"What? The orcs are moving south?!"
The shout came from March Miles, clearly lacking any political acumen—completely unaware of the nuances in noble diplomacy.
The others were also somewhat shocked; even Cristan showed signs of rapid breathing.
Viscount Miles let out a sigh.
"Rager, you come too."
Somewhat unexpectedly, Rager Miles gave Ryan a friendly look. It was obvious that Ryan’s retort to the viscount had made Rager the biggest beneficiary of this noble exchange.
Viscount Miles still held a few settler grants in his hands—perhaps one of them would soon go to Rager.
Among nobles, everything is about profit. Just moments ago, Rager had been scolding Ryan, but now the two were nodding at each other like long-time friends.
If the Miles estate conveyed a sense of ancient grandeur, then the viscount’s personal study was nothing short of a living relic.
"This study was relocated from the south by a sanctuary-tier mage I once hired. Not a single detail was altered during the move."
Viscount Miles sat behind a grand desk. Ryan naturally took a seat on the leather sofa nearby. As for the viscount’s two sons—they could only stand.
"Baron Ryan, speak freely here."
Viscount Miles was old. He wanted no surprises in his domain—just a peaceful winter.
Now, Ryan dropped all pretense.
The viscount’s eyes turned sharp.
"Orcs have scouts?" Cristan blurted out in disbelief, trying to assert his presence.
Ryan looked at the viscount’s eldest—the presumed heir—with a calm smile.
"Among orc tribes, those with power and intelligence often possess basic military knowledge. Their battle tactics might not be refined, but yes—they do have scouts. They need eyes, too."
Cristan’s face darkened. He clearly felt the sting of Ryan’s remark—an implied critique of his own ignorance.
"Baron Ryan, just tell us—which orc tribe was it?"
Rager spoke, not wanting to fall behind in the race for the settler decree. He had already made enemies of the other heirs—there was no turning back now.
"What do you think this information is worth, Lord Governor?"
Ryan turned to Viscount Miles.
"I’ll give you enough grain to feed a thousand people for two months. That should help your Frozen Soil Territory survive the winter."
The viscount stared at Ryan and added:
"In exchange, you do not information with anyone else."
"25,000 jin of grain. Please don’t tell me how many people that would feed. If you count the slaves—who might only get one meal every three days—that’s just playing with numbers."
"I also want one hundred warhorses—the southern-trained kind."
"Baron Ryan, you’re being greedy."
Viscount Miles looked at him coldly.
"No. My information is worth it."
"20,000 jin of grain. Fifty warhorses now. The other fifty, I’ll have the Imperial Trading Guild reserve for you in spring."
"Not enough, Viscount. 20,000 jin of grain and 100 warhorses. Not one less."
Ryan wasn’t going to back down. Warhorses purchased from the Imperial Trading Guild had become prohibitively expensive.
"Baron Ryan, you need to understand just how valuable 100 warhorses are."
Before the divine interplanar wars, warhorses weren’t overly valuable. In most territories, they were used to pull carts or plow fields unless a war broke out.
But after the gods began their cross-plane wars, everything changed.
With the rise of supernatural military forces, combat quality surged. Even entry-level soldiers required the physique of knight trainees.
These troops wore metal armor, and the more elite full knights or bronze knights were fully armored, along with their horses.
That kind of weight couldn’t be carried by a regular horse.
The Imperial Heavy Cavalry, for example, only had 10,000 men, but each carried gear so heavy that a normal horse couldn’t even walk under it, let alone charge.
Because of this, warhorse prices skyrocketed. What once cost only twice the price of a packhorse now cost tens of gold coins in the south—and ten times more in Northwind Province.
A single warhorse was now worth more than a lifetime of labor from an ordinary peasant.
"A highland warhorse in Lingdu County goes for 500–600 gold coins. After spring, the price might go even higher."
"But I know the price the viscount pays the Imperial Trading Guild is not nearly that high."
"In the south, a warhorse costs 70–80 gold. In Northwind, even if the guild triples or quadruples that for nobles like you, they wouldn’t dare go higher—lest they risk noble ire."
"At 200 to 300 gold per horse, 100 horses would cost 20,000–30,000 gold. Surely, that’s not too steep for the viscount of an entire county—rich in mines, no less?"
Ryan thought back to Viscount Whitman from the otherworld—wandering with just 400–500 people and still carrying thousands of gold coins.
Compared to that, Viscount Miles, with control over an entire county in Northwind, backed by imperial tax exemptions for the first ten years, would hardly be burdened by 30,000 gold.
"70 horses. That’s all I can give. If that’s not acceptable, I’ll send my own men to investigate the orcs."
In the end, the two nobles struck a deal:
20,000 jin of grain and 70 warhorses.
Ryan was confident that this intel would allow Viscount Miles to make several times the profit by selling it to other nobles across the county.
And when Miles heard the name—Black Goat Orc Tribe—his face darkened in a way that was hard to describe.
"Looks viscount has encountered the Black Goat Tribe before."
Ryan thought to himself—but wisely got up to take his leave.
He knew that, as a proper noble, the Miles family—even if most of them died tomorrow—would never default on a noble trade agreement.
Leaving the estate, Ryan took his men to the Imperial Guild Quarter of the city.
Aside from the Miles estate, this was the widest street in all of Lingdu, filled with merchant guild offices, ox carts, and carriages—at least, in seasons that weren’t winter.
At this time of year, the guilds weren’t selling anything.
They were only buying.