CHAPTER 20: CHAPTER 20: THE MIGRATING CARAVAN AND THE FALLEN VISCOUNT

On the continent of Aeksnier, after stepping through the dimensional gate, Ryan felt it was even colder here.

"The winters here seem to be getting colder too."

Wrapping himself tighter in his deerskin cloak, Ryan passed through the interdimensional gate behind the eleven squires. Amid the swirling snow, he couldn’t make out any directions.

In any case, this time upon arrival, he didn’t appear in the same village where Brand and the others had come from.

The opening of a dimensional gate involves spatial deviation.

Ryan and the other eleven, all wrapped in deerskin cloaks, walked in two lines through snow that reached past their knees. Brand led the way at the front, with Ryan in the center.

"How’s it look, Brand? Can you tell which direction we’re heading?"

"My lord, I believe this direction is south."

Brand pointed ahead, then gestured toward the snow-filled sky.

"In past years, winter blizzards always blew from north to south."

"But I don’t know which direction has people. The heavy snow has erased all traces. Based on experience, even if there’s a village just dozens of meters away, in this kind of snow, we likely wouldn’t see it."

In Brand’s hand was a piece of antler tied with a string. He was repeatedly tossing it ahead to test whether the snow beneath could bear their weight.

Because in snow this deep—at the shallowest already up to their knees—any misstep could mean falling straight into the deep drift.

This was experience Brand had gained from solo hunting. A few soldiers around Ryan were doing the same.

In this world, the people of Aeksnier had blood-earned knowledge of survival.

Soon after, Brand came to a stop. All twelve of them were already covered in snow, blending into the snowy landscape.

They saw up ahead a long caravan—many people were holding torches, the flickering flames unstable in the wind and snow.

The moaning of large-horned deer echoed through the wind but didn’t carry far. The deer seemed domesticated, carrying bundles on their backs as they walked in the middle of the caravan.

Suddenly—

"Ahhhh!!"

A scream broke out from the front of the caravan. It seemed someone had slipped and fallen.

The entire procession came to a halt. Many torchbearers looked around in fear.

They had no idea if the area around them was safe.

"Why have we stopped?!"

From the middle of the crowd, a shout came from within a sedan chair carried by six people. A man stepped out, wrapped head-to-toe in fur garments, but after only a second, he quickly dove back into the chair and yelled:

"Why aren’t we moving?! Where are the soldiers?! Kill two slaves and move forward!"

Immediately, a soldier clad in beast-hide armor stepped out with a longsword, cutting down two people on the spot. As blood stained the snow, the caravan resumed its silent march.

"A noble?"

"Follow them," Ryan ordered.

Brand led the way again, slowing their pace to stay behind the migrating caravan, which was moving slowly.

Along the way, people continued to die—some from stepping into hidden snow pits and never managing to climb back out; some had their legs frozen stiff, unable to continue; and others were executed on the orders of the increasingly irritable noble.

After five to six hours of marching, nearly thirty people had fallen.

Finally, the group—numbering about five hundred—reached the entrance of a cave.

Dark and yawning amidst the snowstorm, the cave gave off an oddly warm feeling. Reaching this point, everyone in the caravan let out a sigh of relief. Had the journey been any longer, they wouldn’t have made it.

The noble in the sedan finally stepped out—accompanied by a refined-looking woman and a young boy.

"Soldiers! Seize this fortress! We shall suffer the cold no longer!"

Around twenty or thirty soldiers roared in response, then began urging the slaves at the front to enter the cave first.

Soon, Ryan and his group—still outside—heard bestial roars echoing from deep within the cave.

The growls intensified, then suddenly turned to screams of pain.

"We’re going in," Ryan said.

All his knight-squires stepped ahead to protect him, following behind Brand as they moved toward the cave.

"If anything goes wrong, get the lord out immediately," Brand ordered.

The ten squires responded in low voices.

The snowstorm outside was a sheet of white. Inside, the downward-sloping tunnel was pitch dark. Two soldiers lit torches to illuminate the way.

Only then did Ryan clearly see the passage’s condition.

"This is... a mine?"

Looking at the rocky walls, he spotted veins of ore embedded within—glinting black under the torchlight, giving off a sharp, cold aura.

These ores had clearly been shaped to appear frightening.

As they moved into the widening passage, Ryan began to see bodies.

Most were human. A few, however, were half the size of a person, with dark green skin, pointed ears, and razor-sharp teeth.

"Goblins?"

Ryan murmured in surprise as he identified the race—just then, someone noticed their presence.

"Who are you people?"

The cavern lit up with torches. The noble from earlier had arrived, his eyes cold and sharp as he stared at Ryan’s group. Behind him was a massive goblin corpse.

The creature was larger than two grown men combined, and held a wooden spiked club adorned with iron spikes.

It was dead—a bloody hole in its skull.

"A hobgoblin," Ryan muttered.

He stepped forward from behind the wall of guards and removed his deerskin cloak.

Immediately, everyone saw him clearly—a young man with jet-black hair, neatly tied back, and gem-like red eyes. His fair, flawless skin bore no trace of wind or frost.

At that moment, all eyes—even the noble’s—instinctively lowered their guard.

"I am Viscount Whitman. And who are you?"

The man looked at Ryan and extended his hand. On his finger was a jade ring, engraved with the image of a mountain.

It was the Whitman family crest. Seeing it, Ryan realized—he hadn’t yet created a baronial emblem for himself.

"Ryan Rimehart. You may address me as Baron Ryan."

"The Rimehart family?" Viscount Whitman looked puzzled—he had never heard of such a name.

But it didn’t matter. He motioned for his soldiers to drive Ryan and his group away.

"This is the land I’ve chosen. Leave now."

"I’m not interested in this place."

Ryan looked calmly at Viscount Whitman, then at the surrounding slaves, their bodies clearly marked by years of hardship.

"Though you call yourself a viscount, that title doesn’t seem to mean much anymore. A viscount with only five hundred slaves, twenty-some soldiers, and no territory of his own..."

"Viscount Whitman, your family has fallen."

Standing within the cave, Ryan spoke calmly—but with unshakable authority.