Nicholas woke the next morning in his dilapidated hut.
Nothing had changed—rotting planks, a primitive bed, and the cold creeping in from every corner. The only difference today was the rare slivers of sunlight piercing through the cracks in the walls. They were weak, but enough to remind him that a new day had begun.
Nicholas had always been a man who valued cleanliness. In his past life, he would never have allowed himself to live in such makeshift conditions. But in this land of exile, every basic necessity had been stripped down to its lowest level.
He sat up, letting out a soft breath.
Fortunately, before leaving the Duke's estate, he had "borrowed" a pouch of dried leaves from the kitchen. He didn't know the exact name of the herb, but it had a cool, sharp scent that reminded him of mint from his old world. Nicholas took a few leaves, crushed them finely, and began to chew.
The bitter, astringent taste made him wince slightly. But at the very least, it washed away the unpleasant taste in his mouth.
"Hmph... I need toothpaste," he muttered. "But that... can wait for later."
He spat out the leaves, and the discomfort gradually faded. Today was an important day. It was the day he would officially present himself to the entire populace of this land. Though they all shared the status of exiles, by name, he was still the Lord—the man responsible for the life and death of the entire village.
Nicholas stood up, straightened his collar, and smoothed his cloak. In his previous life, he had never stood before a crowd to give a speech. But now—if speaking was required, if action was needed, if the burden had to be carried—he was ready.
The wooden door swung open. A thin ray of sunlight hit him directly in the face. Nicholas took a deep breath, then stepped out and headed toward the center of the village.
Snow continued to fall along the path. The cold wind still howled. Yet Nicholas kept walking—each step firm and heavy, never slowing down.
Meeting him was Garrick, his face glowing with a radiance far different from the day before. He was wearing old clothes that had been carefully maintained—clearly an outfit reserved only for special occasions.
"Young Master," Garrick said, his voice brimming with excitement. "I have gathered everyone. Approximately three hundred people—men, women, old and young. Not a soul is missing."
Nicholas raised an eyebrow slightly. Three hundred people—more than he had expected for such a desolate frontier. But in an instant, he regained his usual composure.
"Fine," he said. "Drop the formal address. It's too stiff."
Nicholas glanced at Garrick. "Learn from Geralt. Things go smoother when you're a bit more relaxed."
Then, he continued walking.
"Yes... Young Master, I understand." Garrick followed closely behind, his heart filled with newfound vitality. For the first time in years, he felt young again—even though he was only in his early fifties.
Soon, they reached a large, open clearing.
Hundreds of people stood waiting. They were waiting for the new Lord—the man the village elder had spoken of with such eager anticipation.
Nicholas scanned the crowd. On every face, there was a mix of emotions.
Exhaustion. Weariness. Fear. Contempt. Curiosity.
Nicholas didn't let it bother him. He didn't expect recognition from the start. He knew that, at this moment, he hadn't done anything yet to earn the trust of these three hundred people.
He only needed... to begin.
"Greetings, everyone."
Nicholas's voice rang out, steady amidst the biting wind and snow. "Thank you for coming."
He stepped onto the makeshift wooden platform—a structure Garrick and Geralt had hurriedly lashed together.
"I am Nicholas Albert," he began. "The third son of the House of Duke Albert."
He paused. Just for a single breath.
Below him, faces fell. Some eyes flashed with sudden fury. Others hurriedly bowed their heads, avoiding his gaze as if looking at a curse.
"I have been appointed as your new Lord—by order of the House of Albert." Nicholas unfurled the scroll. Though the commoners couldn't see the text clearly from a distance, the crest of the Duke was unmistakable—an indisputable mark of authority.
He rolled the parchment back up.
"I am aware," he said slowly, "that no one here places any faith in the nobility."
The atmosphere turned electric with tension.
"All of you," Nicholas continued, "are either exiles or people with nowhere left to turn. To the high society of the South, you are seen as nothing more than the refuse of their luxury."
Resentment flared. Faces turned flushed; breathing grew heavy. A few agitated men looked ready to storm the stage. But Geralt—standing at the very front—spread his arms to block them, clapping them on the shoulder with a boisterous laugh.
"Hold on, hold on," Geralt shouted. "The Young Master hasn't finished yet."
Nicholas stood tall, looking directly at the crowd. "I—Nicholas Albert—am no exception."
The square fell dead silent.
"I have no mana. I cannot use magic."
A wave of murmurs broke out. Nicholas didn't hide it; he needed them to understand that he and they were made of the same clay.
"Because I am magicless," he continued, "I was discarded by my family. They gave me the title of 'Lord,' but in truth, they simply pushed me to the ends of the earth to rot."
He scanned the crowd. The hateful glares began to soften. The rigid, defensive postures started to relax.
"But I am not discouraged." Nicholas's voice dropped, turning heavy like a hammer striking an anvil. "I want to prove to them that they do not decide the fate of others. Our destiny is forged by our own hands. No one—not a single soul—has the right to trample upon our dignity."
Murmurs rose again from the crowd, but the tone had shifted. It was no longer a chorus of curses, but a hum of agreement. Eyes began to burn with a new light.
Nicholas offered a faint smile. In his past life, he had heard empty, hollow speeches hundreds of times. Leaders always shouted about "growing together" while only lining their own pockets. But he was a scientist, a man driven by research—someone who had risen purely through knowledge and merit.
He knew better than anyone that he couldn't do this alone. He needed the hands and hearts of these three hundred people. And step by step, he was winning them over.
"I need everyone, every single one of you..." his voice echoed through the clearing. The crowd leaned in, hanging on every word. "...to join hands with me. Let us overcome this hardship together and march toward a brighter tomorrow."
For a moment, the square was silent. Then Geralt was the first to clap, his massive hands creating a thunderous sound. Garrick followed immediately. Then the applause spread like wildfire, growing from a few scattered claps to a deafening roar that filled the valley.
Nicholas raised his hand, signaling for silence.
"To mark this new beginning, I propose that this land finally have a name. And that name shall be chosen from the ideas of all its people."
Nicholas's face glowed with confidence. A stray ray of warm sunlight cut across his features—a herald of the brilliant dawn to come.
Below the stage, the crowd was buzzing with excitement. They had never imagined this Lord would grant them the right to name the land—a nameless territory where they had merely survived for so long. Today, they were marking their true ownership over it.
"How about Arene? In my homeland, it means 'Brilliant'..."
"Nonsense! It's freezing here, what's brilliant about it? I suggest Finis—it means ice and frost."
"No, we're looking toward the future. I think Dawne is best. It means the light of dawn."
Hundreds of people shouted back and forth, eager to name their home.
"Pick the three names you find most meaningful," Nicholas said firmly. "Then, we will hold a vote to decide the final name."
This was a democratic approach, his intention from the very start. He wanted to introduce this model to the land—and naming the domain was the first step. Slow, but steady.
After a while, three names were chosen by the people:
Aurora — Dawn, in the current language of the Arcanor Empire.
Ignis — Firelight, in the Ancient Imperial tongue.
Borealis — The North, in the language of the Empire's nomads.
Nicholas contemplated the three names. Each carried its own weight. Aurora represented hope. Ignis represented desire and vitality. Borealis represented home and belonging.
"What do you think of Aurora Borealis?" Nicholas asked, his gaze sweeping across the crowd. "The Dawn of the North."
"I agree, Young Master. It's powerful and meaningful," Garrick spoke up.
"Not to mention, it combines the very names we chose!" Geralt laughed heartily. The villagers murmured in unison, satisfied with the new title.
"If anyone has another opinion, speak up boldly," Nicholas said, his voice softening. He sought consensus, not an imposed decree.
"My Lord, we love this name!"
"It's beautiful... and it's ours."
"Then from this day forward..." Nicholas raised a clenched fist high. "We are—Aurora Borealis!"
His shout joined the roar of the people, echoing across the valley. From this moment, they had a place they could truly call home. Stability before prosperity. Nicholas intended to make it a reality, and he had taken the first step.
"Now, to settle properly, we need houses," Nicholas signaled for silence. "But first, we must block this wind. I need young, able-bodied men to assist Geralt in felling trees and building a windbreak."
He didn't issue a command; he made a call to action.
"I've spoken with Garrick. Our current food supplies will last for a while. Once the windbreak is finished, I will personally go to trade for more supplies. You can rest easy regarding our meals."
An army marches on its stomach—a truth that never changed.
Without waiting for another word, nearly a hundred young men stepped forward. "My Lord, let us build the wall!"
"That's right! Can't let Geralt have all the glory, even if he is a beast..."
"Rest easy, Young Master," Geralt grinned, clapping a youth on the shoulder. "I'll lead them well."
Nicholas quickly outlined the plan for the Double-Layered Arc Windbreak.
The structure would require a hundred logs: fifty long poles (4–5 meters) and fifty shorter ones (2–3 meters), each sharpened at one end to pierce deep through the snow into the earth. The outer layer would take the direct hit of the gale, while the inner, shorter layer would break the remaining gusts and prevent the wind from swirling into the village.
"I understand perfectly, Young Master. Four or five days, and it's done!" Geralt boasted.
"Speed is good, but do not break yourselves. Rest when needed," Nicholas warned.
As the men headed into the forest, Nicholas remained still, his mind already calculating the next move.
"Young Master, she is here," Garrick's voice came from behind.
"Excellent. Thank you." Nicholas turned and extended a hand. "A pleasure to meet you. The village's huntress."
Standing before him was a girl of about eighteen. She was beautiful, carrying the radiant charm of the Southern sun. The wind tousled her rough hair, but it couldn't dim her striking features. Slung across her back was a bow and a worn quiver of arrows.
"Dianne." Nicholas smiled faintly and nodded.