Rian stared at the translucent blue screen floating before his eyes. The glowing text of the [Daily Intelligence Report] was the only source of light in his dim, freezing room.
The wind outside smashed against the stone walls like a war hammer, making the entire castle groan.
'Captain Thorne... traitor...'
Rian read the second line of the report again. His heart hammered against his ribs. It wasn't the excitement of a game anymore; it was the cold reality of survival.
He looked down at his hands. They were trembling. Not just from the cold, but from weakness. This body—the body of the exiled noble—was pathetic. He had no muscles, no mana, and no weapon.
"Hance," Rian called out. His voice was hoarse, like sandpaper rubbing together.
The old butler, who was huddled in the corner trying to block a drafty crack with his own body, scrambled to his feet. "My Lord? Are you feeling unwell?"
Rian looked at the old man. Hance was wearing three layers of torn clothes, yet his lips were purple.
"Food," Rian rasped. "What do we have left?"
Hance hesitated. The old man's eyes shifted away, unable to meet his master's gaze. "We... we have some dried black bread, My Lord. And... a little bit of soup from yesterday."
"Bring it."
"Yes, My Lord."
Hance limped out of the room. Rian sat on the edge of the hard wooden bed, wrapping the wolf-skin cloak tighter around himself. He needed to think.
According to the System, Thorne was going to leave at midnight.
He glanced at the broken mechanical clock on the wall. The gears were frozen, but judging by the moon outside the slit window, it was roughly 8:00 PM.
He had four hours.
Four hours to stop a Level 2 Warrior.
'If I confront him directly, I die,' Rian analyzed. 'If I call the guards, they might side with him. Thorne is strong; I am a useless noble.'
A few minutes later, Hance returned with a wooden tray. On it was a piece of bread as hard as a brick and a bowl of watery soup that looked more like dirty dishwater. There was no meat. No vegetables. Just boiled water with a hint of salt.
Rian stared at the food. In his past life as an engineering student, he used to complain about the cafeteria food. Now, looking at this "soup," his stomach growled violently.
He took a bite of the bread. It was so hard it almost chipped his tooth. He had to dip it in the soup to soften it.
"Hance," Rian asked while chewing slowly. "Where is Captain Thorne right now?"
"The Captain?" Hance rubbed his frozen hands together. "He is in the barracks, My Lord. He said... he said he needs to rest early to lead the patrol tomorrow morning."
Rian let out a cold, dry laugh. "Rest? No, he is packing."
"Packing?" Hance looked confused. "My Lord, surely you jest. Where would he go in this weather?"
Rian put the spoon down. The metal clinked loudly in the silent room.
"He isn't just going, Hance. He is taking the gold. The gold meant for buying coal. The gold meant for your survival."
Hance's face went pale. "Impossible! Captain Thorne has served your father for ten years! He wouldn't—"
"People change when they are freezing to death, Hance," Rian stood up. His legs felt heavy, but his mind was sharp. The initial shock of transmigration was fading, replaced by a steely resolve.
He walked to the window. The courtyard below was covered in knee-deep snow.
"Hance, listen to me carefully," Rian said, not turning around. "I need you to go to the kitchen. Find the oil we use for the lamps. All of it."
"The... lamp oil?" Hance asked, bewildered. "But My Lord, if we use it all, we will be in darkness."
Rian turned around. His eyes, usually dull and timid, now held a strange, calculating glint.
"If Thorne leaves with the gold, darkness will be the least of our problems. We will starve before the week ends."
Rian walked closer to the old butler and placed a hand on his shoulder.
"Get the oil. And get a rope. We aren't going to fight him, Hance. We are going to make sure he never leaves the gate."
The wind howled outside, sounding like a wailing ghost. The countdown to midnight had begun.