Lord of Winter: Beginning with Daily Intelligence Chapter 721 - 403: Death of the Regent King? (Part 2)

It was Chief Steward Lin Ze, who had served three Emperors and was rumored to have lived for over two centuries as the head of the council.

He remained stooped, yet steady like an ancient tree.

Arens’ lips trembled, his voice fractured into breaths like the cold wind: "All of you, leave..."

The doctors turned pale, hurriedly retreating as if pardoned.

The heavy door slowly closed behind them, the vibrations echoing in the depths of the bedchamber.

In the end, the vast room was left with only two people—the dying Regent King, and the old man who had always stood in the deepest shadows of imperial power.

Arens could feel the cold seeping from his limbs, climbing to his chest like a tide.

Knowing he would not last the day, he mustered his final strength to grasp Lin Ze’s wrist.

The grip was feeble, yet it was like clutching a useless straw while drowning.

"Lin Ze..." Arens’ muddied pupils trembled slightly, "I tried my best... really... will Father... blame me..."

This was the most vulnerable question of a dying man, not a Regent King’s inquiry, but a son’s fear.

Lin Ze’s face showed no sorrow; it remained impassive as ever, as if nothing in the world could stir a ripple in his heart.

He lightly reversed his grip on Arens’ cold hand, leaning down to bring his timeworn face close to the Regent King’s left ear.

He whispered softly, words that did not seem like comfort.

Arens’ pupils, which had almost scattered, suddenly constricted to pinpoints, glaring hard at the old man who had raised him.

His frail chest heaved violently, emitting guttural sounds from his throat as if trying to shout something, but unable to form complete syllables.

Yet Lin Ze only looked back with those indifferent eyes.

Then, the seemingly hunched and emaciated old man gently lifted the Regent King’s body, his movements as tender as cradling a baby.

"Let’s go, young master Arens."

The next moment—boom!!

Lightning tore the night sky, white light slashed through the window into the bedchamber.

When the thunder subsided, the two in the chamber had vanished without a trace.

Only the candle flame continued to flicker, illuminating the empty bedchamber, as if nothing had ever existed.

......

Outside, the thunder roared, as if trying to tear a wound into the night sky, and the rain pounded the eaves, dense as war drums.

Yet inside the banquet hall of the Fourth Prince’s residence was an entirely different world.

The imperial orchestra sat in a corner, strings and flutes gracefully intertwining, performing elegant court suites.

The sound of the instruments firmly suppressed the fury of the thunder outside, creating an illusion, as if this space were completely isolated from the rest of the Imperial Capital.

The air was filled with the aroma of rare red tea, carrying a faint floral scent.

Lain disliked strong alcohol; in such settings, he preferred tea, which kept him sober and appeared more restrained and graceful.

The guests able to stand here tonight were themselves symbols of status.

At least a Count or a true Lord wielding organized military force was required to step into this banquet hall.

They were not wealthy from money alone but were those who could influence the lifeblood of a domain on the empire’s map.

Because of this, their demeanor carried a restrained yet unmistakable tension of ambition.

A few old aristocrats bowed slightly, as if preemptively currying favor with the future, their posture on the brink of obsequiousness.

Some from military families with broad shoulders and upright postures occasionally glanced at Lain.

They were accustomed to following the strong, and the current powerhouse in the Imperial Capital was evidently the Fourth Prince.

Duke Simmons stood at the center of the banquet hall, meticulously dressed for the evening.

The deep purple and gold embroidered tiger robe of his family draped over his shoulders, symbolic of the head of the Simmons family among the Eight Great Clans, worn only for truly significant events.

His face displayed uncontainable joy, like some release after years of repression.

After all, he had bet on the Fourth Prince not just for one or two years.

Now, the returns were finally arriving.

Simmons raised his teacup, his voice resonating with an unlikely vigor for an elder: "Gentlemen! Let us raise a toast to the new era approaching! To the new era led by His Highness the Fourth Prince! The Empire shall return to the path of reason!"

The surrounding civil servants and nobility nodded in agreement, their tones tinged with fervent adulation.

The entire banquet was like a warm and bright stage, where every noble conducted themselves with cautious displays of loyalty and anticipation.

From the look of it, this was nearly an early enthronement banquet.

Sitting at the main seat, Rhine held his cup of tea, speaking humbly: "Duke, you flatter me."

Yet, his eyes conveyed a distinct joy, reminiscent of a soul-stirring melody.

Duke Simmons advanced a few steps, his pride palpable: "Your Highness, the documents for the Inspectorate's succession are prepared. Once the bell sounds, those few from the Eight Great Clans who waver... I've already given them a sufficient push. They understand where their allegiance lies now." He spoke with a certainty born from successfully rallying support for the Fourth Prince, a gamble that represented the pinnacle of his political career.

Rhine's gaze lifted slightly, a gentle encouragement emanating from his eyes: "You've exerted yourself, Simmons. The future of the Empire will undoubtedly reserve a significant position for you." A sense of relief washed over Duke Simmons, and he couldn't help but let out a soft chuckle: "To merit the Lord Emperor's trust is my greatest honor." Rhine's fingers tightened infinitesimally, causing the teacup to tremble slightly, yet not a drop was spilled. Clearly, he relished such an address.

Another clap of thunder reverberated, making the window frames shudder subtly, though the thick curtains effectively muffled the sound. Within the opulent banquet hall, the clinking of glasses, hushed conversations, and bursts of laughter mingled with sycophantic praises. The very air seemed to proclaim to every attendee that the Empire's future dominion rested squarely in the Fourth Prince's hands.

At this precise moment, a personal guard materialized silently through a side entrance. His movements were as silent as a phantom's, disturbing not a single guest as he navigated the flickering candlelight to Rhine's side. Bending slightly, he whispered, a secret audible only to the Fourth Prince: "Your Highness, urgent intelligence... The residences of the Second and Fifth Princes have been found deserted." The gravity of this news would have unsettled many nobles to their core, yet Rhine's hand remained steady as he gracefully held his teacup. This outcome had been anticipated. Prey, sensing imminent danger, would naturally seek escape; their hurried flight, however, only underscored how decisively the scales of power had tipped in his favor.

The guard shifted his weight uneasily: "Your Highness... should we not order the city gates sealed and commence a pursuit?" Rhine raised his teacup, taking a delicate sip. "With the city's defenses now under my command, they lack provisions and troops. Even if they manage to flee, what significant disruption could they possibly orchestrate? Let them flee; the farther, the better. This will only strengthen the accusation of their guilty flight." The guard acknowledged the order and retreated.

In under ten minutes, the guard reappeared, his demeanor noticeably more agitated, his voice trembling as he approached Rhine. Rhine offered a smile: "Apprehended the two rats?" The guard struggled to articulate, stammering, "Your Highness... no. It's... it's the Regent King." Rhine raised an eyebrow, "Out of breath?" "No... vanished," the guard swallowed, his voice strained. "Regent King Arens and Lord Chief Steward Linze... have disappeared without a trace from their sleeping chambers. Upon entry, we observed only residual after-images." Rhine's hand finally faltered, causing the teacup to quiver slightly. He fixed his gaze upon the guard, seeking confirmation: "Did they truly disappear?" The guard nodded solemnly.

Meanwhile, within the banquet hall, the music played on, and the guests remained immersed in the cheerful atmosphere of congratulations, oblivious to the tempest gathering at the very precipice of the throne. Rhine steeled himself against the unexpected wave of disquiet in his chest, quickly regaining his composure. "The truth is inconsequential," he reminded himself inwardly. "What matters is the perception that takes hold." Thus, he issued a quiet, rapid, yet precise command: "Effective immediately, Regent King Arens succumbed to illness ten minutes ago. The attending physicians and guards can corroborate this." The guard hesitated, "But... the body..." "Procure one," Rhine stated coldly. "Find someone of similar build. Utilize an alchemical potion on the face to render it unrecognizable, and claim the illness caused rapid decomposition." The guard's pupils constricted in shock: "Your, Your Highness, but this is..." Rhine looked up, emphasizing each word: "The Regent King perished this night; that is the sole truth. In the official announcement to come, he must be depicted as a corpse lying within a coffin. You are to ensure this happens." Though the guard didn't voice the implications, the weight of the command struck him, his face draining of color as he replied in a trembling voice, "Yes... I will make it so." As the guard hastily departed, the banquet guests observed the brief commotion. Dozens of eyes turned simultaneously towards the head table. Rhine slowly rose, his composure fully restored, and spoke in a voice imbued with feigned sorrow: "Esteemed guests... I have just received grave news. Regent King Arens... has tragically passed away moments ago."