Roland's world had compressed to the smug, leering face of his brother.
Cassian.
The System's condition echoed in his mind.
...punch his brother...
...prove the System hasn't bound itself to a useless cripple.
Roland didn't hesitate.
His fist connected.
A solid, satisfying crack of knuckle on jaw.
The sound was wet.
Cassian's eyes widened, pupils shrinking in disbelief.
Before he could even register the first blow, Roland's other fist hammered into his stomach.
Once.
Twice.
The air rushed out of Cassian's lungs in a pained whoosh.
A fourth blow, a brutal uppercut, snapped his head back.
A small spray of saliva and blood arced through the air.
Cassian dropped.
Unconscious.
Silence.
The great hall was utterly, profoundly silent.
Then, a roar.
"ROLAND!"
His father's voice was thunder.
It wasn't just a shout; it was a command, backed by power.
An invisible force, heavy as a mountain, slammed into Roland.
Magic.
It froze him in place.
His arm, still raised for another blow, was locked solid.
He couldn't move. He couldn't even breathe.
The pressure was immense, crushing him from all sides.
His father, Earl Valerius, was on his feet.
His face was a mask of cold, absolute fury. His eyes, usually just indifferent, now blazed with a terrifying light.
This was the rage of a Earl. A high-ranking magic wielder.
He wanted to punish him.
The magic binding Roland crackled with intent, squeezing tighter.
Roland's bones creaked.
'Go on,' he thought, defiance surging through him. 'Do it. What else can you take from me?'
But the Earl's eyes flicked from Roland to the unconscious form of Cassian.
Then back to Roland.
And just like that, the inferno in his eyes died.
The fury receded.
It was replaced by that familiar, icy indifference.
Roland knew that look.
It was the look of a man appraising a broken tool.
He was a man already banished.
A zero.
A piece of trash being taken to the dump.
What was the point in breaking it further?
The magic dissipated.
Roland gasped, air flooding his lungs. He stumbled a step, rubbing his arm.
Earl Valerius sat back down and summoned the priest to treat the fallen Cassian.
He calmly smoothed the front of his crimson doublet. He looked at Roland as if he were a minor servant who had dropped a tray.
His rage was gone, not because he had forgiven, but because Roland wasn't worth the effort of being angry at.
In the end, he just said, "I will grant you five hundred gold coins as start-up capital for developing the Northern Reaches."
Roland almost laughed.
The sound died in his throat, a dry, humorless rasp.
'Five hundred gold?'
He scoffed internally.
'A joke.'
'He's kidding, right?'
Five hundred gold sounded like a fortune to a commoner. It was, perhaps, ten years' wages for a farmer.
But for building a territory?
For building a fortress, hiring guards, buying food, and surviving a place that was actively trying to kill him?
It was nothing.
It was less than nothing.
'This isn't start-up capital,' Roland thought. 'This is funeral money.'
'It's enough to get me there. It's enough to hire a man to dig my grave.'
A proper "family division," even a pity-payment for an exiled, magic-less son, should have been tens of thousands.
This?
This was an insult.
But he found he no longer cared.
He didn't care about the pittance.
He didn't even care about the satisfying, dull throb in his knuckles from his brother's jaw.
Because something else was happening.
Something far more important.
A brilliant, holographic screen had bloomed in his vision, visible only to him.
[Host has demonstrated requisite will.]
[Bound Host is not a waste.]
[God-Tier Bloodline Collector System: FULLY ACTIVATED.]
A jolt, like a pleasant electrical current, ran down his spine.
[Function Unlocked: Bloodline Search.]
[Searching for available targets...]
Roland's heart pounded.
A sudden, wild drumbeat against his ribs.
It was real.
It was working.
The System wasn't just a voice in his head, a symptom of his transmigration.
It was real.
It was here.
And it could find them.
As he watched, frozen in place, a new window materialized in his vision.
A map.
It was a detailed, topographical map of the lands surrounding the castle.
And on it, a single, pulsing white dot.
It was close.
Shockingly close.
Not in the cursed Northern Reaches, but here. Right within the borders of his father's domain.
'This is it.'
It had to be.
A 'seed'.
His first target.
He had to go there.
Now.
A new purpose, sharp and bright, cut through the despair of his banishment.
Roland turned on his heel.
His boots echoed sharply on the stone floor.
He strode for the great hall's exit.
"Roland!"
His father's voice again.
It wasn't angry this time. It was... surprised.
Roland stopped.
But he didn't turn around.
He could feel his father's shock. He could feel the entire room's confusion.
They had expected him to beg.
To rage.
To get on his knees and protest the meager, insulting sum.
He never thought Roland would just... accept it.
He never thought Roland would just... leave.
The small, petty satisfaction of it was delicious.
"He... he can't, can he?"
A small, trembling voice.
It cut through the heavy silence of the hall.
His younger sister, Elara.
Roland paused, his hand on the heavy iron door handle.
'Elara...'
He gritted his teeth.
"Father, can't he stay? Please?"
Her voice was thick with tears.
"He could... he could assist Cassian. He's still his brother!"
Roland's hand tightened on the iron.
She was the only one.
The only one in this cold, heartless castle who had ever shown him genuine kindness. The only one who didn't treat him like a rival or a failure.
The Earl's reply was flat. Devoid of all emotion.
"No."
A brutal, single-word execution.
"My own brother," his father's voice continued, the tone lecturing, as if explaining a simple, hard fact. "Stayed to 'assist' me. He tried to assassinate me on my coronation day."
Roland heard his mother's sharp intake of breath.
"The title can have only one heir, and no rivals. Not even one with zero magic."
"Roland must be sent away."
'So that's it,' Roland thought, the last of his hesitation vanishing.
'He's not just banishing a magic-less son. He's eliminating a potential rival for Cassian.'
'Even a 'waste' like me is a threat to his precious heir.'
"Do not worry, Elara," the Earl said, his voice softening by a fraction.
But it wasn't for Roland. It was for her.
"I will grant him some manpower. A few guards, some servants. Enough to help establish his territory."
He paused.
"As long as he stays quiet in the North and doesn't overreach, he can... survive."
Survive.
That was all his father offered him.
A chance to not die immediately.
'We'll see about that,' Roland thought, a cold smile touching his lips. 'We'll see about 'surviving'.'
He shoved the door open.
It grated, loud and heavy.
He didn't look back.
He left the castle, the home that had never been his, and didn't spare it a single glance.
The sun was brighter out here.
The air, fresher.
It felt good.
Roland walked quickly, moving past the castle's inner bailey, under the shadow of the gatehouse, and across the drawbridge.
He was free.
'Good riddance,' he thought.
He walked past the castle's outer bailey and into the bustling market town.
He ignored the stares of the guards on the ramparts.
He ignored the curious, fearful looks from the merchants and commoners in the street.
They all knew.
The news of the eldest son's "zero" awakening had already spread.
He was a failure.
Yesterday, he was the heir apparent. Today, he was less than nothing.
He didn't care.
His entire focus was on the map floating in his vision.
He was a small, blue arrow.
The white dot was his destination.
And it was getting closer.
'Focus.'
'Just follow the map.'
'Don't care about these people.'
'They don't matter.'
He navigated the winding, filthy streets. His fine castle boots, meant for polished stone floors, sank into mud and refuse.
The stench of unwashed bodies, animal waste, and rotting vegetables was thick.
The map led him away from the main square, away from the decent inns and smithies.
It led him toward the more densely packed hovels.
The slums.
The din of the city grew. Shouting, haggling, a baby crying.
'Closer.'
'It's just up ahead.'
'Closer.'
He turned a corner into a small, packed square.
And stopped.
Ahead, he saw it.
A crowd.
A large, restless gathering of people.
They were packed tight, their bodies blocking the narrow alleyway his map was pointing him directly down.
These were the people of the territory.
His people, technically.
Or, they had been.
Tenant farmers in rough-spun tunics.
Freemen with leather jerkins and suspicious eyes.
Serfs, looking gaunt and hollow-eyed, their faces smeared with dirt.
They were agitated.
Angry.
He could hear shouting.
It wasn't the normal bustle of a market.
This was an angry sound. A dangerous sound.
A raw, guttural cry rose above the murmur.
"Thief!"
"Catch the thief!" another voice shrieked.
"Got her! We got her!"
A rough, angry voice bellowed out, thick with righteous fury.
"The thief must die!"