Lord of Winter: Beginning with Daily Intelligence Chapter 768 - 427

The Dawn Square was bathed in a light that did not belong to the mortal world.

It was a layer of scorching sunlight precisely filtered, forming a translucent amber radiance.

In such light, the shadows of buildings were so brief they almost disappeared.

The reliefs and murals on both sides of the street lined up neatly.

Their content was highly uniform: re-enactments of miracles, the suffering of saints, and the arrival of glory.

The lines were precise, the composition rigorous, yet one could not find any personal traces of the creators.

Any attempt to add personal emotion here would be seen as impurities in the soul, gently and thoroughly erased.

And the air was suffused with a faint scent of pollen, not sweet, not cloying, but sharp enough to awaken the senses.

It was the Golden Feather Flowers blooming on the edge of the square.

These flowers did not sway and grow randomly; instead, they opened and closed slowly at a strange, uniform frequency.

Each opening and closing was so precise it felt unsettling, as if an invisible hand was orchestrating the entire square’s rhythm.

There were no vendors’ shouts on these streets, nor the sound of children playing.

A woman pushing a cradle was walking in the square.

The baby in the cradle had its eyes open, not crying, not laughing, just quietly gazing at the dome above, its pupils clear and blank.

At that moment, a series of orderly metal sounds arrived from the other end of the street.

A team of Golden Feather Knights approached.

Their footsteps were perfectly synchronized, the sound of armor clashing resembled the gears of a precise clock meshing in sync, with not a trace of excess echo.

Sunlight reflected off their bodies, bouncing off their golden full body armor, yet it appeared cold and hollow.

This armor was not worn but grown.

Through biological alchemy, consecrated metal was directly fused with the knights’ flesh, bones, making the armor part of their body, unable to be removed and not requiring maintenance.

The runes on their chest plates glowed faintly, rhythmically fluctuating, simulating the rhythm of breathing.

Eduardo was at the core of the knight team, his pure white clerical robe made him appear increasingly noble against the golden armor.

The edges of the robe were embroidered with intricate golden feather patterns, the highest symbol of the Golden Feather Flower Church Court—the Secretariat of the Sacred Seat.

In Avalonia, this robe meant he had the authority to mobilize the Judicial Court, and it also meant he was one of the closest candidates to the Pope.

Within a hundred-meter radius, everyone who saw Eduardo knelt down simultaneously.

It was as if some invisible boundary had been triggered, and everyone realized at that moment they should kneel.

Commoners, priests, monks... there was no difference.

Their movements were uniform and natural, foreheads touching the ground, their backs bending into consistent arcs, even their breathing unknowingly aligned.

This wasn’t like the Ironblood Empire’s fear of the nobility; it was more like an obedience taken for granted.

Eduardo had long been accustomed to this.

Growing up in the Holy City, he was used to this order, where everyone’s edges were smoothed, placed in their proper positions, responsible only for bearing the weight from above.

But he was also aware that this feeling was not innate.

Because he wasn’t always here.

As an important executor of the Church Court, he spent most of each year dispatched to the Ironblood Empire for missions.

In the towns of the Empire, people would argue, fear, lose control over interests and hatred.

There, soldiers hesitated under orders; there, commoners trembled before power, yet also secretly raised their heads to peek.

In comparison, the kneeling in the Holy City seemed too smooth.

Every time he returned to Avalonia from the Empire, he needed some time to readjust to this obedience that required no commands.

Over time, he realized that this habitual acceptance was itself troubling; as his rank rose, that sense of unease not only didn’t disappear, it became increasingly clear.

His gaze paused briefly on an elderly priest.

That face reminded him of a memory from long ago.

As a child, the archbishop who taught him the scriptures was a talkative old man who would tell anecdotes about the Old Empire, even mixing in untimely satire after class.

And now, that old man sat upright in a high-backed chair in the cardinals’ hall.

Eduardo had secretly read his memories.

They contained no emotions, no personal stance, only segments of doctrinal texts repeatedly calibrated and replayed, like a human-shaped artifact polished to perfection.

At that moment, he realized for the first time that the Holy City was not a high place of faith, but a continually operating filter.

Filtering out doubt, filtering out desire, filtering out all the noise that could not be explained by divine authority.

He did not like this feeling.

It wasn't born from fear, nor was it born from a rejection of the established order.

Rather, it stemmed from a persistent, subconscious curiosity about the thoughts of those who knelt.

Such musings were unwelcome within the sacred walls of the Holy City.

Yet, they remained lodged in Eduardo's consciousness, an unyielding sliver, like a thorn never quite removed.

He harbored no animosity towards this city, nor did he harbor a burning desire to dismantle its structure, fully aware that immediate change was beyond his grasp.

However, a magnificent concept was steadily blossoming within the depths of his heart.

If this established order was fated to endure, perhaps its path could be steered toward rectification.

It was this very conviction that transformed the white throne, not merely into a familial obligation, but into a potential journey, a path that might indeed be worth pursuing.