Lord of Winter: Beginning with Daily Intelligence Chapter 763 - 425: Emperor?

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Previously on Lord of Winter: Beginning with Daily Intelligence...
Louis, having conquered Grey Rock Province, holds a council to divide the spoils among his Northern Lords and loyal knights. He distributes valuable fiefs and resource-rich lands, consolidating his power and rewarding his followers. The nobles and knights express their gratitude, recognizing Louis's ability to secure such immense gains. They agree to let Red Tide manage the governance of the new territories, ensuring stability and profit while they focus on collecting dividends.
The banquet hall within Grey Rock Castle had undergone a meticulous cleansing. The crimson stains that had permeated the stone’s very pores were scrubbed relentlessly, and a plush carpet was unfurled across the entire expanse, effectively concealing the frigid stone beneath. Gilded arches were re-illuminated, and decorative tapestries were hung to obscure the scorch marks marring the walls, restoring the grand hall to its former opulent state. It was as if the brutal confrontation had never transpired. Musicians positioned at the hall’s periphery commenced a traditional Northern melody, titled ‘The Night of Frost’s Breath.’ The composition possessed a deep, controlled resonance, reminiscent of the hushed prelude to a formidable blizzard, its notes gradually unfurling within the ambient warmth. Crystal chandeliers suspended overhead cast a shimmering luminescence upon the long table, their light fracturing within the brimming wine glasses, conjuring undulating reflections that bore a striking resemblance to flowing blood. The attending nobility paused in their repast, expertly maneuvering their cutlery against the meat on their plates with deliberate restraint. Every now and then, the faint clink of a fork against porcelain echoed with an unnerving sharpness, serving as a stark reminder of recent events. Clad in freshly donned velvet attire, meticulously tailored yet exuding a subtle air of unease, their glances occasionally met across the expanse of the table before swiftly averting. It was the furtive acknowledgment shared solely among co-conspirators, not to confirm their allegiances, but to ascertain if each was prepared to commit to the decisive action. At length, Count Albert rose with deliberate grace. He lifted a silver spoon and gently tapped it against the rim of a delicate crystal goblet, producing a clear ‘Ding—’ The sound, crisp and abrupt, silenced the cellist instantly, and the attending servants melted back into the enveloping shadows. The entire banquet hall descended into a profound stillness, every gaze now fixed upon that singular, resonant chime. Albert’s eyes surveyed the long table, ultimately settling upon Louis. “My esteemed lords and ladies,” his voice carried a low, gravelly timbre, “cast your eyes toward the windows.” The night beyond was sporadically illuminated by the flickering castle torches. “The banner of Grey Rock Castle flies in a different hue, yet our allegiances remain in flux.” He paused, his enunciation slowing considerably. “The Imperial Capital succumbs to madness, the Southeast festers in corruption, the Empire itself founders, and we find ourselves adrift on a fragment of ice, though clutching gold.” Within that hall, not a single voice was raised in dissent. Albert turned his attention back to Louis, his expression shifting from that of a lord to something akin to reverence for a king. “Sir,” he declared, “the Northern Army’s blade is honed to a fearsome edge, so sharp it instills apprehension in all, including ourselves.” His hand, mid-gesture, tightened perceptibly. “Should this formidable sword remain unsheathed, it will inevitably wound the very hand that wields it. And in these tumultuous times, the sole sheath capable of containing such a weapon…” Albert’s voice descended to a near whisper as he locked eyes with Louis, “…is none other than the crown.” “Only the immutable weight of the crown can temper the unrest of this chaotic age, and only by embracing new laws can we transform from mere regional commanders into the true pillars of the Empire.” Hearing this, Yorn’s breathing grew ragged. The portly young man had entirely abandoned all pretense of decorum, his eyes wide and fixed intently on the seat of honor. A single nod from Louis would signify the birth of a new nation. He, Yorn, would stand as a minister within this nascent Empire, a figure of critical importance. The mere contemplation sent a tremor through his fingers, his heart pounding with an almost painful intensity. A primal hunger for power surged through his veins, as if he possessed the immediate capacity to tear apart anyone who dared obstruct Louis’s path. Yorn was not alone in his anticipation. Along the length of both sides of the table, the gazes of all the assembled nobles unconsciously converged. Though no whispers were exchanged, they collectively awaited the same pivotal moment; this was no spontaneous proposal, but rather a meticulously planned and privately rehearsed possibility that now hovered within their grasp. A palpable excitement began to accumulate in the atmosphere; some held their breath in rapt attention, while others unconsciously tightened their grip on their napkins. Count Albert inclined his body slowly, maintaining his posture, utterly still. This was a profound gamble. He was leveraging his sixty years of accrued reputation to compel Louis to commit to a bold step forward, placing his faith in Louis’s latent ambition. The banquet hall was plunged into an unnerving silence. Even the crackling pops emanating from the burning logs in the fireplace seemed amplified and distinctly audible. Every pair of eyes appeared to transform into tangible strands of energy, converging one by one to ensnare the young man seated at the head of the table. Louis remained ensconced in shadow. The light from the crystal chandeliers failed to fully illuminate his face, merely reflecting fractured patterns upon the table’s edge and the wine within the glasses. He idly toyed with a delicate crystal goblet, his fingers tracing its rim with languid movements. His expression was an impenetrable mask, his eyes serene, mirroring the unfathomable depth of a pool of frigid water. Louis’s fingers tightened, and with a sharp ‘Crack,’ a subtle sound of splintering glass erupted, piercing the deathly quiet of the banquet hall like a sudden thunderclap. He slowly lifted his gaze, an ancient, potent aura commencing to emanate from him.

Within the perception of Secretary Vico, a distortion warped the space behind the primary seat. The light from the candles appeared to be consumed, stretched by an unseen force, and the shadow began to ascend. Ultimately, it solidified into a colossal, hazy golden vertical pupil. It lacked completeness and physical form, yet it seemed to hang suspended from the heavens, casting a cold, descending gaze upon all within the banquet hall. The instant this imposing aura manifested, Yorn's mind was utterly wiped clean. A dull yet distinct thud echoed as his posterior made forceful contact with the floor. He braced himself with both hands, drawing ragged breaths – a primal, instinctual response, deeply ingrained within his very being, triggered by the proximity of an incomprehensible, natural adversary. It was an act of submission, not a conscious decision, but an involuntary reflex. Count Albert fared marginally better, though the situation was equally dire. As a knight who had attained the transcendent realm, he felt his Fighting Energy instantly and completely suppressed. The very power system he had dedicated his life to cultivating proved utterly inadequate in this presence. His heart constricted sharply, and cold sweat immediately drenched his silk shirt along his spine. Gritting his teeth, he managed to prevent himself from falling to his knees. When he finally dared to look up, the fervor was gone from his eyes, replaced by profound reverence. This was not the result of reliance on external power or a cunning Secret Technique; it was simply the palpable chasm of hierarchy. He deduced that the presence was at least that of a peak knight, possibly even higher. This realization caused Count Albert's throat to constrict. A tempest of shock, joy, and undeniable fear surged within his chest simultaneously. Shock at the depth of Louis's hidden capabilities, joy at having aligned himself with the correct faction, and fear born from a stark reality: such a potent individual, should they desire the throne, would require no one's consent. The banquet hall fell into an oppressive silence. Louis accepted the handkerchief offered by Weir. As the white cloth unfurled between his fingers, he lowered his head, idly wiping his hands. The wine, now cool, stained the fabric a deep red, reminiscent of blood. His movements were unhurried, the golden vertical pupil still hovering within the shadow, not yet fully dissipated. "Albert," Louis finally spoke, his voice lacking volume but possessing a chilling edge that felt like a blade against the skin, "you are growing senile." He lifted his gaze towards the old Count, who remained in a stooped posture, his tone entirely devoid of humor. Albert lowered his head further, unwilling to utter a response. Louis rose from his seat, the scraping of the chair legs against the stone floor a brief, sharp sound. In the next moment, his voice escalated dramatically, overpowering the crackling logs in the fireplace, carrying an overt anger. "Observe those who now claim the title of Emperor, and indeed, that beast Kaelin. To seize power, he poisoned the Regent King, eliminated the Fourth Prince, and slaughtered the Eight Great Clans. He occupies a throne stained with his brothers' blood, believing himself Emperor?" Louis scoffed coldly. "No, he is a kindred killer beast, a usurper of the Divine Artifact. All who acknowledge him are complicit in his crimes." His finger swiveled, pointing decisively towards the Southeast. "And then there is Lampard. The tone shifted, laced with unrestrained disdain, to counter the Second Prince, he prostrated himself before that fanatical group. He summoned the Church Court to attack, establishing the so-called Holy Eastern Empire. He is no Emperor. He is a harlot selling ancestral glory, a traitor inviting wolves into his own home." Not a soul in the banquet hall dared to break the silence. Louis turned, the flag of the Red Tide hanging behind him, its crimson hue appearing to flow within the candlelight. Spreading his arms wide, he seemed to encompass the entire hall within his sweeping gaze. "In this time of collapsing order... if I were to declare myself Emperor, what distinction would exist between myself and these two scoundrels?" His voice dropped again, growing sharper than before. "Our great His Majesty the Emperor has merely gone missing, not perished." As this declaration hung in the air, the very atmosphere in the hall seemed to vanish. "Until His Majesty returns," Louis declared, raising a hand and pressing it firmly onto the table's edge, "the Empire possesses no Emperor." "Whoever dares to ascend that seat—" he paused, "I shall sever their head." Count Albert understood, slowly straightening his posture, the panic in his eyes replaced by an almost sacred submission. Louis abruptly turned, his gaze fixing on a corner of the room. "Vico." Chief Secretary Vico shuddered violently, instinctively grasping the parchment scroll clutched in his arms more tightly. Louis approached him, his finger tapping the parchment twice, lightly. "Record precisely what I have just stated, word for word. Pay particular attention to those passages where I denounced the two false emperors." A cold, knowing smile curved his lips. "Distribute copies to every noble in the Empire."

I want everyone to know just how wicked those on the throne truly are."

Following a short pause in the room.

Yorn, who had been kneeling, lifted his head abruptly. His countenance flushed with zeal, his gaze fixed solely on his leader with unreserved adoration: "The boss speaks the truth!"

Drawing his sword, its steel glinting in the flickering candlelight, he plunged the blade forcefully into the floor.

"We hail the Empire's sole protector!"

This declaration acted as a spark, and in the ensuing moment, every noble present rose in unison, dropping to one knee.

Their swords were unsheathed, the points resting against the ground.

"We hail the Empire's protector!"

The resounding cries filled the grand Platinum Assembly Hall.

Every individual in attendance was exceptionally astute.

They fully understood Louis's current intentions, as well as his temporary reluctance to act.

Ascending to the throne too swiftly and with excessive pomp would invariably attract unwanted attention and hostility prematurely.

At this juncture, the crown served more as a beacon for danger than a symbol of achievement.

As long as the declaration "The Emperor has not yet returned" remained valid, all other matters allowed for flexibility and strategy.

Authority could be secured first, with the title to follow at a later time.

The sword was already grasped firmly; the specific title to be bestowed was a matter for future deliberation.