Winter Lord: Starting with Daily Intelligence

Chapter 452 Inquisition
The central square of the capital of the Southeast Province looked as if it had been dragged into a melting furnace.

The sky was no longer azure; the thick smoke from burning firewood and grease had turned the dome a sickly waxy yellow, and even the sunlight seemed murky and hesitant.

The air was filled with a nauseating odor, a mixture of the burnt smell of roasted meat, the pungent smell of burnt cloth, and the overly strong aroma of golden feather flowers.

This fragrance, which should have been used to mask the stench of a corpse, has now become the prelude to death, causing stomach cramps upon smelling it.

In the center of the square, three black iron racks stand.

Beneath the rack lay piles of firewood that had undergone alchemical treatment, the wood grain painted a uniform dark brown, clearly indicating that it had been used repeatedly for this purpose.

Three elderly people were tied to the rack.

Although they were disheveled, with messy hair and faces covered in soot and sweat, the dignified features characteristic of nobles could still be discerned.

The tattered dress clung precariously to her body, the fabric torn, yet still retaining the edges of ancient patterns.

On the chests of the three men hung medals symbolizing the family's generations of honor, symbols belonging only to the old nobility, gleaming dimly yet stubbornly in the dust.

At their feet lay piles of evidence seized from various secret rooms.

The ancient dragon ancestor stone sculpture had its nose broken, the scroll made of dragon skin was trampled into the mud, and several ancient dragon scale amulets, which had been worshipped for generations, were carelessly tossed on the firewood, reflecting a faint, cold light.

These relics, once considered sacred objects of glory and protection, are now trampled like trash and used as kindling for fire.

There was no judge's bench in the square, nor was there any defense.

Only one priest of the Inquisition, clad in a golden robe, stood before the rack.

His robes gleamed softly in the firelight, and his face wore an almost compassionate indifference.

He held a long-handled gold spoon in his hand, which was filled with viscous golden grease that flowed slowly in the light.

The amplification technology amplified his voice, spreading it throughout the entire square, each word clear and solemn.

"Fire will not burn the innocent." The priest's voice was firm, as if stating a truth. "If the dragon ancestor you speak of is a true god, it will extinguish this mortal fire."

He paused for a moment, letting his words linger in the air.

"If it doesn't come, it proves that it is a false god, a lie woven by the devil."

As soon as he finished speaking, the priest raised the golden spoon.

Golden grease was poured down from above, slowly flowing down the old counts' gray hair and wrinkled cheeks, as if gilding them with a false glory before their death.

Grease dripped onto the dress and firewood, making a slight, sticky sound.

The crowd in the square erupted in cheers.

The place was packed with tens of thousands of people, yet it seemed as if it were divided in two by an invisible wall.

Near the rack, there was a sea of ​​fervor, mostly among young people or poor people dressed in thin clothes.

Many of them had drunk the golden soup offered by the Vatican, and their pupils gleamed with an abnormal golden light, their emotions rising to near-out-of-control levels.

They waved the branches in their hands as if celebrating a festival.

"Burn them!"

"Purify the Southeast!"

"Sweep the garbage of the old era into hell!"

The shouts grew louder and louder.

In their eyes, the burning of these once-high-ranking nobles at the stake was a sweet revenge.

On the fringes of the crowd, however, lies a completely different existence.

Most of them were elderly people, or believers who still secretly worshipped the old gods.

They pulled their hats down, hunched their necks, and trembled uncontrollably, yet dared not utter a sound.

An elderly woman with a face full of wrinkles stood on the outermost edge of the crowd.

Her hand was hidden in her tattered sleeve, clutching tightly a rough wooden dragon talisman.

The firelight reflected in her cloudy eyes, and she dared not cry out loud, only letting her tears fall silently.

Her lips moved slightly, but no sound came out.

"Dragon Ancestor... open your eyes and take a look..."

The prayer was stifled by the forces around him before it could even take shape.

A hand reached out from the side and pressed down hard on her shoulder.

The daughter lowered her voice, hersing in her ear with terror and anger, "Are you crazy? Do you want to kill the whole family?!"

Not far away, someone subconsciously took a step forward, trying to rush out of the crowd, but was immediately pulled back by several hands.

There were even young faces who tightly covered their parents' mouths, their eyes filled with fear.

"boom--!"

What rose up was not the usual crimson flame, but a dazzling gold.

It was a strange fire that had been tunicated by the alchemists of the Holy See. Under the high temperature, the air emitted a distorted buzzing sound, and even the shadows were scorched white.

The flames faintly resonated with a low, deep vibration, as if they were directly licking one's soul.

All three racks were set on fire at the same time.

"Ahhhh!"

A scream erupted, but it didn't sound like a human being.

Even those who had been cheering wildly just moments before paused briefly, their smiles freezing on their faces.

At the bottom of the rack, the ancient dragon scale amulets, considered symbols of honor and faith, are undergoing changes under the scorching heat of golden flames.

The scales, which were originally incredibly hard and said to be impervious to blades and spears, first turned a strange dark red at the edges, and then began to soften and curl, wriggling like a living thing.

Ultimately, they could no longer maintain their shape.

A black, viscous liquid dripped from the amulet onto the scorching hot stone slab, making a soft "sizzling" sound.

The scene resembled a pair of invisible eyes weeping.

Among the onlookers, the faces of the old nobles who had not yet been purged instantly turned pale.

Some staggered backward, while others covered their mouths tightly, afraid that they would make even the slightest sound and become the next target.

…………

They are only two streets apart.

In front of the Duke of Calvin's mansion, however, there was a deathly silence, a stark contrast to the square.

The heavy ironwood gate was tightly shut, like a sealed maw, shutting out all sounds.

More than a dozen figures were kneeling on the stone steps.

They were all relatives and allies of the count who had been imprisoned.

His forehead was already a bloody mess, and blood flowed down the cracks in the stone steps, staining the Calvin family wolf head emblem embedded in the ground.

Leading the group was Baron Cass, the one-armed lord.

His missing arm was the price he paid thirty years ago for shielding the Duke from an assassination attempt.

At this moment, with his only remaining hand gripping the iron bars of the Duke's mansion tightly, he roared into the gate in a hoarse, almost broken voice:

"Your Grace! Open the door! That's your old brother of forty years! That's Earl Green, who carried you out of a pile of corpses!"

His voice echoed through the empty streets, but received no response.

"I don't ask you to save them..."

His voice suddenly dropped as he roared, as if something was choking him, leaving only a humble and desperate plea.

“I know the Vatican is powerful…even if…even if you could plead with the bishop and give them a quick death…”

Please don't burn it... Please don't burn it..."

The only response he received was the faint screams coming from afar. The sound was torn apart by the wind, yet it was like rusty nails, driven deep into the hearts of everyone kneeling on the steps.

The knights of the Duke's mansion stood ramrod straight in front of the gate.

Dressed in fine armor and wielding long spears, they should have been the city's most reliable guardians.

But at this moment, their heads were lowered, and not one of them dared to look the one-armed baron in the eye.

A young knight's hands trembled slightly, and tears welled up in his eyes, but he did not let them fall.

The terrifying screams disappeared completely as the flames in the square gradually died down.

The gates of the Duke's mansion remained closed.

Baron Cass slowly released his grip on the fence.

He stood up, his movements stiff, the light gone from his eyes.

He spat a mouthful of bloody saliva at the tightly closed door.

Then turned and left.

…………

The heavy curtains were drawn tightly shut.

The master bedroom was perpetually dark, the air thick and murky. The bitter smell of repeatedly boiled herbs mingled with the decaying odor unique to the old man, lingering in every breath and refusing to dissipate.

Selton stood behind a screen on one side of the room.

Officially, he came to visit his father about his illness.

In reality, he was more like a patient hyena, standing guard beside the carrion, waiting for one last confirmation.

He was clutching a blood-written letter that had just been handed in from outside.

The paper was soaked in blood, clearly written by repeatedly pressing fingers against the wound.

Every line above contains familiar surnames, familiar vows, and familiar pleas.

He doesn't even need to elaborate to know what it's about.

Selton had no intention of delivering the letter.

The Duke of Calvin lay in a chaise longue covered with thick carpets.

The body had become noticeably thinner, but did not appear disheveled.

The oversized bathrobe had been carefully straightened, its shoulder line still straight, but it looked rather empty.

His eyes were sunken, and his skin had the grayish-white hue characteristic of someone who had been ill for a long time, yet he still retained a sense of restraint and dignity befitting an old aristocrat.

Outside the window, faint, heart-wrenching screams could be heard.

That was the voice of the one-armed baron.

A man who once shielded the Duke from a knife on the battlefield and was once known as a "loyal dog" by the entire Calvin family.

The sound was hoarse and broken, crashing against the thick outer wall of the Duke's mansion time and again, only to bounce back.

The old man in the recliner was not entirely unresponsive; his eyelashes trembled very slightly, but he ultimately said nothing.

His eyes remained half-open, his gaze murky and deep, as if he had seen beyond the cries outside the window and fallen into old memories.

Selton had a slight worry.

He worried that his father might suddenly regain his senses, rebel, and make some foolish but honorable decision in line with the old era.

But now he is completely relieved, and also completely disappointed.

He stepped out from behind the screen, his footsteps very light, and stood beside the recliner, bowing slightly, his posture impeccable.

“Father.” His voice was low and respectful, as if he were fulfilling his duty as a son at his sickbed. “It’s a bit noisy outside.”

He reached out and straightened the edges of the blanket for the Duke, his movements practiced and patient, as if he had done it countless times.

"It was a few former subordinates... who lost their temper. I've already had someone persuade them not to disturb your rest anymore."

The elderly man on the recliner did not respond.

Selton straightened up, his face still maintaining that composed expression, as if everything that had just happened was just a matter of course in his daily life.

But in his heart, another voice emerged calmly and somberly.

Did you hear that?

The old man outside, who has devoted half his life to serving you, is crying and begging you.

You were once known as the "Fox of the Southeast," a figure even the emperor had to carefully consider.

And now, you don't even have the strength to open your eyes or make a choice.

These thoughts, like ripples on cold water, spread out in circles in his heart, only to quickly fade into silence.

Selton straightened up.

He glanced one last time at his father on the recliner, making sure his steady, controlled breathing remained undisturbed, before turning and heading towards the door.

Before opening the door, he stopped and whispered to the old servant waiting beside him, "Leave two more people to watch over him tonight; Father is a light sleeper."

The door closed gently behind him, shutting out the dimly lit bedroom.

Selton only stopped walking after he walked out of the corridor, returned to his bedroom, and made sure that no one could see him anymore.

He then took out the blood-written letter from his sleeve, glanced at it, and gently rubbed the dried blood with his finger.

Then he crumpled the paper into a ball.

The fire in the fireplace was burning brightly.

Selton threw the wad of paper in.

The flames immediately engulfed the bloodstains, and the paper curled, turned black, and turned to ashes.

The flickering firelight reflected on his face, distorting his already cold and hard features.

The cries outside the window continued.

…………

The very top of the cathedral's bell tower.

The gale-force winds lashed against the exposed stone walls, enough to throw an ordinary person a hundred meters into the air.

The city's clamor, prayers, and cries were all torn apart by the wind, turning into a mixed and distant noise.

Bishop Salomon, however, stood on the edge of the bell tower.

His red robe fluttered in the gale like an unfurled battle flag, yet his body remained motionless, his feet firmly planted on the stone surface, as if he were not standing high in the sky, but rather in the center of the carpet in his own study.

He was holding a slender crystal wine glass in his hand.

The pale golden liquid in the glass didn't ripple in the wind, reflecting the flickering flames in the square below—the lingering warmth of the golden fire that hadn't completely died down.

Salomon looked down and saw thousands of figures writhing, kneeling, and cheering in the square, before falling into a brief and empty silence after the pyre had been extinguished.

There was no smile on his lips, and his eyes held a coldness.

Standing behind him was a Papal knight wearing a platinum coat of arms cloak.

The strong wind forced the knight to hunch over slightly, but he still maintained a standard standing posture, his gaze beneath his helmet not daring to look past the bishop's back even a fraction.

Salomon swirled his glass and finally turned around.

“Notify Selton Calvin.” His voice wasn’t loud, but it cut clearly through the wind, as if the command itself carried weight. “Have him come up.”

He paused for a moment, then turned his gaze back to the distant sky, which was stained a waxy yellow by smoke.

"I have something to say to him in person."

The knight immediately knelt on one knee, whispered his command, and then turned and retreated into the shadows of the clock tower.

(End of this chapter)