When the snowstorm eased, Derek mounted up and began inspecting his domain. Adrian had done excellent work; he could turn Derek's plans into results.

Wooden stakes marking the future city were visible everywhere. They would serve as the boundaries for construction. Derek believed the finished city would be a brilliant jewel of its age.

Because of the snow, nearly all commoners remained indoors. Hooves made soft crunching sounds in the loose snow, and a few brave people peered at the passing nobles through cracks in their doors.

After making a circuit, Derek understood the city’s present state.

“I need a tax officer. We can ask Second Uncle to come, if he is willing.”

Adrian hesitated. He knew both his father’s character and Derek’s. Their relationship was good while some distance remained between them; put them together and things might go wrong.

Derek noticed Adrian had fallen behind. “What? You think your father cannot handle it? Cousin Adrian, do not underestimate him.”

Derek knew his second uncle’s character. Andrew had skimmed plenty from the family lands over the years; a large household did not build itself by chance. But Derek needed a tax officer familiar with such matters, and Andrew knew the rules. His work as constable also included tax collection.

He did not need brilliance, only someone who could perform the work competently. Corruption was a fact of the age; an entirely honest tax collector did not exist. More importantly, Derek needed relatives in every branch of his administration. They did not all need exceptional ability. Their presence alone made the growing government harder for outsiders to capture.

At that point, Adrian could not refuse. “I will send Father a letter. I am sure he will be very willing.”

Compared with military caution, civil administration allowed more room for error. Derek was bolder there and more willing to give followers opportunities.

After inspecting the only city and several towns, he reached the two most important stops: the stud farm and the military camp.

Over a hundred people worked at the stud farm, all the most trusted soldiers and slaves. A great number of northern horses were bred there, cared for by specialists experimenting with the most effective training methods.

For others, improving a horse’s quality through training might be a fantasy. For Derek, it was a powerful tool. To remain discreet, he chose foals to cultivate; by adulthood they would reach the proper quality.

He summoned the farm’s overseer, a slave named Philip. Philip belonged solely to Derek and even bore Derek’s noble brand on his face. Chosen carefully, Philip would be a slave of House Augusta for life, with no possibility of pardon.

In exchange, he could own property and have descendants. One of those descendants would become a retainer of House Augusta. It was a bargain, and Philip had proven excellent.

“Your Excellency, I have set aside the warhorses you requested. They will be ready in another half year.”

At least three hundred Excellent warhorses and more than a thousand Fine warhorses. Derek's ambitions depended on them. Even a small force of heavily armored knights would deter most enemies.

Yes, to Derek their greatest purpose was deterrence.

Tall watchtowers guarded the stud farm, and the military camp stood nearby. Fresh-cut stakes were driven into the ground, proof that the place was new. In the distance, several tall crosses held dark shapes swaying in the wind.

“I hear there has been trouble recently?”

“Yes. Several disobedient ones tried to escape. I hanged them.” Philip answered with the indifference of a man reporting dead livestock. To him, each warhorse was worth more than the slaves who had tried to flee.

“Did you find who was behind it?”

“No. They were careful. The people who appeared only used money to buy the traitors.”

Derek had expected little else. Nobles who performed poorly on battlefields could still be masters of intrigue. Augusta’s glory drew watchful eyes and hidden schemes, and Derek intended to show no mercy to anyone who exposed himself.

“Add more men. Our northern people’s greatest advantage is cavalry. I need more cavalry.”

His orders were given. The cost of cultivating warhorses was already very low for him; failing to use that advantage would be foolish.

Leaving the stud farm, he went to the camp. This was not the Saint Miller Legion’s camp. It belonged solely to Augusta’s private army.

Large numbers of private soldiers trained there, all promising young men recruited from the domain’s serfs. Derek gave their families some land to farm so they could live adequately, then gave them a chance to rise. With the Panel’s help, several months had produced a usable private force.

That was the true foundation of the Augusta name.

Little Tru’s blacksmiths were there too. War had not extinguished their furnaces; it made them burn hotter. On their own ground, the blacksmiths could finally display their craft freely.

In the future, Derek would invest the Panel's power only in selected, trustworthy blacksmiths rather than advancing every smith without limit. Loyalty mattered as much as skill. Once ordinary production needs were met, scarce experience belonged to a trusted elite.

Derek had not come to this age to raise productivity and free serfs. Selfishly speaking, he wanted to wear a crown and live better himself.

Little Tru had become thoroughly obedient. He was the first subordinate Derek had shaped with the Panel, and Derek kept him firmly under control without treating him poorly. Without the Panel, Little Tru would still be repairing farm tools on House Ferreira's land. He understood how much his new status owed to Derek.

So when he saw Derek, Little Tru bent deeply and reported humbly.

“Your Excellency, the armor you requested is ready. And the crossbow you mentioned is still under study. Progress is slow.”

Derek knew little of crossbow construction and had only mentioned the thing, so Little Tru had been racking his brain without much progress. But the crossbow was not Derek’s chief purpose today.

When burly smiths carried out a suit of heavy armor, the attendants’ eyes seemed to shine.

...

It was full plate, forged from thicker, better metal. Articulated plates protected even the joints, each shaped under a smith's hammer. From head to toe, the wearer would be enclosed in steel.

Compared to the heavy armor treasured by House Ferreira, this one looked a full level better. The smiths’ fine work made every detail perfect. It was full of beauty and strength; to a knight, more seductive than a wife.

Derek felt the same. Men found it hard to refuse such a weapon.

“Put it on me.”

As an Elite Knight Level 3, Derek possessed a physique ordinary people considered extraordinary. Yet when the attendants fitted the heavy armor piece by piece, he still felt its weight. He walked a few steps to the clang of metal and felt profoundly secure.

“Elite Knights can fight in heavy armor, but it is still a substantial burden.”

He made his assessment silently. Others might find Elite Knights hard to gather. For him, it only took time.

After taking the armor off again, Derek ordered, “I need more heavy armor—at least a hundred suits. Prepare barding for the horses as well.”

Little Tru immediately looked miserable. He already had other duties.

“I will assign you more people. In the future, heavy armor and secret weapons will be made here. Simple weapons can be moved to Augusta City.”

Derek intended to divide the blacksmiths in two. The ordinary work could be released to make money; the truly secret work had to remain hidden. That was the foundation of power.

Hearing that more hands would come and some tasks would be sent away, Little Tru relaxed. “I will finish your requirements as quickly as possible.”

Derek remained in the camp for several days, learning names and making himself visible to the soldiers. He also planted trusted men throughout the ranks to reinforce loyalty and explain the purpose behind his orders. The results would take time to judge, but the number of names on the Panel remained stable.

Soon, however, he could not stay. Last year he had returned home for the New Year, but this year he had to remain in Augusta Domain. Before the holiday, he needed to visit Saint Miller Province’s capital.

The army from the royal capital had finally arrived.

This force had originally planned to enter the Barbarian Kingdom through the Northern Province and attack before the snow. The barbarians' abrupt agreement with Locke had overturned that plan. The capital nobles had marched north expecting glory, only to arrive after the northern nobles had claimed the richest rewards. They would not accept that quietly.

Derek needed no reminder to know a storm was coming. When the old count’s letter arrived, he set out immediately.

...

Pran City had recovered quickly after the war. Settlers from Locke brought people and resources, while ordinary residents found that the flight of the old nobility merely exchanged one set of masters for another—and lowered their taxes.

Merchants and minor nobles in the middle suffered. Many could not flee, because their property was local, and fleeing meant losing everything. If they bled enough and found a new patron, they could barely survive. Some families still met ruin and death.

But in war between kingdoms, was it not normal for the victor to drive things to the end?

Derek could not right every injustice. He had taken plenty of bloodstained gold himself, and a man who demanded clean hands in all things would not survive this age.

So Derek entered Pran City in an excellent mood. Expecting trouble, he brought enough men, though they could not all enter the city. Only attendants and guards accompanied him.

Their tall horses, fluttering noble square banner, and distinctive double-headed dragon made their identity obvious. Whether old residents of Saint Miller Province or newcomers from the Northern Province, everyone first learned who the local powers were. Viscount Derek, holding the Saint Miller Legion and extensive industries and population, was impossible to ignore.

The guards saw his banner from afar and drove residents aside to clear a route. Curious commoners watched from a distance. Derek's name had grown increasingly legendary, and people never tired of a young, obscure noble rising against the odds.

Enjoying the privileged passage, Derek soon passed the gate. But Pran City’s first impression was no different from other cities in the world: crowded narrow streets and filthy paving, even here at the entrance.

He shook his head. Though he had seen such scenes countless times, they always reminded him of his previous life’s cleanliness and order.

Just as his party left the gate and prepared to turn at an intersection, a sudden change came.

Dozens of armed men appeared, while seven or eight archers rose on the rooftops. Every hair on Derek's body stood up. He threw himself from the saddle as arrows hissed through the space where he had been.

“Skilled archers.”

Ordinary men could not shoot with such accuracy. For an instant, he thought Pran City had fallen, but reason quickly drove away the chaotic thought.

From the corner of his eye, he saw that the attackers wore ordinary clothes and were disorderly. They looked more like commoners than professional soldiers. Their coordination was even disjointed; under Derek’s command, the archers would have fired first and the others rushed out afterward.

“Men of the Holy Cross.”

He made the judgment almost by instinct. Only the Holy Cross had both motive and capability. Pran had been under its rule for thirty years, while noble families dating back to the old united kingdom still shared blood ties across the border. Hidden loyalists were hardly surprising.

After the instant of panic, Derek was calm again. He pushed away the attendant shielding him, took the knight’s sword hanging from his horse, and said, “If you want to kill me, send more men. Do you think so little of northern knights?”

The assassins looked numerous, but there were only thirty or forty of them, gathered from who knew where. Surprise might have been enough against an ordinary noble. Every attendant and guard beside Derek, however, was an Elite fighter. Even in simple breastplates or leather armor, they stood on an entirely different level.

Derek charged first, seizing the chance to display his martial strength against enemies who could not match him. His previous life had taught him to choose the moment of a contest as carefully as the contest itself.