The weather was gradually warming. Ryan stood atop the peak of Rhinoceros Horn Mountain, gazing into the distance. Much of the snow had already lted.
There were no soldiers currently in the territory—every last one had been dispatched to supervise the slaves building roads.
Carving paths through mountains was dangerous work. In the past month alone, many orcs had died during the project.
But the more that died, the faster the road progressed. To Ryan’s surprise, not a single revolt had occurred.
He wasn’t sure whether it was due to the sting of the soldiers’ whips—or the fact that he provided the slaves with comparatively generous food rations.
"I wonder if they’ll manage to finish a full road before this batch of orcs dies out."
From the peak, Ryan looked southward. Through the forest, he could already see wide swaths of cleared land—the direction that led to the Northern Wind Province.
As he watched, the figure of Viscountess Whitman slowly approached. Though it was still cold on the mountaintop, the visibly pregnant noblewoman shivered slightly in the wind.
"My lady, what brings you here?" Ryan asked.
Given his rare gift for magical ditation, the Viscountess had lost much of her political value. Ryan had assigned her to teach the maids how to read and do arithtic.
"Lord Ryan... I would like to move down the mountain."
"Oh? Why?"
"You’re still teaching them. Traveling back up and down the mountain will be inconvenient."
Though both were nobles, Ryan still treated the Viscountess with respect. His past rash and lustful thoughts had cooled during the grueling weeks of managing orc slaves.
Now, looking at her with her belly gently swollen and her beauty enhanced by pregnancy, Ryan almost instinctively wanted to refuse.
But the Viscountess struggled to explain herself. Recently, as the weather ward and she made more trips down the mountain, she had heard whisperings—rumors that made her blush.
"My presence on the mountain reflects poorly on you, Lord Ryan..."
Before Ryan could respond, his old steward, Beard, walked over and spoke with a slightly hoarse voice:
"The lady is right. Young Master Ryan still has a future bride to consider. Spring has arrived. Southern rchant caravans will soon be traveling north. Best to avoid the gossip."
"I’ll have a small estate built at the base of the mountain, close to here. The lady can stay there. If you want to ditate, it’s only a short trip up."
Hearing Beard’s words, the Viscountess flushed with embarrassnt. Ryan didn’t object further.
Once she had left, Ryan turned to Beard.
"How are the children doing? Are they learning anything?"
Beard nodded. As the population of the territory grew, the old steward found himself increasingly overwheld. Ryan had personally instructed him to select clever, quick-witted youths and begin teaching them reading and arithtic.
With Ryan’s own refinents to the curriculum, those students had improved by leaps and bounds.
"Ah... this kind of work should’ve been done by mbers of the Rihart family who were willing to co north with you, Young Master Ryan. Only then would I truly trust them. As it stands, we’re stuck with these mud-legged peasants."
"You don’t know, Young Master—the way they react when we tell them they’ll be learning sothing new... they nearly want to carve the words into their own hands."
"Eagerness to learn is a good thing," Ryan chuckled, unconcerned about spreading knowledge to commoners.
"This way, your burden’s lighter. Spring’s here, and your bones aren’t what they were when we first arrived in the Frozen Wastes."
"Hmph..." Beard sighed.
"I’d rather work myself to death than give those mud-legs a chance to manage your estate, Young Master."
"Relax. They’re loyal to . And they won’t beco stewards. That position is yours—Beard’s."
Ryan smiled. He was right—the loyalty was real. In all the Frozen Wastes, not even the slaves dared betray him. The province was in chaos, but Ryan had never failed to feed them, and many slaves had wept with gratitude.
Beard’s selection of those smart youths had prioritized loyalty above all else.
Hearing Ryan’s reassurance, Beard was moved—but his expression soon turned worried.
"That boy... he’s still stuck in Flying Wing Gorge. I don’t know if he’s even alive."
"Flying Wing Gorge has been safe for years. It’s not that easy to die there."
Ryan patted the old steward’s shoulder.
"I’ve already sent soone to find him. If Little Beard is alive, they’ll bring him back."
Back when Ryan left the Imperial capital for the Northern Wind Province, his resources and manpower dwindled along the journey. Beard’s son, Little Beard, had been detained at Flying Wing Gorge.
As road construction continued, spring planting season arrived.
At the base of Rhinoceros Horn Mountain, the towns and villages grew quiet. The commoners spent all day and night in the fields. They even fought over bird droppings that fell from the sky.
anwhile, in Northern Wind Province, countless displaced people either beca slaves—or returned ho only to find nothing left.
Cries of despair echoed across the province. The number of slaves would likely only increase in the days ahead.
And the more slaves, the cheaper they beca. The Empire’s rchant guilds—like vultures drawn to rotting corpses—arrived half a month earlier than expected.
By coincidence—or fate—one caravan brought people closely connected to Ryan.
"Young Master! Lord Ryan! I’ve finally found you!"
In the Frozen Wastes, a disheveled young man—clearly older than Ryan by a year or two—ca running toward him, tears streaming down his face.
It was Little Beard, the old steward’s son.
"You... you were released?" Ryan asked in surprise.
By his own estimates, the people he sent to Flying Wing Gorge shouldn’t have arrived yet.
"All thanks to you, Young Master. The lords of House Rihart brought out themselves!"
Only now did Ryan notice the procession behind Little Beard.
Over a hundred mighty warhorses, their manes flowing like ribbons in the wind—not Highland breeds, but proud stallions from the southern grasslands, outside Imperial borders.
Twenty wagons followed. Each carried seven or eight heavy oak chests. Judging by the wheels, they were loaded with tal—likely iron.
One carriage, however, was clearly not for cargo. It was a noble’s personal coach, its large wheels rimd with silver, and the body inscribed with subtle red magical patterns, like glowing roses.
The two white steeds pulling the coach nearly blinded Ryan. They were magical beasts.
Even the weakest magical beast, empowered by mana, was the equal of a Bronze Knight. It took a whole team of full knights to bring one down.
And then there were the guards: 150 armored spearn, and five knights of the Rihart family.
These were the people Beard had always spoken of—trusted bloodline nobles who could manage a domain. But clearly, they were more suited for military affairs.
All five were Bronze Knights, trained in the Rihart family’s Fla Dragon Rider breathing technique.
"Lord Ryan, the Count ordered us to deliver you troops and supplies."
"Here is what we’ve brought:
– Fifty thousand gold coins
– Ten sets of enchanted mithril armor
– One hundred knight lances
– One hundred full suits of knight armor
– Five hundred Kg of grain seed
– One thousand five hundred bolts of flax
– One mammoth-fur cloak from the northern wilds
– One Rihart family carriage
– One hundred and fifty knight-retainers
– And five knights of House Rihart."
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