Lord of Winter: Beginning with Daily Intelligence

Chapter 832 - 452: Deadly Deal_2

Finally, the bishop chuckled softly, "Mr. Seldon, your vision is too small. As long as you sincerely serve the crown, the Church Court will not only support you in becoming Duke Protector of the Realm."

He leaned slightly forward, his voice deep and persuasive, "We can even support you in founding a nation.

As for those who oppose you..." Salomon waved his hand casually, his tone light and dismissive, "The Judicial Court excels at such tasks."

When the word "nation-building" fell from Bishop Salomon’s mouth, Seldon Calvin’s heart contracted suddenly for an instant.

But that was only a moment; years of experience navigating between the chambers and the nobility almost instinctively suppressed all his emotions.

Only his gaze slightly narrowed, hiding the fleeting glint into the shadows.

His mind was racing.

The blueprint drawn by the Church Court was vast and enticing, but not without logic.

The Royal Family was crumbling, the steel of the Northern Territory was approaching, and the old order could no longer hold.

The Church Court needed a secular face, one that could be accepted by the locals, to mobilize administrative and wealth networks.

And the Southeast Province precisely needed a new banner.

This idea was like a calm and sharp chip, repeatedly weighed in his heart.

As for the risks?

Seldon’s mouth tightened almost imperceptibly.

Using the Church Court’s blade to cleanse the stubborn factions within and outside the family was indeed dangerous.

But it was a profitable transaction.

As long as the old nobility was uprooted, real administrative power, ports, warehouses, ledgers would still be firmly in the hands of the Calvin Clan.

By then, the Church Court would merely be a careful sword in his hand.

He took a deep breath, smoothed the wrinkles in his cuff, making his demeanor appear calm and equal, rather than begging.

Then Seldon lifted his head, straightening Bishop Salomon’s gray eyes, his tone steady and solemn, "Your Eminence, since our goals are aligned, the Calvin Family is willing to be this cornerstone."

He extended his right hand, his movement graceful and controlled, "For the order in the Southeast."

The wind howled past between them.

Salomon regarded Seldon with a gaze near compassion for about a second before slowly reaching out his hand.

The instant their hands clasped, Seldon’s brow twitched imperceptibly.

The palm was shockingly cold.

Even in the piercing cold of the tower top, an ordinary person’s temperature shouldn’t be like this.

An instinctive sense of repulsion crawled along his spine, making him nearly want to withdraw his hand immediately.

But he resisted.

Seldon forced himself to grip the other’s hand tightly, with just the right amount of force, thus proving to the other this was a well-considered choice.

Salomon’s fingers slowly closed in, the force not aggressive yet carrying an undeniable locking sensation.

The bishop’s expression remained gentle, those gray eyes calm and unruffled, only the corners of his mouth lifted into a perfect arc.

"A wise choice." His voice was low and soft, "My child, you will see the new world."

The wind continued to howl atop the bell tower.

And above in this invisible high air, a piece determining countless people’s fate had already fallen.

......

Late at night, in the deepest chamber of the Duke’s residence.

Heavy stone walls isolated all sounds from the outside world, even the wind was kept at a distance.

The fireplace burned with expensive refined carbon, the flames stable and restrained, yet unable to dispel the lingering coldness in the room.

The secret door silently slid open behind the fireplace, and the Fifth Prince Lampard did not take the main entrance.

His figure emerged from the passage only the Calvin Patriarch and core members knew about, moving as lightly as a shadow.

Outside, the Duke’s sole loyal Personal Guard captain had been sent away in advance, now only guarding the end of the corridor.

This chamber became an absolutely closed secret room.

Duke Calvin lay half against the bed, a thick wool blanket beneath him, yet his shoulder and back still slightly hunched.

He held an exquisite porcelain teacup in his hand, yet now that hand holding the teacup was as thin as a skeletal branch.

His breath carried a wheezing sound like a broken bellows, each inhale felt like a struggle against some invisible resistance.

Though the fire was blazing, he still wrapped himself in three layers of thick wool blankets, his face pale as if drained of blood.

Two years ago, it was merely easy fatigue.

Then it was cold limbs, in the mornings the hand gripping the sword trembled uncontrollably, he couldn’t muster the strength to hold the sword to his chest.

All priests said it was overwork, all alchemists couldn’t detect any toxins.

The results of the inspections got cleaner each time, his mind remained frighteningly clear, yet his body was inexorably collapsing.

Precisely because of this, his eyes turned toward the past Imperial Palace.

The Regent King’s death was overly quiet, reportedly also due to heart disease, reportedly also due to overwork.

But the Duke knew, that manner of death was exactly like the decline he was experiencing.

That was the only clue.

And yesterday, Lampard reached out on his own, saying he knew everything.

At this moment Lampard was already standing by the bed, the Duke raised his clouded yet sharp eyes, his voice hoarse and direct, "Your Highness, where is my answer?"

Lampard did not exchange pleasantries. He took out a scroll of unbound parchment from his chest and placed it by the bedside, "Just as you suspected, this is not illness, it is murder."

He sat by the bed, his tone calm as if discussing the weather, "The Regent King did not die of heart disease. I watched him myself, within two years reduced to a dried corpse."

The Duke’s gaze didn’t move away, yet his breath halted for half a beat at that moment.

Lampard continued speaking, his voice lowered further, "I’m not afraid to tell you, at the time I also participated, because the Church Court promised me the throne."

He paused, a touch of self-deprecating cold smile appeared on his lips, "But I regret it now, because next is me."

He briefly described that method called [Death Without a Trace].

"A curse not requiring ingestion."

"By establishing a life transmission channel through the reverse crown demon pattern. The caster is below ground, the recipient above ground, as long as the distance conditions are met, life force will naturally flow continuously downwards."

The Duke listened intently, his emaciated fingers lightly tapping the cover of a tax law book beside him, as if hearing a logically arranged academic lecture.

"No wonder toxins couldn’t be detected." He said softly, even nodded slightly, "Turns out my life is being moved remotely."

He raised his eyelids, a slight cold commendation in his tone:

"The Church Court’s craftsmanship, indeed exquisite."

Lampard regarded him, then revealed the final and most cruel truth:

"This remote extraction is inefficient unless... there is a living anchor around you, spending long hours by your side daily, used for positioning and accelerating transmission."

His gaze landed on the teacup by the bedside long since cold.

"It’s not that the tea is poisoned," Lampard said softly, "but the person serving the tea is part of the curse."

The room fell silent.

The Duke slowly turned his head, glanced at that teacup, it was brought by Seldon not long ago, the porcelain surface pristine, without a single crack.

He remained silent for three seconds, then a light, near mocking smile appeared at the corners of his mouth.

"Seldon." He softly uttered the name, his tone lacking anger, lacking sorrow, only indifferent.

"My son turned himself into the knife that slays his father."

He gently exhaled, as if reaching a clear conclusion, "This shows, in his view, the Church Court’s offer was more valuable than his father."

Lampard watched this overly calm response and couldn’t help asking, "You’re not angry?"

The Duke closed the tax law book, his movements slow yet steady.

"Anger is a sign of impotence."

His voice was deep, yet every word distinct, "Since Seldon chose the Church Court, then he is no longer my son, but an enemy.

Regarding enemies, all that is needed is to calculate how to deal with them, not to engage emotionally."

He lifted his gaze, focusing back on Lampard, like a weakened yet not dead lion, recalibrating its target in the darkness.

"Your Highness," the Duke said, "since the child wants to succeed early, I will fulfill him."