"What's a bit of cold wind in Northwindshire compared to Frostholm?"
In the fortress atop Rhinestone Peak, Ronan, wrapped in a deerskin cloak, felt much warmer.
Looking down at the thriving village at the foot of the mountain, he saw a scene of prosperity. Ever since he brought back food, the entire Frostholm Barony had been plunged into celebration.
Food was the key. But more importantly, no one had expected their lord to be so generous as to give away half the provisions without asking for any compensation.
"Sometimes, free things come at the highest cost."
"Milord, the food is ready."
A maid's soft voice came from behind. Not long after, Ronan was seated at a large wooden table, being served by several maids.
He was finally living this kind of life—and this damn feudal system, he thought, had its charms.
Hot, tender venison melted in his mouth. Especially the aroma of fruit preserves stirred his appetite. Ronan couldn't help but call for Brandon.
"Brandon, your jam-making skills could sell like hotcakes even in the Imperial Capital."
Brandon replied respectfully:
"Lord Ronan, every follower of the Stag Spirit is both a talented bard and a skilled brewer. The jam is just a small sideline."
"Brewing, huh…"
A look of longing appeared in Ronan's eyes.
"But that consumes a lot of food."
He understood this well. He'd even tasted some of the hundred-year-old stag wine brought by the Stag Spirit villagers. That wasn't wine—that was liquid gold.
But brewing required grain. And grain—even in the south—was a strategic resource highly valued by the nobility. And in the North?
Just being able to eat and drink one's fill was a miracle. The idea of having surplus grain to make alcohol was fantasy.
Even the most decadent nobles wouldn't dare brew on a large scale, because doing so would cost more slave lives than the brutal fourteen-hour shifts in the mines.
Better to take things slowly.
"How is the cultivation of the lanberries going?"
Ronan turned to the old steward Bernard, whose white hair now seemed full of energy like a mighty eagle.
"The lanberry seeds from the other dimension are growing well. According to Arnor and the others, in just three months we should have our first harvest. If you wish to brew wine, young master Ronan, fruit wine has decent sales in the Empire."
Old Bernard offered this suggestion. As a steward, he didn't care about the lives of slaves. The comfort of his lord always came first in his heart.
"One harvest every three months… Two or three times a year. In the early years, even four times isn't unreasonable. Add in hunted meat… Still, for over two thousand people in Frostholm, that's not enough."
"We still need farmland."
As a transmigrator, Ronan had a strong obsession with farming. He couldn't go around "borrowing" from others forever, could he?
After finishing his meal, Ronan instructed the old steward to gather a group of villagers from the Stag Spirit settlements, along with Brandon and his knightly attendants, and head toward the surrounding foothills.
The Frostholm Barony was surrounded by mountains on all sides, with only a few gentle slopes providing access—like a bowl with several missing edges.
Heading south would naturally take one into Northwindshire. But if Ronan didn't go south, then wherever he developed, the imperial nobles wouldn't interfere.
Strictly speaking, every lord on the empire's frontier was a "pioneer lord," free to expand into unclaimed lands.
If Ronan wanted arable land for wheat, he had to find a way around these surrounding foothills.
"From Northwindshire heading north, the land becomes increasingly frozen. The further north you go, the deeper the permafrost. In the farthest reaches, the soil surface is permanently frozen—nothing can grow there."
"I don't ask much of you. Find me an acre of plantable land, and I'll give you a silver coin. For every additional acre, I'll add twenty-five copper coins."
Ronan announced loudly. He knew well that to motivate the people, he had to offer rewards.
And his offer was indeed generous. The only problem? In Frostholm, money had little use.
But the villagers clearly hadn't thought of that. At the mention of silver coins, they became as frenzied as if injected with stimulant.
They even ignored the fact that the true rulers of these foothills were the hungry beasts forced out of hiding in search of food.
Watching the enthusiastic crowd disperse, Ronan turned to Roland.
"Take some men and patrol the area. Drive off any wild beasts."
That was all he could do to protect the civilians to a certain extent.
Civilians without even the strength of apprentice knights had only survived in these primitive foothills by adapting over the course of many brutal winters. Finding arable land suitable for wheat was no easy task.
Otherwise, Frostholm wouldn't have remained so undesirable. Even when it was unclaimed, no one had wanted to develop it.
Baron Ronan's silver coin reward was not going to be earned easily.
"Birch trees…"
As the lord, Ronan didn't participate personally. He stood before a tree whose white bark looked as if it had been frosted by snow, marveling aloud.
Birch trees were treasures in their own right. Even naturally shed bark was precious—used in medicine, decoration, and as a material rivaling leather.
To nobles, it was even considered high-end stationery for writing and correspondence.
Looking around, he saw birch trees scattered throughout the foothills—his wealth.
The entire northern frontier was a treasure trove, waiting quietly for him to develop it.
Thinking of this, Ronan began to feel some real anticipation for the North.
"When we return, tell everyone: Trees like these birches—don't even burn their bark, let alone cut them down for firewood or housing."
Common trees could be used for building homes. For firewood, even being extravagant, pine would suffice. Birch trees had commercial value in the future.
"As you wish."
Old Bernard replied. He didn't understand why young master Ronan valued these white trees so much, but his job was only to follow orders.
Thinking this, old Bernard couldn't help but feel resentment toward the peasants and even the slaves.
Young master Ronan had generously allowed them to chop down noble-owned trees to build houses and had taken no money from them—yet these people showed no gratitude at all.
"You must understand: free doesn't mean without cost."
Ronan would always say this to the old steward, who had been steeped in the rigid traditions of House Reed.
As for exploitation? In Ronan's view, the nobles of the Empire simply lacked creativity.
About an hour later, someone came running back in excitement from the distance.
"My lord! We've found a large patch of land suitable for farming!"