"I burned all the tax registers, leaving only a single copy, in the black box. Without it, the Church Court is blind in the Southeast."
"I’ve already cut off the grain routes. Now, the only one who can save those few million people is you."
"Rember, don’t hand out grain imdiately. Wait until they’re starving to the brink of death, wait until the Knights work only for those two Gold Coins. Then give them what they want. Make the people of the Southeast understand that only you can grant them their lives..."
Reading this, in Louis’s mind the southbound deploynt of troops, the order of port takeovers, the temporary grain price curves and the public security nodes had already aligned, one by one.
He had long since begun these preparations.
Even certain details imperceptible to outsiders—such as quietly relocating his full-blooded elder sister who was still in the Southeast Province and placing her in the protection roster—had long since been completed.
In the middle section of the letter, the handwriting began to show a marked change.
The strokes grew unsteady; so lines seed almost carved into the paper by brute force, and in several places the ink had abruptly blurred, like blood that had dripped upon it.
"The family seal is in Nico’s hands; the true tax ledgers and the secret keys to the overseas vaults are as well..."
"From this mont on, you are the head of the Calvin Clan..."
Louis lifted his eyes and glanced at Nico, who was still standing to the side, barely holding himself up, then lowered his head and continued reading.
"And help find out what happened to Eduardo."
"As for the rest... including Seldon, those idiot leeches of cadet branches who feed on the family’s blood; if you find it troubleso, just dispose of them all..."
When the letter was turned to the last page, unexpectedly, the tone suddenly changed.
It no longer sounded like the cold calculations of a scher, but carried a candor tinged with sothing close to black humor.
"A final piece of advice from soone who’s been through it: have more children, marry more won, and breed like mad."
"Don’t bother about feelings, don’t bother about how to raise them. As long as the numbers are large enough—twenty, thirty—by sheer luck you’ll end up with a few monsters like you."
This is the supre survival secret of the Calvin Clan: quantity defeating probability."
At the end of the letter, there were no superfluous farewells, only a single signature—Calvin.
Louis folded the letter.
He thought of that absurd piece of advice about "having more children" and, at last, let out a short, cold laugh.
In that man’s logic, he had never been a cherished son, but a lottery ticket that had hit the jackpot, after more than twenty failed wagers.
The diocre, the ruined, the exhausted offspring were all rely acceptable sunk costs.
As long as, in the end, a "Louis" was drawn, this investnt was a total victory.
He did not grow angry because of it; on the contrary, he calmly accepted this definition.
Since you treat as a matter of probability, then I will, as a matter of course, take all the winnings.
And when he reviewed the structure of the letter as a whole, what arose in his heart was not tenderness, but a nearly icy respect.
Exalting to death the most obedient second son, giving up on the long-lost son of the Pope and Peak Knight elder son, chewing to pulp the family’s flesh and blood together with the old order—only to place the final authority in the hands of the most dangerous, yet most likely to win, heir.
That was not fatherly love, but a naked transfer of power.
An old lion, before age and death overtook him, personally bit to death all the feeble cubs.
But as a Lord, Louis had to admit that this ruthless resolve, this willingness to sacrifice everything for victory, was itself a force worthy of awe.
The Duke had not left a will, but a ticket of admission.
Louis reached out and took the heavy family ring that Nico handed him, and slipped it onto his finger.
From that mont on, he chose to consu this blood-soaked feast in its entirety.
At the instant the tal ring clasped tight, the aura about Louis shifted by a hair’s breadth—almost imperceptibly.
That unique chill restraint of the Lord of the North and the vicious, calculating cunning passed down through the Calvin Clan fused silently at this mont, no longer rejecting one another, like two tightly shed gears finally locking into place.
He turned, and walked calmly toward Nico, who still knelt on one knee.
Having completed his mission, the breath that had barely supported Nico across the continent had utterly dissipated.
His body swayed slightly, cold sweat seeping from his temple; if not for his will strained taut, he would likely have collapsed already.
The Fighting Energy of the High-tier Extraordinary Knight was running dry, like a well about to be exhausted.
Louis halted before him.
"Sir Nico," his voice was low, but devoid of even a trace of condescending pity, "don’t be in such a hurry to go see the old Duke."
Nico’s shoulders gave a faint tremor.
"In his letter, he let that last breath out," Louis went on, his tone so calm it was almost cruel. "But I have not."
He bent slightly forward, bringing his gaze level with Nico’s.
"Live well. Keep your eyes, and watch for him.
Watch how I grind that rabble of the Southeast to dust, inch by inch; watch the banner of Calvin rise again atop the capital’s walls."
Louis straightened, his tone tightening with him, returning to the cold, hard cadence of a Lord issuing orders.
"Take Sir Nico to the finest guest chamber, and use the highest-grade Life Potion."
"Without my permission, the Death God does not take him."
The guard answered at once, stepping forward to support Nico.
Just as Nico was about to bow and withdraw, Louis seed suddenly to recall sothing and called out to stop him.
"By the way, Nico."
Louis walked to the window and raised his hand, pointing toward the drill grounds outside the castle.
In the setting sun, the Red Tide Legion was going through its routine exercises, ranks perfectly aligned, Iron Armor reflecting a steady, muted light.
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