Lord of Winter: Beginning with Daily Intelligence - Chapter 659 - 382: Chaotic Dragon Throne Council (Part 2)
Chapter 659: Chapter 382: Chaotic Dragon Throne Council (Part 2)
This sentence made every local noble simultaneously recall one thing: if the old system returns, they will turn from negotiable local rulers back into mere blood components within the system of the Eight Great Clans.
This is the foreboding of death to their vested interests. They know that if they don’t speak up now, next time they won’t get a chance to speak at all.
So, nobles outside of the Eight Great Clans continually began to voice their concerns.
The new nobility from the Southern Territory half-stood and raised their voice: “The local provinces cannot support your games in the Imperial Capital!”
The voice of the border marquis immediately pressed down: “Whoever dares to touch the northern front military budget, we will first declare autonomy!”
Local nobles were no longer whispering but stood up row by row: “The provinces are not vassals of the Eight Clans!” “We demand true autonomy!” “Don’t let the old system crush the new emerging territories!”
Order began to tear apart, the Imperial Hall felt like it was being split from the inside by a huge force.
The fear of new nobility soon joined the chaos, initially tremblingly: “The old system resurrects… we’ll all be dead…”
Then came the ceremonial-breaking shouts: “Your era is over!” “The Empire needs reform, not regression!”
Virtually everyone stood up, each face showing real, stark fear.
The eternal fire flickered on the dome, casting blue light on their faces, revealing a group of shadows waiting to see how the Empire would fracture.
The noise turned into a thunderous mix of shattering, collision, and oppression, like the entire Empire stepping to the brink of an abyss prematurely at this moment.
Just then, a motion suddenly lowered all the voices.
The Second Prince stood up, his voice not loud yet like an anvil hitting the ground: “Royal power is borne by the Royal Family.”
No rhetoric, no explanation, no contention, this sentence directly shattered the foundation of the Electoral Prince system.
The civil servants understood that this was a warning that royal authority is no tool.
The old nobles understood, as the Ministry of Military Affairs and the legions would not allow the Eight Clans to touch the throne.
The Eight Great Clans understood too; that was the boundary.
He then added another sentence, even colder: “The Emperor’s disappearance does not mean you can carve up the meat.”
When this statement landed, the Imperial Hall felt as if crushed by a huge stone.
Local nobles were choked, new nobles fell silent, and even the Eight Great Clans paused for a moment.
No anger, yet full of pressure, but it did not suppress; after a brief silence, the arguments resumed.
Lin Ze tried to regain control of the situation, shouting: “Silence—!”
The voice exploded in the array of reverberations, like a heavy clock hitting a stone wall.
But this time no one paid attention, local nobles continued to shout, new nobles broke etiquette, old nobles lost composure.
This was the first time since the Emperor’s disappearance that even the superficial order could not be maintained.
“Quiet down.” Then a weak voice came.
In front of the Black Obsidian Throne, Arons supported the armrest with his hand, the noise pressing him breathless.
His movements were slow, but he still stood up.
The light of the eternal fire shone on his face, making him look like a candle that could extinguish at any time but stubbornly remained lit.
This silhouette alone quieted the entire hall.
The instant freeze was the remnant of royal power.
Arons spoke, his voice not loud, but amplified by the array to be clear: “The Emperor… has not died.”
The hall felt forcibly held down, some gasped, some froze.
He lifted his head, eyes exceptionally bright due to the spirit essence fruit: “Royal power remains within the succession sequence. If the Emperor has not passed, any electoral… is usurpation.”
Mei Si’s proposal at this moment turned from “option” into taboo.
Arons’ voice was unstable, yet no one dared to ignore it: “The Empire… does not permit today’s chaos, does not allow the Eight Clans to vie for power, does not permit the military department to establish autonomy, does not allow provinces to cross the line, does not allow the new nobility to go mad.”
Every sentence was like a knife thrust into the chest of the factions that had just been yelling the loudest.
His voice trembled yet was steady: “Before I die, the Empire shall not be divided.”
This might be the Regent King’s last time to suppress the entire scene, the dying lion’s last roar.
Arons slowly sat back on the throne, holding the armrest to stabilize his breath: “Today’s discussion, all temporarily postponed, next agenda, listen to my convening.”
No one opposed.
The Imperial Hall wasn’t silent due to order, nor due to the nobility’s dignity, but due to the shadow of royal power pressing down.
The doors of the Imperial Hall were pushed open, the layer of silence wasn’t fiercely torn apart, but gently pried open by the cool breeze outside.
Footsteps flowed into the outer corridor, yet maintained a restrained restraint, each person striving to keep emotions within the bounds of etiquette.
The chaos did not dissipate but changed its form, shifting from public argument to implicit probing.
Kaelin walked ahead, his steps remaining stable.
His breath thinner than when he entered, yet deeply hidden, like a general just dismounted from the front lines, pressing fatigue, injury, and anger beneath his armor, letting no outsider see a hint.
At this moment, Kaelin had already unraveled the situation in his heart; Rhine initiated the layout, Mei Si and the Eight Great Clans were the pushers, the Electoral Prince system was already established, the civil service faction pressing him.
If the Ministry of Military Affairs does not tighten, he will have no chance to turn the tide.
Before the next meeting, he must regain control of the Ministry of Military Affairs.
He must deploy faster, harder, and more directly.
His obsession is not agitation, but like a battlefield realization that the supply line has been cut, a cold contraction.
On the other side, the civil servant ranks quietly dispersed.
Rhine was surrounded by attendants as he walked out, his pace steady, with no hint of joy nor defeat.
He exchanged a few words softly with the civil servants beside him, as if merely concluding the routine affairs of the afternoon.
Though no results were advanced today, he successfully placed the old system within negotiable range.
Royal power remains suspended, the division among the Eight Clans deepens, provinces probe the center, new nobility begins unease—all he needs for a deadlock base moved forward one step.
The chaos cannot accelerate to be out of control, but must extend until no one can restore the center.
This is Rhine’s battlefield.
No need for loudness, as long as the situation remains positioned where no one can win, he becomes the ultimate controller.
Lampard was the last to leave the venue.
His steps were as natural as taking a stroll, his posture incredibly calm, even the attendants paid him no particular mind.
Yet he dropped three critical lines in his heart: central prestige has collapsed, provinces begin to detach, the Eight’s rift is enough for religious forces to intervene.
Next, his actions won’t be in the Imperial Hall but among the local nobility.
The Empire’s division will naturally emerge in the next chaos rather than be forced today.
The Eight Great Clans dispersed from the Imperial Hall without any clamor.
The power of these clans is never expressed through shouting but through their next actions.
Other local nobles also left the Imperial Hall maintaining etiquette, but with even lower tone, they could no longer suppress the anxiety in their words:
“If the old system returns, the provinces’ bargaining rights will surely be cut.”
“The Imperial Capital’s finances can’t support long-term warfare.”
“Provinces need to establish interconnective lines first.”
This is the first time openly discussing the possible incompetence of the central authority as nobles.
The framework for the Alliance of Provincial Autonomy took shape at this moment, naturally converging through consensus.
The new nobility also did not flee in disorder, but they all understood internally that if the old system was reintroduced, the new nobility would be the first batch to be eliminated.
Elinor stood in the outer corridor, quietly observing all this: subdued discussions, rapid probes, cautious actions, forced contractions.
No shouting, no arguing, no loss of control.
Yet precisely because everyone moved in this restraint with a unified direction, it further indicated the Empire was beginning to fracture.
Elinor mentally began framing the start of a sentence: “The situation in the Imperial Capital needs reevaluation.”
The remnants of royal power still exist, provinces start to loosen, the silence of the Eight divides, new nobility prematurely withdraws, the Ministry of Military Affairs threatens to lose control any moment.
Duke Calvin, that old fox, excels in discerning the situation ten steps ahead through just one sentence’s beginning.
She only needs to organize these clues into material enabling the other party to make judgments, rather than providing conclusions.
The real letter she will write once back at the Kite Tower residence, where the clan will decide how to arrange next.
Today’s meeting is merely the beginning of chaos, and the Calvin Clan in the Southeast must adjust their sails beforehand for the impending fracture.
The Empire’s first crack has already become irreversible.
