"Reporting to the lord—everything is ready."
Brandon arrived before Ronan, flanked by his thirty trainee knights, speaking loudly and clearly.
Ronan glanced at the bundles made from animal hides but didn't inspect them in detail. As long as they didn't carry anything larger than the spatial portal, it was fine.
With a casual wave of his hand, Ronan summoned the portal again—like a divine miracle appearing before everyone.
He looked at Roland and Bernard, and the two understood his intention instantly. They stepped through the portal to inform Darren back at Frostholm Barony—not to be too shocked by what was about to arrive.
"Let's go. It's not exactly warm on the other side, but it's far better than this."
With Brandon and his thirty soldiers guarding him, over 400 villagers from the Stag Spirit Tribe passed through the spatial portal in an orderly stream, heading to their new home in Frostholm Barony.
Gradually, the area around Ronan emptied.
He gazed at the few torchlit wooden cabins that remained. In this winter, those remaining elders would be buried along with this land.
"I wonder if I'll ever have the chance to return here…"
That thought lingering in his heart, Ronan stepped into the portal.
The moment he crossed, warmth flooded his body. Looking at the now-disassembled cabin, even exposed to the chill air, Ronan felt this place was shockingly warm.
The climate he had just left had been so harsh that Frostholm Barony now seemed like spring in comparison. Only by traveling deeper north from here could one experience that brutal cold again.
"When you think of it like that... it doesn't feel so bad."
Everything was relative. The Solar Empire might scorn Northwindshire, but to the people of the Elderion Continent, it was a treasure.
In stark contrast stood the original dozen villagers of Frostholm Barony and Darren's seven trainee knights, who now looked on in stunned silence.
They simply couldn't fathom where their lord had brought back so many people from.
But in this world of strict hierarchy, everything in the barony belonged to the baron. No one dared question it—nor show curiosity.
Frostholm Barony currently had no slaves, though it wasn't forbidden.
In a world of rigid rules, silence and numbness were considered the greatest virtues of commoners.
Rhinestone Peak.
Now possessing the physique of a full-fledged knight, Ronan was finally able to face the biting wind atop the mountain. He hadn't expected to settle into the baron's fort so quickly—less than two days after setting it as a goal.
"I misjudged that architect. The view really is beautiful."
Before him stretched a vast landscape. He imagined that beneath all the snow, there must have been a wide river. On either side, towering mountain slopes framed the valley. Winding waters cut through the range, descending toward lower lands—clear rivers, lush forests, green shrubs hiding rabbits, elk, and predatory wolves.
Upstream, where the river began, lay a great lake—formed by waterfalls tumbling from higher peaks. Countless birds and fish thrived there.
From here, he could envision it all: waterfalls whose thunder softened by distance into a harp-like melody, echoing day after day atop Rhinestone Peak.
But now it was all gone.
The majestic slopes were buried in snow. It was said that only for two or three months each summer could one glimpse any greenery.
The winding river had frozen solid, becoming a long, slick icefield at the base of the mountain.
Everything was coated in white. The lake was now an icebound mirror, and the rushing waterfalls had turned to jagged icicles.
From atop Rhinestone Peak, Frostholm Barony looked like a great bowl, sunken into the landscape.
Even so, the view from here remained stunning.
A silver world—frozen beauty.
"Does that lake have a name?" Ronan asked, pointing at the frozen body of water.
Bernard responded at just the right moment.
"It's called Lake Beigal."
"A beautiful name."
Ronan turned to look at his "baronial fortress." To be honest, it was just a collection of fewer than ten buildings—not much of a fortress at all.
He glanced at his home.
"From now on, this place will be called Beigalshire Fort. 'Frostholm Barony' sounds awful."
"As you wish."
Only Ronan and Bernard were on the mountain. Even Brandon—who should've been by his side—had been sent down to help the villagers build homes. A full knight's strength was invaluable in construction.
Ronan looked again at the territory below and said boldly:
"I will build a city here. It will be called Beigalshire.
A city whose name will ring across the entire Solar Empire—no, the entire South!"
The wide plain at the base of the mountain was more than enough for such a city.
In the Solar Empire, usually only viscounts were granted a city in their territory—tiny cities housing just ten to twenty thousand people.
Ronan's ambitions went far beyond that.
"Young Master Ronan has grown up," Bernard said, smiling with deep satisfaction.
He believed it even more than Ronan did—that this future would come to pass.
But that future hadn't yet arrived. A new problem had already landed at Ronan's feet.
Brandon brought Harold before him—the village chief of Frostholm Barony. The man, now responsible for over a hundred people, looked close to tears.
"My lord, we're truly out of food…"
The barony now housed over 600 people. While the Stag Spirit Tribe villagers had brought supplies, they wouldn't last long.
In the Northern Frontier, during eternal winter, food was always a critical problem.
And right now, it was winter. Even if spring came, planting wouldn't begin for another two months—much later than in the south—and six weeks behind territories in Northwindshire.
Farming was unrealistic for now.
Hunting? In the dead of winter? How many animals did people think were just waiting to be caught? Did they assume magical beasts were easy to kill?
Hunting couldn't sustain them for long. Plus, eating nothing but meat wasn't good for anyone.
"That means… we have to buy it."
Ronan looked at Bernard, resigned.
"How much money do we have left?"
Bernard looked even more helpless than Ronan.
"All our wealth was seized during the journey. We now have…"
He held out a weathered palm—dry and cracked—but the gold coin in it still gleamed.
"One gold punk, fifteen silver coins, and thirty-five coppers."
In this world, gold : silver : copper = 1 : 20 : 100.
A free citizen family of five in Northwindshire might earn ten silver coins per year. A single gold coin could feed them comfortably for a year—with the occasional indulgence.
As for serfs—if they didn't owe their lords anything extra, they were already living well.
Anyone below even a serf's status? Their survival wasn't guaranteed for long.
So now Ronan had no food… and no money.