Lord of Winter: Beginning with Daily Intelligence

Chapter 828 - 450: Holy Eastern Empire_3

"As for the military funding... regrettably, the white ships of the Holy City encountered a storm last night, leaving a significant material shortage. According to the Holy Seat’s will, this month’s tithe needs to be increased by twenty percent and should be prioritized for delivery to the Holy City through the inland waterways."

Lampard’s heart sank completely at that moment.

He understood.

From the very beginning, the Church Court never intended to hold the Southeast Province.

In their eyes, this was not territory, not citizens, nor even the foundation of their faith, but merely a livestock prepared for slaughter at any time.

The only thing they cared about was whether they could squeeze out the last drop of blood, the last piece of meat, the last bit of oil before the knife fell.

This thought was like an ice needle pierced into Lampard’s mind.

But his face could not show the slightest flaw.

He suddenly slammed a fist onto the mahogany long table, the dull sound echoed in the council chamber, causing several gilded candelabras to sway.

"What are the knights on the frontline supposed to eat?" he almost roared, his voice filled with the frustration of being driven to desperation, "Dirt?!"

After speaking, he seemed drained of energy, slumped back into the chair symbolizing imperial power, but didn’t belong to him, with his shoulders slightly collapsed.

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

As the royal financial advisor, he was as quiet as a backdrop, but behind the heavy lenses, his gaze moved subtly without a hint of expression.

He watched the farce clearly.

"The Fifth Prince is not foolish," Seldon made a judgment in his heart, "The way he slammed down just now was very imposing. He wants to use the pretext of resisting foreign threats to force the Church Court to release military supplies and grain."

Unfortunately, cleverness aside, he doesn’t have any cards worth playing."

His gaze swept over the bishop’s unhurried departing figure, and his lips tightened for a barely noticeable moment.

"As for that old charlatan..." Seldon’s evaluation was simple and ruthless, "He doesn’t place the imperial power in his eyes at all."

This wasn’t a guess, but an instinctual merchant’s sense of risk.

The Church Court likely anticipated long ago that this land could not be held, so they intended to pack up all the grain, gold coins, people, and faith before the war truly burst out, and ship them away.

Seldon looked down at the deficit sheet in his hand, those alarming numbers seemed to mock his professionalism.

He handed the final judgment to the ship named the Holy Eastern Empire; it was sinking.

When he looked back at Lampard, the awe in his gaze was gone, replaced by calm and detached assessment.

He must find a way to survive before the ship completely sinks.

......

The bishop excused himself with the reason of ’prayer time has arrived’.

The heavy council chamber doors slowly closed, cutting off the footsteps from outside.

At the moment the door closed, all of Lampard’s exaggerated rage seemed to be wiped away by an invisible hand, leaving only a shadow of weariness.

He did not speak immediately, just leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, his gaze fell on Seldon: "Seldon."

This time, his voice was no longer a roar, but weighed low, almost pleading: "The Calvin Clan’s trade routes in the west... are they still usable?"

Seldon’s hand holding the quill paused slightly.

This was a signal as clear as could be.

Lampard wanted to bypass the Church Court, to establish a rear logistic line solely for himself.

"The price is negotiable," Lampard added.

Seldon closed his notebook, calm in his movement, and an impeccable professional smile appeared on his face.

"Your Highness, you know," his tone was gentle yet detached, "Since my father fell ill, many of the trade routes... haven’t been operating smoothly."

He paused, as if weighing his words.

"Moreover, without the bishop’s signature, goods can’t even pass through checkpoints."

Lampard stared at him for a full three seconds.

The gaze held no anger, only a penetrating weariness that saw through the heart.

He saw through.

Saw through Seldon’s reservations, and also saw through that this merchant had already started preparing for his own retreat.

Finally, Lampard just let out a bitter laugh, waving his hand: "Dismissed."

The council chamber emptied out.

Lampard sat alone on that temporarily pieced-together ’imperial throne,’ his body sinking into the soft yet cold cushion.

This chair never belonged to him.

He stood up and walked to the high window, drawing the drapes.

In the square, the massive Golden Feather Flower sculpture shone with false radiance in the sunlight, casting a shadow that perfectly covered the entire Imperial Palace.

Like a net slowly tightening.

"Louis is building ships in the north," Lampard muttered to himself, "That’s for conquest, the second elder brother is assembling troops in the west, that’s for unification."

His voice gradually lowered.

"And I... I am merely a watchdog for this bunch of monsters."

He was acutely aware that once the frontline crumbled, or the Church Court deemed him useless.

He would be quietly abandoned.

Lampard’s fingers slowly clenched, "If I don’t act... I will die without a sound."

Finally, a trace of dangerous determination flashed in his eyes.

He decided to make a risky move.