Count Edmond's sharp, hawk-like brown eyes quickly scanned the corridor—the chest of gleaming gold coins at their feet, his three sons' guilty expressions they hadn't managed to hide, the expensive magical items in his fourth son's hands... they'd beaten him to everything!
"Dammit! These little bastards got here first! I spent half the night preparing what to say!"
Massive frustration at being upstaged hit the old count like a sledgehammer, making his chest tight.
The count's voice boomed like thunder across a battlefield, making the wall tapestries flutter. He glared at his three sons who were obviously trying to show him up, veins bulging at his temples like twisted cables, his face cycling from purple to red to blue in a spectacular display.
"You... you little shits!" The count's face turned crimson, fists clenched and shaking. His glare cut through his sons like daggers. "Addicted to stealing my thunder, are you? Where's my moment? You bastards took all the glory!
I'm the head of this family! My own son goes out to claim territory, and I, his father, can't even get a word in? You think I don't matter?"
His full-throated roar echoed off the stone walls, making even the candle flames in the corners dance.
Grant watched his father practically vibrating with rage, listening to that unstoppable bellowing, when suddenly a thought struck his stunned brain—if not now, when?
"Uh... Dad?" Grant forced what he hoped was a harmless, even slightly appealing smile, carefully stepping forward. His voice rang out clear in the strange silence, trying to sound innocent and hopeful. "How about... you know, since you missed your chance, keep it simple—just give me some startup money? Gold coins?"
That comment was like a pin bursting the count's balloon of rage.
Count Edmond's heavy breathing suddenly stopped, like someone had grabbed him by the throat, his furious glare freezing in confusion.
"...How much?" The count's voice dropped several octaves, carrying the tentative tone of someone testing the waters and barely concealed relief.
Finally! Finally a chance to shine! Money? When had the Windsor family ever been short on that?
He waved his hand with grand confidence, feeling like he'd finally wrestled back some control from his sons' ambush. "However much you want, just name it! My son going out into the world can't have a cheap..."
The word "setup" never made it out of his mouth.
"A hundred thousand!" Grant blurted without hesitation, his voice clear and carrying fearless rookie boldness, eyes bright and shining with the pure innocence of a child asking for sweets.
The count's heroic, confident gesture froze mid-air like he'd been turned to stone. His face perfectly preserved that generous expression, mouth still holding its magnanimous curve, but his eyes instantly bulged like they might pop out of his head.
A hundred thousand... gold coins?
Sharp intakes of breath filled the corridor, like air being sucked through countless tiny holes. The steward standing nearby had his eye twitching frantically, mouth corners spasming. Young master, you really dare to ask! This would practically empty the count's entire personal treasury!
A thousand-man Black Iron knight legion's annual wages and maintenance only cost a hundred thousand!
Count Edmond's throat worked violently, making meaningless "ugh... ugh..." sounds like a broken bellows, his face instantly draining from excited red to the ashen gray of impending explosion.
A hundred thousand gold coins? This amount could equip an entire Black Iron knight regiment for a year! Was this kid planning to build city walls out of gold at the frontier?
He opened his mouth, preparing earth-shaking roars and refusals, but facing his youngest son's overly bright eyes full of worship (maybe he was imagining that?) and expectation, then looking at his three other sons standing there obviously ready to "righteously intervene" again, the count forcibly swallowed the curses boiling in his chest, choking until his heart hurt.
"...!"
Just as Count Edmond's face went through its spectacular color changes—purple, steel blue, pale white in rotation—looking like he might have a stroke right there—
"Oh, forget it! What's the point of arguing with you, you cheapskate!"
A crisp voice containing stormy undertones cut through the corridor's frozen tension like an icy blade.
A lady appeared. Her deep purple mage robe was elegantly tailored, flowing like water as she moved. Silver thread and sapphires outlined complex magical defensive patterns that flickered with her steps, radiating an intimidating energy field.
Her well-maintained face showed the dignity of accumulated years and a high-level mage's authority. Lustrous black hair with elegant silver streaks was arranged in an elaborate court style, held by a sapphire hairpin that glowed with elemental power.
This was Grant's mother, from a powerful magical noble family, the beloved daughter of Duke Raven—Countess Lydia Windsor.
Lady Lydia swept in like a storm, reaching her husband whose face was contorting with rage in just a few steps. Those cold, crystal-blue eyes gave Count Edmond a look that carried invisible pressure, making even the mighty count unconsciously shrink.
"Darling!" Lady Lydia immediately turned to Grant, her gaze instantly melting from ice into pure, blazing adoration and support. "Take this!"
A silver security chest (enhanced with spatial magic, weight reduction spells, and anti-theft barriers) twice as large and far more elaborate than Carlos's box, studded with brilliant magical gems, was casually placed by the lady's slender but strong fingers on top of the hundred thousand gold coin chest.
The heavy metal box landed on the thick carpet with only a soft thud, but hit everyone's hearts like a hammer blow.
"Two hundred thousand gold coins! Spend however you like! No need to worry about your penny-pinching father's approval!"
Her voice was decisive as clashing steel, clear and resolute, instantly sweeping away all hesitation. "Not enough?"
Lady Lydia lifted her chin slightly, releasing the natural arrogance of a top magical family's daughter without restraint. "Just send word back! Don't be polite with your father—saves him from being stingy and causing problems."
Her tone shifted, revealing a reassuring "Son, mama has serious connections" vibe.
"Your grandfather's people," her eyes flickered with complex meaning, "are at Raven Ridge fortress, less than two hundred miles north of your designated territory!
If any fool dares mess with you, or if you run into trouble you can't handle, find your uncle Andre!
He's currently commanding those soldiers up on the ridge—he's actually competent! Have him give you proper support for mama! Remember that!"
"Thud!" Before Lady Lydia finished speaking, there was a muffled crash. Someone turned to see a manservant who'd been standing in the corner had somehow dropped the silver candlestick he was polishing onto the thick carpet.
Dead silence.
The corridor's air seemed completely drained, leaving only suffocating quiet. In the ancient portrait paintings on the walls, the stern-eyed Windsor ancestors seemed to have their eye corners twitch.
The servants held their breath desperately, heads hanging lower while their eyes rolled frantically, conveying silent shock waves: Two hundred thousand gold coins! Just thrown down like pocket change!
And that's still not enough! Grandfather's family—the famous "Raven" Duke Augustus family of the Northern Territory! Uncle—"Black Raven" Andre! Raven Ridge fortress commander, the iron-blooded general who guarded the empire's northern border! Go to him for "backup"?
Count Edmond's face was beyond description—like a paint store had exploded. He opened his mouth, chest heaving violently like a fish out of water, finally only managing a long, meaningless "ugh—hiss—" from deep in his throat.
That sound mixed unwillingness, helplessness, and the defeat of being completely crushed. He was done—in this household, he'd been thoroughly ground into dust financially and socially.
Grant stood there stunned.
At his feet was a full chest of gleaming ten thousand gold coins. From his eldest brother.
Stacked on top was the radiant silver magical chest his mother had casually tossed down—a hefty two hundred thousand gold coins. From mother.
Three thousand serfs, two hundred well-equipped elite warriors (one hundred Black Iron infantry plus one hundred Black Iron cavalry plus ten Bronze knights), a year's food supplies for ten thousand people, one hundred military healing potions that could save lives in critical moments...
Grandfather, uncle, Raven Ridge... one of the empire's northern military strongholds, not far from his future territory!
His head was buzzing like ten thousand bees were having a party. Everything was golden before his eyes—gold coins and treasure dancing in hallucinations.
This wasn't the script he'd expected at all!
He'd just wanted to find some poor, remote corner at the frontier to live peacefully for survival.
And the result? His whole family was going all-in, forcing him to transform that "frozen wasteland backwater" into a dazzling, well-supplied, militarily-backed... golden powerhouse?
The massive oak doors of fortress-like Windsor Castle, reinforced with bronze, creaked open with the groan of pulleys, their heavy sound carrying historical weight.
Outside was a completely different world. Bitter cold wind carrying the unique Northern Territory mix of ice particles, moss, and distant pine forest scents crashed in, like countless tiny needles stabbing faces and instantly shocking people awake.
A massive formation that made heads spin was already assembled—like a forest of steel and flesh.
The front ranks were infantry squares in full black heavy armor, thick plates fitted together covering their entire bodies, only showing cold gazes and breath condensing to frost through helmet gaps in the bitter wind.
Behind them were a hundred cavalry mounted on warhorses equally equipped in black iron barding, like hunters from dark legends. Their shoulder plates bore lifelike howling wolf emblems, lances pointing at the gray sky in perfect unison, forming a forest of cold iron with killing intent silently filling the air.
Ten Bronze knights with superior equipment and obviously seasoned bearing stood like pillars in the steel formation, positioned on both flanks, silent and powerful.
At the rear, dense crowds of serfs in thick but obviously worn clothing, eyes either numb or fearful, clustered around heavy carts loaded with food, farming tools, and lumber under the shouting of overseers with whips. Heavy wheels ground over early spring frozen earth with teeth-grinding sounds.
"Young master!" The roar suddenly exploded like rolling thunder, carrying unquestionable submission and fanatical loyalty. Lances struck earth, heavy armor clashed, the collision of steel and ground creating rumbling like distant thunder. "Windsor!"
This unified, earth-shaking roar carried pure devotion, hitting Grant's eardrums like an invisible war hammer and making his heart skip.
For the first time, he truly felt the terrifying power carried by the name "Grant Windsor."
He was practically carried by his eldest brother Carlos and third brother Fletcher into what could only be called an extravagant vehicle.
This was... a carriage? Grant sat inside on incredibly thick, soft cushions made from unknown magical beast fur, surrounded by interior walls of polished dark wood with elegant grain, warm and comfortable to touch. The air was filled with rich fragrances of premium wood and fur.
Everywhere he looked, brilliant golden light was dazzling—whether the exquisite snow wolf gold sculpture on the wide armrests, the continuous, intricate pure gold vine patterns on the window frames, or the fist-sized, radiant deep-sea pearl embedded in the ceiling center that illuminated the entire cabin... every detail silently and arrogantly declared: I'm wealthy! Incredibly wealthy!
This wasn't a carriage—this was clearly a small mobile fortress plated with gold, ivory, and magical materials! A thick "nouveau riche" aura could penetrate the luxurious cabin walls and broadcast for miles.
"My God..." Grant stroked the cold, incredibly detailed wolf-shaped gold sculpture on the armrest, feeling those fine textures as he muttered, "If I drove this back to my old crappy apartment's parking garage..."
Before that thought finished, accompanied by gentle, soothing magical humming (excellent soundproofing barriers canceled most outside noise, only allowing comfortable vibrations through), the wheels began rolling smoothly.
Grant felt like he was sitting on an extremely stable, heavy cloud, slowly leaving the protective shadow of the castle.
The scenery outside the windows began flowing past. First, Windsor Castle's magnificent outer walls covered in thick snow rapidly receded and shrank in his vision.
Then came vast, fertile estate farmland divided like a chessboard by neat irrigation channels, with tender green grass already bravely poking through the furrows, swaying in the cold wind.
Beyond that, vast stretches of pristine wilderness composed of tall, straight dark green pine forests rolled like sleeping giants.