The flames surged, dispelling the cold and darkness of the cramped hut. In their wake, the last vestiges of doubt and anxiety within the village elder were incinerated.
The old man slowly knelt upon the wooden floor. A dry, chilling creak echoed through the room, but his face was now more illuminated than ever—as if he were being enlightened by something far greater than the mere fire before him.
For the first time in his life, he had witnessed a common man—one without even a flicker of mana—create fire.
Not through prayers to the gods. Not through magic. But with his own two hands.
That flame didn't just warm his aging body; it burned away the insecurity that had been rooted in him for years. And perhaps, it wasn't just for him—but for every soul barely clinging to life on this frozen earth.
"I bow before the Lord," his voice rang out, trembling yet firm. "Nicholas Albert... this servant pledges his loyalty to you."
"Forevermore."
In that oath, there was no more suspicion. No more fear. There was only faith—and a flicker of hope, fragile yet real. He saw something in this young Lord that this land had lost long ago.
Hope.
Though it was but a tiny spark, it was enough to lead him and his villagers through their tragic present and perhaps—toward a tomorrow filled with light.
Nicholas remained seated on the old wooden chair. In that moment, it no longer looked like a piece of junk about to snap; it felt like a primitive throne for an unrecognized king.
His posture didn't shift. His gaze didn't waver. This was exactly what he wanted. And he had achieved his goal.
Nicholas didn't need everyone's loyalty immediately. What he needed was just one person—someone with enough prestige to represent the entire village—to step forward and recognize his authority.
That was enough.
Like a game of chess played amidst the ice and snow, he had made his opening moves. He didn't know who would step onto the board next, nor did he know who his true opponent was.
But he knew one thing clearly. If he didn't make the first move, he would die right here in this frozen frontier.
"Fine. Stand up," Nicholas said, his voice solemn and clear. "I don't care for people kneeling before me like that."
It wasn't a loud command, nor was it an act of mercy. It was a blunt statement, carrying a natural sense of authority. Nicholas was not a typical aristocrat of this world. He had no use for tedious etiquette, hollow oaths, or blind worship.
What he needed was action.
The old man hesitated for a moment before rising and slowly sitting back down on the edge of the rickety bed.
Nicholas turned his gaze toward him.
"I want to know your name."
"My... my name, My Lord?" The old man froze, clearly caught off guard. "Why would the Lord wish to know the name of a servant like me?"
Nicholas frowned slightly, a flicker of surprise passing over his face before vanishing just as quickly. "If we are to communicate, we must know each other's names. Otherwise, what am I supposed to call you?"
This time, it was the old man's turn to be genuinely bewildered.
"Please forgive me, My Lord... but this is the first time a nobleman has ever asked for my name." He bowed his head, his voice slow and heavy. "Up until now, nobles have never cared for the names or backgrounds of commoners. Much less a mere refugee like myself..."
"You talk too much." Nicholas cut him off, his tone turning cold. "I am ordering you—tell me your name."
He didn't raise his voice. He didn't get angry. Yet, it was enough to plunge the room into a sudden silence.
"Yes!" the old man stammered, jolted by the command. "My name is Garrick. It is a name that has followed me for... over fifty years."
"Good." Nicholas nodded. "Garrick. From now on, you will call me Nicholas, or Young Master—whichever comes more naturally to you." He looked the man straight in the eye. "Don't call me 'Lord.' I have no taste for such grand, empty titles."
Garrick was stunned. "But that... that would be disrespectful. I cannot—"
"This is an order," Nicholas said decisively. "Is that clear?"
Garrick went silent immediately. "Understood... I understand, Young Master."
Nicholas withdrew his gaze, having already reached a very clear conclusion in his mind. As long as it was an order, Garrick would follow it unconditionally. Therefore, from now on, even ordinary requests could be handled as commands.
Fast. Efficient. No time wasted.
"I want to know the situation of this territory. Tell me everything, in as much detail as possible," Nicholas continued.
This time, he didn't just want fragments of information; he wanted the full picture of this decaying land. He needed to know exactly what kind of ground he was standing on and what he was up against to find the optimal path forward.
"Understood, Young Master."
The old man took a deep breath, as if gathering the last of his courage.
"This Northern territory, as you can see, belongs to the House of Duke Albert. As for its specific name... I do not know it. Perhaps, for a very long time now, no one has bothered to give this place a name anymore." His voice dropped an octave. "Here, even a 'light' snowfall lasts for over half a year. Right now, the polar winds are blowing down from the north, making conditions even more brutal."
"This place... it is where the nobility exiles those who cross them. Or it is the end of the road for refugees with nowhere left to go, drifting here in hopes of finding a sliver of hope to survive."
The old man paused.
"What about the food and water supply?" Nicholas's voice turned cold. As expected, this place was nothing more than a "trash heap" for the aristocracy.
"There is a village about a week's journey from here. Because it's further south, the climate is milder, and they can grow wheat. Twice a month, we travel there to trade for grain and water. We barter using raw materials we've gathered or the pelts of the wolves we hunt out there."
"If such a village exists... why don't you simply live there?"
"That village is under the jurisdiction of Baron Ophelia." Garrick shook his head, his eyes clouding over with sorrow. "To stay there, one must pass a rigorous background check. Refugees like us... we have nothing to prove who we are."
The old man continued, his voice tight with an unspoken resentment. "Furthermore, Baron Ophelia is a vassal of Duke Albert. So... there is no hope there."
Nicholas remained silent for a moment. "Continue. These huts around here—who built them?"
"There is a carpenter in the village named Geralt," Garrick answered immediately. "He once attacked a noble who tried to steal his wife, so he was exiled here. Geralt is the only one who owns an iron axe and a few functional tools; we rely on him for everything from chopping wood to raising huts. Fortunately, he is a mild-mannered, honest man. The villagers are very fond of him."
A faint glint flickered in Nicholas's eyes. He had identified his next target. To him, this information was worth more than gold or silver.
"You mentioned hunting for pelts?" Nicholas pressed. "Do we have a hunter in the village?"
"We do," Garrick nodded. "Dianne. She used to be a waitress at a tavern in the South. She slapped a noble who harassed her and ended up exiled just like Geralt." The old man sighed. "But her archery is extraordinary. Most of the meat the village gets... comes from her hands."
"Wait." Nicholas frowned slightly. "Her? How old is this Dianne?"
"Around seventeen or eighteen, I believe," Garrick replied after a moment's thought.
Nicholas nodded. Another name was marked in his mind.
"That's enough for today." Nicholas stood up. "I know what I need to know. Get some rest. Soon, I will have tasks for you." He walked toward the door.
"Young Master, let me accompany—"
"No need," Nicholas cut him off. "I have my own arrangements. Rest. That is an order."
Garrick froze mid-motion.
"Geralt," Nicholas turned back to ask. "Where is he?"
"Near the forest edge. Look for the huts; the one with a wooden sign carved with an axe belongs to him."
Nicholas nodded and shut the door behind him. No one knew what calculations were running through his mind. All they knew was that here, in the frozen frontier, amidst a decaying domain—
Nicholas Albert was moving his first chess pieces with absolute confidence.