Free Web NovelOn a deep winter night in the Red Tide Territory, cold air seeped through the cracks in the stone walls into the old hall.
The fire in the fireplace was dim, and only a few oil lamps barely illuminated the table.
This meeting room, originally a refuge for nobles, had now been transformed into a secretly operating conference room.
Doors and windows were shut tight, guards had withdrawn, and the air was a mix of charcoal, persistent damp mildew, and a few unsettling whiffs of anxiety.
Viscount Brook, the host of this meeting room, sat in the center, his gaze slowly sweeping over those present.
He was an old Northern noble from Snowpeak County and had been displeased with Louis for a long time.
However, due to Louis’s great power, he had no choice but to lie low, but he never expected that when disaster struck, it would be Louis who took him in.
At this moment, his expression was calm, yet the deep lines at the corners of his eyes indicated that he was not content with his current safety and mere survival.
“Gentlemen,” his voice was low and firm, “we all know who calls the shots in Snowpeak County now, but that doesn’t mean we should be at their mercy.”
Baron Harris crossed his arms, leaning back in his chair, and snorted coldly: “At their mercy? You speak lightly, Brook.
My private army, passed down for four generations, was confiscated, ‘temporarily requisitioned’ as they call it.
A dignified noble now lives mixed with servants and has to eat their black flour buns.”
He tore open a densely written “Charcoal Allocation Application Form” and threw it onto the table.
“Look at this thing; even a bag of charcoal requires stating its ‘purpose,’ ‘identity,’ and ‘whether cohabitation is possible.’ Ha, is this still nobility?
Even vagrants are more dignified than us.”
“They have their reasons, ‘special measures for special times,’” Siris sneered, anger surfacing on his young face.
He couldn’t sit still and walked towards the table, “You are all too complacent.
My Siris family is a prominent family from an outer county; my entire family died in battle, and only I escaped with thirty knights, only to become a dependent here?”
He lifted his chin and said, “Even these knights have to be handed over, to be ‘managed on behalf of’ by the Red Tide Territory.
What right does that kid have?
Siris Karlan, now calling himself “the new Earl Siris,” was in reality just the second son of the family, with both his father and elder brother dead.
He held a cup of cold tea in his hand, but drank it down like strong liquor.
“Why should we still be suppressed by him? When I was in my hometown, Red Tide was just a wasteland without even a name on the map.” His eyes were aggressive, “Is it because he married the Duke’s daughter? That he can ride roughshod over all nobles?”
“What do you mean?” Viscount Roland’s eyebrows twitched slightly, his voice faint.
He was the oldest person in the room, his snow-white goatee trembling slightly, showing his hesitation about this gathering.
In the past, at the Snowpeak County Political Council, no one dared to look down on this old noble, as he was a seasoned noble with some influence.
But times had changed; his fief had been swallowed by the insect tide three months ago, only a few family members remained, and even his family crest had been burned to ashes.
Now, he was just an old noble living as a dependent, relying on his old status for a modicum of respect.
“I—I just want to hear what you all have to say—to see if there’s a proper way forward.” His gaze drifted among the people, as if worried about being misunderstood, yet also afraid of being ignored.
In fact, he had initially refused to come here today.
When Viscount Brook sent someone to his door, the etiquette was impeccable; he said it was just a “small tea party among old nobles,” to catch up on recent events and discuss the future, entirely a private, informal chat.
He also had his grandson read him two passages of Brook’s “views on the future status of old nobles” and sent a bottle of good old vintage wine.
He was already soft-hearted and caught in the melancholy of his lost “noble status,” so after being flattered a few times as “the most virtuous representative of the old faction,” he was dazed and “invited” over.
And now, listening to the barbed remarks around the table, and the hints of a desire for renewed power, Roland’s heart panicked.
He regretted it, but unfortunately, he was already seated and couldn’t leave due to pride.
He tugged at the hem of his cloak and added in a low voice: “But I don’t approve—I don’t approve of rash actions, everyone.”
No one responded to him.
Only the firewood in the fireplace crackled, sending out a spark.
Brook narrowed his eyes and said, seemingly casually, “I am not against the Red Tide Territory; I just want our voices to be heard again.
For instance, in the post-war allocation of fiefs, we should have a say.”
“Easy to say.” Harris sneered, “You want to be the ‘voice,’ don’t you? You gathered us here just to have us ‘jointly submit a petition’?”
“Rather than a joint petition, it’s self-preservation,” Brook gently patted a draft document on the table, densely written with “Material Allocation Proposals,” “Noble Representative Council Rotation Proposals,” and so on.
“We just want Lord Louis to understand that we are not his vassals.
We are also the pillars of Snowpeak County, nobles of the Empire, not his livestock.”
“Will he listen?” Roland whispered, “That child—you haven’t seen him truly angry.
Don’t forget how decisively he ‘dealt with’ those nobles who refused to obey.”
A brief silence, like a basin of cold water, extinguished the anger on Siris’s face.
Everyone exchanged glances, and the room fell into stagnation once more.
They cursed fiercely, but no one dared to truly suggest “leaving the Red Tide Territory,” nor did anyone truly dare to “reclaim their territory” by force.
Because they all knew that it was that young lord who, with his knights, grain, and fortifications, had dragged them out of the Mother Nest’s black fog.
But they were still anxious, angry, and humiliated, and also afraid because nobles without a future plan were just vagrants;
Because bloodline no longer represented privilege; military power, fiefs, and resources all required review and registration; fɾeewebnoveℓ.co๓
Because Red Tide’s Auditing Department, knight system, and intelligence network were even more calm and rigorous than they had anticipated.
They hadn’t tried to make changes:
Some wanted to secretly recall old family retainers and rebuild personal guard camps, but instead, the Auditing Department knocked on their doors at night, and they were exiled to build fortifications without even taking their saddles;
Others secretly bribed officials managing supplies with gold leaves, begging for a few extra bags of salted meat, only to have their rations halved for three days, and their names posted on the Red Tide bulletin board under “Attempted Bribery.”
Some nobles even spread rumors in taverns while Louis was away, proposing to hold a Snowpeak Council to redefine rules, only to find their family gates sealed the next day.
Viscount Brook was unwilling to give up.
He was the most organized among this group, having incited discontent among refugees three times, using “unfair food distribution” and “withholding of noble supplies” as pretexts.
He secretly orchestrated several small-scale mutinies, which, although quickly suppressed, caused chaos and panic to some extent.
He wasn’t aiming for an immediate rebellion, but rather probing the bottom line of the Red Tide Territory.
Louis was not in the Red Tide Territory; his two wives and the old butler handled affairs on his behalf.
Their methods were relatively gentle, which gave Brook some courage.
Overthrowing the Red Tide Territory was beyond his imagination, but he wanted to gain some military power and some distribution rights.
All the nobles wanted to act, but no one dared to make the first move. freeweɓnovel.cѳm
The snowy night was deep, and the fire in the room glowed faintly.
The “Fief Draft” on the table went unread, but the “Red Tide Civil Law Proclamation” on the wall was unconsciously glanced at by everyone.
Seeing that the time was ripe, Brook quietly added, “We just want a chance.
A chance to live standing up.”
“Lord Louis is a hero, we all admit that.” He coughed lightly, “But now he monopolizes military power, granaries, and distribution rights.
Where is our space in the entire Red Tide Territory? We are not here to enjoy ourselves; we are here to jointly plan the reconstruction of Snowpeak.”
Baron Harris gave a cold smile, tapping his silver-tipped cane on the floor: “Yes, which of us here isn’t of noble blood? Now, we’re like servants, queuing for rations.”
The young Earl Siris sat with his arms crossed, his tone even more intense: “Even my father’s old retainers have to be registered and audited.
Does my title of Earl make any difference in front of his Red Tide Knights compared to a vagrant?”
“Enough,” Viscount Roland’s voice was very soft, but he still tried to dissuade them, “Now is an extraordinary time—the Red Tide Territory has, after all, protected us... Too radical, I’m afraid...”
Viscount Brook smiled, changing the subject: “Old sir, we haven’t spoken of rebellion, but if we unite with most of the nobles at the Snowpeak Conference,
and demand the restoration of our respective families’ military power, or—propose that the Snowpeak Council coordinate resources, not allowing Red Tide to dominate alone, wouldn’t that be reasonable?”
“It would be best if you, with your seniority, stepped forward to submit the petition.
It’s reasonable, legitimate, and carries significant weight.” He handed over a drafted document, his eyes sincere but sharp as a blade.
Viscount Roland hesitated for a long time, and finally did not dare to accept it.
The atmosphere briefly fell silent.
A moment later, Siris cursed under his breath: “Coward.”
Siris’s word “coward” seemed to break the last veil.
Baron Harris gave a cold laugh, rose with the aid of his cane, and walked over to Viscount Roland, looking down at him.
His tone was so gentle it was almost soft, yet it felt like ice water flowing down the spine: “Old Viscount, you are the living signboard of Snowpeak County.
Don’t take what the young ones say to heart, but you must know your prestige is great, and everyone is watching you now.”
Brook also smiled and stood up, walking over.
He gently placed a hand on Roland’s shoulder, as if kindly smoothing his wrinkled collar, but in reality, he pressed him so hard that his breath hitched: “It is most fitting for you to step forward.
You carry more weight than us younger ones.
Besides, this is no rebellious act, merely ‘expressing an opinion.’ The Snowpeak Council should inherently have the right to speak, shouldn’t it?”
Another young noble chimed in: “Yes, Lord Roland, just sign your name and submit the document.
Even if Louis disagrees... that’s him being unreasonable; we are just abiding by the rules.”
Siris curled his lip again: “You don’t really want to spend the winter in Red Tide’s wooden cabins, do you? I hear they plan to prioritize distributing firewood to the newly arrived commoners; you won’t be able to compete with them.”
Eyes from all directions fell upon the aging Viscount, neither sharp nor kind, but more like silent hands “lifting” him from his high-backed wooden chair.
Roland’s face flushed red, his beard trembling slightly at his lips.
He knew well that this was inappropriate, dangerous, and highly likely to enrage the young County Governor.
But with the gazes of the entire room pressing down, he had nowhere to retreat.
He felt a chill down his spine, as if he had been pushed onto this stage long ago, only realizing it now.
This was not a “discussion.”
It was a “conspiracy.”
In fact, this so-called “discussion” had already determined its direction days ago through secret letters and private gatherings.
Viscount Brook was the mastermind behind the scenes; he used “reconstruction,” “alliance,” and “the dignity of old nobility” as bait, knocking on the doors of these nobles one by one.
Their families were either in decline, or had lost land and soldiers, or were receiving rations in Red Tide Territory like refugees.
He connected one dissatisfaction after another into a line, twisting one noble after another into a single force.
The ultimate goal of all this was to force Roland to step forward and speak collectively for them at the Snowpeak Conference, prying open the power fortress tightly controlled by Louis.
“All we need is a ‘pretext’,” Brook had said earlier, “As long as Lord Roland speaks, the other nobles will be able to follow suit.”
In their eyes, Roland was not a councilor, not an elder, but a stone.
They pushed it down the mountain together, letting it crash open the door of power. Whether he would be shattered into pieces was not within their consideration.
And now that “stone” had finally loosened.
Roland stared at the document on the table, a lump in his throat.
He knew that once this letter was submitted, it would not only challenge Red Tide’s rule but also enrage that young and decisive lord.
But what was even more terrifying was that if he didn't submit it, these “allies” sitting in the room would consider him a coward obstructing their restoration of power, isolating him from the noble group.
They had agreed, they had spoken in unison, they had laid out their plan.
And he was just the chess piece pushed to the center of the board.
A chess piece that had to move.
Roland took the letter with trembling hands, as if it were not paper but hot iron.
“I... I will try to submit it... to see his attitude.”
The moment his words fell, it was as if everyone in the room simultaneously let out a sigh of relief.
Brook’s lips curled slightly, Siris raised his chin, and Harris let out a low, cold sneer.
No one pressured him further, no one said more, precisely because they had long been certain Roland would do so.
Viscount Brook smiled, raising a hand to signal: “That’s right, the future of the Snowpeak Conference still needs us to fight for it bit by bit.”
No applause erupted, but everyone nodded in agreement.
No one mentioned danger, no one mentioned consequences.
At this moment, Roland understood that he was never their “representative.”
He was merely their excuse for acquiring power.
As long as that letter was sent, they could brazenly shout at the Snowpeak Conference: “This wasn’t my idea, Viscount Roland proposed it, please Lord Calvin consider it carefully.”
And once Louis was truly angered, they could beat their chests and say: “We merely seconded the motion.”
With business concluded, an air of relaxation and superficiality permeated the room.
Viscount Brook was the first to laugh, crossing his legs and picking up his teacup, chatting about post-war balls.
“At the end of the day, no matter how chaotic, etiquette cannot be abandoned. For the first ball after the war, if no one hosts the opening ceremony, the entire county will laugh at us ‘refugee nobles’.”
Baron Harris gave a cold snort, but also echoed, “I heard the nobles in the south are living quite well. Black tea, roses, and lace gloves—the dignity of a noble should be reclaimed bit by bit from the details.”
“Do you know, Viscount Palan’s youngest daughter, at last month’s Winter Gala, fell in front of three noblewomen?
She was still wearing an old-fashioned gown, yet she dared to call herself ‘of noble blood’.”
Everyone chuckled, and a low murmur of noble gossip quickly unfolded.
Whose daughter eloped, whose young master defaulted on debts, who forgot their speech at the ball, who gave the Duchess a fake gem as a gift.
These topics, like light and illusory bubbles, floated up amidst the scent of tea, laughter, and slanted candlelight.
They clinked cups and adjusted their cuffs, as if still in the carefree ballroom of yesteryear, rather than this borrowed council chamber.
Even if they were not well-informed about war intelligence, they had to understand noble gossip; this was their familiar world, one they took pride in.
It spoke not of strength or victory, but only of whose child was handsome, whose banquet was grand.
Even with their families ruined and forced to flee, they still tried to weave a curtain of old gold thread to conceal their shame, as if as long as the conversation remained on etiquette and jokes, they were still “true nobles.”
Only the old Viscount, Roland, curled up in the corner, remained silent.
His face was pale, as if he had just caught a severe chill from the cold wind of a winter night.
But no one noticed him.
They had already used him.
“Thump, thump, thump.”
Suddenly, three unhurried knocks on the door, like an invisible hand, abruptly shattered the liveliness in the room.
The laughter of the crowd ceased, and their conversations came to an abrupt halt.
The air seemed to solidify.
Viscount Brook’s teacup, which he was holding, trembled slightly, its rim hitting the saucer with a crisp “clink.”
Siris instinctively reached for his waist, where his sword used to hang, but it had long since been surrendered.
Harris’s expression was the coldest, but his knuckles quietly whitened.
Viscount Roland even jumped from his chair, almost falling back, his first thought being:
Did they hear what we said?
They had considered the possibility of “walls having ears.”
The Auditing Department of Red Tide had a tight grip; anyone who said a few extra words at the tavern, or complained about scarce food at the ration point, might be called in for a “talk” the next day.
They had also long heard that Louis liked to set up “eyes and ears” in the dark.
That young lord might be quietly listening to every word you say in the place you thought was safest.
“Who is it?” Viscount Brook forced composure, asking towards the door, his voice extremely low, as if praying it was just a servant delivering tea.
But a slightly aged, familiar voice replied.
“Master, it’s me.”
Viscount Brook paused, then relaxed, his expression easing, and said, “It’s my old butler, no need to be nervous.”
He waved towards the door: “Come in.”
The door opened, and an old man in a dark gray suit with graying hair bowed and entered, his steps steady.
It was Milton, the old butler of Viscount Brook’s family.
Seeing who it was, the nobles all secretly breathed a sigh of relief.
Earl Siris even quietly patted his chest, while Baron Harris discreetly pulled his slightly trembling hand back under his cloak.
And Milton somewhat stiffly repeated the information he had just received: “Lord Louis has sent an envoy; he will convene a noble council in the assembly hall tomorrow at the hour of Chen (7-9 AM).”
He paused, scanned the slightly stiff faces of everyone, and added, “He also said no unexcused absences.”
That short sentence was like cold water poured into a stove, instantly extinguishing the remaining warmth in the room.
Earl Siris’s lips moved, but in the end, nothing came out.
No one made a sound.
Viscount Brook’s expression remained unchanged, he merely nodded slightly and said, “Understood, Milton, go tell the envoy that we will attend on time.”
Milton bowed again: “I shall take my leave.”
After the aged figure slowly departed and the door closed again, the people in the room no longer had their previous relaxation and warmth.
They were, of course, prepared; Louis’s summons was not unexpected.
Having returned from the battle of Frost Halberd City, he would inevitably reorganize the situation and consolidate order.
And their “meeting” tonight, in a sense, was also a gamble to set the tone and gain the upper hand before that happened.
“It’s about time,” Viscount Brook said calmly, “We’ve discussed enough for today, so let’s end it here. Gentlemen, go back and rest, and prepare for tomorrow’s formal council.”
He did not smile.
Because he knew, this game had just begun.
The nobles rose one by one, some silent, some pensive.
No one spoke of balls, etiquette, or gossip anymore; only the flickering light of their individual calculations remained in their eyes.
They departed silently, as if afraid that if they stayed a moment longer, the Lord of Red Tide would see through the wooden door and discern every thought in their hearts.
Inside the room, only Viscount Brook remained.
The candlelight flickered on the silver candelabra, reflecting a faint smile on his face.
He slowly walked to the window, looking out at the silent streets under the Red Tide night sky, as if seeing the nobles, each with their own concerns, # Nоvеlight # gradually disappear into the winter night.
“Heh—... Indeed, all as expected.”
He slowly sat down, tapping his fingers on the table, the draft petition that Viscount Roland had not explicitly accepted but had been “defaulted” was still spread out there.
He was not in a hurry to put it away; instead, he gazed at it for a long time, as if admiring a delicate piece of craftsmanship.
“Old Roland, soft he may be, but he’s still a useful old bone. When you get old, you fear losing power the most—just a little push, and he knows how to stand.
Harris—ambition aplenty, but lacking in means, a good lackey. Siris, well, hot-blooded and emotional, easiest to exploit.
As for the others, some need to be cooled, some need to be agitated. Chess pieces don’t need to be smart, just useful.”
He unhurriedly untied his cloak, placing it on the high-backed chair nearby, then poured himself a glass of warmed red wine from the liquor cabinet, swirling it gently.
“Louis, you certainly saved many people, but you are still too young.”
He drained the wine in one gulp, a self-satisfied curve playing on his lips.
“Those who gain power young always think what they hold in their hands belongs to them.”
“But they don’t know that true power is at the negotiating table, in the council hall, when you have to deal with a group of ‘past nobles’—it’s pried away little by little.”
Brook stood up, unbuttoned his outer coat, and slowly walked towards the bedroom.
Before leaving, he glanced back at the draft and the conference table, illuminated by candlelight, his gaze resolute.
“Tomorrow’s council is just the beginning. I, Brook, will not bow to a mere twenty-year-old upstart. Let him see,
what true nobility is, what true strategizing is!”
He extinguished the lamp and walked into the darkness.
