Lord of Winter: Beginning with Daily Intelligence Chapter 765 - 426: Turmoil on All Sides (Part 2)

The circumstances have changed drastically. Gray Rock Province is no more.

The Raymond family's foundation, built over centuries, has been systematically dismantled piece by piece by that formidable force from the Northern Territory.

Kaelin understood the gravity of this development all too well.

Without the immense wealth of Gray Rock Province and the constant influx of their private troops, the Raymonds would cease to be the true power brokers of the Empire.

He would become nothing more than a disgraced leader, spearheading a ragged band of survivors in a desperate flight back to the Imperial Capital.

"Grand Marshal..." Kaelin savored the title, a flicker of uncontrolled, malicious glee dancing at the corners of his lips. "Do you still possess the audacity to treat me as a mere pawn now?"

The sensation was truly unique.

Louis's intervention from the North hadn't directly targeted him, but instead had struck a critical blow to Raymond's most impenetrable defense.

As such, he felt a strange sense of gratitude towards Louis, that untamed wolf.

Kaelin slowly shifted his gaze, his intimate knowledge of Raymond's character telling him that the old Duke had never harbored true loyalty.

Raymond had merely selected him as a figurehead, and once stability was restored, the Duke would undoubtedly make his move.

Perhaps replacing his personal guards, manipulating his will through arcane means, or even orchestrating a fatal 'accident' to install a more compliant puppet in his place.

In the past, resistance was futile due to Raymond's absolute authority.

But now, the old wolf had been stripped of its formidable power and forced into a retreat.

Yet, a cornered beast often becomes more ferocious, clinging desperately to its remaining assets.

"So..." Kaelin whispered, his voice barely audible, "Raymond, you have become my most significant adversary."

Before confronting the Northern Territory, before settling the score with the Fifth Prince and his zealous followers.

Within the confines of the Imperial Capital, he was determined to personally dismantle his former benefactor.

Failure to do so would mean becoming the next victim.

"You are nothing more than a broken-down hound that has lost its master now," Kaelin's lips twisted into a chilling smile.

He would leverage the pretense of reclaiming the Southeast and defending the Southwest to systematically send Raymond's remaining loyalists into a brutal conflict.

Once those knights were annihilated and Raymond could no longer furnish Gold Coins or secure victories, dissent among his followers would inevitably arise.

At that opportune moment, he would, under the Emperor's banner, rally the minor nobles and lesser knights who had lost faith in Raymond.

A Duke stripped of his domain and his treasury,

What resources would he have left to command loyalty?

Kaelin slowly exhaled, lifting the wine glass from the table, and offered a silent toast to the empty study.

"Thank you, Louis." His eyes gleamed with a mixture of madness and cunning in the dim light.

"You have removed Raymond's fangs. The rest of his flesh, I shall consume myself, piece by piece."

......

The prayer chamber was shrouded in near darkness.

A solitary, slender candlestick stood precariously on the edge of the altar, dragon's breath incense slowly vaporizing in the flame, releasing a sweet yet oppressive aroma.

The flickering candlelight cast two elongated shadows upon the wall, dancing against the imposing Holy Emblem adorned with the Golden Feather Flower.

The emblem's outline wavered subtly in the light, resembling a colossal bird impaled upon the wall, its wings outstretched yet seemingly on the verge of shattering.

The Fifth Prince, Lampard, stood with his back turned to the entrance.

He was bent over, meticulously polishing a ceremonial longsword, its silvery blade catching the cold candlelight with an eerie glint.

A crumpled sheepskin scroll was gradually consumed by the flames within the brazier, the fire devouring the written words, reducing the proclamation to ashes bit by bit.

"Duke," Lampard's voice was devoid of any discernible emotion. "I sometimes find myself contemplating the remarkable talent that flows through the Calvin Clan."

He continued his rhythmic wiping of the sword, his gaze fixed forward.

"Your son hurls defilements at me in the north, while you manage my finances in the south. Do you and your son intend to profit from both ends?"

Lampard abruptly ceased his movements.

He turned, lowering the sword tip, only to raise it slightly moments later, pointing it almost directly at the ground.

His eyes, sharp and predatory like a venomous snake's, fixed upon the Duke's throat.

"Give me a justification. A reason why I shouldn't send you to the executioner's block. Spare me the preposterous claims of being unable to control him."

The very air in the chamber seemed to thicken and solidify.

Duke Calvin stood immobile, neither kneeling nor offering any form of defense.

After a pregnant silence, he spoke, deliberately omitting any mention of Louis.

"Your Majesty," his voice carried an aged, tranquil resonance. "The carrier pigeons from the Holy City have just arrived."

Lampard's brow betrayed no discernible reaction.

"I have heard," the Duke continued, his gaze drifting towards the Holy Emblem on the wall, "that the venerable Golden Feather Flower atop the Holy Mountain..."

"Its petals have begun to wither."

The sword tip quivered almost imperceptibly, and Lampard's pupils contracted sharply.

The message was clear: the old Pope was on the brink of death.

Duke Calvin advanced a single step, approaching a hallowed, restricted area as if teetering on the precipice of an abyss.

His tone, a blend of supplication and enticement, dropped low: "Winter arrives, flowers wither and revive; it is nature's cycle. Yet, who shall be bestowed the next crown of the Golden Feather Flower..."

Simultaneously, the candle flame surged erratically.

The Duke lifted his gaze: "Your Majesty, my third son, Eduardo, stands poised on the second stair of the Holy Path. He is but one monumental step from ascending the White Throne, which symbolizes ultimate divine authority."

Hearing this, Lampard reclined onto the unyielding prayer seat, its rigid backrest clearly unsuitable for extended stays.

He brought a hand up to his forehead, his fingers pressing into his temple, as if striving to quell an overwhelming surge of feeling.