A line of soldiers, looking like refugees, emerged from the forest, each one covered in filthy snow and mud.
Lying on the back of a trainee knight, Ronan couldn't help but feel his eyelids droop. But as they walked out of the forest, the sight before him shocked his mind.
They stood on a ridgeline of the mountainous forest. The dense trees had blocked his vision for hours.
Ahead, some 50 or 60 meters below, a plain—or rather, a snowfield—stretched out.
A vast world of white filled his vision. Dozens of scattered houses dotted the several-thousand-square-meter snowfield.
Further ahead stood a mountain shaped like a rhino's horn, likely two or three hundred meters high. Judging from his former perspective, Ronan estimated the angle between the peak and the ground was about forty to fifty degrees.
The horn-like peak pierced into the icy winds and snow of the northern border. Ronan could almost feel as if a massive rhinoceros-like beast stood beneath the earth, staring up at him.
Shrouded in swirling snow, its outline barely visible to mortals, the oppressive presence still made the Eight trainee knights and Bernard, the old steward, breathe more heavily with unease.
"This is Young Master Ronan's territory…"
Despite appearing old and frail, the old steward didn't seem the least bit fatigued after such a long journey.
The stamina of an official knight was something Ronan truly envied.
So, this vast white world before him… was this where he would grow old and die?
Ronan couldn't help but feel curious, but that curiosity quickly vanished for all ten of them.
Because… it was cold.
Without the forest's protection, the frigid northern wind made their teeth chatter. Occasionally drifting snowflakes landed on Ronan's neck, making him shiver uncontrollably.
"So cold…"
Even the old steward, a full-fledged knight, instinctively huddled against the cold. But as he looked at Ronan's pale face, the fury in his eyes nearly drove the cold away.
"Damn it. If not for everything belonging to Young Master Ronan being withheld in Aurelia, how could a noble body like his have ended up in such a state?"
He looked at Ronan, his aged eyes glistening with unshed tears.
"Once Count Reed returns, those people will not be spared."
Hearing Bernard's words, Ronan, who had been too exhausted to care, also fell silent.
As a baron crowned personally by the royal family, Ronan should never have had just an old steward and Eight trainee knights by his side.
At the coronation, Charles III himself had assigned him one hundred guards—thirty official knights and seventy trainees. The three leading knights were even Silver-ranked.
He was given over a hundred warhorses and three carriages filled with supplies for developing his territory, worth no less than a thousand gold coins.
There were also dozens of slaves to serve the young baron—among them even a cat-girl gifted by Charles III as a form of indulgence.
But from the palace to the gates of Aurelia—a short distance—he lost everything. His carriages vanished. His slaves were gone.
His guards were detained just outside the capital for various reasons. In the end, only fifty trainee knights accompanied Ronan as he left for Northwindshire.
By the time he arrived, only Eight trainee knights and the steward Bernard remained at his side.
The remaining forty-two guards and Bernard's son, Liam, had mostly been detained at various checkpoints along the way. Liam was even imprisoned in Wingate Gorge, the passage between Northwindshire and the rest of the Solar Empire.
Ronan's former self had been filled with fury and resentment over this, hoping that when Count Reed returned to the Solar Empire, he would retaliate and bring Ronan back to the warm, comfortable south.
But the current Ronan understood very well: the deliberate obstacles they faced along the journey represented a de facto blockade by most of the Imperial factions against the Reed family.
By the time the Count returned, everything would already be decided—and it would be too late.
Even if the Count had the strength to reverse the situation, Ronan's appointment as Baron of the Frostholm Barony—personally crowned by the royal family—could not be undone.
So, even if the Reed family could fight back, those benefits were already unrelated to Ronan.
From the moment he received his title, he had effectively been separated from the Reed family.
From this day forward, his backing was no longer House Reed, but the Frostholm Barony—he was Baron Ronan.
Under his name, a new family line would begin.
Thud!
Ronan suddenly collapsed into the snow. The once beautiful white snow was now a bitter enemy—its icy bite blurred his vision, worsened by his already excessive blood loss.
When he regained consciousness, he was already on Bernard's back. In front of him, seven kneeling guards and Captain Darren, who was furiously punching one of them, came into view.
"You dared to drop the baron?! Roland, you deserve to be torn to pieces!"
All of Darren's fury was directed at the guard named Roland. Fear also shone in his eyes—seeing Ronan nearly unconscious had made him envision his own head rolling across the snowy ground.
He drew his knight's sword, but Ronan's voice behind him froze his arm in place.
"Enough, Darren."
Ronan stopped the captain. After all, only these nine people remained at his side.
He looked at Roland, whose face was pale—whether from fear or the bitter northern cold, Ronan couldn't tell.
"Roland… all of you, get up."
Ronan insisted on getting down from Bernard's back. Though unsteady, he believed he needed to show strength—to be the beacon of hope for his people.
More importantly, he had seen a relatively smooth path leading into the village ahead.
"From now on, this is where we will live."
He didn't go out of his way to console Roland. In such a strict and hierarchical age, kindness like that wasn't necessarily wise.
His small frame shivered as he walked along the dirt path, silently thankful for the knight training he had retained.
Behind him, Bernard and the eight guards looked at his figure with mixed expressions of surprise and admiration.
Ahead, in the small and nameless village, over a dozen rough-looking men holding pitchforks and other makeshift weapons had noticed him.
Ronan took a deep breath, staring at the clearly malnourished villagers. His voice was still young, but naturally carried authority.
"I am Ronan, lord of the Frostholm Barony."
In this era, impersonating nobility was nearly impossible. Aristocrats were intertwined through bloodlines—everyone knew everyone.
Upon hearing Ronan's declaration, the villagers immediately dropped what they were holding and fell to their knees.
"My lord, you've finally come!"
"With the lord here, we'll have food again!"