After several days of travel, Arthur’s convoy finally crested the last rise and entered the Crimson Vale Territory.
What spread before him was a picture of utter desolation.
“Gods, what a forsaken place,” a knight from the Southern March muttered, his gaze sweeping across the bleak landscape.
Arthur said nothing. He dismounted slowly, his boots crunching on the hard, barren earth as he took in his new domain.
Dilapidated, lifeless, barren—the land lay under a shroud of deathly silence. Not so much as a weed broke the cracked soil. It was a true wasteland.
But Arthur knew better. His intelligence system had assured him of this land’s great potential, of the rich resources hidden beneath its dead-looking surface.
Geothermal energy, mineral deposits, fisheries, and vast tracts of arable land.
If a man was willing to put in the work, this place could be transformed into a land of staggering wealth.
“This will be the richest territory in the North,” Arthur murmured, the words a quiet vow to himself.
Wasting no time, he turned to his men and began issuing orders.
“First, the tents. Once we’ve sited the main settlement, we’ll start on permanent housing. Get the men felling timber to prepare.”
“Find a clean water source down by the river. Make sure every man has sufficient rations and drinking water.”
“Clear a patch of ground for a training field. A new post is no excuse for letting skills rust.”
As the commands rang out, soldiers and slaves alike snapped into action.
The sharp ring of axes and the shouts of men soon echoed across the long-silent land, breathing a first, fragile flicker of life into the stillness.
As the newly appointed Lord of Red Vale, Arthur needed to see the state of his territory firsthand to draft his plans for its development.
He spent the next few days on a careful survey of the entire domain.
When he reached the southern part of the territory, he found patches of ground where the snow had melted, with thin tendrils of steam rising slowly into the frigid air.
He hurried forward and crouched, pressing his palm against the earth. A distinct warmth seeped into his skin.
“A geothermal vent,” he breathed, a spark of delight in his eyes.
His intelligence system had indicated geothermal resources, and here was the proof.
In a place like the Northlands, such a discovery was a treasure beyond measure.
Developed properly, it could not only provide heat for his people’s homes but would also be an invaluable aid for the spring planting to come.
To his greater surprise, he found several hot springs nearby.
Hot springs. In the Northlands.
The two concepts felt so alien to one another it was almost unbelievable.
He couldn’t help but smile at the image of himself soaking in a steaming pool while other lords shivered through the winter. The irony was deeply satisfying.
He decided then and there: his manor would be built near the springs.
From there, he made his way to the river. The ice along the banks had begun to crack, and the water flowed sluggishly beneath. A few birds perched on the shore, occasionally darting into the shallows to snatch at small, half-frozen fish.
The fish population was sparse for now, but according to his system’s reports, the river would become a thriving breeding ground come spring, providing a stable source of food for the entire territory.
He was still pondering how best to exploit this resource when a squad of his scouts came galloping back, their faces flushed with excitement.
They had found rich mineral deposits deep in the mountains.
“My lord, we’ve discovered a Cold Iron vein in the northwestern mountains!”
“And deeper in, we found an ore that gives off a dark red glow. We believe it may be Aetherium Dust Ore.”
Gideon, one of his senior knights, gasped. “Aetherium Dust Ore? If that’s true, it’s like finding a mountain of gold!”
“Hmm,” Arthur said, nodding calmly.
He had known about the vein for some time, thanks to his intelligence system, so the news didn’t surprise him.
The value of Aetherium Dust Ore was self-evident, but trying to mine it with their current resources would be nearly impossible.
Still, if he could develop this land steadily, that vein would one day become the Crimson Vale Territory’s greatest asset.
The survey was a success. Arthur and his knights now looked upon the barren land with a newfound confidence.
His intelligence system had been right. This was a land of promise.
But for all its potential, the present reality was incredibly harsh.
When they rode into the local settlement, they were met with a scene of absolute ruin.
The air hung thick with the damp, rotting stench of stagnant water and decaying mud.
Crude wooden shacks and mud huts listed at precarious angles, looking as though a strong wind might topple them.
The residents were mostly the old, the infirm, women, and children, all of them painfully thin.
They were wrapped in rags held together with strips of old cloth, garments that offered little protection against the biting northern cold.
“Was no one governing this place?” Arthur asked, his brow furrowed in disgust.
“The old governor fled long ago,” one of the natives answered, his voice hollow.
A few frail children huddled in a doorway, their cheeks raw and red from the cold. They watched the newcomers from the shadows, their small bodies trembling.
Their eyes were timid, filled with a deep-seated wariness and fear of strangers.
A knot of discomfort tightened in Arthur’s gut. Some basic decency in him recoiled at the sight of children suffering so.
He swung down from his horse, pulled a few hard rations from his satchel, and walked toward them. He crouched, holding out the food. “Here, take this.”
The children only stared, their eyes wide and wary. None of them moved, as if expecting a trap.
Yet the scent of the dry biscuit and salted meat was a powerful temptation, and Arthur could see them swallowing hard, their mouths watering.
“Go on,” he said softly. “It’s for you.”
Finally, their hunger overwhelmed their fear. Small, grimy hands darted out, snatching the food. They devoured it ravenously, as if afraid it might vanish at any moment.
But Arthur noticed one small boy who didn’t immediately cram the food into his mouth.
Instead, the boy carefully tucked his portion inside his tattered tunic.
“Why aren’t you eating?” Arthur asked, remaining in his crouch.
The little boy looked up at him, fear plain on his grimy face.
“I’m… I’m saving it for my mother,” he replied in a voice barely above a whisper.
The words struck Arthur with the force of a physical blow.
He thought of the Southern March, where nobles fed their hunting dogs cuts of meat finer than what most commoners ate.
And here, in his own territory, a child had to squirrel away a single piece of hardtack as if it were a priceless treasure.
In that moment, a profound sense of responsibility settled over him—a powerful urge to do something for these people, for this land.
Arthur rose to his feet. He looked out at the faces of the cold and starving natives and raised his voice so all could hear. “Anyone willing to work, come to my camp! I will provide food, shelter, and the means to survive!”
The natives exchanged uncertain glances, their faces blank, their eyes numb with years of hardship.
They had been disappointed too many times to trust the promises of any lord. But then they saw the children, still chewing on the food they’d been given, and a flicker of something stirred within them.
They nodded, slowly at first, then with more conviction.
Perhaps it was worth a try. After all, their lives could not possibly get any worse.