Across the vast expanse of snow-covered ground, a procession of more than forty knights advanced slowly toward Frost Halberd City.
They rode in disciplined formation, armor dulled by frost and travel, their breath misting visibly in the freezing air. At the center of the formation rolled a black-painted carriage, its surface lacquered to a subdued sheen that reflected the pale winter light. From the roof fluttered a banner embroidered with a crimson moon crest, its fabric snapping sharply in the cold wind.
Such an eye-catching display could not go unnoticed.
The guards stationed atop the city walls straightened at once, their expressions tightening as they studied the approaching group. Frost Halberd City rarely saw visitors of this scale and order—especially not those bearing noble insignia. Hands tightened around spear shafts, and wary glances were exchanged as the procession drew closer to the massive iron-bound gates.
When the group reached speaking distance, the carriage door opened.
A tall, slender young man stepped down onto the snow-packed ground with measured grace. He wore a dark traveling cloak trimmed with subtle silver thread, practical yet unmistakably noble. Raising one gloved hand, he pushed back his hood, revealing a youthful but strikingly handsome face—sharp brows, calm eyes, and features refined by birth rather than hardship.
His voice carried clearly across the open space.
"I am Louis Calvin," he announced evenly. "A frontier baron enfeoffed by the Empire. I have come to pay my respects to Duke Edmund."
At once, a ripple of surprise passed through the guards.
The Calvin Family was one of the Iron-Blood Empire's eight great families—a name that carried weight even in the harsh, distant North. Though the guards could not determine this young man's precise standing within the family, one thing was certain: he was not someone they could afford to offend.
After a brief exchange of looks, one soldier turned sharply and disappeared through a side gate to report the arrival.
Moments later, the iron gates groaned open.
A middle-aged official emerged, bundled in heavy furs, his breath puffing in short bursts as he hurried forward. He bowed deeply.
"Lord Louis," he said respectfully, "His Grace the Duke has been informed of your arrival. Please, follow me into the city."
With that, Louis returned the nod and gestured lightly. The knights resumed their march, and the black carriage rolled forward as they passed beneath the towering gates of Frost Halberd City.
Inside the city walls, the scene was bleak.
The main streets, though broad enough for military movement, were riddled with potholes filled with a foul mixture of melting snow and dark mud. Each step left behind a soggy footprint that quickly filled again with icy slush. The air smelled faintly of damp stone, smoke, and iron.
Buildings lined both sides of the road—mostly constructed of rough-hewn stone and weathered wood. Many were cracked or partially collapsed, their roofs sagging beneath layers of accumulated snow. In several places, entire structures had given way, leaving only ruins half-buried by frost and drifting snow.
Pedestrians were few and far between.
Those who walked the streets fell into two clear categories.
The first were Northern Border soldiers, wrapped in thick fur coats over worn armor. Their faces were hardened by years of conflict, eyes dulled by exhaustion and long familiarity with death. Even as they passed the noble procession, their gazes held no curiosity—only the cold indifference of men who had seen too much.
The second were commoners, bundled in coarse cloth and patched garments. Their expressions were numb, their heads lowered against the wind as they hurried about their business. Survival left little room for wonder or hope.
Louis's eyes swept across the cityscape, taking in every detail.
Yet his expression remained composed.
Given the Northern Border's scarcity of resources and its near-constant state of warfare, the fact that Frost Halberd City maintained even this level of order was already impressive. Compared to the utter desolation that lay beyond the walls, this place was practically prosperous.
The official led the group through winding streets until they arrived at the Governor's Office—a solid stone building that radiated austere authority.
"Duke Edmund is inside," the official said, gesturing respectfully before stepping aside.
The interior of the Governor's Office was just as severe as the city outside.
There were no luxurious decorations, no gilded columns or ornate tapestries. Instead, the room was dominated by a massive, scarred wooden desk, several old bookshelves crammed with documents, and a dark blue military banner bearing the emblem of Frost Halberd, hanging solemnly on the wall.
Behind the desk sat a man whose presence alone seemed to weigh down the air.
He was middle-aged, broad-shouldered, and powerfully built. A vicious saber scar slashed across his face—from the corner of his left eye down to his jaw—twisting his features into something perpetually grim. His eyes were sharp and cold, like steel tempered in endless battle.
This was Duke Edmund.
The ruler of Frost Halberd City.
The de facto master of the Northern Border Province.
He looked up as Louis entered, his gaze sweeping over the young man with open scrutiny.
"Intermediate Formal Knight," Edmund said flatly, his voice rough as gravel. A trace of disdain flickered in his eyes. "A Calvin Family brat?"
Louis met his gaze calmly and nodded. "Yes."
Edmund snorted softly, the corner of his mouth curling upward in a half-mocking smile.
"You're quite handsome," he said. "But compared to your elder brother—the one famed for his military achievements—you certainly look more like a pampered noble."
The insult was unvarnished.
Louis showed no sign of irritation.
In a world governed by strength, respect was earned through power alone. Compared to a Peak Knight like Duke Edmund, his current cultivation was indeed unimpressive. Being looked down upon was neither unexpected nor unjustified.
Rather than waste time on empty pleasantries, Louis reached into his cloak and produced a document bearing the royal seal.
"I am here to register my pioneering territory," he said simply.
Edmund took the certificate, flipped through it with casual efficiency, and confirmed Louis's identity as a newly appointed pioneering lord. Without comment, he reached into a stack of documents and pulled out a large, detailed map, spreading it across the desk.
"Other than the areas marked with red circles," Edmund said, tapping the parchment, "all locations are available for selection."
Louis stepped forward and looked down.
The map depicted the entire Northern Border Province—a land vast beyond comprehension. In his previous life, it would have rivaled half the size of Russia. Mountains, tundra, rifts, frozen rivers, and wastelands sprawled across the parchment.
Yet only a dozen or so locations were circled in red, marking areas forbidden or already claimed.
The remaining territory was open.
For most people, the sheer number of choices would have been overwhelming.
For Louis, it was exhilarating.
The Empire's recently issued Northern Territory Reclamation Order required all newly appointed pioneering lords to personally register their lands at the Governor's Mansion, with priority granted to those who arrived first.
Clearly, he was among the earliest.
Many noble heirs, reluctant to leave the comfort of the south, were undoubtedly dragging their feet—hoping to delay this obligation as long as possible.
That hesitation had worked to his advantage.
Louis stared at the map, appearing thoughtful.
In truth, his decision had already been made.
For days, he had sifted through the intelligence provided by the Daily Intelligence System, analyzing terrain, climate, hidden resources, and future potential. Every fragment of information now converged in his mind, weaving together into a clear answer.
He raised his hand and circled a location with confidence.
"This," he said, looking up. "This is my choice."
Duke Edmund leaned forward, his gaze dropping to the marked area.
A flicker of genuine surprise crossed his eyes.
The location lay in the southeastern region of the Northern Border, at the junction between the Green Rock Rift and the Gray Moss Tundra, approximately seventy-five kilometers from Frost Howl Fjord.
At first glance, it was an excellent choice.
The region was one of the rare areas with a slightly warmer climate, allowing for the cultivation of certain cold-resistant crops outside of deep winter. A small stream ran nearby, providing a reliable water source and fishing opportunities.
More importantly, the land concealed veins of cold iron ore.
Although extraction would be difficult, the potential value was immense.
In the harsh, frozen wasteland of the Northern Border, this place could be considered fertile ground.
Edmund lifted his head and looked at Louis again, his expression subtly altered.
He had expected a clueless noble playing at lordship.
Instead, this young man had chosen wisely—far too wisely for coincidence.
"A good choice," the Duke said at last.
Louis inclined his head slightly. "Thank you for Your Grace's praise. I merely did my best to make the most suitable judgment."
The lack of arrogance only deepened Edmund's interest.
With an approving grunt, he stood, reached for a heavy steel seal, and pressed it firmly onto Louis's registration document. The emblem of Frost Halberd was stamped deep into the parchment, final and unyielding.
"It's official," Edmund said. "That land is yours."
Louis accepted the document, his fingers brushing against the cold steel imprint.
Outwardly, he remained calm.
Inwardly, fireworks exploded.
A territory chosen based on the Daily Intelligence System could never be ordinary. If Duke Edmund had known its true long-term value, he would never have allowed it to slip from his grasp so easily.
But now—
It was his.
And this was only the beginning.