CHAPTER 57: CHAPTER 57: THE CHANGING RYAN

"Th-this..."

Azel’s breathing grew heavy. He stared at Ryan in disbelief, almost thinking this was some cruel joke.

Nobility—had Eksnel not been buried beneath winter’s chill, had its population not plummeted, had they still possessed their lands—then even in this foreign world, no one would dare question their noble identity.

But with the coming of the Great Winter, everything was lost. Their ancestors had earned nobility through great deeds, only for their generation to fall into decline. After arriving at the Frozen Wastes, many of his old friends had sunk into depression. If there had been any liquor available, they would’ve long drowned themselves in it.

They couldn’t face their forebears—for they had lost their noble titles.

But now, could it be... they had a chance to reclaim nobility?

Could he truly rise to stand beside the ancestors who once brought glory to their line?

In just the span of a minute, Ryan watched as the expressions of these former nobles shifted—from fear and despair, to suspicion, shock, disbelief... and finally, to feverish intensity.

The change was almost comically swift.

"To become a baron is to re-enter the noble class. Every baron may own his own estate—the kind with fences, armed guards, retainers, and followers. These are rights inherent to nobility."

"A baron is a title granted for merit. And what is merit? Expanding the realm. Achieving distinguished service."

"Therefore, every baron should be a figure of authority and power within the territory—second only to the lord himself."

"A baron answers only to his lord. He must obey the lord’s orders, yes—but beyond that, in his own land or elsewhere, he is a true noble. Even before other barons, viscounts, or even earls and dukes, he may speak and act as an equal of rank."

"In other words, if one of you becomes a baron, the difference between us is merely that I have a castle and more land. In status, there’s little else separating us."

Each word from Ryan left the former nobles breathing heavily. Only after losing everything had they come to truly understand just how precious noble status once was. If given the chance to relive their past, they would never have traded nobility for mere survival.

Honor and rank outweighed life itself.

In that moment, their eyes changed.

Compared to the dull and lifeless stares of peasants and slaves, these nobles shone with clarity. Ryan couldn’t help but feel a flicker of hope when he looked at them.

"Which is why, I must amend the promise I made you all."

"If you cannot become barons, then your lands will be taxed more heavily. You will no longer be estate lords, but farmers or ranchers—true commoners."

"Only by becoming a baron can your home be called an estate. Only then will you be titled nobles of the Frozen Wastes."

Ryan gazed at them with meaning.

"In theory, anyone in my domain could become a baron. But personally, I believe you—yes, you all—have the highest chance."

"After all, the difference between a noble and a peasant is... considerable."

"Don’t you agree?"

Ryan’s speech had long since rendered the once-proud nobles unable to move. One of them finally asked, nervously:

"Lord Ryan... how many barons will your territory support?"

"Aside from Beard, who I’ve named baron to serve as my steward, I currently plan to confer the title to only two others. After all, the domain is still small. Too many nobles would be meaningless."

"Two..."

In an instant, the eight men exchanged glances filled with guarded suspicion. From this moment forward, they were rivals.

Ryan smiled to himself.

Competition breeds motivation. With motivation, they’d be compelled to grow the territory.

He, the lord, had journeyed far and worked hard to expand the land—yet here they were, lounging like idle gentry, exploiting the few copper coins in the peasants’ pockets?

Ryan had been hands-off for long enough. Even he hadn’t started skimming off the top yet—who were they to begin harvesting what hadn’t even grown?

The Frozen Wastes was still in its infancy. To start reaping now would be short-sighted.

Later, when Ryan saw the old steward again, he noticed a new spark in the man’s weathered eyes.

Thankfully, the steward had not grown arrogant.

"Road construction and wilderness reclamation must speed up. Those troops from Viscount Randa—every extra day they remain here costs me food and coin."

"And the orcs—keep a close watch. The Frozen Wastes is already considered part of the Northern Frontier. If they escape and lead a warband back here, we’re doomed."

"Transplant some of the felled trees from roadwork. Assign people as forest rangers—if they protect the trees, they’ll earn wages."

"As for the stone from quarrying, craft the excess into standardized blocks. Don’t just pile them up like trash—it looks like a ruin."

Now, with an abundance of orc slaves, Ryan could finally reassign some serfs to repair his castle.

The top of Rhinoceros Horn Mountain burst into activity. A grand fortress, once a mere blueprint, was now rising above the peaks—designed to overlook the entire territory in every direction.

Ryan even had saplings planted across the mountain so that, in the future, it wouldn’t appear barren aside from the fortress.

While the grand strategies were executed by the old steward and his team, Ryan himself took up residence in the barracks during the repairs.

"Thwack!"

"Again!"

With a softwood staff in hand, Ryan’s eyes were full of resolve. Even as blood traced down the corner of his lips, he kept his gaze locked on Brand.

His goal, of course, was to one day lounge in his castle, tease the maids, and tug a catgirl’s tail.

But before that—he needed strength.

His noble status had solved 90% of his problems.

But the remaining 10%? That was still enough to kill him.

The Empire had already abandoned Northwind Province. This war-torn land, ravaged by orcs, wouldn’t stay peaceful for long. Once the baronial system took root and the northern nobles were locked into place, conflict between lords would begin.

Northwind was already chaotic.

Without imperial oversight, it would become even worse.

Who knew—perhaps the assassin who once tried to kill him, or the noble behind it, would appear again.

The Rimehart name hadn’t protected him the first time—and it wouldn’t protect him the second.