Ronan Reed couldn't help but feel that these nobles were truly exhausting the pond to catch the fish. It was undeniable that most of the lords had minds filled only with indulgence and rot, but to exploit the slaves and freemen of Northwindshire so recklessly and without restraint—it was simply too brutal.
"Perhaps... there are other reasons at play."
Still, this version of Northwindshire gave Ronan immense confidence. It was the reason he dared to head south with just over thirty men, without any concrete plan at all.
Don't be fooled by the number—thirty-one knight-attendants and a single knight. Even so, such strength already surpassed that of over ninety percent of the frontier lords in the province.
Among the barons themselves, Ronan felt this power could be considered above average. It was Brandon who gave him such confidence.
One mustn't overestimate those nobles clinging to the shadows of their ancestral glory—they were far more useless than most would imagine.
Hadn't you seen the way old Bernard looked at Ronan? Just that meager bit of awareness and method had already stunned the old steward as if he'd witnessed a genius. From that alone, it was clear what kind of parasites infested the Solar Empire.
Of course, there were capable nobles. But Ronan was smart enough to avoid those who obviously weren't to be underestimated.
Through gloomy forests and over frozen marshes, as the evening light fell, more than a hundred people had begun to trail behind Ronan.
Aside from Ronan and his steward, Brandon, Roland, and the thirty knight-attendants, there were now seventy to eighty bandit-slaves. Their hands had been bound with coarse hemp rope into a long chain.
These captured slaves wore expressions of utter despair. Ironically, the ropes that now restrained them had originally been prepared by them to kidnap passing villagers in the mountains.
Their eyes, when they looked at Brandon and the other guards, were full of terror.
Naturally, they hadn't dared attack this noble convoy—but their methods were poor. Ronan had easily detected the traces they left and followed them straight to their hideout.
He had even found seventy or eighty shining, worn silver coins. As for gold "punks"—those only circulated among the aristocracy or major guilds affiliated with great houses. Either group was far beyond these men's ability to provoke.
Seeing the distant silhouette of villages and keeps emerging in the dusk, Ronan finally stopped and turned to face the group of slaves.
"Untie them."
The group of former bandits stared at Ronan in confusion, still filled with dread. They feared this noble was simply preparing to execute them.
Then Ronan raised his voice and declared:
"I now give you two choices.
"First: I send you as a gift to my friend, Baron Hudson.
"Second: From this moment on, you are my slaves—and you will return with me to Frostholm Barony.
"I want an answer from each of you. Now."
Hearing his words, the slaves all let out a breath of relief—it seemed they wouldn't be killed after all.
When no one answered, Roland, standing beside Ronan, shouted at them. The pressure of a knight's presence made every one of them tremble to their core.
"You have one minute!"
At last, one man stepped forward, his voice trembling:
"My lord, I wish to go to Hudson's domain…"
They hadn't chosen to flee to Frostholm Barony—because they knew full well it was too cold. They'd likely freeze to death in a matter of days.
Ronan stared at the man coldly, then laughed.
"Think carefully. All of you are escaped slaves from other lords. If Baron Hudson finds out you're fugitives, do you really think you'll have a chance at anything beyond a mine shaft?"
Hearing this, the slave's expression changed dramatically, and he immediately fell to his knees before Ronan.
"I am willing to become your slave, my lord. I know how to farm—I once tended an acre of land…"
"Enough. The lord doesn't need a peasant's rambling," Bernard interjected coldly.
His use of the term "mud legs" for these slaves was deliberate—sycophantic, opportunistic, willing to strike others while they're down. Morally, they stood at the lowest tier.
Not to mention, Ronan had nearly died in the forest because of these very slaves. Bernard's anger had yet to fade.
And so, the rest followed suit—thus forming the very first group of slaves under Baron Reed.
"What a wicked age," Ronan muttered, glancing at the blend of fear and flattery in their eyes. He couldn't help but click his tongue.
"Thank the heavens I began this life as a noble."
Hudson Keep
A pot-bellied man was greedily devouring a greasy pig trotter handed to him by a maid. And his hands?
They were busily groping within the almost-transparent garments of two delicate young maids. Beneath the table, another long-haired maid was visibly... occupied.
At that moment, the steward entered, head bowed, casting a covetous glance at the flushed cheeks of the two maids before speaking:
"Lord Hudson, a baron is requesting an audience outside."
"A baron? Who?" Hudson asked absentmindedly, his jowls quivering.
"He says his name is Ronan Reed. A young man."
"Ronan? That brat from the Reed family? The poor sod who inherited that cursed Frostholm Barony?"
Hudson sneered, glancing at the steward.
"And what do you think the little punk wants?"
The steward kept his head bowed. "This... I do not know."
Hudson snorted.
"Fool. That Ronan probably just arrived in that godforsaken place. There's no food there at all.
"It's still winter. You can't grow anything in that frozen wasteland."
"Hahaha! If that brat doesn't want to starve to death in his territory, he'll definitely come here to buy grain."
The steward looked up, pretending to be astonished—taking another greedy glance at the two maids.
"Lord Hudson, you are truly wise!"
Hudson clearly enjoyed the flattery. He pulled his hands away and waved them dismissively.
"Very well, let's go meet this Baron Reed."
From afar, Ronan saw a rotund figure rolling toward him. All around, the slaves and peasants of Hudson's domain either knelt or stood frozen in place.
"Hahaha! I've heard Frostholm Barony finally has a lord. Baron Reed, my friend—it is a great pleasure to meet you!"
"Baron Hudson, I'm equally glad to see you."
Although Hudson had sneered when he first heard Ronan's name, he appeared genuinely happy in person.
And it wasn't an act. He lacked the talent for subtlety or performance. Besides, Ronan had specifically chosen him for that very reason.
Among the Solar Empire's nobles—and even across the continent—there was a rather well-developed hierarchy of contempt.
Great nobles looked down on lesser nobles. Lesser nobles from great houses scorned those without such backgrounds. The truly minor nobles looked down on the wandering nobility from fallen families. The wandering nobles mocked those who married into titles.
And the ones who married in? They looked down on former nobles who had fallen so far they were forced to serve as pioneer knights, stripped even of their titles.
The Hudson family had been a hereditary baronial house. In the previous generation, old Baron Hudson made the bold decision to abandon his increasingly encroached-upon lands and relocate to Northwindshire.
Unfortunately, the old baron hadn't lasted long—succumbing quickly to the province's brutal winters.
So Hudson still held a certain fondness for Ronan. After all, despite both being barons, Ronan came from a better lineage—and in the great chain of contempt, that made all the difference.