Winter Lord: Starting with Daily Intelligence

Chapter 451 The Holy Eastern Empire

Selton Calvin sat in a black and gold carriage adorned with his family crest, his fingertips clutching a "Harvest Statistics Table" that still smelled of ink.

The carriage was filled with precious ambergris, but even so, the strange smell that crept in from outside the window stubbornly penetrated the wooden walls.

Selton frowned and pulled the velvet curtain of the car window open a crack.

The streets outside are busier than ever before.

Heavy grain wagons lined up one after another in a long queue, their ruts making the stone pavement creak and groan.

The burlap sack was torn open, revealing plump, golden wheat grains that were almost overflowing – a true, bountiful harvest, without a trace of moisture.

He glanced down at the report in his hand.

Production increased by 30% year-on-year, but the warehousing rate was only 15%.

"Damn it." The quill pen slashed across the paper, leaving a glaring red line.

This wasn't an accounting error; Selton knew perfectly well that the grain hadn't disappeared.

The carriage slowed down at an intersection, and he saw that the grain wagons, instead of heading towards the Calvin family's trading quarters, turned in unison into the port area, which belonged to the Papacy.

White grain transport ships from the holy city were moored at the dock. Their white hulls were almost blinding, like a row of sea beasts silently baring their fangs.

The grain was unloaded bag by bag and disappeared into the depths of the ship's hold.

Selton was not angry that the food was being taken away.

What angered him was that the grain hadn't passed through his hands, allowing him to make a profit.

The carriage continued its journey, entering the capital's busiest main street.

Every fifty steps along both sides of the street stands a brand-new golden feather flower sculpture.

The statue is entirely gilded, with its leaves outstretched and its posture elegant, as if it were in eternal bloom.

But Selton peeked through the curtain a few more times, and a chill crept into his heart.

The roots of the flower were not simply inserted into the stone base.

He clearly saw that some kind of dark red veins extended downwards along the base and disappeared into the ground.

Occasionally, the golden leaves will undulate very slightly, like lung lobes, opening and closing.

As the carriage drove past the statue, the common people on the street slowed down their movements as they passed the flowers.

They no longer bowed their heads in prayer as they used to, nor did they show any reverence.

That was a kind of animalistic stiffness.

Just like the instinctive contraction of a herd of herbivores when they sense the scent of a predator near a water source.

Selton snorted and lowered the curtain.

"Tasteless decor," he thought to himself. "That old charlatan Salomon has turned a perfectly good commercial city into a nouveau riche's garden."

The carriage suddenly slowed down, and the sounds of a crowd rose up, a mixture of prayers, weeping, and a low murmur of near ecstasy—it was the Vatican's soup kitchen.

Selton leaned forward, but the street corner was completely blocked.

Under a simple white cloth tent, a row of nuns were handing bowls of golden soup to the common people.

He subconsciously glanced around.

In years when warehouses are overflowing, the people on the streets are all emaciated, with sunken eyes, like withered grass that has been drained of moisture for a long time.

What they were fighting over was neither bread nor cakes.

It was just that bowl of soup.

Selton was about to sneer when the next scene froze his expression.

A ragged dockworker took the bowl of soup and almost greedily gulped it down.

One second ago, he was hunched over, struggling to even stand.

The next second, he suddenly straightened up.

The pupils dilated, and the face quickly flushed an abnormal red.

The once-shriveled muscles swelled up as if inflated, and the blood vessels under the skin bulged out.

He raised his head and let out an excited roar: "Praise be to the crown! I can still do the work of ten men!"

The surrounding crowd erupted in cheers that bordered on worship.

A fine layer of cold sweat broke out on Selton's back; even after watching it several times, it still sent chills down his spine.

what is this?
Alchemical potion? Divine solution? Or some kind of modified potion?

What is the cost? Is the formula complex? Can it be mass-produced?

If the Calvin Trading Company could obtain the formula for this product, they could sell it to miners, lumberjacks, road construction crews…

How many times greater would the profits be than those from the grain trade?
Thinking of this, the chill in his heart was quickly replaced by a familiar anger.

Anger is something that hasn't gone through the market, hasn't gone through the chamber of commerce, hasn't gone through him.

"Giving these consumables such good medicine is such a waste," Selton muttered under his breath, his tone devoid of any pity.

The carriage continued its slow journey along the bustling avenue, its wheels creaking rhythmically over the stone slabs.

Just then, a soft, restrained knocking sound came from outside the carriage.

"Young Master." It was the family butler's voice.

The carriage made a brief stop by the roadside, and a window was pushed open a crack, through which a white-gloved hand handed in a small wooden box. The box was sealed with papal wax, and the thorn emblem was clearly visible.

"This is the payment that the Vatican just settled." The butler's voice was low, with a hint of hesitation in it. "Bishop Salomon personally reviewed it."

Selton did not respond immediately, but gestured for the butler to leave.

The car windows were closed again, and the velvet curtains hung down, shutting out the noise from the outside world.

Selton then reached out, placed the box on his lap, and unlocked it.

There was no crisp sound of gold coins clashing together.

A stack of coins was neatly arranged inside the box.

It was neither a gold coin minted by the empire nor a silver coin with a stable purity.

The coin was abnormally light, almost weightless. Its surface was made of a bone-like material, smooth to the touch yet with an uncomfortably cool temperature.

The coin is decorated with intertwined thorn patterns, with a faint golden halo emanating from the depths of the patterns.

Selton picked up a coin and slowly twirled it between his fingers.

He knew exactly what it was: bad money.

This kind of thing cannot circulate anywhere outside the Vatican's controlled areas; it's just a pile of scrap metal, no, it's not even scrap metal.

Reason issued a clear warning at this moment.

This is a trap; the Vatican is replacing the empire's monetary lifeline with another system.

Once accepted, it means relinquishing control over prices, circulation, and liquidation.

Selton closed his eyes.

But the image of Bishop Salomon's gentle face kept appearing in his mind.

They had no right to refuse; the food had already been intercepted by the Papacy.

The port is in their hands.

Soup sheds control the lowest level of labor.

And now even the settlement method has been rewritten.

This isn't negotiation; it's informing him that the rules have changed.

Selton slowly exhaled, opened his eyes, pressed down on the lid of the box with a soft click, and said, "Take it."

Outside the car window, the butler leaned down again.

Selton continued, his gaze already fixed on the street scene outside the window: "Also, pass on my order: starting tomorrow, all family-owned grain and oil shops..."

He paused, as if to confirm that he had no way out.

"Refuse to accept Imperial Gold Coins; prioritize accepting Holy Tokens."

The butler's pupils contracted almost imperceptibly, but he did not refute it; he simply bowed his head in agreement.

The carriage restarted.

Selton knew exactly what he had done; he had personally severed the last remaining, albeit still-corrupting, artery between the Calvin family and the imperial economic system.

They voluntarily stuck their necks into the Vatican's invisible financial noose.

But he also knew that he actually had no choice.

At the end of the street, a sudden, unified and enthusiastic roar erupted.

"Praise be to the crown!"

"Praise the Golden Feather Flower!"

The commoners who had drunk the golden soup lined up, holding high the flags of the Papacy, marching in unison, their faces beaming with almost blissful smiles.

The golden sunlight shone on them, making the whole street dazzlingly unsettling.

Selton's brow furrowed sharply. An indescribable irritation surged from deep within his chest.

He raised his hand, pulled the velvet curtains shut, closed his eyes, and silently repeated a phrase in his mind that even he didn't fully believe.

"As long as I can make money... as long as I can get that position, or even higher..."

A barely perceptible smile curved his lips: "Who cares what kind of god he is."

…………

Inside the temporary imperial palace council hall of the Southeast Province.

Lampard stood at one side of the long table, clutching a newly delivered intelligence report.

The paper rustled slightly between his fingers.

He knew better than anyone what this regime, known as the "Holy Eastern Empire," was all about.

To the north, Louis is clearing the sea, wiping out pirates in droves, redefining shipping lanes, and Red Tide Territory warships are using live targets to calibrate their cannons. A blockade has already been established at sea.

To the west, Karen's army is advancing in an open military invasion, without even bothering to find a pretext.

Beside him, the Holy Eastern Empire, which was given a grand name, looked more like an infant suffering from gigantism.

Its body is enormous, but its bones are fragile.

The golden outer shell is piled up layer by layer, but inside is soft tissue that has not yet taken shape.

Lampard took a deep breath, slowly and deliberately, and then adjusted his facial muscles.

With his brows furrowed, jaw clenched, and eyes filled with anger and impatience, he had the face of a volatile monarch who was cornered but still stubbornly holding on.

This performance was for two people: Salomon, who was sitting at the other end of the long table in a priest's robe, and Selton, who was sitting a little further away.

Lampard abruptly raised his hand and slammed the military intelligence report onto the mahogany table.

"boom--!"

A loud bang echoed in the council chamber, and the candlesticks flickered slightly, the flames elongating and contracting.

He took a step forward, his voice rising, his tone carrying a barely suppressed yet out-of-control rage.

"Louis's warships are already testing their cannons on pirates!"

His gaze swept over Salomon, then over Selton, as if questioning or accusing him.

“Unidentified speedboats are loitering around the northern port every day! And what about my army?” Lampard slammed his fist on the edge of the table. “They haven’t even issued all their armor yet!”

He paused for a moment, as if he could finally hold back and unleash his pent-up anger.

"This is the blessed land you promised?!"

Lampard braced his hands on the mahogany table, leaned forward, and stared intently at the cardinal in the shadows.

"Salomon! The false empire in the west is assembling three heavy divisions. I need money, I need food, and I need to transfer the laborers who are building the church to build the fortress."

He no longer even bothered to hide the threat in his tone.

“If the Southeast Provinces are lost,” Lampard said, emphasizing each word, “where will the Vatican find the faith of these millions of people?”

Cardinal Salomon simply and leisurely removed his monocle and gently wiped the lens with a piece of gold velvet cloth, as if it were a trivial matter unrelated to him.

“Your Highness, you are too anxious.” His voice was distant. “The Emerald Federation is nothing but an army of mortals, while the Holy Eastern Empire is a crowned earthly divine kingdom.”

As he spoke, he pulled a new list out of his sleeve.

"As for military expenses... Unfortunately, the white ships of the Holy City encountered a storm last night, resulting in a huge shortage of supplies. In accordance with the Holy See's decree, this month's tithes need to be increased by 20%, and priority should be given to transporting supplies to the Holy City via inland waterways."

Lampard's heart sank completely at that moment.

He understood.

The Papacy never intended to hold the Southeast Provinces from the beginning.

In their eyes, this place is not territory, not people, not even the foundation of their faith, but merely a livestock that has been tethered and can be slaughtered at any time.

Their only concern was whether they could squeeze every last drop of blood, every last piece of flesh, and every last bit of oil out of the body before the knife fell.

The thought pierced Lampard's mind like an ice needle.

But there can't be the slightest flaw on his face.

He slammed his fist on the mahogany table, the dull thud echoing through the council chamber, causing several gilded candlesticks to sway.

"What do the knights on the front lines eat?" he almost roared, his voice filled with the resentment of being driven to desperation. "Eat dirt?!"

As soon as he finished speaking, he seemed to have all his strength drained away, and slumped back into the chair that symbolized imperial power but did not belong to him, his shoulders slightly slumped.

At the end of the long table, Selton Calvin never looked up.

As the Royal Financial Advisor, he was as quiet as a background figure, but behind his thick glasses, his gaze was subtly shifting.

He saw the whole farce clearly.

“The Fifth Prince is not stupid,” Selton concluded in his mind. “That slam just now was quite powerful. He wants to use the righteous cause of resisting foreign enemies to force the Papacy to hand over military equipment and food.”

Unfortunately, despite his cleverness, he didn't have a single decent hand.

His gaze swept over the bishop's composed back as he left, and his lips tightened almost imperceptibly for a moment.

"As for that old charlatan..." Selton's assessment was simple and cruel, "He didn't take the imperial power seriously at all."

This is not speculation, but a businessman's instinctive sense of risk.

The Vatican probably foresaw that this land could not be defended, which is why it packed up and transported away all its food, gold, people, and faith before the war actually broke out.

Selton glanced down at the fiscal deficit statement in his hand; the shocking figures seemed to mock his profession.

In his heart, he made his final judgment on the great ship called the Holy Eastern Empire and let it sink.

When he looked up at Lampard again, the initial awe was gone from his eyes; only a calm, distant assessment remained.

He had to find a way to survive before the ship sank completely.

…………

The bishop left the room, saying it was time for prayer.

The heavy doors of the council chamber slowly closed, shutting out the sound of footsteps from the outside world.

The instant the door closed, all the exaggerated rage on Lampard's face seemed to be wiped away by an invisible hand, leaving only a gloomy weariness.

He didn't speak immediately, but leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes briefly, and when he opened them again, his gaze was already on Selton: "Selton."

This time, his voice was no longer roaring, but low and almost pleading: "Can the Calvin family's trade routes in the west still be used?"

Selton's hand holding the quill paused slightly.

This is a signal that couldn't be clearer.

Lampard wanted to bypass the Vatican and establish a logistics line that belonged only to him.

"The price is negotiable," Lampard added.

Selton closed his laptop with a composed gesture, a flawless professional smile on his face.

“Your Highness, as you know,” he said in a gentle but distant tone, “since Father fell seriously ill, control of many trade routes… has not been going smoothly.”

He paused, as if considering his words.

"Moreover, without the bishop's signature, the goods simply cannot leave the checkpoint."

Lampard stared at him for a full three seconds.

There was no anger in that gaze, only a piercing weariness.

He saw through it.

They saw through Selton's reservations and realized that the businessman had already begun preparing his escape route.

In the end, Lampard just gave a wry smile and waved his hand: "Step down."

The council chamber was empty.

Lampard sat alone on the makeshift "throne," his body sinking into the soft yet cold cushion.

This chair never belonged to him.

He got up, walked to the high window, and drew back the curtains.

In the square, the enormous golden feather flower sculpture shimmered with a false glow in the sunlight, while the shadows it cast perfectly covered the entire palace.

Like a net slowly tightening.

“Louis is building ships in the north,” Lampard muttered to himself. “That’s for conquest. My second brother is gathering troops in the west. That’s for unification.”

His voice gradually faded away.

"And I..." I'm just a watchdog guarding the gate for these monsters.

He knew very well that if the front lines collapsed, or if the Vatican felt he was no longer of any use, the situation would change.

He will be abandoned silently.

Lampard's fingers slowly tightened. "If I don't do something... I'll die silently."

A dangerous glint finally flashed in his eyes.

He decided to take a risky step.

(End of this chapter)