Chapter 8: Fort Beigal

"Reporting to the lord—everything is ready."

Brand arrived before Ryan, flanked by his thirty trainee knights, speaking loudly and clearly.

Ryan glanced at the bundles made from animal hides but didn't inspect them in detail. As long as they didn't carry anything larger than the spatial portal, it was fine.

With a casual wave of his hand, Ryan summoned the portal again—like a divine miracle appearing before everyone.

He looked at Rosen and Old Beard, and the two understood his intention instantly. They stepped through the portal to inform Derren back at the Frozen Soil Territory—not to be too shocked by what was about to arrive.

"Let's go. It's not exactly warm on the other side, but it's far better than this."

With Brand and his thirty soldiers guarding him, over 400 villagers from the Deer Spirit Tribe passed through the spatial portal in an orderly stream, heading to their new home in the Frozen Soil Territory.

Gradually, the area around Ryan emptied.

He gazed at the few torchlit wooden cabins that remained. In this winter, those remaining elders would be buried along with this land.

"I wonder if I'll ever have the chance to return here…"

That thought lingering in his heart, Ryan stepped into the portal.

The moment he crossed, warmth flooded his body. Looking at the now-disassembled cabin, even exposed to the chill air, Ryan felt this place was shockingly warm.

The climate he had just left had been so harsh that the Frozen Soil Territory now seemed like spring in comparison. Only by traveling deeper north from here could one experience that brutal cold again.

"When you think of it like that... it doesn't feel so bad."

Everything was relative. The Empire might scorn the Northern Wind Province, but to the people of Eikseniel, it was a treasure.

In stark contrast stood the original dozen villagers of the Frozen Soil Territory and Derren's seven trainee knights, who now looked on in stunned silence.

They simply couldn't fathom where their lord had brought back so many people from.

But in this world of strict hierarchy, everything in the barony belonged to the baron. No one dared question it—nor show curiosity.

The Frozen Soil Territory currently had no slaves, though it wasn't forbidden.

In such a world of rigid rules, silence and numbness were considered the greatest virtues of commoners.

Horn-Ridge Mountain (犀角山).

Now possessing the physique of a full-fledged knight, Ryan was finally able to face the biting wind atop the mountain. He hadn't expected to settle into the baron's fort so quickly—less than two days after setting it as a goal.

"I misjudged that architect. The view really is beautiful."

Before him stretched a vast landscape. He imagined that beneath all the snow, there must have been a wide river. On either side, towering mountain slopes framed the valley. Winding waters cut through the range, descending to lower lands—clear rivers, lush forests, and green shrubs hiding rabbits, elk, and predatory wolves.

Upstream, where the river began, lay a great lake—formed by waterfalls tumbling from even higher peaks. Countless birds and fish thrived there.

From here, he could envision it all: waterfalls whose thunder softened by distance became a harp-like melody, echoing day after day atop Horn-Ridge Mountain.

But now it was all gone.

The majestic slopes were buried in snow. It was said that only for two or three months each summer could one glimpse any greenery.

The winding river had frozen solid, becoming a long, slick icefield at the base of the mountain.

Everything was coated in white. The lake was now an icebound mirror, and the rushing waterfalls had turned into jagged icicles.

From atop Horn-Ridge Mountain, the Frozen Soil Territory looked like a great bowl, pitted and sunken in the landscape.

Even so, the view from here remained stunning.

A silver world—frozen beauty.

"Does that lake have a name?" Ryan asked, pointing at the frozen body of water.

Old Beard responded at just the right moment.

"It's called Beigal Lake."

"A beautiful name."

Ryan turned to look at his so-called baronial fortress. To be honest, it was just a collection of fewer than ten buildings—not much of a fortress at all.

He glanced at his home.

"From now on, this place will be called Fort Beigal. 'Frozen Soil Fort' sounds awful."

"As you wish."

Only Ryan and Old Beard were on the mountain. Even Brand—who should've been by his side—had been sent down to help the villagers build homes. A full knight's strength was invaluable in construction.

Ryan looked again at the territory below and said boldly:

"I will build a city here. It will be called Beigal City.

A city whose name will ring across the entire Empire—no, the entire South!"

The wide plain at the base of the mountain was more than enough for such a city.

In the Empire, usually only viscounts were granted a city in their territory—tiny cities housing just ten to twenty thousand people.

Ryan's ambitions went far beyond that.

"Young Master Ryan has grown up," Old Beard said, smiling with deep satisfaction.

He believed it even more than Ryan did—that this future would come to pass.

But that future hadn't yet arrived. A new problem had already landed at Ryan's feet.

Brand brought Hamiti before him—the village chief from the Frozen Soil Territory. The man, now responsible for over a hundred people, looked close to tears.

"My lord, we're truly out of food…"

The territory now housed over 600 people. While the villagers from the Deer Spirit Tribe had brought supplies, they wouldn't last long.

In the Northern Frontier, during eternal winter, food was always a critical problem.

And right now, it was winter. Even if spring came, planting wouldn't begin for another two months, much later than in the south—and six weeks behind other territories in the Northern Wind Province.

Farming was unrealistic for now.

Hunting? In the dead of winter? How many animals did people think were just waiting to be caught? Did they assume magical beasts were that easy to kill?

Hunting couldn't sustain them for long. Plus, eating nothing but meat wasn't good for anyone.

"That means… we have to buy it."

Ryan looked at Old Beard, resigned.

"How much money do we have left?"

Old Beard looked even more helpless than Ryan.

"All our wealth was seized during the journey. We now have…"

He held out a weathered palm—dry and cracked—but the gold coin in it still gleamed.

"One gold punk, fifteen silver coins, and thirty-five coppers."

In this world, gold : silver : copper = 1 : 20 : 100.

A free citizen family of five in the Northern Wind Province might earn ten silver coins per year. A single gold coin could feed them comfortably for a year—with the occasional indulgence.

As for serfs—if they didn't owe their lords anything extra, they were already living well.

Anyone below even a serf's status? Their survival wasn't guaranteed for more than a few years.

So now Ryan had no food… and no money.