Winter Lord: Starting with Daily Intelligence

Chapter 434 The Current Situation in the Capital
Dusk, like a thin veil of dirty gold, hung over the open fields outside the north gate of the capital.

Two skinny horses mingled in the sparse flow of people entering the city, their hooves crunching dryly on the frozen mud crushed by cart tracks.

A middle-aged man wearing a linen cloak sat on the horse in front of him. The edges of the cloak were frayed and covered in dust from the journey.

He pulled his hood down low, as if he didn't want any eyes to linger on his face.

His name was Varius, and he was a viscount.

The knight Cassian beside him was not wearing a cloak, but only buttoned up his outer garment.

The man remained silent the entire way, even suppressing his coughs, his gaze constantly scanning the crowd and the edge of the road.

Varius knew that Cassian didn't believe in comforting words; he only believed in the sword in his hand.

As for Varius... he preferred to believe something else.

He put one hand inside his clothes.

There was a stack of documents wrapped in oiled paper, more than one document.

The topmost book is one of the revised drafts of the "New Imperial Charter".

During the reign of the fourth prince, he was summoned to the court's legal department to revise and compile the original cases.

We proofread and scrutinized each clause, bringing overly idealistic wording back to reality and dismantling and rewriting clauses that might cause confusion.

He was not in the capital when the war broke out.

During that time, he was investigating the implementation of local courts in one of the most remote territories of the empire.

The roads were blocked, and by the time he heard the news, the flags on the city gates of the capital had already been changed.

He dared not go back, and the fragmented news that followed was more and more terrifying than the last.

The Ministry of Justice was raided and its files were sealed. Most of the colleagues who remained in the capital had already been hanged at the city gates or in the square.

Varius stopped in the outskirts of the territory to lay low for a while.

Now, almost a year has passed.

No matter how bloody an empire may be, there will always be people who write documents, collect taxes, and adjudicate cases. Even the most brutal rule cannot function without civil servants.

And he... at least wanted to come back and see if his family was still alive. If they weren't... then at least he wanted to confirm it with his own eyes.

The cavalry rounded a bend.

The city walls of the capital city were clearly visible.

Varius's pupils contracted sharply, and he even paused breathing for a moment.

The city walls in his memory were works of art made of obsidian.

The walls are carved with reliefs depicting the founding epic: the ranks of knights, the harvest of farmers, and the oaths of various tribes, all meticulously etched into the light by the stonemason's delicate knife marks.

During festivals, the viewing platform is covered with colorful cloths, and the aroma of spices and incense can be carried by the wind to outside the city.

But the city wall in front of them looked as if it had been smashed hard with a hammer.

The reliefs were roughly scraped away, leaving jagged white marks, like a disfigured face.

The exterior of the wall was coated with a layer of black molten iron, which solidified to form a rough, scale-like texture.

A barbed wire fence was stretched taut above.

The original viewing platform is gone.

There were dozens of heavy crossbows set up there, their arms as thick as tree trunks, their arrowheads covered in black iron, cold and without a trace of light.

What made Varius's stomach churn even more was that the arrows were not pointing towards the wasteland outside the city or the enemy.

They were aimed at the roads leading into the city, and at ordinary people like him.

The wind was blowing from the other side of the moat.

There was no scent of spices, only the smell of rust, horse manure, and a faint but persistent stench of blood.

The water in the moat was a dark red, as if it had been mixed with alchemical waste, and fine black slag floated on the surface.

Several crows perched on the barbed wire fence, pecking at something with their heads down. After pecking, they raised their heads again, their eyes like two specks of lacquer.

Varius's hand trembled uncontrollably, the oiled paper wrapping making a slight rustling sound in his arms.

He tried to swallow the dryness in his throat, only to find that he couldn't utter a complete sentence.

“This is no capital city…” he thought to himself. “This is clearly a huge prison ready to massacre people at any moment.”

Cassian reined in his horse beside him, his gaze sweeping over the crossbows and patrolling armored soldiers above the city gate.

His face didn't show much expression; he simply gripped the sword hilt tighter.

The queue at the city gate moved slowly forward.

Someone ahead was stopped, and the gatekeeper used a spear to pry open his bundle, pulled out a piece of silver jewelry, and threw it directly into the iron box at his feet.

Before the man could say anything, he was kicked into the mud.

When it was Varius's turn, the inspection was not relaxed in the slightest.

The soldiers ransacked his baggage, throwing away the odds and ends he had brought along into an iron box. A few silver coins that he had originally intended to keep as "bribes" were tapped in front of him to check their purity, and then confiscated without a second thought.

Even an old ring, a family heirloom worth little, was merely met with a cold laugh by the soldier and tossed into the box.

Then, someone set their sights on Cassian: "The sword."

Cassian's hand tightened instinctively for a moment, then quickly relaxed.

He untied the knight's sword and laid it flat on the ground.

The blade has been worn down by time, and the hilt still bears the marks of old vows.

The soldier kicked the sword away with his boot, as if kicking away a piece of excess iron.

The line continued forward, and no one spoke.

Varius looked at the city gate; now the world seemed like a tightening iron cage.

He tried to find a familiar order in the shadow of the city walls, but all he saw were black iron and barbs.

Beyond the city gates lies a different order.

The streets of the inner city were widened to be straight, but they didn't feel accessible at all.

The stone slabs were repeatedly dismantled and laid down, the gaps filled with dark slurry, and the horses' hooves made a dull echo when they stepped on them.

Every hundred paces, you could see a makeshift sentry post with iron plates nailed to wooden stakes, and fully armed soldiers standing behind the plates, their crossbows always taut.

As the patrolling column of knights turned out from the street corner, pedestrians fell to the ground like stalks of wheat blown down by the wind.

No one reminded them; the rules here were clearly ingrained in their very being.

Commoners must kneel down, forehead to the ground, hands outstretched.

Some people were a beat too slow and were kicked over by the front hooves of the warhorses. Their bodies rolled half a circle on the stone slabs before being trampled by the hooves of the horses behind them.

Screams rang out, but the procession did not stop, and the knights did not even look down.

Varius also dismounted.

The chill of the stone slab seeped up through his knees, and he felt a strange sense of absurdity.

As we continued forward, a commotion arose from the side street.

It was a tavern, and a group of knights were gathered at the entrance.

Two knights are dueling, sparks flying as their swords clash, as if they are putting on a show for someone.

The surrounding laughter and jeers blended together, with some people placing bets loudly, their tone as flippant as if they were gambling with dice.

Varius instinctively looked for the referee, but only saw a woman being pinned against the wall.

Her hands were roughly pressed against the barrel, and her mouth was gagged, preventing her from making a sound.

He then understood what the stakes were.

The outcome was quickly decided.

The victorious knight kicked his opponent away, casually swung his sword, and blood splattered on the tavern's wooden door, leaving several wet, shiny marks.

The knight raised his sword above his head, put one arm around the woman, and accepted the cheers of the surrounding knights.

Varius's stomach churned.

He recalled speaking in the lecture hall about chivalry, about restraint and honor; those words now seemed ridiculously empty.

“They are not knights,” Cassian said in a low voice.

Varius did not respond; he had no more words to refute or defend himself.

Further ahead lies the Imperial Supreme Court.

That building used to be the quietest place in the capital.

Only hushed conversations were permitted under the vaulted ceiling, while the sound of judges reading their verdicts echoed between the stone pillars.

Now, wooden stakes stand in the square.

A rope dangled in mid-air, below which lay bloodstains that had not yet been cleaned up. The side hall where the files were originally stored had been emptied and piled up into a small black mountain.

Books and legal codes were carelessly tossed together; some were charred, while others were still emitting wisps of smoke.

A soldier squatted beside a fire, holding a tattered piece of paper in his hand.

Varius recognized him immediately.

Those were fragments from the Ancient Royal Code, containing articles he had quoted countless times.

The corner of the paper was curled up and soaked in oil. The soldier used it to wipe his fork and then casually threw it into the fire.

The words were swallowed up the instant the flames erupted.

Varius stood there, feeling as if something was pressing down on his chest.

He finally understood something.

There is no need for laws here, or rather, there is only one law left.

Varius did not go any further.

He led Cassian onto a secluded side road.

The stone slabs here are older, and the walls have been repeatedly scraped and painted, leaving mottled red marks, like blood that has dried and been wiped away.

His original residence wasn't hard to find. But when the residence actually came into view, Varius stopped in his tracks.

The gate had been repainted in a glaring, almost flamboyant scarlet color, and an unfamiliar military flag hung there, black with red stripes, the insignia of the 13th Army Corps swaying slightly in the twilight.

Varius did not approach, but secretly peered into the yard through the fence.

The tree in the garden is gone.

He and his wife planted it together. They almost froze to death the first winter, and he wrapped it with straw rope by hand.

Now, a rough wooden stake stands where it once was, with the reins of a war beast tied to it, and the ground is muddy from being trampled.

Laughter came from the balcony.

A burly legion commander sat swaggeringly on a recliner outside the study.

He was holding an antique wine glass, which Varius recognized as a piece he had acquired from the south many years ago.

The wine was poured into a copper bowl on the ground.

A hunting dog lowered its head to lick the wine, which dripped from its mouth onto the stone slab.

The legion commander patted the dog's neck and laughed, as if praising some obedient animal.

Varius slowly looked away.

"Go." Cassian said only one word, already stepping aside to block him.

They went around to the back alley, where there were piles of filthy buckets, and the smell was pungent.

A hunched figure was struggling to pull a wooden cart filled with overflowing urine buckets. The man staggered and almost slipped on the icy ground.

Varius recognized him immediately; he had been his steward.

Now, one of the old man's eyes is cloudy and white, the eye socket is sunken, and the wrinkles on his face look as if they have been carved deep by a knife.

"...Sir?" The old man's voice was very hoarse when he raised his head.

He was stunned for a few moments before suddenly kneeling down, but he didn't dare to grab Varius's clothes.

"You...you're back..." Before she could finish speaking, tears fell into the sewage.

Varius helped him up and made him sit down against the wall.

The old man's voice was intermittent, as if he was afraid of being overheard.

"My lord, a month after you left, the Second Prince's men came. They said this house has good feng shui and is suitable for raising dogs..."

As he said this, his throat seemed to be blocked by something.

"Madam...Madam produced legal documents, trying to reason with them." His voice suddenly lowered, "but she was immediately..."

She didn't finish her sentence; all that remained was an uncontrollable sob.

"The young master and young lady were sent to a shelter." The old man raised his one intact eye, which was filled with only fear. "There was no... no more news of them."

The alley was very quiet.

Bugle calls could be heard in the distance, while nearby, only the slight sloshing of water from the night-blooming jasmine tub could be heard.

Varius simply stood there, head bowed, clutching the bundle of oil paper tightly to his chest.

A dozen seconds later, he slowly let go.

Clear bloodstains were left on the oil paper package.

Varius looked up at the old man sitting against the wall: "Come with me."

The old man paused for a moment, then shook his head, his movements slow but unusually resolute: "No, sir. My bones are too old to walk fast, and I can't hide. If I follow you, I'll only be a burden."

Varius frowned, about to speak, but the old man raised his hand to stop him.

"Besides..." the old man lowered his head, looking at his filthy hands, "even if I leave, where can I go?"

These words, once spoken, were like a stone falling from the sky.

Beyond the capital lay war-torn territories, hunting grounds for nobles, and lands that could be requisitioned or abandoned at any time.

For an old servant who has lost his identity and his sight, there is no path that truly leads to survival.

Varius stood there, speechless for a moment.

The old man forced a smile, a crooked one: "It's enough that you're still alive."

Varius finally closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

…………

The night wind swept across the wasteland, swirling up withered grass and making a low, mournful sound in the distance.

They did not stay in the capital for long and left that very night.

The fire was small, barely enough to ward off the chill, and the flames flickered in the wind, casting long and short shadows of the two people.

Varius stood by the fire, not sitting down. His back was more hunched than during the day, as if weighed down by the night.

He slowly untied the oil paper package from his chest.

The manuscript was exposed, its edges stained with blood and mud, and its pages frayed.

Varius stared at it for a long time, his gaze unfocused, as if he were looking at an old object that had nothing to do with him.

Then, he let go.

The manuscript of the New Imperial Charter fell into flames.

The flames quickly licked the pages, and the words were gradually swallowed up by the high temperature.

The few lines of clauses he had repeatedly scrutinized flashed in the firelight, then turned black, shattered, and turned into fine ash.

The fire gradually died down.

Cassian stood to the side, his hand resting on the empty scabbard, and said in a low voice, "Where are we going? There are heretics and charlatans to the south, and a war is raging to the west."

Varius stared at the pile of embers, his eyes as empty as the night sky over this desolate wasteland.

“This continent has gone mad.” His voice was soft, but clear.

"Perhaps we should find a secluded mountain and live out our remaining days like wild men. At least wild beasts eat people to survive, unlike the people in that city who do it for fun."

Just then, the shadows of the trees by the roadside swayed slightly.

A man emerged from the shadows.

He was wearing a gray double-breasted wool coat, the hem of which was clean and free of mud.

Their footsteps were light, stopping at the edge illuminated by the firelight—a distance that could not be mistaken for provocation.

The man took off his hat.

He performed an impeccable classical aristocratic bow to the ragged, dusty old man.

Varius squinted, like a wounded old wolf, and subconsciously took a half step back.

"Are you the Second Prince's lackey, or a spy for some bandit gang? If it's for money, then you've come to the wrong person. Even my last silver coin was trampled into the mud by those knights."

The man simply smiled, took out a silver flat wine jug from his pocket, and then took out a muffin carefully wrapped in a clean white linen napkin.

Steam rose from the cracks, carrying the sweet scent of honey.

“The strong liquor of the North can ward off the cold.” His tone was steady. “The muffins have honey in them. Please don’t misunderstand, this is not charity, sir. It’s the Red Tide, a tribute to you.”

Varius's gaze fell on the pristine white napkin.

That was the first time he had seen something so clean since he stepped into the capital.

This deliberate attempt at decorum only stung him.

"Respect?" He sneered, without reaching out.

"The North? That kid named Louis Calvin? How come they're even going to recycle an old bone like me who's been phased out by the times?"

Varius's tone turned sharp: "Or is he trying to buy my name to give his money-grubbing, blood-soaked regime a veneer of legitimacy?"

He turned his head away, no longer looking at the food, and forcibly suppressed the spasms in his stomach.

The mysterious man took back the muffins and wine jug, his expression still gentle: "You've misunderstood."

He said, "It's not about recycling, it's about seeking advice."

"The wind and snow in the North are too harsh; they need not only steel walls but also rational laws to soften them."

He sighed, took out a roll of parchment from his pocket, and handed it out with both hands: "This is the draft of the Citizens' Law that the Red Tide Territory is currently piloting."

Varius snorted and grabbed the parchment scroll.

"Let me see what kind of nonsense that little lord can write."

He glanced at it by the moonlight.

At first, it was contempt.

But when he saw the first line of the clause about the "inviolability of private property," his gaze stopped.

He continued to look down.

The wording is straightforward, even somewhat rough, but the logical framework is exceptionally clear and cannot be ignored.

Varius's fingers began to tremble slightly, a mixture of anger and jealousy.

This was something I was supposed to finish in Beijing.

He slammed the parchment shut, snatched the silver wine jug, and took a swig.

The spicy liquor slid down his throat, bringing color back to his pale face.

“Rough, too rough.” He pointed to the roll of parchment, his tone as if he were scolding a wayward student.

"Articles 3 and 7 are clearly in conflict. If this is implemented, your courts will be paralyzed within three years."

The mysterious man bowed again, a hint of a smile flashing in his eyes: "Therefore, we need you."

Varius snorted, stuffed the parchment into his mud-covered arms, turned and got into the carriage not far away: "Don't misunderstand."

"I'm not going to seek refuge with you; I just... can't stand seeing this kind of garbage law circulating in the world. If his wine cellar only has this kind of inferior wine, I'll leave anytime."

The carriage slowly started moving, leaving two deep ruts in the wasteland, stretching northward.

(End of this chapter)