The north wind blew from the direction of the Cold Mist River, sweeping past the temporary line of wooden stakes outside the camp, sending a chill down one's spine.

Pal Calvin stood on a snow-covered rocky hill, clad in a silver-trimmed cloak, his expression stern.

He gazed into the distance, at the iron mine still buried under snow, where a prosperous mining town should have risen.

But reality was far from his original blueprint.

The permafrost underfoot remained as hard as iron, the tents had been torn by the gale three times, the firewood piles long since burned out, and at night even charcoal had to be burned sparingly.

Two days ago, a craftsman froze to death at night due to lack of fuel, a smile still on his face as if he'd seen his grandmother.

Of course, the worst was the hunt a month ago.

That night, the silence of the snow forest south of the camp was torn by a low growl.

Several warhorses neighed and bolted, and the sentry on duty could only shout "Something's coming!" before being ripped into a mist of blood.

Pal donned his armor and personally led a team to pursue it. He didn't give it much thought at the time, assuming it was simply a common Snow Wolf King from the Northern Territory, until a shadow wrapped in cold breath swiftly swept over the Snow Ridge as he entered the forest.

"Quick, form up!" he shouted, but that thing was faster than the wind.

The snow under the forest was torn into ravines by its movements, some soldiers were directly swept aside by its tail, crashing into dead trees, their bodies shattered.

Torchlight flickered in the gale, illuminating half of the magical beast's face, revealing it to be an adult "Split-tooth Snow Lizard."

It shouldn't have appeared in spring, nor in such a densely populated area.

But it did appear, and it was exceptionally cunning.

Pal ordered an encirclement, personally charging forward to slash with a sword, swinging red Fighting Energy, but only managed to cut off a side scale, the beast roared in anger and leapt.

Its tail whipped away two warriors, diving into an icy ravine and disappearing in an instant.

Though his knights were numerous and powerful, the magical beast was simply too fast.

The entire chase lasted less than a quarter of an hour, by the time they relit the torches, bodies lay scattered in the bloodied snow, the air filled with the metallic scent of blood like charred coal.

Twenty-seven dead, three severely injured, and five horses broke their necks crashing into rock walls in their flight.

Pal was silent for a long time.

He stood by that icy ravine, staring in the direction the lizard beast had fled, his eyes bloodshot.

"Just a lizard... and it could tear my knights to such a state?"

That night, after returning to the camp, he didn't return to his tent but sat alone by the fire pit until dawn, repeatedly rubbing the split-tooth scale in his hand all night.

Until dawn, he hadn't closed his eyes.

Returning to reality, Pal tightened his grip on the parchment manuscript in his hand, the wind causing it to rustle, pulling him out of his memories.

He furrowed his brow and carefully tucked the manuscript back inside his cloak.

That was a letter he wrote to Duke Calvin.

Certainly not a report on their predicament, but a victory dispatch of "Cold Mist Territory is already taking shape, only a little more supply is needed to further the agenda."

"A mere bit of cold wind can't block my, Pal Calvin's, ambitions?" he scoffed, "It's just the Northern Territory after all."

A steward rushed up the hill, panting, a look of panic on his face: "Your Highness! The south side of the camp has been attacked by magical beasts again... we lost three horses and a sack of flour."

Pal's eye twitched slightly, then he nodded slowly: "Is that so? That's because they were negligent in their guard duty. It's not a problem."

"But the beast came up from beneath the ice gorge, the camp walls didn't hold at all."

"It's not a problem." He interrupted, his voice colder than the wind, "It shows the terrain is complex, I chose this place because it has enough 'variation.' Variation means potential."

The steward lowered his head with a strange expression and left silently, leaving Pal alone atop the rocky hill.

He looked at the rows of slanted tents in the camp, some not yet erected before being lifted by the wind, like corpses sprawled on the ground.

The Cold Mist River, which was supposed to thaw, remained frozen.

Along with it, his dream of a "trade hub" was frozen outside of spring.

"When my second brother sends the supplies... it'll be different." He murmured to himself as if to confirm it, or perhaps to console himself.

But deep inside, a shadow of that man inevitably emerged—Louis Calvin.

"Hmph, he just had good luck," Pal swung his arm, shaking off the snow, "but I am the one truly pioneering the Northern Territory."

He kept telling himself this, over and over.

Yet, each time the wind and snow attacked at night, the beasts roared, and the tents shook.

He wrapped himself in his cloak, shrinking by the fire pit, and the chill called "reality" quietly crawled into his heart.

Perhaps the Northern Territory is a bit more challenging than I imagined.

"No, it's not my problem." He repeated softly.

......

The early spring melt, with the lingering snow still crusted with frost in the depths of the pine forest, but sunlight already reached the central square of Willis's fief.

Unlike Pal's "ambitious yet barren" permafrost, Willis's territory was entirely different.

It was a piece of neatly compacted land, surrounded by newly erected fences and semi-earth-sheltered houses, roofs covered with gray wooden tiles, smoke gently rising.

"Morning, Lord!" A burly craftsman carrying firewood wiped his forehead and grinned at Willis.

"Mm, keep up the good work, don't forget to check the water barrels at the border post again by evening," Willis nodded, his tone gentle.

Who would have thought, just half a month ago, he was standing in the snow, bewildered, not knowing which layer of "permafrost" to dig from.

He had brought family officials and craftsmen, and some supplies.

But if we rely solely on those...

Now, we probably don't know where to start. Still arguing about the thickness of the wooden beams, or quarrelling over which piece of land the tent should be pitched on.

But now not only is the foundation of the main house established.

It adopts the Red Tide Territory's common semi-underground collective structure, with the foundation sunk, walls covered in mud, and the top covered with soil, making it warm in winter and cool in summer, and extremely energy efficient.

The collective dining hall and sentry posts have also been erected, and even a few short pines brought from Red Tide Territory have been planted on the edge of the small "square."

The children will chase around beneath, their laughter especially clear in the crisp mornings when the ice and snow have not yet fully melted.

He knows better than anyone that these changes were brought about by the aid sent by his younger brother Louis.

Twenty craftsmen, nearly every one of them able to shoulder their own responsibilities; three medical personnel stationed regularly, solving the troubles of the accompanying elderly and weak;

Ten logistics officers managing all affairs more orderly than the family estate;

The young clerk dispatched from Red Tide Territory, acting like half a teacher, explaining the Red Tide Organization Manual page by page, teaching him every item hand by hand from the civil regulations, ration allocation to patrol schedule until he understood.

He keeps all this assistance in his heart.

As night deepens, the camp returns to tranquility.

Inside the main house, the brazier is slightly warm, illuminating a letter on the desk that is yet to be sealed with a warm glow.

Willis sits at the wooden desk personally built by Red Tide craftsmen, the tip of his pen pausing on the paper, before finally dipping down once more after a while.

He originally thought this letter was to be sent to his father.

In the draft, he carefully considered many flattering words: how the terrain is exceptionally advantageous, how the planning is orderly, how the people are initially safe and without worries.

But when he actually got to writing, he found that what he most wanted to write was another letter.

To his brother, that familiar stranger.

"What is this aid for?" Willis repeatedly asked himself.

But now, sitting in the warm house, listening to the laughter of children outside the camp, he suddenly understood that this question was not important at all.

No matter the motive, Louis truly gave him the strength to continue living.

It was not charity.

But skill, judgment, coordination, the vision and courage a true noble should possess.

"A noble truly worthy of respect."

This is how he described Louis in the letter to his father.

But the letter to his brother was more personal. It did not contain many flowery phrases, only a sincere line at the end:

"I cannot repay your kindness for now. But please believe, one day I will repay it, whether in my name or in the name of the territory."

Willis gently blew the ink dry, sealed the envelope, and placed it in the supply cart heading for Red Tide Territory the following day.

......

In the main castle of Red Tide Territory at night, Louis sat at his desk, flipping through a heavy preparedness map, with a stack of newly delivered documents piled beside him.

The charcoal in the fireplace crackled, illuminating his profile with an even colder sharpness.

"This letter is from Lord Willis." Sif handed over a letter.

Louis nodded slightly, his expression unchanged as he received the letter, but only his fingertips paused for a moment.

He picked up a small knife from the side and slit open the seal.

It was a very short letter, not about family, not about achievements, only about one thing:

Gratitude.

He read very slowly, carefully weighing each word, as if searching for the emotions Willis felt when writing this passage between the lines.

The writing wasn't gorgeous, even somewhat clumsy as a young noble might be, but the subtle sincerity within was not lost on him.

"Indeed..." he murmured softly, "I was not wrong."

Louis's gaze fell on the final sentence, "One day I will repay."

A trace of a smile gently spread across his brows and eyes.

It was not relief, nor joy, but the tranquil satisfaction of a chess player seeing a key piece fall into place.

Willis Calvin should be a good lord, and also someone who knows gratitude.

That was enough.

To him, this letter was not merely emotional affirmation, but a validation of the achievements of his threefold strategy:

First, politically, Willis's rapid stabilization marked the first successful export of the "Pro-Red Tide Faction".

In the future, should there be a prefectural meeting, there will be an additional ally with actual "governance results" in Snow Peak County, not just his solitary advocacy.

Second, militarily, Willis's territory is located at the outer rim of the north side of Snow Peak, by the river valley passage, a natural defense node.

With the formation of the camp now, it is equivalent to quietly planting a "wedge" in the buffer zone between the north and the Snow Swearers.

Should conflict arise again in the Northern Territory in the future, it can serve as a supply relay, alert post, or even the first node of a retreat corridor.

Third, institutionally, through the means of support, he subtly exported Red Tide Territory's construction template: from semi-underground collective housing to Simplified Civil Regulations, from resource coordination to account book registration.

All the aid was actually a complete exercise and trial replication of the Red Tide governance system.

Should it be necessary to promote the governance model elsewhere in the future, it would be the best reputation.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.