understood this perfectly well.

His thoughts continued to race forward: what if he killed the Duke now…

Louis in the north will have no more scruples and will completely tear off his fig leaf.

The second prince of the capital would seize the opportunity of the chaos and advance eastward without hesitation.

Meanwhile, in the Holy City, if Eduardo were to truly ascend that white throne…

As the person who killed his father, he had no way out.

This is a future where certain death is inevitable.

Lampard slowly exhaled, finally realizing a cruel truth.

I don't actually have the right to overturn the table.

The so-called Holy Eastern Empire, though seemingly grand and imposing, is in reality an empty shell barely supported by three pillars...

Royal lineage, papal status, and the Calvin family.

If any one of these pillars were broken, the building would collapse overnight.

When he raised his head again, the murderous intent in his eyes had completely faded, replaced by weariness.

“Duke,” Lampard’s voice lowered, “do you know why I’ve tolerated that special envoy’s meddling in my palace?”

Without waiting for a reply, he continued, "Because I'm missing something."

He stood up and walked over to Duke Calvin.

This time there was no threat, only a deliberately humble posture.

"If the future you're talking about is real."

“If Eduardo really does stand on that white throne,” Lampard looked directly into the Duke’s eyes, his tone unusually sincere, “he will help me, won’t he?”

The Duke of Calvin bowed and said, "Of course."

Lampard paused for a moment, then raised his hand and pointed to the closed door of the secret room.

“But how do we get through this hurdle?” He lowered his voice. “That Bishop Salomon outside is determined to wage a holy war against Louis. If I don’t agree, he will question my piety.”

"If I agree, it would be like throwing our troops to the northern ice plains for nothing, to fight your son, that Imperial Guardian, and let the Second Prince laugh at us in the capital."

The Duke of Calvin did not answer immediately.

He simply sighed softly, as if weary of some situation he had foreseen.

He then raised his head, his expression returning to calm and composed.

“Your Majesty, there’s no need for you to stand up to them at a time like this. Doing so will only expose your weakness,” the Duke said calmly. “We’ll buy time and give him another empty promise.”

Lampard's eyebrows twitched slightly.

The Duke continued, “You can make a promise to Bishop Salomon. Once the Holy Eastern Empire is unified, three rich counties will be allocated as dioceses directly under the Papacy, to be held by him for life.”

This is not faith, it is naked self-interest, enough to teach any bishop patience.

Lampard did not immediately refute this.

He knew all too well the bishop's true faith.

The Duke continued, "As for Louis, that rebellious son, we don't need to treat him as an enemy. It's the evil that must exist."

As these words were spoken, the candlelight flickered slightly.

“Your Majesty,” the Duke leaned forward slightly, his voice low, “we told the bishop that Louis was a human shield in front of the heretics.”

We must stand before the Second Prince, before the barbarians, before all enemies who truly threaten the sacred order. It is more in accordance with God's will to let him bleed than for us to bleed ourselves.

We will not only refrain from attacking him, but we will also grant him a chance to atone for his sins, appointing him Warden of the North and sending him to die in our place.

The room fell silent again, and Lampard's breathing gradually became steady.

He understood it completely.

This is a closed loop.

Use the bishop's greed to buy time, and use Louis's sharpness to wear down the second prince.

They retreated to the background and focused all their efforts on Eduardo's campaign.

Lampard nodded slowly, and the light that truly belonged to a ruler finally shone in his eyes.

“Very well, do as you say. I will issue a decree rebuking Louis for his disrespect. But for your sake, I will allow him to atone for his sins through meritorious service.”

By the time the conversation ended, the ambergris in the secret room had burned out.

The Duke of Calvin was preparing to leave.

"Wait." Lampard's voice came from behind.

The Duke of Calvin paused; the truly important point was often contained in that last sentence.

Lampard neither reprimanded nor adopted any threatening stance.

Instead, he stepped forward himself and reached out to straighten the Duke's slightly crooked bow tie.

The movements were unhurried and slow, almost like a father tidying up his son's appearance.

In blood relations, this is intimacy; between ruler and subject, it is bondage.

Lampard's knuckles brushed against the old man's neck, feeling the loose, aged skin.

He looked at Calvin's graying temples, his voice lowering, carrying a sense of pressure.

“Old Calvin,” he rarely addressed him, “I’ve staked my life and fortune on you and your son.”

The candlelight flickered gently.

“Louis is guarding the gate in the north, Eduardo is seizing power in the Holy City, and you are by my side, managing the purse strings, the nobles, and those allies who might turn on me at any moment.”

Lampard paused for a moment, a weary smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"Don't make me lose. If I lose, not a single person on this ship will survive, not even the Calvin family."

Duke Calvin's shoulders trembled almost imperceptibly.

He bowed deeply, his movements even more respectful than when he arrived.

His aged body was almost bent at a ninety-degree angle, and then he reached out and gave Lampard's hand a standard and devout kiss.

"May the glory of our Emperor endure forever." His voice was low and hoarse, yet exceptionally firm. "The Calvin family will surely present you with that triple crown."

As soon as he finished speaking, the Duke turned and stepped into the deep and long corridor outside the secret room.

One by one, the candlelight went out behind him, his shadow stretched out and was eventually swallowed up by darkness.

Lampard was the only one left in the secret room.

Lampard stood back in front of the huge map.

The southeastern region remains small, like a chess piece squeezed into a corner.

But in his eyes, those boundaries have begun to shift, expand, and overlap.

He could almost see the bells of the holy city ringing out in unison.

On the white throne, the new pope donned a triple crown.

Lampard, with the backing of that supreme divine authority, set out from the southeast, crushed the divided empire, and swept across the continent.

The candlelight illuminated Lampard's eyes.

There was no faith there, only the ambition of an emperor.

…………

When the Duke of Calvin returned to his study, it was already late at night.

He showed no elation after victory, not even a hint of relief.

Old Calvin practically dragged himself to his desk, sinking heavily into the chair.

It seems like we've passed this hurdle.

But he knew better than anyone that this was just a small nail temporarily propping up the collapsing situation.

Everything is based on a fragile assumption.

Eduardo must ascend that white throne.

As long as the bells of the Holy City do not toll in Calvin's name, and as long as the papacy's crown ultimately falls on someone else's head.

All the tacit understandings reached in the prayer room today will be rendered worthless overnight.

At that time, the Papacy will immediately tear off its mask of gentleness, Lampard will lose the fig leaf of holiness, and the Holy Eastern Empire will instantly split apart.

At that time, it will no longer be a game between a few parties, but a power storm that will truly devour everything.

A world map was spread out on the desk.

His gaze, however, remained fixed on the north.

The area marked in red in the Limestone Province was particularly glaring, like a wound that had not yet dried.

Then the Duke of Calvin picked up his pen and wrote slowly this time.

The letter no longer contained his father's reprimands or the advice of his elders.

All the wording has been precisely stripped of emotion, leaving only naked political judgment.

"Since you choose to be a lone wolf, then guard your gate. I will use the pretext of heresy trials to protect you at the Vatican. And you must use your sword to secure a way out for your family in this chaotic world..."

This is an equal agreement, a cold, tacit understanding.

After writing the last word, the Duke stopped writing and tapped his fingers lightly on the table.

Once this letter was sent, the last shred of "father-son affection" that the Calvin family had been concealed was completely torn away.

But that's exactly what Louis wanted.

This was also the approach that he, as the father, ultimately approved.

The Duke rose and went to the window.

Under the cover of night, the square outside the palace was brightly lit.

On one side is the golden feathered holy emblem hanging high on the city wall, symbolizing the judgment and forgiveness of the Papacy.

On the other side was the Fifth Prince's imperial banner, fluttering in the night wind.

Theocracy and Imperial Power.

The two flags fluttered side by side, yet remained wary of each other, like two swords yet to be drawn.

Duke Calvin watched this scene quietly, his gaze gradually becoming deep and complex.

A self-deprecating smile slowly crept onto his lips.

“Gaius.” His voice was very soft, as if he were talking to the air, “The most talented, entrusted with great expectations, and pushed to the forefront.”

However, he was critically wounded in the Battle of the Brood and became a vegetable. With the Emperor's demise, he too was buried by time.

The Duke closed his eyes briefly, then opened them again.

His gaze shifted to a small landmass in the southeast corner of the map, separated from the mainland by the sea, marked with the golden feathers of the Papacy.

"As for Eduardo, he was sent to the Papacy in his early years as an insignificant bargaining chip."

"Now, however, he has risen to the ranks of saints and is called a saint. Just one more step forward and he can wear that triple crown and hold divine authority in his hands."

His gaze finally fell back to the north.

It landed in that gray rock province covered in red, which connected to the northern border.

"As for the eighth brother... he was casually thrown to the northern border back then, just for the northern border expansion order. But he actually raised a real man-eating wolf."

Two major provinces, one ironclad army. A name that needs no crown to inspire fear in all.

He chuckled softly, looked out the window at the two flags, and said in a low voice, "The Calvin family... will never fall."

　Work is too busy, I can't slack off and write anymore, I'll update in the evenings from now on.

　　
　
(End of this chapter)