Roasted goat meat, boiled lampreys, a small serving of applesauce with pear slices, hop-infused wheat beer, and white bread baked from fine wheat flour—this was Frank's dinner.
The Western-style meal didn't suit his taste at all, but he had absolutely no idea how to cook, let alone whip up the home-style dishes he loved.
More importantly, the customs of this world strictly prohibited nobles from entering places like kitchens and warehouses—domains reserved exclusively for servants.
To do so was a breach of noble etiquette, a sure way to become the laughingstock of the aristocracy.
The royal palace, of course, was an exception.
Chefs and servants in the palace were all nobles from minor fiefdoms across the realm.
Frank's father, Byron Violet, Earl of Pearl Island, had once served as a stable hand to the new Grand Duke of Sapphire, tasked solely with tending to the grand duke's beloved steed—a fine horse infused with dragon blood.
Even now, the earl still occasionally entered the palace to fill the role of stable hand, relishing every moment of it.
He feared more than anything that another noble might steal this position, severing the close connection he maintained with the grand duke.
Similarly, the Grand Duke of Sapphire had once worked as a personal valet to the King of Ironspine Kingdom, his suzerain state, attending to the monarch's every need—from meals to personal hygiene—without a single oversight.
Such was the unspoken rule of this world: commoners were servants to nobles, minor nobles were servants to high nobles, and only the king of a nation could truly claim the title of master.
"Thankfully, here in Ironthorn Town, I am the sole master—no one to wait on but myself."
Frank chewed his mediocre dinner, a sense of contentment welling up in his chest.
His father had never liked him, so he would never bother to journey to this backwater to pester him.
When dinner ended, the elderly butler Carter directed the maids to clear the table, while Frank's personal valet brought over a basin of mouthwash to attend to him.
Once the entire ritual was complete, Carter herded the servants toward the door.
"My lord, gentlemen, I shall wait outside. Please do not hesitate to summon me should you need anything," Carter said with a slight bow.
"Thank you for your trouble, Mr. Carter."
Frank offered a perfect gentlemanly smile.
Thanks to the memories of his predecessor, noble etiquette came to him naturally, no deliberate study required.
Even when dealing with lowly servants, outward politeness and respect were non-negotiable.
What happened behind closed doors—beatings, punishments, or even worse—was irrelevant.
The key was to uphold the facade of noble demeanor at all times.
"It is my honor to serve you."
With that, Carter closed the door gently behind him.
"Frank." Gorky took a sip of honeyed tea, his tone grave. "We need to put the Elf Worms to use as soon as possible, but the town's finances are in a catastrophic state. The previous administrator was an incompetent fool who did nothing but squeeze the serfs dry. He left us with a complete mess!"
"I understand, Master. Please look into it at your earliest convenience and find a suitable plot of land to settle the Elf Worms."
"It is my duty. Rest assured."
Gorky nodded in acknowledgment.
Frank turned his gaze to Marcus.
"Master Marcus, will it be difficult to survey the magical beasts in the part of Bramble Ridge near Ironthorn Town? These beasts have been harassing the farmers frequently. As lord, I cannot stand idly by."
Marcus replied with a cold, impassive expression.
"Bramble Ridge is vast, and the magical beasts roam without any fixed pattern. You have only four vassal knights at your disposal. Even if I map out the exact whereabouts of every beast, we still won't be able to mount a full defense. Not to mention the patrol squad—they're nothing but a bunch of useless thugs and hooligans who wet their pants at the mere sight of a magical beast."
Ironthorn Town lay at the northeasternmost tip of Pearl Island, surrounded on three sides by Bramble Ridge.
With magical beasts running rampant, few caravans dared to risk trading here.
The town had no choice but to be self-sufficient. Without the aid of elves, the farmers struggled just to feed themselves, yet they still had to pay heavy taxes to the Violet family.
Nobles cared nothing for the lives of their peasants; their eyes were fixed solely on the amount of tax they could collect. The Violet family was no exception.
But Frank couldn't remain indifferent.
He was, after all, a young man raised under the new ideas of Earth's modern era.
Now that he was a lord, rescuing his people from suffering had become his responsibility.
What's more, only when Ironthorn Town prospered could he, as its lord, enjoy a better life.
For both public and private reasons, he had to make Ironthorn Town thrive.
"There must be a way to fix this. Master Marcus, after tomorrow's knight training session, accompany me on a walk through Bramble Ridge. As lord, I haven't even had the chance to properly see my domain."
"Frank, that's far too reckless!"
Gorky immediately interjected, trying to dissuade him.
"Stick to wandering around the town. Bramble Ridge is off-limits! Have you already forgotten that you nearly lost your life there last time?"
Frank shook his head.
"Last time was a mistake—I accidentally ate some poisonous fruit. I'll be extra careful this time."
Marcus, ever the man of action, spoke up decisively.
"I will inform your four vassal knights tonight and map out a patrol route to ensure your safety."
"Thank you." Frank said.
"You're far too impulsive for your own good." Gorky sighed in resignation.
Frank didn't say anything more. Neither of his masters knew his true intentions.
His body hadn't fully recovered yet—by all rights, he should have stayed in bed to regain his strength before venturing out.
But nobles traveled either by carriage or on horseback, and unfortunately for him, he owned no carriage.
As for riding a horse...
his memories told him it was no easy feat.
This world had no saddles or stirrups whatsoever.
Knights who wielded combat qi needed no such aids to ride horses—or any other mount, for that matter.
"They say saddles only restrict a knight's riding skills... but without one, it's torture on the rear end!"
Frank grumbled silently to himself after seeing his two masters off.
"My lord, when do you plan to retire for the night?"
His personal valet Thomas entered to inquire.
"Not until after ten o'clock. Thomas, bring an extra candle to my study first—I want to do some reading."
Frank dismissed him with a wave of his hand.
A flicker of disappointment crossed Thomas's face. For days now, he hadn't had a single chance to prove his worth.
Frank always sent him away, never allowing him to attend to his master personally.
As a personal valet, he was growing increasingly worried that he had failed to win his lord's favor—and that he would soon lose his position.
Thomas's fears were not unfounded.
Frank truly disliked having a male valet hovering at his side.
Every time Thomas helped him dress, he broke out in goosebumps.
Curse this damnable noble system!
Why couldn't male nobles have female personal attendants instead?
After Thomas brought the extra candle and left, the study was bathed in a warm, bright glow.
Frank stood up and drew back the curtains.
Through the castle window, he could see the distant town, dotted with only a handful of dim, sparse lights.
In a town where people struggled just to fill their bellies, there was no such thing as nightlife—only endless, profound silence.
"This is my domain... poor, backward, but entirely mine. An entire town, my very own independent kingdom... I will turn it into a paradise!" Frank murmured to himself.
In a daze, wispy tendrils of mist suddenly coalesced and swirled before his eyes, gradually twisting into abstract characters.
Each character looked as if it were woven from countless tiny snakes coiled together—this was the common script of Ironspine Kingdom: Snake Script.
The origins of Snake Script were lost to time, for this world had no tradition of recording history.
As a transmigrator who had inherited all of his predecessor's memories, Frank could read these characters effortlessly.
And this particular message had been plaguing him for an entire week.
Quest: As lord, you must understand every inch of your domain. Patrol Ironthorn Town, identify hidden crises, and lay the groundwork for future development. Reward: Sublimation of Combat Qi.
The message was short and straightforward, yet Frank couldn't wrap his head around why he was the only one who could see these mist-woven characters.
He delved into his predecessor's memories and discovered that these smoky scripts had appeared since childhood—but back then, the mist had been too faint and the characters too blurry to discern.
His predecessor had always dismissed them as hallucinations.
It wasn't until Frank's soul had taken over this body that he had finally been able to see the message clearly.
Frank froze for a moment, then reached out a hand to touch the mist.
But the moment his fingertips drew near, the mist vanished without a trace.
It was enough to confirm the "hallucination" theory—and yet, deep down, Frank refused to believe it.
Could this be a perk of being a transmigrator?
A physical manifestation of some kind of system?
He wasn't sure, but he had made up his mind to find out. All he had to do was patrol his domain and complete the quest.
Whether he received the reward or not would give him his answer.
No reward meant it was just an illusion.
But if he did receive it... then this was a cheat code exclusive to transmigrators.
As the saying went: The transmigrator hasn't even lifted a finger, yet the cheat code has already arrived!