Rathord was nothing like his brother Prince Ragnar. Though both were sons of King Ragnor IV, one was born under royal ceremony, the other in the shadows of scandal. Ragnar had the bearing of an heir; Rathord, the mark of a forgotten bastard. Compared to his half-brother's talent and charisma, Rathord was painfully ordinary—a man history would have ignored if not for his ambition.
As the morning mist clung to the borderlands, Rathord squinted toward the bustling checkpoint in the distance. Lines of weary people stretched toward the horizon, carrying bundles, children, and what little dignity they had left.
"What's going on up ahead?" he asked, adjusting his travel cloak.
One of the young Nord nobles beside him replied quietly, "It looks like the Ross soldiers are gathering refugees. The Loth Kingdom and Kiswell Kingdom were both destroyed during the Orc Empire's invasion, so the Kingdom of Ross is taking in survivors."
Rathord's eyes lit up. "A refugee gathering…? That's perfect!"
He turned back to his small band of followers—no more than ten young noblemen, all tired, dust-covered, and starving from their long journey across the border. "We'll use this chance to slip in among them. Once we're inside Ross territory, we'll be able to move freely."
The others nodded quickly, relief mixing with fear. It had taken them over a month to reach this point, moving through mountains, forests, and endless checkpoints of the Tongsley Empire. Now, at last, they stood at the edge of the very land they swore to reclaim.
"Dress the part," Rathord ordered. "Tear your clothes, make yourselves look desperate."
Blades flashed briefly as they ripped at their cloaks and tunics, turning their noble uniforms into rags. They smeared dust on their faces and scuffed their boots until they could pass for peasants. When they joined the crowd of refugees, they blended in—at least at first glance.
Even so, their bearing betrayed them. The proud tilt of their chins, the clean precision in their gestures, and the faint glow of practiced mana around their fingertips—all of it screamed noble. They could pretend to be poor, but arrogance ran too deep in their blood.
Still, the Ross soldiers paid them little attention. The line moved forward slowly, filled with hundreds of frightened faces.
A soldier approached, checking the line. His uniform gleamed with the dark blue-and-silver colors of Ross. He carried a strange weapon—a short, steel-barreled "spear" with a trigger—and his manner was professional, almost polite.
Rathord frowned, whispering to the man beside him, "Look at their gaudy uniforms… and what kind of weapon is that? Such a ridiculous toy."
The other nobles murmured agreement. "Ross soldiers… Nord traitors, the lot of them," one spat softly. "To think they'd serve Gavin Ward after he destroyed our homeland."
"Traitors," Rathord muttered. "Every last one of them."
They didn't dare speak louder than that. It would be suicide to be overheard.
Still, not all of them shared Rathord's bitterness. One of the younger men whispered shyly, "Actually, their uniforms… look kind of impressive. The fabric's so fine, the cut—"
He didn't finish. Every pair of eyes glared at him—cold, venomous stares that shut him up instantly.
Just then, the Ross soldier began asking questions, his tone calm and methodical. "Which of you can work as a craftsman?" he called.
A few hands went up. The soldiers took those individuals aside and led them toward a different group. Then the soldier continued, "Any doctors? Merchants? Gardeners? Tailors?"
Each skilled refugee was separated one by one. The number of people at the checkpoint thinned until only the lowest peasants—and Rathord's disguised nobles—remained.
Another officer approached, a cigarette glowing faintly between his lips. The soldier at the post saluted instantly.
"Take the rest," the officer said casually. "New agricultural bases are opening up. They'll be assigned to work the fields."
"Yes, sir."
The words struck Rathord like a slap.
"Farmers?!" one of his companions hissed. "They want us to work like peasants? We're not commoners!"
Rathord raised a hand sharply. "Control yourselves." His tone was cold, but inside, frustration boiled. "We have to endure this humiliation. This is a chance, not a punishment."
He glanced toward the plains beyond the fence. "If they're building food bases, that means manpower shortages. If we can blend in and win the hearts of those peasants, we can control the very bread they eat. Food controls armies—and revolutions."
Several of his men exchanged glances and nodded grimly. "You're right," one said. "If we're ever to rebuild Nord, we'll need food before weapons."
The sound of engines interrupted their whispered plotting. A large steel vehicle rumbled toward them—a military truck, heavy and square, its back compartment sheathed in thick iron plating. To the nobles, it looked like something out of legend.
"What… what is that monster?" one of them gasped. "Is that some kind of steel beast?"
The soldiers opened the back door. "Everyone, get in," one commanded.
The refugees hesitated, fear spreading like wildfire. They whispered frantically:
"They're feeding us to that thing!"
"The Ross people use monsters of metal—they're demons!"
"No wonder our armies lost—how can we fight creatures like this?!"
Faces turned pale. Some trembled so badly they could barely stand. The noble youths were no better—they'd grown up behind marble walls, studying magic, not machines. The sight of something so alien, so loud and powerful, made their courage waver.
"Rathord…" one stammered, voice cracking. "W-what do we do? I don't want to die! I don't want to be eaten alive!"
Rathord's heart pounded in his chest. His knees felt weak. The truck's roaring engine made the ground tremble; it looked more alive than any beast of flesh. What if they were right? What if Ross truly had tamed monsters of steel?
For a second, he regretted everything—the plan, the journey, the lies.
But he forced himself to breathe. You are the leader now, he told himself. If you lose your head, they lose theirs.
He straightened his back and said coldly, "Calm down! Don't panic. We can't show fear."
The soldier nearest them frowned, clearly puzzled by their hesitation. "What are you waiting for? Get in the truck."
Rathord managed a shaky smile. "Sir… forgive me, but may I ask—what is this? Where are you taking us?"
The soldier blinked, then laughed softly. "Ah, I see. You've never seen a truck before. Don't worry—it's not alive." He patted the vehicle's side affectionately. "It's a machine, not a monster. A carriage powered by fuel and steel. It'll take you to the agricultural base."
The noble youths blinked in disbelief. "A… carriage of steel?"
The soldier nodded. "That's right. The Kingdom of Ross is different from the rest of the world. You'll see soon enough."
Then he clapped Rathord's shoulder kindly. "Don't be afraid. The king of Ross ensures fair treatment. If you work hard, you'll get your own share of land. You'll be safe here."
His sincerity caught Rathord off guard. He even saluted politely before adding, "Welcome to the Kingdom of Ross. From today, we are one family."
For a long moment, no one spoke. The wind rustled through the dusty line of refugees.
Then one of the women began to cry—softly at first, then openly, tears streaking down her dirty cheeks. Others followed, overwhelmed by exhaustion and relief. For weeks they had wandered between ruins, burying friends, hiding from raiders, starving by the roadside. Now, finally, someone spoke to them with compassion.
Rathord watched them climb aboard the "steel monster," still uncertain but less afraid. When it was his turn, he ran his hand along the cool metal frame. It was solid, crafted with impossible precision. There were no runes, no enchantments—just design and engineering beyond anything the Nord nobles had imagined.
They built this without magic, he realized, awe creeping into his chest. No wonder they crushed us.
Inside, the truck's engine rumbled to life again, and the vehicle lurched forward. As it rolled down the dirt road, Rathord stared out at the vast fields waiting to be cultivated—the foundation of Ross's new future.
He clenched his fists tightly. "The Kingdom of Ross is far stronger than I thought," he whispered. "These aren't barbarians… they're builders."
His mind replayed the soldier's words: Work hard, and you'll live well.
For the first time, doubt crept into his rebellion. Could a land so advanced, so organized, ever be overthrown by a handful of exiled nobles? Still, his pride refused to yield completely.
He looked down at his hands, calloused from travel. "The road ahead is long," he murmured to himself. "But I'll walk it to the end."
Outside, the wind carried the faint sound of laughter and machinery. The steel monsters of Ross rolled forward, carrying both refugees and rebels toward a future neither fully understood.
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