Lord of Winter: Beginning with Daily Intelligence

Chapter 827 - 450: Holy Eastern Empire (2)

The coin was unnaturally light, as if it had no weight at all. Its surface was made of some bone-like material, smooth to the touch yet carrying a faintly unpleasant chill.

On the face of the coin were etched twining thorn patterns, and from the depths of the lines there seemed to seep a layer of extremely faint golden halo.

Seldon picked one up and slowly rolled it between his fingertips.

He knew very well what this was—a bad coin.

This kind of thing could not circulate anywhere outside the districts under the Church Court’s control. It was just a heap of scrap metal—no, not even worthy of being called scrap metal.

Reason issued a clear warning at that moment.

This was a trap; this was the Church Court using another system to replace the Empire’s monetary arteries.

Once accepted, it would mean abandoning control over prices, circulation, and settlement.

Seldon closed his eyes for a moment.

Yet he could not stop the image of Bishop Salomon’s mild face from surfacing in his mind.

He had no right to refuse; the grain had already been intercepted by the Church Court.

The ports were in their hands.

The soup kitchens controlled the lowest rung of the labor force.

And now even the method of settlement was being rewritten.

This was not a negotiation; it was notification that the rules had already changed.

Seldon slowly let out a breath and opened his eyes. He pressed down the lid of the chest, producing a soft thud. "Take it."

Outside the carriage window, the butler bent down once more.

Seldon went on, his gaze already shifting to the street scene beyond the window. "Also, pass down my order: starting tomorrow, all grain and oil shops under the family’s name..."

He paused, as if confirming that he no longer had any way back.

"Will refuse to accept Imperial Gold Coins and will give priority to accepting Holy Certificates."

The butler’s pupils contracted ever so slightly, but he did not object, only lowered his head in assent.

The carriage started up again.

Seldon knew exactly what he had done. He had personally severed the last unrotted artery between the Calvin Clan and the Empire’s economic system.

He had voluntarily stretched his neck into the Church Court’s invisible financial noose.

But he was equally clear that he, in fact, had no choice.

From the far end of the street suddenly came a wave of orderly, fanatical shouting.

"Praise the Crown!"

"Praise the Golden Feather Flower!"

The commoners who had drunk the golden broth lined up in ranks, raising the Church Court’s banners high, their steps in unison, faces wearing smiles that were almost blissful.

Golden sunlight poured over them, making the entire street shine with a disturbing brilliance.

Seldon’s brows tightened sharply.

A nameless irritability surged up from deep within his chest.

He lifted his hand and yanked the velvet curtain shut, closed his eyes, and silently repeated a sentence in his heart—a sentence he himself did not fully believe.

"As long as it makes money... as long as I can sit in that seat, or higher still..."

A barely perceptible curve tugged at the corner of his mouth. "To hell with what god it is."

......

Inside the provisional council hall of the Imperial Palace in the Southeast Province.

Lampard stood on one side of the long table, a freshly delivered intelligence report clenched in his hand.

The paper gave a faint rustle between his fingers.

More clearly than anyone, he understood what this regime above his head, named the "Holy Eastern Empire," really was.

To the north, Louis was clearing the sea; pirates were being wiped out in swathes, sea routes redrawn, the warships of Red Tide Territory were using live targets to calibrate their guns, and a blockade line had already been cast across the sea.

To the west, Kaelin’s army was advancing—an undisguised military invasion that couldn’t even be bothered to find a pretext.

And at his side, this so-called Holy Eastern Empire, burdened with a grandiose title, was more like an infant afflicted with gigantism.

A hulking body with brittle bones.

Layer upon layer of golden shell piled upward, yet inside was still unformed soft tissue.

Lampard took a deep, slow, deliberate breath, then adjusted the muscles of his face.

He lowered his brows, tightened his jaw, pressed some anger and impatience into his gaze—that was the face of a volatile Monarch, driven into a corner yet still forcing himself to stand firm.

This performance was for two people: one was Salomon, robed in clerical vestments at the far end of the long table, the other was Seldon, seated a little farther away.

Lampard suddenly raised his hand and slammed the newspaper down hard on the redwood table.

"Bang—!"

The crash echoed through the council hall; the candlesticks trembled slightly, the flames stretching long then shrinking back.

He took a step forward, voice rising, the tone tinged with anger that was both forcibly restrained and on the verge of slipping its leash.

"Louis’s warships are already using pirates for test firing!"

His gaze swept over Salomon, then over Seldon, as if in accusation and in protest both.

"Off the northern ports, unidentified fast ships are prowling every day! And my army?" Lampard slammed a fist into the edge of the table. "They haven’t even been fully issued their armor yet!"

He paused for a heartbeat, as if finally unable to hold back, letting long-pent-up fury spill out.

"This is the God-blessed land you promised?!"

Lampard planted both hands on the redwood table, leaning forward, his gaze locking onto the red-clad bishop in the shadows.

"Salomon! The pretender in the west is assembling three heavy divisions. I need money, I need grain, I need those laborers building churches dragged off to build fortresses."

He no longer bothered to disguise the threat in his tone.

"If the Southeast Province is lost," Lampard said, enunciating each word, "where is the Church Court going to collect the faith of these millions?"

But the red-clad Bishop Salomon merely unhurriedly removed his monocle and, with a piece of golden velvet, gently wiped the lens, as though dealing with some matter that had nothing to do with him.

"Your Highness, you are far too anxious." His voice was remote. "The Jade Federation is no more than a mortal army, while the Holy Eastern Empire is God’s Divine Country upon the earth under the Crown."

As he spoke, he drew a new list from his sleeve.