Bradley moved with remarkable speed. The moment Duke Calvin gave the order, he sprang into action, preparing immediately for the journey north. Within less than a day, he assembled an elite contingent and set off toward the Northern Wasteland.
The group comprised three Elite Knights, ten Official Knights, and thirty Apprentice Knights. They were supported by dozens of skilled artisans—builders, miners, and smelters. Their supplies were equally impressive: dozens of carts piled high with flour, dried meat, and pickled vegetables. These essentials would allow them to endure the harshest conditions.
They also carried seeds for hardy crops, along with livestock suited to the cold: Blackhorn cattle, cold-land sheep, and warhorses bred for snow. Among their valuable items were the Dripping Blood Stone and a treasure of three thousand gold coins. Fully equipped, they departed from Dongnan Province, beginning the grueling trek to the Red Tide Territory in the Northern Wasteland.
Meanwhile, Louis began his morning as usual—by checking his daily intelligence feed. The screen refreshed, and he quickly scanned the three updates:Under Duke Calvin's command, Bradley had led a supply convoy to the Red Tide Territory.Tomorrow evening, Frontier Baron Yoen Harvey would pass through Qingyan Rift Valley and could be ambushed by bandits.Serf Romeo and aboriginal Juliet had secretly sampled forbidden fruit on farmland.At the first intel, Louis's eyes brightened. His letter to the old man had borne fruit: Duke Calvin was committing to the Red Tide Territory, even channeling gold coin support. Seeing Bradley's name confirmed how seriously the Duke valued this venture. Bradley was a senior steward of the Calvin family—respected, trusted, and central to the household's operations.
Louis felt hopeful. With Bradley's presence and the resources he brought, operations in the territory would be well-supported. Moreover, Bradley could take charge of day-to-day administration, freeing Louis to focus on his strategic ambitions.
But the second update troubled him. His brow furrowed. Frontier Baron Yoen Harvey? That was Yorn. He was among the few the original owner had befriended in this strange new world. In the Iron‑Blood Empire's capital, nobles' offspring endured harsh training. The previous owner was ostracized for his lackluster talent; Yorn was similarly ridiculed for his clumsiness. Thus, they bonded—an odd pair indeed.
Louis remembered being puzzled by the title "Frontier Baron." Yorn's father, Earl Harvey, was newly elevated and wealthy. Under the Northern Wasteland Reclamation Order, Yorn shouldn't need to venture there at all. Yet the intel called him "Frontier Baron," suggesting he was leading troops into the wasteland. That unsettled Louis: scarce resources and rampant banditry made the Wasteland a dangerous domain. Even with knights, Yorn could be in serious danger.
The third report was more mundane. Louis sighed internally. Young people were reckless—with the right population growth, even minor breaches of conduct were manageable. He wouldn't interfere.
After reviewing the intelligence, Louis summoned Lambert. "Assemble the knights and prepare to leave for Qingyan Rift Valley immediately."
Lambert acknowledged with a swift nod, patting his breastplate. "Understood. I'll gather them at once." Before Louis could add anything, Lambert had already turned and strode out to mobilize their forces.
That night, the air in Qingyan Rift Valley bit with cold. A single bonfire flickered, casting uneven light onto a round, cherubic face. Wrapped in a mink-fur cloak, Yoen Harvey—Yorn—cradled a bowl of hot porridge. His appearance, soft and plump like a furry cat, was incongruous with the rugged environment.
As he lapped at the soup, he boasted, "You know, back in the Imperial Capital, those arrogant nobles relied on power and influence to bully people. But me and Louis taught them a lesson!" He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and continued proudly. "That day, we took on an entire small group—at least a dozen of them! Louis knocked one out cold with a single punch. And I? I smashed a chair over their heads. They were so terrified they wet themselves!"
Yorn beamed. The attendant knights watched with forced smiles, used to his boasts. Though they couldn't bring themselves to contradict him, they worried about his understanding of leadership. He seemed to believe that passion alone could build a territory in the unforgiving wasteland. He'd casually assigned patrols without clear thought for strategy, as if dozens of knights and a hundred soldiers were enough to guarantee safety.
Then suddenly—whoosh—an arrow streaked from one ravine wall, followed by dozens more. Crossbow bolts rained into the camp, whistling with murderous intent. One struck a nearby soldier in the throat. With a panged gasp, he collapsed, blood splattering against the stone.
Simultaneously, a thunder of boots erupted. Desperadoes in white cloaks dropped from both cliff sides, silent and deadly as ghosts. They surged into the camp. "Enemy attack!" someone screamed, but it was too late. A bandit leapt at the soldier's throat, dagger slicing swiftly. The soldier's cry died abruptly, and the camp erupted in chaotic terror.
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