The castle's imposing silhouette and the prosperous scenes of the territory's heartland slowly disappeared behind the rolling wheels, eventually becoming nothing more than a dark smudge on the distant horizon.
The farther they traveled, the more barren and desolate the landscape became.
Rich black soil gradually gave way to frozen wasteland scattered with patches of exposed gray-white stone, covered by stubborn moss and withered yellow lichen clinging to life.
Even the evergreen pine forests grew thin and sparse. The trees twisted into gnarled shapes, their branches reaching skyward like skeletal fingers. In their place stood clusters of hardy shrubs and vast stretches of brown grass that swayed in the bitter wind.
The sky lost its clear, brilliant blue, turning gray and heavy with clouds. Thick, dark storm clouds hung low overhead, so close it seemed you could reach up and touch them.
The temperature dropped sharply.
Grant pulled his expensive snow bear fur coat tighter around his shoulders. Bone-deep cold seeped through the luxurious carriage walls, working its way into his very bones. The thin, sharp air outside made each breath feel like tiny needles stabbing his lungs.
The convoy moved in silence across the wasteland.
Only the steady creaking of wheels grinding over rough ground, the occasional metallic clink of armor plates, and the hollow moan of wind through distant dry grass broke the deathly quiet of this frozen world. The peasants, once full of energy, now trudged forward with nothing but numb instinct, one stumbling step after another through the frozen earth.
A crushing loneliness and oppressive weight, along with this endless desolation, washed over Grant's heart like a cold tide.
The warmth, the golden gleam, the aristocratic splendor and bustle still seemed to cling to the ornate gold carvings inside the carriage, but outside lay a completely different world.
Something cold and merciless seeped from every corner of the vast frozen wasteland, quietly surrounding this gilded, ostentatious carriage.
The contrast between golden luxury and the harsh brutality of the outside world was breathtaking.
"Tap, tap, tap."
An incredibly faint sound. Like hard knuckles, controlled yet deliberate, lightly tapping on the thick crystal window with its gold frame, right beside Grant's shoulder.
The sound wasn't loud, but it had a strange, piercing quality.
It wasn't from the convoy's noise, or from the howling northern wind. This light tapping was so sudden, so clear, carrying an icy sharpness that instantly cut through the golden carriage's luxurious shell and through Grant's thoughts, which had been lost in contemplating the harsh wasteland beyond.
...
...
The Northern Marches—the Kingdom of Soro's frozen northern blade, standing against the winds, snow, and claws of the Orc Kingdom for countless centuries.
The bitter cold wind had polished the stones, walls, and hearts here like sandpaper. Even with the impregnable Raven Ridge fortress guarding the northern pass, orcs from the harsh lands would still prowl like hungry wolves, launching small raiding parties during howling blizzards.
Though not major threats, they had left their mark on every inch of the Northern Marches' soil.
This forged the Northern Marches' character—fierce, warlike, where only strength mattered.
A saying echoed throughout the kingdom: The kingdom's finest knights might be born in the capital's comfort, but they had to be forged on the Northern Marches' anvil and finally tempered in the fires of Raven Ridge fortress.
Proud knights from the capital would arrive here looking down on everyone, but would eventually have their arrogance beaten out of them by the silent, brutal fists of the northern men, transforming into true warriors.
...
Kalan Territory, Grant Windsor's new but crisis-ridden domain, sat on the edge of this steel-hard northern region.
Compared to those frontier lands under constant siege, Kalan Territory's location was remarkably fortunate:
South: A deep, treacherous canyon called Eagle's Sorrow, with steep walls carved by some giant's axe, allowing only a narrow valley path to wind through—a natural gateway connecting to the family's stronghold in Snow Wolf territory beyond. Guard the canyon mouth, and the rear would be secure.
West: The Divide Mountains stretching like an ancient beast's spine! This legendary towering barrier split the continent, separating the mysterious Dwarf Kingdom on the other side, along with peace. But hidden within those silent peaks lay endless mineral wealth and treasures—clearly the main direction for Grant's territory to expand.
North: Endless, dangerous frozen wasteland. This was Kalan Territory's coldest, most violent neighbor. The wasteland crawled with hungry orc raiders, cunning kobold tribes, mountain-moving ogres, and terrifying trolls wielding massive clubs... Their greedy eyes constantly watched this newborn territory.
East: The reassuring direction. It bordered his maternal grandfather's—the Northern Duke's—vast Raven Ridge territory, as wide as an ocean. His neighbor was supposedly his cousin, a baron also carving out a domain in these lands. More importantly, just north of his cousin's territory stood Uncle Andre's Raven Ridge fortress, solid as a mountain!
The strategy was obvious: build a strong fortress at Eagle's Sorrow Canyon's entrance, and most defensive forces could be spared and concentrated on the northern wasteland's front lines to counter those restless wild creatures. Once the north was reasonably stable, Grant could turn his attention without worry to that silent treasure vault—the western Divide Mountains.
The family's generous support was already in place: two hundred battle-hardened veterans, ten elite knights capable of leading small units. For any ordinary frontier lord, this was substantial backing to establish a foothold and ward off bandits.
However, Grant's ambitions weren't limited to defending one corner. Whether taming the dangerous northern wilderness or breaking open the iron walls of the Divide Mountains... this bit of strength was nowhere near enough.
Kalan Territory wasn't starting from scratch.
The previous unfortunate soul—a marquis's second son from the capital—had come with high hopes to develop the land.
Unfortunately, he ran into a rare, large-scale invasion led by a troll from the wasteland. The castle fell, and the marquis's second son ran faster than anyone else, fleeing all the way back to Snow Wolf City hundreds of miles away to seek refuge.
The Raven Ridge knights who came to help found only ruins, and could only silently reclaim the land.
When Andre—that "Black Raven" who ruled the Northern Marches—learned that his sister's youngest son Grant needed territory, he waved his hand generously: mixing the refugees rescued earlier with seven thousand carefully chosen people from his own territory, gathering a full ten thousand souls, they moved en masse into Kalan Territory, leaving behind a squad of ten elite knights to temporarily hold the fort while waiting for Grant to take control.
Though his predecessor failed to see it through, he left behind foundations.
The territory already had a small town and three surrounding villages.
The rather shabby castle left by the previous lord had its main structure intact, and with some repair and reinforcement, could serve as Grant's temporary seat of power.
The carriage wheels rolled over the stone road before the castle, leaving clear tracks in the snow.
Grant's heartbeat quickened and slowed with the rhythm of the rolling wheels. Just as the horse hooves stepped into the castle's shadow—
"Beep!"
A cold, sudden mechanical sound, like metal gears clicking together, exploded without warning deep inside his skull!
[Host requirements detected: noble title confirmed, territorial domain acquired.]
[System activated, permissions initialized...]
[Starter pack ×1 successfully delivered.]
All other sounds were drowned out by this eerie noise!