Winter Lord: Starting with Daily Intelligence

Chapter 453 A Fatal Deal

The spiral stone steps leading to the top of the clock tower are dark and long.

The stone wall was rough and uneven, eroded by time and wind and rain. The candlelight flickered in the airflow, casting long and distorted shadows.

Selton Calvin climbed the steps, his expensive boots clicking rhythmically on the stone steps, the sound echoing repeatedly in the narrow space.

He didn't even lose his breathing rhythm on the thousands of steps.

It wasn't just because of the knight's physique, but also because the adrenaline surging through his body at that moment overwhelmed all fatigue and discomfort.

The stone steps extend upwards in layers.

With each step he took, Selton could clearly feel a psychological disorientation spreading from the soles of his feet, as if he were being slowly lifted off the ground.

Hesitation to leave behind the old aristocracy, hesitation of the older generation, and those outdated but still exemplary forms of respectability and promises.

The scene in the square kept replaying in his mind uncontrollably.

Flames rose, golden flames engulfing the rack, while the father remained silent across two streets.

That silence was more piercing than any plea.

That old fellow, once known as the Fox of the Southeast, now has even its tail dragging in the dust, leaving only a sluggish and futile caution.

This proves that the decision I made two years ago was not wrong.

Selton sneered inwardly.

That outdated aristocratic dignity will only drag the entire family into the fire.

What the southeastern province needs now is someone who knows how to calculate and rebuild from the ruins.

It needs a new owner.

He did not see himself as bowing down to the Vatican; on the contrary, he viewed it as a collaboration whose costs and returns had been calculated in advance.

Ultimately, divine authority is illusory.

Taxes, grain, ports, warehouses, and accounting records—these are the things that truly control the entire Holy Eastern Empire.

Salomon and his priests were outsiders. Without the administrative network that the Calvin family had built up over hundreds of years, they couldn't collect a single copper coin in taxes, nor could they transport a single cart of grain, let alone maintain the superficial order of the city.

If the Vatican wants to establish itself here, it must rely on a hand familiar with the terrain, and that hand can only be him.

At the end of the stone steps, the heavy wooden door at the top of the tower stands silently.

The thick door panel was engraved with prayers that had long been worn away, and the iron hinges showed the dark color of time.

Selton stopped in front of the door.

He didn't push the door open immediately, but instead slowly adjusted the family crest on his collar to make sure it was impeccable.

She then raised her hand to smooth her hair, making sure it wasn't disturbed by the draft.

Finally, he adjusted his expression as he faced the empty air atop the tower.

He suppressed the lingering contempt and ambition in his eyes, replacing them with a shrewd, reliable face adorned with just the right amount of respect.

Then, Selton reached out and pushed open the door leading to the top of the clock tower.

The wind howled at the top of the tower, like some invisible beast circling over the city.

Bishop Salomon stood with his back to the entrance on the edge of the bell tower, which had no railings, looking down at the brightly lit yet turbulent southeastern capital.

As Selton stepped into the top of the tower, the heavy wooden doors closed behind him, shutting out the hustle and bustle of the city.

He wasn't standing just a few steps away; his voice was drawn out by the wind, yet remained clear.

"Your Majesty, it seems the purification ritual was successful." His gaze swept over the lingering smoke in the plaza below. "But faith alone is not enough to truly quiet this city. Fear can only make people kneel, but it cannot make them obey in the long run. Here, a more secular force is needed."

Salomon slowly turned around, a gentle smile on his face as always, the curve of his lips precise, like a mask sculpted beforehand.

“God heals the soul,” he said softly. “The world governs the flesh.”

He looked at Selton and nodded slightly, as if scrutinizing a pawn who had approached him: "Mr. Selton, the Vatican has always respected obedient partners."

Selton took a few steps forward and stood beside Salomon at the edge of the clock tower: "That's why I came up here."

He didn't beat around the bush and directly offered his bargaining chip: "As you said, my father's health is no longer able to cope with the current situation, but I am different. I can fully cooperate with the Vatican's tax system, assist in consolidating provincial accounts, and even..."

He paused, as if weighing the weight of his words.

"Relinquish half of the grain monopoly controlled by the Calvin family and hand it over to the church for joint management."

Selton turned his head to look at Salomon, his gaze so open it was almost sincere.

"I want the glory of the golden feather flower to bloom in every city and every dock in the southeast."

The wind whistled between the two, as if waiting for the next hammer blow.

“Of course,” Selton’s tone shifted, becoming sharp and clear, “cooperation requires a formal status.”

“I want the title of Protector of the Nation bestowed by the Royal Family.” He said this without any hesitation. “The Papacy must publicly crown me.”

He then added a second one.

“There are still some stubborn people within the family.” Selton’s gaze turned cold. “They are not devout enough to the crown, and they lack an understanding of order. I don’t have enough troops at the moment to deal with these internal threats.”

He looked at Salomon, his tone low and direct.

"I need to borrow your Knights Templar to help me clean house."

A brief silence fell over the top of the clock tower.

Salomon did not respond immediately. His gray eyes were fixed on Selton, his gaze seemingly piercing through flesh and blood, assessing value.

Finally, the bishop chuckled softly: "Mr. Selton, your vision is too narrow. As long as you sincerely serve the Crown, the Holy See will not only support you in becoming the Lord Protector."

He leaned slightly forward, his voice low and seductive: "We can even support you in establishing a nation."

"As for those who oppose you..." Salomon waved his hand casually, his tone nonchalant, "The Inquisition is best at this kind of work."

When the word "nation-building" fell from Bishop Salomon's lips, Selton Calvin's heart clenched for a moment.

But that was only for a moment. Years of experience navigating between the Chamber of Commerce and the Noble Council made him almost instinctively suppress all his emotions.

Only his eyes narrowed slightly, concealing that fleeting glint of light in the shadows.

His mind was racing.

The Vatican's blueprint is grand and enticing, but it is not without logic.

The royal family is crumbling, the steel of the North is closing in, and the old order is no longer coherent.

The Vatican needs a secular face, an agent who can be accepted by the locals and mobilize administrative and financial networks.

The southeastern province, however, needs a new banner.

This thought, like a calm yet sharp chip, was weighed repeatedly in his mind.

As for the risks?

Selton's lips tightened almost imperceptibly.

Using the Vatican as a tool to purge the family of its internal and external conservatives is indeed dangerous.

But it was a worthwhile deal. As long as the old aristocracy was uprooted, the real administrative power, ports, warehouses, and accounting books would still remain firmly in the hands of the Calvin family.

By then, the Papacy will be nothing more than a sharp blade in his hand that he must use with caution.

He took a deep breath, straightened the wrinkles in his cuffs, and made himself appear composed and equal, rather than begging in a humble manner.

Then Selton raised his head, looked directly into Bishop Salomon's gray eyes, and said in a calm and solemn tone: "Your Majesty, since we share the same goal, the Calvin family is willing to be the cornerstone."

He extended his right hand, his movement elegant and restrained: "For the sake of order in the Southeast."

The wind whistled between the two of them.

Salomon stared at Selton with an almost pitying look for about a second before slowly extending his hand.

The moment their hands clasped, Selton's brow twitched almost imperceptibly.

That hand was unusually cold.

Even with the biting cold wind at the top of the tower, a normal person's body temperature shouldn't be like this.

A primal sense of repulsion crept up his spine, making him almost want to pull his hand away immediately.

But he held back.

Selton forced himself to grip the other person's hand tightly, with just the right amount of force, to prove to the other person that this was a well-thought-out choice.

Salomon's fingers slowly closed, the force not rough, but carrying an undeniable sense of locking.

The bishop's expression remained gentle, his gray eyes calm and unwavering, only the corners of his mouth curving into a perfect arc.

“A wise choice.” His voice was low and gentle. “My child, you will see that new world.”

The wind still howled atop the clock tower.

And in this invisible sky, a chess piece that will determine the fate of countless people has already been placed.

…………

Late at night, in the deepest bedroom of the Duke's mansion.

The thick stone walls blocked out all outside noise, even the wind was kept at a distance.

Expensive refined charcoal burned in the fireplace, the flames steady and restrained, yet unable to dispel the lingering chill in the room.

The hidden door slid open silently behind the fireplace; the fifth prince, Lampard, did not use the main entrance.

His figure emerged from the secret passage known only to the successive heads of the Calvin family and core members, moving as lightly as a shadow.

Outside the door, the Duke's only loyal bodyguard captain had been sent away beforehand and was now only responsible for guarding the end of the corridor.

This bedroom became an absolutely sealed-off secret room.

The Duke of Calvin lay half-reclined on the bed, with a thick velvet blanket beneath him, his shoulders and back still slightly hunched.

He held a delicate porcelain teacup in his hand, but now that hand was so thin it looked like a withered branch.

His breathing had a hissing sound like a broken bellows, each inhalation as if he were fighting against some unseen resistance.

Despite the blazing fire in the stove, he was still wrapped in three thick blankets, his face pale as if he had lost blood.

Two years ago, everything was just about getting tired easily.

Later, his hands and feet became ice cold, and his hands trembled uncontrollably when he held the sword in the morning. He didn't even have the strength to raise the sword to his chest.

All the priests said it was due to overwork, and all the alchemists couldn't find any toxins.

The results of the tests were clearer and clearer each time. His mind remained frighteningly clear, but his body was unreasonably collapsing.

That is why he turned his attention to the former imperial palace.

The Regent's death was unusually quiet, reportedly due to heart disease or overwork.

But the Duke knew that such a death mirrored the decline he was experiencing.

That was the only clue.

Yesterday, Lampard also contacted him, saying he knew everything.

Lampard was already standing by the bedside. The Duke raised his cloudy yet sharp eyes, his voice hoarse and direct: "Your Highness, what is the answer I want?"

Lampard made no small talk. He took a roll of unbound parchment from his pocket and placed it on the bedside table: “As you expected, this is not an illness, it is murder.”

He sat down by the bed, his tone as calm as if he were discussing the weather: "The Regent did not die of a heart attack. I watched him being dried into a mummy within two years."

The Duke's gaze did not waver, but his breath caught in his throat for a moment.

Lampard continued, lowering his voice even further: "I'm not afraid to tell you, I was involved at the time because the Vatican promised me a position."

He paused, a self-deprecating sneer appearing on his lips: "But I regret it now, because I'll be next."

He briefly described the technique called "Severing Life Without a Trace".

"A curse that doesn't require an entrance."

"By using the reverse crown magic runes, a life transmission channel is established. The caster is underground, and the recipient is on the ground. As long as the distance meets the conditions, life force will be continuously drawn away, like water flowing downhill."

The Duke listened intently, his thin fingers tapping lightly on the cover of the tax law book beside him, as if he were listening to a well-organized academic lecture.

“No wonder they couldn’t detect the poison,” he said softly, even nodding slightly. “So they took my life from afar.”

He raised his eyelids slightly, his tone carrying a hint of cold approval:

"The Vatican's craftsmanship is indeed exquisite."

Lampard stared at him, then dropped the final, and most brutal, truth:
“This kind of remote extraction is not very efficient, unless... you have a living anchor point that stays with you for a long time every day to locate and speed up the transmission.”

His gaze fell on the cup of tea on the bedside table, which had long since gone cold.

“It’s not that the tea is poisoned,” Lampard said in a low voice, “but that the person who served the tea is part of the curse.”

The room fell silent.

The Duke slowly turned his head and glanced at the teacup, which Selton had recently sent him. The porcelain was pure white and without a single crack.

He was silent for three seconds, then a faint, almost mocking smile appeared on his lips.

“Selton.” He murmured the name softly, his tone devoid of anger or regret, only cold indifference.

"My son has turned himself into a knife that killed his father."

He let out a soft breath and came to a clear conclusion: "This shows that in his eyes, the Vatican's offer is more valuable than me, his father."

Seeing this overly calm reaction, Lampard couldn't help but ask, "Aren't you angry?"

"Anger is a sign of incompetence."

The Duke’s voice was deep, yet each word was clear: “Now that Selton has chosen the Papacy, he is no longer my son, but an enemy.”

When dealing with the enemy, you only need to calculate how to handle them, not let emotions get in the way.

He raised his head, his gaze returning to Lampard, like a sick but not yet dead lion recalibrating its target in the darkness.

“Your Highness,” the Duke said, “since the boy wants to take over the throne ahead of schedule, I will grant his wish.”

(End of this chapter)