Lord of Winter: Beginning with Daily Intelligence Chapter 731 - 408: Endgame (Part 2)

Remont remained still at the foot of the steps.

He observed Kaelin, whose posture seemed ready to crumble, adjusted his cufflinks, and a subtle smile graced his lips.

It was a satisfaction that carried a chilling edge.

Much like a master craftsman appraising the keenness of a blade he had personally honed.

Previously, Kaelin was but a dispossessed prince.

Now, he had publicly executed his own brother, the Regent King of the Empire, leaving no path for retreat.

This action paved the way for him to be shaped into the Emperor Remont envisioned.

With measured steps, Remont ascended, his boots producing a steady, rhythmic cadence on the cold stone.

Reaching Kaelin's side, he placed a gentle hand on his trembling shoulder, a gesture akin to comforting a child after a terrifying dream. "Well done, Your Majesty," he murmured.

......

Victory Avenue, once vibrant and perpetually lit, now echoed solely with the mournful dirge of the wind whistling through the desolation.

Just seven days prior, it had been adorned with flowers to commemorate the ascension of the Fourth Prince Rheine as Regent King, feted by the nobility as the very heart of the Empire.

Seven days hence, this once-thriving thoroughfare was now lined with scaffolds. The timber groaned in the nocturnal downpour, a sorrowful ode to the Empire's fading order.

The sodden earth, churned by countless hooves, mingled with the acrid scents of blood, strong spirits, and lingering smoke, emitting a miasma that assaulted the senses.

The fiery glow from the Nobility District shimmered in the puddles, resembling spectral flames dancing in the inky expanse of the night sky.

Before these grim structures, Duke Simmons was forcefully brought forth.

He bore no resemblance to the man he was a mere week ago.

His prison garb was caked with mud, ragged tears revealing a gaunt, dry knee. His wig had been dislodged, exposing a thinning crown of gray hair.

Rainwater streamed down his face, yet it could not cleanse the bewilderment and terror reflected in his eyes.

The patriarch of one of the Eight Great Clans, at this precise moment, appeared no different from a beached fish, desperately gasping for air.

"I... I am an Electoral Prince... I possess immunity... immunity..." Simmons stammered, repeating the words like a desperate incantation, his voice fading with each utterance.

It was as if he himself sensed that such titles offered no sanctuary within the heart of the Imperial Capital.

The executioner stepped forward, addressing the surrounding knights with a booming voice: "Simmons Grand, member of the Eight Great Clans, a loyalist to the Old Empire, a betrayer of military authority. For complicity in the unrest within the Royal Capital, as decreed by military law, execution by hanging."

"I... I am loyal! I have always upheld royal power! I..."

His words were cut short as a coarse sack was thrust over his head, extinguishing his voice entirely.

The noose was cinched tight.

The captain raised his hand and gave the signal: "Release."

The plank beneath him was withdrawn, and Simmons' body plummeted, accompanied by a dull snap, like a brittle branch snapping.

His legs twitched erratically for a few moments, causing the gallows to sway gently, reminiscent of a withered limb buffeted by the wind.

Before long, his struggles ceased altogether.

The ceaseless rain fell, yet it was powerless to wash away the crimson stains that marred Victory Avenue.

The lifeless forms of the aristocrats, once part of the Eight Great Clans, swayed rhythmically in the tempest and downpour, serving as the inaugural offerings on the nascent tapestry of the new Empire.

Alongside Simmons, several high-ranking officials from the former Imperial regime were bound together.

Karen, Rheine's former tutor, the architect of his meticulously planned usurpation.

Mei Si, head of the Supervisory Institute, the penman behind the "New Charter."

Finance Minister Bellier, whose strategy had led to the deprivation of the Second Prince's knightly contingent.

And scores of civil servants, once the linchpins of that exclusive inner circle.

Now, their necks were ensnared by the same unforgiving rope.

Their faces, smudged with ash and rainwater, bore eyes vacant and listless, pushed to kneel before the ominous scaffolds like condemned livestock.

The nocturnal wind billowed their sackcloth coverings, and raindrops pattered against their cheeks, yet not a sound escaped them.

The denouement arrived with a swiftness that defied expectation.

As the nooses tightened in unison, the sycamore-lined Victory Avenue was devoid of any celebratory illumination.

In their stead, the stark silhouettes of bodies dangled from the branches.

Wooden placards, affixed around their necks, bore stark inscriptions: "Parasites of the Finance Ministry." "Traitors of the Supervisory Institute." "Rheine's Lapdogs."

The night wind stirred, setting the dozens of suspended figures into a gentle sway, the plaques clattering with an empty, hollow resonance.

The onlookers, positioned at a considerable distance, stared with apathetic expressions, offering neither supplication for the departed nor daring to voice a single word.

For they grasped a chilling truth: the new sovereign wielded a brutality that surpassed the old regime.

......

The lofty windows of the Imperial Hall wept with rainwater, rivulets tracing paths down the glass panes.

The percussive drumming of the torrential rain against the eaves was a dull, unceasing rhythm, as if the entire Imperial Capital held its breath in anticipation of the night's tempest.

The Second Prince, Kaelin, occupied the Dragon Throne.

He eschewed ceremonial robes, gold-embroidered vestments, and the Imperial Crown. Instead, he donned a stark black marshal's uniform, its shoulder pauldrons bearing the grim testament of dried bloodstains.

He had declined the title of Regent King, refusing all appellations offered by the assembled civil servants.

Kaelin merely tilted his chin slightly, uttering two frosty words: "Simply write—Emperor."

The assembled civil servants nearly buckled at the knees, not daring to question his command further.

On the grand steps leading into the hall, the battered helmet of the 8th Legion’s commander lay discarded, its surface marred by cracks and stained a dark, rusty brown from blood.

A personal guard, kneeling on the ground, reported with a distinct tremor in his voice: "Your Highness... the 8th Legion... they have been completely annihilated, with absolutely no survivors."

Kaelin remained silent for a beat, his metal prosthesis emitting a harsh screech as it scraped against the armrest of the imposing Dragon Throne.

"They followed the wrong leader," he stated softly, "but they truly exemplified the spirit of knights."

He then raised his hand, issuing an order: "Ensure they receive a proper burial."

No one within the Imperial Hall dared to voice any opposition.

That particular legion was Rheine’s most steadfast and loyal, yet here they were, being granted a treatment superior to any traitor.

Across the hall, two legion commanders remained kneeling, their faces a mixture of anticipation and desperate humility.

They had made a critical decision during the recent siege: to defect.

Now, they believed their choice had been the correct one.

"Your Majesty!" they cried out in unison, bowing their heads deeply, "We pledge to serve you with every ounce of our being! To purge the world at your command!"

Kaelin gazed down at them, his eyes devoid of any warmth.

Suddenly, he let out a chuckle, a sound that sent shivers down everyone’s spine and made their hair stand on end.

"The 5th Legion abandoned their post. The 18th Legion proved cowardly."

He lightly tapped the armrest with his hand: "Implement the Eleven Execution Law immediately."

An immediate, deathly silence descended upon the hall.

For every ten soldiers, one was to be chosen for immediate execution, while the rest would be integrated into the Death Warrior camp. In the very next battle, they would be ordered to charge the enemy lines first.

The two legion commanders collapsed onto the ground, their faces instantly becoming as pale as the deceased.

Kaelin looked down on them: "This shall be your opportunity for redemption."

With those single words, the hearts of every opportunist present simultaneously clenched with dread.

The lights within the Supervisor’s building flickered out amidst the rainy night, the heavy iron gate was violently thrown open, and three hundred volumes of official files were unceremoniously tossed into a roaring furnace.

Kaelin no longer required the Supervisor; what he needed now was a military tribunal.

The locking mechanism of the treasury vault door shattered with a deafening noise, the massive door swung inward, causing the entire cellar to tremble slightly.

Knights emerged, carrying heavy crates overflowing with Gold Coins, which were then loaded into military wagons.

A civil servant wailed in disbelief: "That’s the disaster relief fund! That's the Empire’s reserve fund! You cannot possibly..."

Kaelin cut him off with chilling coldness: "Transport it all to the military camp and distribute it entirely as rewards."

Under the relentless downpour, crates brimming with Gold were transported to the military camp situated just outside the city. Knights, holding aloft blazing torches, let out cheers around the stacked boxes of treasure.

Then, a new edict was dramatically cast from before the Dragon Throne, landing with a crisp sound onto the wet, cold stone bricks of the floor.

It bore the title: "Wartime Military Governance Order."

The very instant the civil servants lifted their heads to read it, every single one of their faces turned ashen white.

"These laws are hereby abolished, effective immediately," Kaelin’s voice, though low, carried an irresistible and absolute force.

One civil servant could not help but cry out in despair: "Your Highness... those are the Empire’s established codes..."

"Your master from last night is already dead."

At that precise moment, not a single soul in the hall dared to utter another sound.

The entire Imperial Hall seemed as though it had been violently slashed open by an invisible dagger from a bygone era.

The deep-seated roots of civilian governance were brutally uprooted, and the meticulous system Rheine had painstakingly constructed was reduced to ashes on this very night.

Kaelin returned to his seat upon the Dragon Throne.

He closed his eyes, appearing to be listening intently to the sound of the rain.

After tonight, the Empire would no longer require explanations.

It would no longer require laws.

It would no longer require those intricate articles meticulously drafted by civil servants.

He slowly opened his eyes, his voice calm and low: "From this day forward, the Empire shall be governed by the military."

Absolute silence reigned in the hall; no one dared to make a sound.

In the distance, thunder rumbled, sounding like the first death knell heralding the arrival of a new era.