Louis stood on a slightly elevated slope, looking down over the barren land.

The spot he'd chosen would be the initial settlement of Crimson Tide Territory, the future heart of his domain.

It sat close to the geothermal vents, meaning warmer temperatures that would keep people from freezing to death in the night.

The hillside blocked the biting winds, offering a sliver of shelter for these newly landed settlers.

"My lord, shall we begin construction on the castle?" asked Mac, standing beside him.

Mac was the most experienced of the craftsmen Louis had obtained from Duke Edmund. Louis had appointed him as the chief architect of Crimson Tide Territory.

"The castle can wait," Louis said, shaking his head. "Build the residential district first."

"And where will you stay, my lord?"

"I'll share quarters with the others for now."

"You'd live with us?" The old craftsman was taken aback.

"What, worried I can't handle it?" Louis shrugged, unconcerned. "We're in the Northlands. No point putting on airs."

The old craftsman looked at his young lord with newfound respect.

After discussion between Louis and Mac, they settled on a semi-sunken communal dwelling as Crimson Tide Territory's initial housing design. It was a hybrid of the Northlands' traditional dwellings and the Viking longhouses Louis remembered from books in his previous life.

These dwellings were dug about one-third below ground level, the lowered elevation providing effective insulation.

The walls were supported by timber frames, woven with willow branches, then plastered with a mud-and-straw mixture. Windproof and moisture-resistant.

Best of all, they could be built incredibly fast.

After that brief exchange, Mac found himself genuinely impressed. This young lord had, in a remarkably short time, designed a structure so perfectly suited to the Northlands. A true architectural prodigy.

With the design finalized, construction began immediately. Teams of twenty—two soldiers leading eighteen slaves or drifters—worked in coordinated, efficient shifts.

…

The wind howled as the slaves hunched their shoulders and drove their crude iron spades into the frozen earth.

*Thud!* The impact jarred their wrists, but the soil finally loosened.

"Don't stop! Keep going!" the soldiers barked.

Just as they were sweating through the work, a figure stepped into the pit.

It was Louis, sleeves rolled up, gripping a spade and digging alongside them.

"The lord is doing manual labor too?" The men stared in disbelief.

After about a dozen minutes, Louis made his observation. "Hmm… this really isn't easy work. Everyone's putting in a lot of effort. Dinner will be ready soon. You can all rest a bit."

Then he moved on to the next worksite to continue his hands-on tour.

The soldiers who'd been grumbling internally—*we're combat units, not laborers*—suddenly found their complaints evaporating.

If the lord himself was getting his hands dirty, what right did they have to complain?

The slaves felt it even more keenly. Many had never known a full belly. Now, not only did they have food, but the promise of a permanent roof over their heads. It was an immense blessing.

Between construction shifts, Louis would occasionally "pass by" a worksite, do a bit of work, leave a few words of encouragement, dust off his hands, and move on.

"That framework is solid. You'll sleep well tonight."

"Make sure the mud layer is thick enough. Don't slack off, or you'll be freezing later."

"This section is almost done, isn't it? I'll send some hot soup over. Once this batch is finished, take a break."

Wherever Louis went, the work pace picked up. Combined with the ample food supply, the soldiers stopped complaining, and the slaves labored with every ounce of strength they had. Their spirits were fully charged.

The settlement's construction advanced at astonishing speed. Within days, the first batch of semi-sunken communal dwellings rose from the ground, their thick thatched roofs blending into the snowy landscape.

Most of each structure was buried underground, supported by sturdy log frames. The outer walls were woven from willow and packed with mud, insulated against the cold while conserving timber.

The entire residential zone was built around the geothermal vents to dissipate the worst of the chill.

Crude as they appeared, these were arguably among the finest living conditions in the Northlands.

With the first semi-sunken dwellings complete, Crimson Tide Territory had finally sunk its true roots into the frozen north.

But buildings alone weren't enough. Morale mattered just as much.

To motivate his people and further cement his image as a benevolent and wise lord, Louis decided to hold a grand celebration.

He wanted everyone to understand one thing: following Louis meant never being shortchanged.

As night fell, a massive bonfire roared to life in the clearing before the settlement, driving back the northern chill.

This patch of ground, once barren and frozen, came alive for the first time with the arrival of the festival.

Nearly a thousand residents gathered in the firelight. Slaves purchased from traders, native Northlanders, drifters taken in along the road, and the soldiers and knights who had followed Louis here.

Their backgrounds differed, but tonight they shared one thing: they were all subjects of Crimson Tide Territory.

All eyes turned toward the raised stone platform before the bonfire.

There stood their lord, Louis Calvin. The young Colonization Baron, draped in a black cloak, his face flickering between light and shadow in the fire's glow. No one knew what he was about to do.

Once the crowd had fully assembled, Louis spoke. "Today marks Crimson Tide Territory's first celebration! We honor the completion of the first homes. With roofs over our heads, this land will become your home, and you will become the true masters of Crimson Tide Territory!"

But the crowd gave no response.

They merely looked at one another, uncertain, even bewildered.

What did it mean to become "masters"?

These slaves, drifters, and forced laborers had never imagined themselves as the masters of anything.

They knew only to toil and obey. Even the will to resist had been ground out of them through endless suffering.

They'd assumed this celebration was some kind of lordly oath-taking, or perhaps an intimidation display.

Louis had expected this reaction. It didn't matter. He would show them, through action, what hope looked like.

"Now," he said, sweeping his gaze across the assembly, "I will reward those who have been the most diligent and loyal."

He raised a hand, and behind him, Hilko opened a sheepskin scroll and began reading a list of names.

"Hack. Morgan. Sarna…"

The slaves whose names were called flinched. In their past experience, being singled out by a lord meant punishment, even death.

Some began trembling. Others lowered their heads. A few looked ready to drop to their knees and beg for mercy.

They had no idea that their fates were about to change forever.