Geralt held the knife in his hand, his gaze glued to the cold, brilliant glint of the steel.
He had thought his "old friend" would soon meet its end in the freezing North. But this young man—the new Lord—had brought it back to life. And he had done it with a slab of stone that looked no different from the useless rocks scattered outside.
"That..." Geralt's voice trembled as he pointed a finger at the stone. "Could you... could you teach me?"
"To whet," Nicholas supplied, without hesitation.
"Teach me... how to whet? Please?" Geralt's eyes lit up with a purity like a child seeing the world for the first time.
"Very well," Nicholas said. "Sit."
And so, a bizarre scene unfolded. A nobleman and an exile sat together on the floor, sharpening a knife.
The steady shhh-shk, shhh-shk filled the room. Beads of sweat formed on Geralt's forehead. For the first time, he felt his body warming up despite the skin-piercing cold. He could feel his old friend changing in his hands—becoming brighter, colder, and sharper.
"Remember this," Nicholas's voice rang out, pulling him back to reality. "If you over-sharpen it, the metal will become brittle and prone to breaking."
Geralt looked down at the blade in a panic—it was still sparkling, unharmed.
"Only whet when absolutely necessary," Nicholas continued. "A whetstone isn't the best option, but for now... it's what we have."
In his old world, metal was maintained with honing steels—minimal wear, high efficiency. But in this place, a simple whetstone was already a luxury.
"More important than sharpening," Nicholas said, his gaze shifting to the axe on the table, "is maintenance."
He stepped forward and touched the axe blade. It was cold and damp.
"Maintenance?" Geralt looked up, almost holding his breath. "What is that... and how is it done?"
"Take this axe, for example," Nicholas picked it up. "If it's constantly exposed to snow and water, it will eventually rust."
"Rust?" Geralt was stunned. "What is that? How do we avoid it? Please, My Lord—show me!" He dropped to his knees instinctively.
"Stand up," Nicholas said sternly. "I told you, I don't care for people kneeling before me."
Once Geralt had composed himself, Nicholas continued.
"Maintenance is simple. When you are finished using it—wipe it dry. Keep it in a high, well-ventilated area."
Nicholas used a corner of his own cloak to wipe the water and snow from the axe, then dragged the table to the most ventilated corner of the room and placed the tool on top.
"Remember," he spoke slowly. "Dry. Elevated. No standing water."
Geralt watched every movement, hanging on every word. Each step was etched into his memory.
"Geralt, remember this well." Nicholas looked him straight in the eye. "To cut a tree... the axe must be sharp."
Geralt looked as if he had just woken from a long slumber. A simple truth, yet one he had never considered before, was now standing vividly before him.
A profound sense of admiration welled up within Geralt for this new Lord. Nicholas was nothing like the nobles he had encountered before—those who were arrogant, distant, and knew only how to bark orders.
The man before him understood tools. He understood people. He understood how to survive. And that realization filled Geralt with a deep sense of awe.
"I, Geralt..." He took a step forward, his gaze clear and devoid of any deceit. "Right here, I swear—to be loyal to Lord Nicholas Albert."
He bowed his head low. In that simple hut, there was no ceremony, no crests, and no gods to bear witness. There was only a sincere oath, heavier than any formal contract.
The corners of Nicholas's mouth curved slightly. He had achieved exactly what he set out for. It wasn't through imposed power, but through recognition. The recognition of the man the villagers trusted most.
The first pieces on the nameless chessboard were beginning to move in the right direction.
"You may call me Nicholas, or Young Master," he said, his voice lowering. "Don't call me 'Lord.' I have no use for grand, empty titles."
"Yes... Young Master Nicholas." Geralt nodded without hesitation. He was different from Garrick—he was quick to understand, quick to act, and quick to adapt. Nicholas favored people like this.
"Now, sharpen your axe. We're going to fell some trees."
"By your command, Young Master!" Geralt was as excited as a child with a new toy. He knelt by the whetstone—the object he had once cast aside, now treated as a treasure.
Shhh-shk. Shhh-shk.
Steady strokes. A cold, lethal glint began to emerge on the axe blade. Sharper. Colder. It carried his heart and soul—the effort to revive a companion that had followed him through years of hardship.
Nicholas led him out of the hut toward the forest edge. "Try felling this one." He pointed to a medium-sized trunk after observing the area.
Geralt took a deep breath and swung.
Thwack!
The sound was sharp and clean. In a single stroke, the blade bit deep, nearly a third of the way through the trunk.
"Your strength is impressive," Nicholas said calmly. "Few can strike that deep on the first blow."
"You flatter me, Young Master." Geralt grinned proudly. "I've been stronger than most since I was a boy." He looked down at the axe, his eyes filled with pride. "Combined with my 'old friend' here... nothing can stop me now."
Internally, however, he was stunned. Before this, no matter how much strength he used, this was impossible. A single strike nearly piercing the tree? Unheard of.
Three strikes. Just three. The tree came crashing down into the snow.
"Incredible!" Geralt roared with joy. "This is truly amazing, Young Master!"
Nicholas simply nodded. Over the next hour, Geralt felled more than twenty trees—all medium-sized trunks. The productivity far exceeded expectations.
"That's enough," Nicholas said, clapping his hands to snap him out of his trance. "Work in moderation. Don't overexert yourself."
"Young Master, I can keep going!" Geralt laughed heartily. "I've never felt this motivated!"
Seeing that refreshing smile, Nicholas was certain he had chosen the right man.
"Let's haul the wood back." He turned toward the village. "You see those huts? I need you to help me reinforce them. Only then will the villagers survive this winter."
He helped Geralt tie ropes to the trunks.
"Young Master," Geralt asked curiously. "Why tie them like this? Wouldn't it be faster to just carry them on our shoulders?"
"Don't just work hard," Nicholas said, finishing the knot and handing him the rope. "Work smarter. Stay low. Wrap the rope over your shoulder. Now, try pulling."
Geralt obeyed. With his immense strength combined with the slick, icy surface of the snow...
"Oh—!" He burst into a loud laugh. "It's light! Much lighter than carrying it!"
The sound of his boisterous laughter echoed through the snowy forest as Geralt hauled the trunks, running across the drifts like a wild beast finally set free.
He can fell a tree half a meter wide in three strokes... and then drag it across the snow like it's nothing.
Clearly, he isn't an ordinary man. I must keep a close eye on him.
Nicholas watched Geralt's retreating figure, making a mental note. In a place this harsh, raw strength wasn't the only thing of value—but strength applied in the right place would become a pillar of his domain.
After hauling twenty logs back to the village, both Geralt and Nicholas were gasping for air. The grey sky finally parted, offering a few weak, rare rays of sunlight that made the biting cold a bit more bearable.
"This wood..." Geralt panted, resting his hands on his knees. "What do you plan to do with it, Young Master?"
Nicholas regulated his breathing. Despite the exhaustion, his gaze remained sharp and composed.
"Build houses." He straightened his back, his eyes turning toward the lopsided huts of the village. "If people are to prosper, they must first have a place to settle. If we want long-term growth, we must start with the foundation. A sturdy shelter that can withstand the wind and snow—only then can the people work with peace of mind and survive this climate."
In his past life, those words would have sounded like a typical politician's speech. But this time, Nicholas wasn't just talking. He knew exactly what he was doing. And Geralt could feel it, too.
"Young Master..." Geralt's voice wavered. "I didn't expect you to care so much for us refugees..." He thumped his chest, his gaze hardening with resolve. "If there is anything I can do—just give the order!"
"Naturally," Nicholas nodded. "I'm counting on you."
He brushed the snow from his cloak and stood up. "Get some rest. Tomorrow will be an important day."
"Are you going somewhere, Young Master?" Geralt scrambled to his feet.
"To see Garrick," Nicholas replied curtly. "I have tasks to assign to him."
"Let me come along!" Geralt said immediately. "Garrick and I are close; I can help—"
"No need." Nicholas adjusted his collar. "I've already met him. Now, I'm just delegating work."
Geralt hesitated for a beat, but remained insistent. "Even so... please let me follow you."
Nicholas glanced at him. The hulking carpenter now looked like a loyal beast waiting for his master's nod.
"...Fine. Follow me."
Invigorated, Geralt marched behind Nicholas toward Garrick's hut.
"Garrick! You in there?" Geralt hammered on the door.
"I'm coming, I'm coming—stop making such a racket!" Garrick grumbled from inside. The door swung open. But the first person Garrick saw was Nicholas.
"Young Master?" The old man's voice was full of cheer, as if he had been waiting for a long time. "Do you have orders for us?"
"I have work for both you and Geralt."
"Yes, yes—please, come in." Garrick hurried to step aside.
Inside the hut, the flickering light from a bundle of burning straw illuminated their faces.
"Wait a minute..." Geralt stood frozen. "Garrick—how... how do you have fire?!" He was nearly terrified.
In this world, fire was the exclusive privilege of mages. Commoners who wanted fire had to buy magic stones at astronomical prices and pay for periodic mana refills. Blacksmiths and forges only existed because of magic. In this world, the Mage was the pinnacle of existence. That was the truth; that was the law.
"The Young Master taught me how," Garrick chuckled, holding up two stones. "It's quite easy."
He struck the stones together. A spark flew—and caught. Geralt's eyes went wide.
"I want to—"
"Later," Nicholas interrupted, his voice dropping an octave. Both Garrick and Geralt fell silent instantly.
"Garrick. Tomorrow morning, gather the entire village. I will give my official debut speech. I will announce the plan to help this village survive—and thrive."
Nicholas didn't raise his voice, yet every word hit like a sledgehammer.
"As for you, Geralt." He turned. "I will give you specific assignments tomorrow."
Geralt looked a bit disappointed. Reading his thoughts, Nicholas added: "Your work is of the utmost importance. I need you to give it your all."
"Of course, Young Master! You can count on Geralt!" The carpenter burst into a boisterous laugh that echoed through the small space.
Outside, the world grew dark. But inside Garrick's small hut, the fire continued to burn. Though it was as tiny as a firefly's glow, the day would come when it would shine as bright as the sun.
Nicholas Albert was certain of it. Because he held the most powerful weapon humanity had ever possessed.
KNOWLEDGE.