The afternoon following the ceremony, at the Earl's Mansion.
The air in the west-wing study on the second floor was oppressive.
Velin sat across from his uncle, Leman, separated by a wide, black oak desk. Neither was the first to speak.
It was a silent power struggle, a re-establishment of their relationship following the abrupt shift in Velin's status.
Velin's gaze swept calmly across the study.
There were no Magical Beast heads mounted to boast of martial prowess, nor were there any vibrant tapestries. In their place hung a massive military map of Green Vein City and its surrounding lands, densely covered with symbols marked in various colored inks.
The shelves were crammed with books like *On the Three Basic Methods of Prospecting for Ore Veins* and *The Evolution of Tax Law in the Duchy of Haiti*.
Clearly, this was a ruler skilled in calculation, not an old-world noble lost to hedonism.
His gaze finally fell upon a letter held down by an object on a corner of the desk. The first line read: "Regarding the 'Eleven Copper Leaves Tax' soon to be implemented by the Empire…"
Count Leman noticed Velin's gaze. He made no attempt to hide the letter, and his resonant voice broke the silence.
"The Empire's War Giant Beasts have been rampaging through the Eastern Territory for years, and its coffers are nearly empty. Our Duchy of Haiti, the wealthiest pearl on the continent, has naturally become a fattened lamb in their eyes.
Leman set down his teacup and steepled his fingers.
"Tightening their grip on our autonomy, increasing taxes... The Empire's hand is inching toward our coin purses and our throats. The Klein Clan, and indeed all the nobility of Haiti, are walking on thin ice."
At these words, the corner of Velin's mouth twitched into a smirk. He met Count Leman's scrutinizing gaze and said calmly:
"In that case, Uncle, it seems we have a lot to talk about. After all, describing my situation in the family for the past two years as being on a knife's edge would hardly be an exaggeration."
This overtly sarcastic remark made Count Leman pause for a moment before he burst into laughter, not in the least bit embarrassed.
"My dear nephew, you must understand that the family is a single entity, not a charity house." He leaned forward slightly, a shrewd light glinting in his eyes.
"According to a century of family records, the awakening rate for each generation of direct descendants is roughly two-thirds. This means one-third will always be culled. We don't have the resources or the energy to cater to the fragile emotions of every 'unawakened.'"
He said bluntly, "In the past, you belonged to that unfortunate one-third. And now," his tone shifted, "you stand on the other side. You even possess enough value for the family to tip the scales in your favor."
"'Spring Messenger.' A considerably rare bloodline talent. It isn't as renowned as the combat-oriented talents, but in certain aspects, its value is not just comparable—it's superior."
"In our family's history, three ancestors have awakened this same talent. Without exception, all of them made extraordinary achievements in the fields of pharmacy and alchemical agriculture, amassing immense wealth for the family. Moreover, they left behind notes detailing their experience in maximizing this talent's potential."
Velin leaned back in his chair, his posture relaxed. 'He knew the real negotiations were about to begin.'
"So, what are you proposing, Uncle?"
"The family wishes for you to put the past behind you, and we will provide all necessary support," Count Leman answered directly. "That includes the notes from our ancestors."
Velin fell silent for a moment, as if weighing his options.
'In reality, he was thinking that the cold shoulder and bullying the original owner of this body had suffered meant little to him, a transmigrator. It wasn't his pain to feel.'
'Trading some nominal 'resentment' for tangible research funding was a deal with no downsides.'
"Support?" Velin raised an eyebrow. "Like the support you give Leonard?"
"He will receive what he is due, and you will receive what you are due," Count Leman's reply was seamless. "'The sun shines only on the tallest tree.' That is our family motto."
"I need startup resources and an independent status," Velin said, no longer beating around the bush.
"I'm listening." A flicker of approval flashed in Count Leman's eyes.
"I want to apply to become a Pioneer Knight."
The term took Count Leman by surprise. Pioneer Knight. It sounded glamorous, but the reality was reclaiming barren, dangerous, untamed lands—a last resort for the scions of many declining noble families.
Velin ignored his surprise and continued, "The territory I wish to pioneer is the Gray Sea Marsh on the southern coast."
Count Leman's brows furrowed.
"That place?" he mused. "It's a worthless salt flat, flooded by the encroaching sea every rainy season. The land is uncultivable. Even the lowliest serfs won't go there. What could you possibly want with that wasteland?"
"You needn't worry about that, Uncle," Velin said flatly. "I just need the family to use its influence to secure the pioneering rights to that land for me. In addition, I'll need a shipment of supplies."
He certainly wasn't going to reveal his true reason.
'High salinity, a large tidal range, a stable sedimentary layer... These features, seen as a curse by the locals, painted a very different picture in his eyes.'
'It meant that with enough manpower, precise calculations, and the right materials, he could perfectly replicate a great engineering feat he had seen in his past life—reclaiming land from the sea!'
'That seemingly worthless marsh had a potential area rivaling the entire Earl's Domain. It wasn't a wasteland; it was a blank canvas, waiting for him to paint his masterpiece.'
'More importantly, whether for concealing his unique advantage or for testing his many theories, a remote, unwanted territory where he could experiment freely was the perfect choice.'
Count Leman stared at Velin for a long time before finally, slowly, nodding.
"Very well. As for the Pioneer Knight status, I'll have the scribes arrange it. It should take about half a month."
"As for the supplies... you will receive a stipend far exceeding that of an ordinary Pioneer Knight." He stood up, walked to the wall behind his desk, and pressed an inconspicuous brick.
The wall slid open without a sound, revealing a metal safe.
A moment later, he returned to the desk holding a heavy leather pouch.
"Here are fifty Golden Suns. The rest of the supplies will be sent to you along with a contingent of the family guard."
"The guards won't be necessary," Velin said, taking the pouch and weighing it in his hand. "Uncle, please convert the cost of the guards into Gold Coins and give it to me instead. I prefer to choose my own people."
Count Leman was taken aback for a second, but then the smile that spread across his face was far more genuine.
"Good. Very good." He reopened the safe and retrieved a slightly smaller pouch. "You're more of a Klein than I thought."
...
「The next day.」
Velin took his sister, Lilia, and plunged into the seedy, chaotic South City.
Lilia clutched his sleeve, unnerved. The air, a foul mix of cheap ale, livestock droppings, and sour sweat, made it seem like a completely different world from the Upper City District she was used to.
"Brother, what are we doing here?"
"Recruiting," Velin said succinctly. 'Pioneering a territory required a massive workforce. Rather than accept spies sent by the family, it was better to buy slaves with clean backgrounds, whose very lives he would hold in his hands.'
'For the many "experiments" he had planned, loyalty and discretion were far more important qualities than competence.'
As soon as they stepped into the market, a commotion drew their attention.
A dense crowd had gathered in an open area at the center of the market, where an open-air auction was taking place on a makeshift wooden stage.
A fleshy-faced slave trader was banging the stage with the handle of his whip, his shouts sending spittle flying.
"Next one! Look at this figure, this face! A real treasure, this one, picked up from the Upper City District!"
Two burly men roughly shoved a figure onto the stage.
She was barefoot, and the filthy rags she wore barely concealed her modesty. Her golden hair was a tangled mess, and her face was streaked with tears.
Velin stared in surprise at the trembling figure.
'Miss Long-legs?'