A line of soldiers, looking like refugees, emerged from the forest, each one covered in filthy snow and mud.
Lying on the back of a trainee knight, Ryan couldn’t help but feel his eyelids droop. But as they walked out of the forest, the sight before him shocked him.
They stood on a ridgeline of the mountainous forest. The dense trees had blocked his vision for hours.
Ahead, some 50 or 60 meters below, a plain—or rather, a snowfield—stretched out.
A vast world of white filled his vision. Dozens of scattered houses dotted the several-thousand-square-meter snowfield.
Further ahead stood a mountain shaped like a rhino’s horn, likely two or three hundred meters high. Judging from his former perspective, Ryan estimated the angle between the peak and the ground was about forty to fifty degrees.
The horn-like peak pierced into the icy winds and snow of the northern border. Ryan could almost feel as if a massive rhinoceros-like beast stood beneath the earth, staring up at him.
Shrouded in swirling snow, its outline barely visible to mortals, the oppressive presence still made the eight trainee knights and Beard, the old steward, breathe more heavily with unease.
"This is Young Master Ryan’s territory..."
Despite appearing old and frail, the old steward didn’t seem the least bit fatigued after such a long journey.
The stamina of an official knight was something Ryan truly envied.
So, this vast white world before him... was this where he would grow old and die?
Ryan couldn’t help but feel curious, but that curiosity quickly vanished for all ten of them.
Because... it was cold.
Without the forest’s protection, the frigid northern wind made their teeth chatter. Occasionally drifting snowflakes landed on Ryan’s neck, making him shiver uncontrollably.
Even the old steward, a full-fledged knight, instinctively huddled against the cold. But as he looked at Ryan’s pale face, the fury in his eyes nearly drove the cold away.
"Damn it. If not for everything belonging to Young Master Ryan being withheld in the capital, how could a noble body like his have ended up in such a state?"
He looked at Ryan, his aged eyes glistening with unshed tears.
"Once the Earl returns, those people will not be spared."
Hearing Beard’s words, Ryan, who had been too exhausted to care, also fell silent.
As a baron crowned personally by the royal family, Ryan should never have had just an old steward and eight trainee knights by his side.
At the coronation, Columbus III himself had assigned him one hundred guards—thirty official knights and seventy trainees. The three leading knights were even Silver-ranked.
He was given over a hundred warhorses and three carriages filled with supplies for developing his territory, worth no less than a thousand gold coins.
There were also dozens of slaves to serve the young baron—among them even a cat-girl gifted by Columbus III as a form of indulgence.
But from the palace to the gates of the capital—a short distance—he lost everything. His carriages vanished. His slaves were gone.
His guards were detained just outside the capital for various reasons. In the end, only fifty trainee knights accompanied Ryan as he left for the Northern Wind Province.
By the time he arrived, only eight trainee knights and the steward Beard remained at his side.
The remaining forty-two guards and Beard’s son, Little Beard, had mostly been detained at various checkpoints along the way. Little Beard was even imprisoned in the Winged Gorge, the passage between the Northern Wind Province and the rest of the empire.
Ryan’s former self had been filled with fury and resentment over this, hoping that when Count Rimehart returned to the empire, he would retaliate and bring Ryan back to the warm, comfortable south.
But the current Ryan understood very well: the deliberate obstacles they faced along the journey represented a de facto blockade by most of the empire’s elite factions against the Rimehart family.
By the time the Count returned, everything would already be decided—and it would be too late.
Even if the Count had the strength to reverse the situation, Ryan’s appointment as Baron of the Frozen Soil Territory—personally crowned by the royal family—could not be undone.
So, even if the Rimehart family could fight back, those benefits were already unrelated to Ryan.
From the moment he received his title, he had effectively been separated from the Rimehart family.
From this day forward, his backing was no longer House Rimehart, but the Frozen Soil Territory—he was Baron Ryan.
Under his name, a new family line would begin.
Ryan suddenly collapsed into the snow. The once beautiful white snow was now a bitter enemy—its icy bite blurred his vision, worsened by his already excessive blood loss.
When he regained consciousness, he was already on Beard’s back. In front of him, seven kneeling guards and Captain Derren, who was furiously punching one of them, came into view.
"You dared to drop the baron?! Rosen, you deserve to be torn to pieces!"
All of Derren’s fury was directed at the guard named Rosen. Fear also shone in his eyes—seeing Ryan nearly unconscious had made him envision his own head rolling across the snowy ground.
He drew his knight’s sword, but Ryan’s voice behind him froze his arm in place.
Ryan stopped the captain. After all, only these nine people remained at his side.
He looked at Rosen, whose face was pale—whether from fear or the bitter northern cold, Ryan couldn’t tell.
"Rosen... all of you, get up."
Ryan insisted on getting down from Beard’s back. Though unsteady, he believed he needed to show strength—to be the beacon of hope for his people.
More importantly, he had seen a relatively smooth path leading into the village ahead.
"From now on, this is where we will live."
He didn’t go out of his way to console Rosen. In such a strict and hierarchical age, kindness like that wasn’t necessarily wise.
His small frame shivered as he walked along the dirt path, silently thankful for the knight training he had retained.
Behind him, Beard and the eight guards looked at his figure with mixed expressions of surprise and admiration.
Ahead, in the small and nameless village, over a dozen rough-looking men holding pitchforks and other makeshift weapons had noticed him.
Ryan took a deep breath, staring at the clearly malnourished villagers. His voice was still young, but naturally carried authority.
"I am Ryan, lord of the Frozen Soil Territory."
In this era, impersonating nobility was nearly impossible. Aristocrats were intertwined through bloodlines—everyone knew everyone.
Upon hearing Ryan’s declaration, the villagers immediately dropped what they were holding and fell to their knees.
"My lord, you’ve finally come!"
"With the lord here, we’ll have food again!"