Nicholas jolted awake in a decrepit hut. The rotting wooden roof groaned and creaked every time the Northern wind swept past. The cold was an invisible blade, slicing through the cracks in the walls and striking him full in the face, chilling him to the very marrow of his bones.
Cold.
It was a ruthless, unforgiving cold—the kind that gave a man no time to adapt.
When he first set foot in this desolate territory, Nicholas had mentally prepared himself for the worst. Yet, the reality far exceeded his grim expectations. This didn't feel like a lord's domain; it felt like a forgotten world in decay.
To legitimize his exile, the House of Albert had "gifted" him this Northern territory, forcing him to set out and "take office" as quickly as possible. On paper, he was a Lord. In reality, it was nothing more than a convenient excuse to push him away from the center of power—as far as humanly possible.
"Hmph... a classic move."
Nicholas looked down at the scroll in his hand. The paper was yellowed with age, its edges frayed from the long journey. The family seal stamped upon it was majestic, yet cold and distant.
"This scrap of paper... I suppose it's the only thing that proves my identity in this place."
He shook his head slightly, his emotions unruffled.
At this moment, Nicholas's mind was colder than the snow outside. In such harsh conditions, excess emotion was a luxury he couldn't afford. What he needed was logic—the trait that had followed him from his past life, as sharp and unyielding as tempered steel.
Swiftly, he organized his tasks in his mind, setting a clear order of priority.
First: He had to stay warm. In this skin-flaying cold, any plan was meaningless if his body collapsed first.
Second: He needed food and water. Survival was the prerequisite for opportunity.
Third: He needed a sturdier shelter—somewhere capable of blocking the Northern winds that howled incessantly outside.
Nicholas tightened his cloak, his gaze hardening with resolve. He pushed open the tattered door of the hut. Instantly, the Northern gale rushed in, swirling with snow and frost as if trying to force him back into his fragile refuge. Nicholas stepped directly into the wind without a hint of hesitation.
How long this land had existed, he didn't know. No one knew who the first person to step foot here was; he only knew that before him, there were others who had managed to survive on this frozen earth.
Why didn't they leave? Why didn't they seek the warmth of the South?
The answers no longer mattered. What mattered was that they had stayed. They had gathered together, built a small village, and stubbornly clung to existence at the edge of the world.
Nicholas scanned his surroundings. Amidst the lopsided shacks, one stood out as sturdier than the rest. Its wooden walls were thick, and the door was shut tight—clearly reinforced with more care than the others.
With a single glance, he identified the residence of the leader. Nicholas walked to the door and stood tall.
"I am Nicholas Albert, the newly appointed Lord of this land."
His voice rang out clearly through the freezing wind.
"I demand the head of this village come forward."
His words weren't loud, but they carried an aura of authority that brooked no refusal.
A moment later, a heavy creak broke the silence. The wooden door slowly swung open. An old man with hair as white as snow stepped out. His body was gaunt and his back slightly hunched from age and the biting cold, but his eyes were strangely bright and steady.
These were not the eyes of a weak man.
"A Lord, you say..."
The old man chuckled softly, his breath blooming into a plume of white mist in the freezing air.
"It has been many years since anyone spared a glance for this place. I had begun to think these borderlands were abandoned long ago." He looked up at Nicholas, his gaze unnervingly calm. "Why have you come here to be our Lord?"
Nicholas didn't answer immediately. He reached out and unfurled the scroll, revealing the crest of the House of Albert—the unmistakable symbol of the Empire's highest authority.
"This is an order," he said, his voice cold and clipped. "From this day forward, I am the legal ruler of this land."
The wind continued to howl, and the snow continued to fall. In that singular moment, a new power took root in this desolate place.
"Standing out here is not a good idea for conversation," the old man noted, turning to push open the wooden door. "Please, come in."
Nicholas nodded and followed him inside.
The interior of the hut held nothing that could truly be called furniture. There was a crude, handmade wooden table, its surface scarred and mottled with cracks. A rickety bed leaned against the wall, groaning unpleasantly at the slightest movement. Nearby sat a wooden chair that looked as though it would snap in two if one sat down too firmly.
"I have nothing to offer you," the old man said, pulling the chair toward Nicholas. "I hope the Lord will be generous enough to overlook my lack of hospitality."
He sat himself down on the edge of the bed.
"It's fine," Nicholas replied, his voice remaining steady as he sat. "In a place like this, even the basics are a luxury." He rubbed his hands together, his breath drifting out in thin wisps of vapor. "Why don't you light a fire to keep warm?"
The old man burst into a dry laugh and shook his head. "A fire? You make it sound too simple, My Lord."
"How could refugees like us create such a thing? We don't possess magic like you nobles."
His words carried a hint of self-mockery, laced with a familiar sense of resignation.
Nicholas frowned slightly. "Hmm? Isn't fire one of the most basic elements?" he asked. "Why must it be created through magic?"
He genuinely didn't understand, and he wasn't afraid to admit it.
The old man stared at him, a flicker of irritation passing through his eyes. "Are you not a mage, My Lord? Or are you simply mocking us?"
"I cannot use magic," Nicholas said bluntly, without a hint of hesitation. "That is exactly why I was exiled to this place."
The hut fell into a heavy silence.
A few seconds later, the old man let out a soft sigh, as if he had just let go of a weight pressing down on his chest.
"So, that is how it is..."
The old man bowed his head low. "Please forgive my ignorance, My Lord."
"Fire is a blessing from the gods," he continued softly. "Only those gifted with mana can summon it. People like us... it is simply impossible."
"Is it truly impossible?" Nicholas countered, his eyes gleaming with a sharp light.
He didn't believe in gods. Nor did he believe in the absolute supremacy of magic. He believed in knowledge.
On the trek here, he had noticed strange stones beneath the thin layer of snow. Their texture and color were so familiar that he had stopped to pick them up.
"Give me something flammable."
His voice wasn't loud, but it carried the weight of an undeniable command.
The old man hesitated for a moment, glancing around the hut. In a corner lay a small pile of leftover straw from a previous harvest. He gathered a handful and passed it over.
Nicholas remained silent. He took two stones in his hands, leaned close to the ground, and began to strike them together with a forceful, rhythmic motion.
Scritch.
A spark flashed, then instantly died out.
He continued.
Again.
And again.
His hands began to grow numb from the biting cold and the repetitive strain. But Nicholas did not stop.
Until—
Snap!
A brighter spark leaped out, landing directly into the center of the straw.
Whoosh.
A tiny flame flickered to life.
The warm, orange glow immediately began to push back the shadows and the biting chill within the cramped hut.
"My Lord... this is..." The old man's eyes widened, completely stunned.
Nicholas let out a long, slow breath, a faint, subtle smirk playing on the corner of his lips.
"I told you, I don't believe in magic." He watched the dancing flame reflected in his eyes—steady, confident, and full of grit. "I only believe in myself."