Louis sat cross-legged, regulating his breathing as the Tide Breathing Art cycled naturally through his body.

*Inhale. Exhale.*

The deep, resonant rhythm echoed through his chest like the ebb and flow of the tides, swallowing and refining the energy brought by the Northern Crystal Cod.

The Tide Breathing Art was the signature breathing technique of House Calvin.

At its core was the principle of surging blood like ocean waves: rising to unleash explosive force, falling to consolidate and stabilize.

Under the rush of this warm yet violent energy, Louis felt his bloodline being reshaped.

He could sense his bloodstream accelerating, his meridians clearing, and even his bones growing faintly hot as they underwent a complete transformation.

Finally, he exhaled. The heat within him settled and stilled. He had advanced.

Mid-stage Formal Knight.

At his age, such strength would mark him as a once-in-a-thousand genius among commoners.

Yet among Duke Calvin's many sons, he was still the worthless runt at the bottom of the pile.

His eldest brother, after all, was already a Peak Knight, laden with military honors and imperial accolades.

In this world, a knight's power came from the awakening of their bloodline.

Not everyone could become a knight. Only those with a sufficiently powerful bloodline could awaken the dormant knight's force within.

Once on that path, there were six stages: Apprentice Knight, Formal Knight, Elite Knight, Supernal Knight, Peak Knight, and Legendary Knight. Each stage was an enormous gap.

But Louis wasn't anxious anymore.

With the Daily Intelligence System in his hands, future opportunities would not be scarce.

Once the essence of the fish soup had been fully absorbed, Louis ended the Tide Breathing Art and opened his eyes.

He immediately noticed the knights around him staring with reverent expressions.

"Long live the lord!" A deafening cheer erupted from the camp.

Hearing the wave of adulation, Louis let out a quiet breath of relief.

His authority had been preliminarily established. At least for now, he wouldn't have to worry about the knights' loyalty.

After the cheering died down, Louis turned to Lambert beside him. "How much farther to Frostspear City?"

Lambert answered respectfully, "About two hundred kilometers."

"So five or six days' march." Louis nodded, then issued his order without hesitation. "Pick up the pace. I want us there by the afternoon of the third day."

"Yes, my lord!" Lambert replied.

Under normal circumstances, a force like theirs could never cover that distance so quickly, especially across these frozen wastes.

But the knights' morale was at its peak. Hitting that pace would be well within their capabilities.

Frostspear City. The capital of Northlands Province and its most critical military and political hub.

Louis's primary objective was to select his colonization territory, and the sooner he arrived, the better his choices would be.

But what truly drove his urgency was the intelligence the system had refreshed today:

**[1: In three days, Weir—a youth with Peak Knight potential—will be brought to the Frostspear City black market by a slave trader.]**

**[2: In three days, alchemy apprentice Hilko, wanted by the Goldmarrow Guild for stealing formulas, will be smuggled into the Frostspear City black market disguised as a slave.]**

**[3: Duke Edmund is furious after learning that every major house has been sending their wastrel children to the Northlands.]**

The first entry alone sparked Louis's excitement.

A Peak Knight was top-tier combat power in this world. They might not compare to the handful of Legendary Knights who existed, but every Peak Knight was a military commander, a pillar of the realm. Any power would consider them a cornerstone asset.

Weir might not have matured yet, but the mere potential to reach Peak Knight was worth investing in.

The second entry was equally valuable.

In this world, alchemists were akin to chemists: specialists in handling magical materials who could transform cheap resources into high-value goods. Every major power scrambled for such talent.

House Calvin had only three formal alchemists in total.

An apprentice, while not yet fully fledged, was still extremely rare.

Louis's plan was simple: casually buy Hilko, observe him covertly, and if he proved both capable and harmless, nurture him.

A slave shouldn't cost too much.

As for the third entry…

Louis didn't even need the system to guess that one. Every noble house was scrambling to offload their useless heirs into the Northlands. Of course Duke Edmund, the provincial governor, would be livid.

But from Louis's perspective, this wasn't necessarily a bad thing.

If handled correctly, it could even become part of his strategy.

With so many opportunities converging on Frostspear City, he had to get there fast.

…

"Damn them! That pack of bloodsucking parasites! The Empire ordered them to send men to garrison the Northlands, not a horde of useless mouths to drag us down!"

Inside the governor's office, report after report slammed onto the desk. Papers scattered as Duke Edmund's thunderous face reflected his fury.

Two years ago, a rebellion had nearly torn the Northlands free from the Empire. The rebels had even breached Frostspear City's outer walls.

Duke Edmund had led his elite forces through three months of bloody combat to barely suppress the traitors.

And the cost? Border fortresses razed. Granaries torched. Over half his army dead. His own son among them.

The entire region's stability still hadn't fully recovered.

Now the Emperor had finally realized that military garrisons alone couldn't hold the frontier. Hence the plan: send noble scions to colonize, leveraging their power to stabilize the border.

A sound idea in theory. But these idiot houses!

Did anyone actually believe they'd send their finest to bleed in the Northlands?

A joke.

The dregs had been shipped off to the Northlands, and while a handful might be passable, they were the minority.

Duke Edmund's fury turned to bitter laughter as he snatched up the reports. "Look at the cargo they've sent us…"

The third son of House Elwyn, rumored to be so addicted to gambling that his debts could buy three mansions in the Imperial Capital.

The youngest scion of House Grant, barely fifteen, already a celebrated patron of every brothel in the Empire.

Duke Calvin's eighth son, a shiftless idler who'd coasted on family resources to reach only the low stage of Formal Knight. An utter waste of flesh.

"These are supposed to be noble heirs? They've sent me whoremongers, gamblers, and wine-swilling sacks of meat!

Pampered fools, every one! Their ancestors carved this empire with iron and blood, and now their descendants know nothing but scheming and backstabbing. They see nothing beyond their own family's interests. The Empire's survival means nothing to them!"

Duke Edmund slammed his fist onto the desk, and the thick oak groaned under the impact.

The oppressive atmosphere in the room suffocated his aides, who kept their heads down, not daring to speak.

After a long moment, Edmund drew a deep breath, forced the rage down, and sank back into his chair. His gaze was cold.

"Forget it. If these fools are determined to roll in, let them fend for themselves. The Northlands still depend on us."