Arthur sat cross-legged, his breathing steadying as he settled into the rhythm of the Ebb and Flow Technique.
"Breathe in... breathe out."
The sound was a deep, protracted echo in his chest, a tide rising and falling as he absorbed and refined the energy from the Boreal Crystalperch.
The Ebb and Flow Technique was the ancestral art of the House Beaumont.
Rooted in the bloodline, it mimicked the surging tides of the ocean, building power with the ebb and settling into stability with the flow.
Under the wash of this energy, at once gentle and violent, Arthur felt his bloodline being reshaped.
He could feel the blood accelerating in his veins, the channels of his body clearing, a transformative heat blooming in his very bones.
Then, with a final, slow exhalation, the heat coiled back into his center, settling into a placid calm. He had advanced.
Mid-tier Official Knight.
At his age, such strength would make him a prodigy among common folk, a talent seen once in a million.
Yet among the sons of Duke Beaumont, he was still just a wastrel at the bottom of the pecking order.
After all, his eldest brother was already a Peak Knight, with a distinguished military record and a long list of contributions to the Dominion.
In this world, a knight's power was born from the awakening of one's bloodline.
Not everyone could walk this path; only those with blood potent enough could activate the dormant power within.
Once they did, there were six great ranks to ascend: Apprentice Knight, Official Knight, Elite Knight, Extraordinary Knight, Peak Knight, and Legendary Knight. The gulf between each was immense.
Still, Arthur wasn't worried.
With the Oracle at his command, opportunities would not be in short supply.
Having fully absorbed the essence of the fish soup, Arthur let the Ebb and Flow Technique subside and opened his eyes.
He found every knight in the vicinity staring at him, their eyes filled with admiration.
In the next moment, a deafening roar erupted from the camp: "Long live the Lord!"
Hearing the thunderous cheers, Arthur allowed himself a quiet sigh of relief.
This was the first stone of his authority, firmly laid. For now, at least, he wouldn't have to worry about the loyalty of his men.
When the shouting died down, Arthur turned to Gideon at his side. "How far are we from Winterspire Citadel?"
Gideon bowed his head respectfully. "About two hundred kilometers, my lord."
"Five or six days' journey, then," Arthur nodded, his decision made in an instant. "We pick up the pace. I want to be there by the afternoon in three days."
"Understood!" Gideon replied, his voice crisp.
Under normal circumstances, such a pace would be impossible, especially across the icy wasteland.
But with the knights' morale soaring, it was more than achievable.
Winterspire Citadel was the capital of the Northlands, the most important military and political center in the entire Northlands.
Arthur's primary task on this journey was to select his own territory to pioneer, and naturally, the sooner he made his choice, the better the options would be.
But what truly fueled his urgency were the three new pieces of intelligence his system had provided that morning:
[1: In three days, a slave merchant will arrive at the black market in Winterspire Citadel with Warren, a man with the potential to become a Peak Knight.]
[2: In three days, the Alchemy Apprentice Silas, wanted by the Alchemist's Concord for stealing a secret formula, will be brought to the Winterspire Citadel black market, disguised as a slave.]
[3: Duke Conrad is furious that the great noble houses are all sending their wastrel heirs to the Northlands.]
The first piece of intelligence was a staggering surprise.
In this world, a Peak Knight was a top-tier combatant. While not as mythical as a Legendary Knight, they were a force to be reckoned with.
Nearly every Peak Knight was a high commander or a pillar of the kingdom, a cornerstone of any great power.
This Warren likely hadn't reached his full potential yet, but the mere possibility that he could attain the rank of Peak Knight was more than enough to justify Arthur's investment.
The second piece of intelligence was just as valuable.
Alchemists were this world's equivalent of chemists, adept at handling all manner of magical substances, even capable of transforming cheap materials into priceless goods. They were a talent fiercely coveted by every major power.
The entire House Beaumont employed only three official Alchemists.
And though an apprentice was not yet a master of the craft, they were still exceedingly rare.
Arthur’s plan was simple: he would purchase Silas nonchalantly, then observe him in secret.
If the boy had genuine potential and posed no threat, Arthur would take him in and cultivate his talent.
The price of a single slave, after all, was a risk worth taking.
Even without his intelligence system, Arthur could have predicted the last event.
With all the noble families competing to offload their least promising children onto the Northlands, it was no surprise that the provincial governor, Duke Conrad, would be livid.
But from Arthur’s perspective, this wasn't necessarily a bad thing.
If he played his cards right, he could turn the situation to his advantage.
Since so many opportunities awaited in Winterspire Citadel, he had to get there as fast as possible.
"Damn them all! A pack of bloodsucking parasites! The Dominion sent them to defend the North, not to ship their freeloaders here to get in the way!"
A thick stack of reports slammed onto the desk in the Governor's Mansion.
Papers skittered across the wood, doing little to hide the fury etched on Duke Conrad's face.
Two years ago, a rebellion had nearly torn the entire Northlands from the Dominion's grasp. The rebels had even breached the outer walls of Winterspire Citadel itself.
Duke Conrad had led his elite forces in three months of bloody battle before finally managing to crush the rebellion.
The border fortresses were in ruins, the granaries were ashes, half his troops were dead, and his only son had been slain.
Order had yet to be fully restored to the Northlands.
The Emperor had finally realized that merely garrisoning troops was not enough to ensure stability.
Hence the new strategy: send the heirs of the nobility to the North to pioneer the land and secure the borders with their own strength.
But these shortsighted, idiotic noble families!
As if they would send their best and brightest to risk their lives in the Northlands.
A parade of wastrels was on its way. There might be a few competent ones among them, but they would be the exception, not the rule.
Duke Conrad sneered, his anger burning cold. He snatched a report from the pile. "Let's see what sort of specimens they've sent me."
The third son of the House Elric—a compulsive gambler with debts large enough to purchase three capital mansions.
The young master of the House Granville—at the tender age of fifteen, already a connoisseur of every high-end brothel in the Dominion.
The eighth son of Duke Beaumont—an idler who'd only scraped his way to Low-tier Official Knight by leeching off his family's resources. An absolute wastrel.
"This isn't a delegation of nobles! It's a shipment of rakes, gamblers, and drunkards!"
"Their ancestors carved this empire from the world with iron and blood, and now their descendants care only for their petty power games and scheming.
"In their eyes, beyond the interests of their own houses, do they spare a single thought for the safety of the Dominion?"
In a fit of uncontrollable rage, Duke Conrad slammed his fist on the table. The solid oak groaned under the force of the blow.
The air in the room grew thick and suffocating. His staff kept their heads bowed, not daring to utter a word.
After a long moment, Conrad took a deep, steadying breath, forcibly reining in his fury. He sank back into his chair, his gaze turning to ice.
"Fine. Let the fools come. They can fend for themselves. The defense of the North still falls to us."