"So… this is everything my dear uncle left me?"
Inside the meeting hall of Hawk Fort, Rus tossed a shriveled coin pouch onto the table. Three gold coins clinked out, rolled across the uneven surface, and were quickly slapped down by Rus's palm.
"Thirteen gold coins!? Total!?"
Old Gordon adjusted his monocle awkwardly. "To be precise… thirteen gold, fifty silver, and thirty-seven copper coins…"
Rus narrowed his eyes. "Why is it so little?"
"You know how expensive all things magical are, my lord." Gordon tread carefully with his words. "Lord Donald was obsessed with magical research. He exhausted the family's funds and even leased out all the lands across the Goldsand River to finance his studies."
"Flashgold Town, the Hawk Quarry, and the Thousand-Pine Forest—those three regions account for ninety percent of the Hawk Domain's population and revenue."
Rus's brow twitched. "So how much income are we talking? And how long are those leases?"
Gordon let out a helpless sigh, flipped open his notebook, and passed it along with two contracts to Rus.
Rus read in silence, his brows furrowing deeper and deeper before he finally let out a long sigh.
The most valuable land was Flashgold Town. Though it only housed around 2,000 subjects, its thriving commerce generated no less than 400 gold annually—and in good years, up to 700!
The other two—Hawk Quarry and Thousand-Pine Forest—though not as profitable, supported another 2,000 people. Together, they generated between 320 and 470 gold coins a year.
And Baron Donald had leased them away.
The quarry to Viscount John of House Luke.
The forest to Baron Angell of House Wharton.
For fifty years.
With forty still remaining on the contracts.
He'd received 16,000 gold in total—but none of it remained.
Donald, you absolute money-burning maniac.
Rus roared internally but forced himself to stay composed. He turned to Erik.
"How much are you paid per year?"
"Sixty gold coins, my lord," Erik answered, unsure where this was going.
For a Tier 1 Extraordinary, it was fair pay—exactly what Rus expected.
What did impress him, though, was Gordon's ability to run the estate. With barely 500 acres of farmland and 800 serfs, he still managed to pay an Extraordinary and even save a little on the side.
Rus pushed the pouch of remaining coins toward Erik. "That's two months' salary up front."
Then, with a flick of his wrist, another gold coin flew in a neat arc into the pouch. Clink.
"Bonus."
Erik lit up and left to fetch something.
Moments later, he returned with the heavy chest from under Rus's bed and placed it on the table. Rus opened it with a hint of reluctance.
"Mr. Gordon, let's go over the plan."
Gordon laid out a new notebook, pushing up his monocle.
"To host your baronial ascension and Lord Donald's memorial, we'll need approximately 100 gold to renovate the castle…"
"Can't we cut that down?" Rus asked. "There won't be many guests. Just refurbish the hall and a few guest rooms."
"That is the reduced version, my lord. Anything less would be an insult to the baronial title," Gordon explained. "We're already limiting it to the main hall, the guest wing, and the washroom."
"…The washroom?" Rus frowned and flipped through the notes. "Why on earth are we spending ten gold coins on the washroom!?"
Gordon responded seriously, "The washroom is where guests will spend the most time, relatively speaking. It must be immaculate. And this is already the budget option. If we didn't still have stockpiled granite tiles, it would cost even more."
Rus had to admit—he had a point.
"Alright, next?"
"Your ceremonial attire. That will cost about 120 gold."
"How much!?" Rus shot upright. "One hundred and twenty!? I could tailor three suits from Uncle Donald's old wardrobe!"
"As a noble," Gordon explained patiently, "your formal attire must be bespoke, tailored to perfection, and reflect your status. It will use gold and silver thread, sacred adornments blessed by the priests of the Light, and… an emerald crest representing your lineage."
"These traditions date back centuries. Without them, I'm afraid you'd never be accepted among your peers."
Rus sighed.
Clothes make the man, then respect follows.
Even in this world, the old saying still held true.
He didn't like these ridiculous traditions, but he also wasn't in a position to defy the entire noble class.
"When in Rome, I suppose. Fine. What's next?"
"The largest expense," Gordon said gravely, "is the tribute to the Noble Council for ratifying your inheritance. That will be 200 gold coins."
Rus, surprisingly, didn't flinch.
He simply waved it off.
To him, any problem that could be solved with money wasn't really a problem. Consider it a 200-gold bribe for a baron's title.
"Next?"
Just as Gordon opened his mouth, a knock sounded at the door.
Rus granted entry. Link entered with a scroll in hand.
"My lord, a knight arrived on a wyvern from Flashgold Town. He said this letter must be delivered directly to you."
Rus took it, dismissing Link with a nod, and turned the scroll in his hands.
It was made of fine parchment, sealed with crimson wax and engraved with elegant initials: N&C.
He broke the seal and began to read. His face darkened with each line. Then, a cold smile formed at his lips.
Gordon and Erik exchanged looks but said nothing, sensing the tension.
"Well, well…" Rus suddenly laughed, slapping the scroll on the table. "The Noble Council… what a joke."
He inhaled deeply to steady himself, then tossed the scroll toward them. "Take a look."
Gordon carefully adjusted his monocle and began reading. Erik leaned over his shoulder, impatient.
The further they read, the more their expressions twisted.
Gordon's hand began to tremble. Then the whole table shook—courtesy of Erik's clenched fists.
Even the refined old steward's lips were turning purple. "Shameless! Utterly shameless! This is an insult to the very concept of nobility!"
"Filthy leeches!" Erik pounded the table. "I swear, if that Winston guy were here, I'd stuff his bribe money down his damn throat!"
The letter was a masterpiece of mockery.
It began by describing Rus's "lowborn origins" in gratuitous detail—using a dozen different rhetorical devices, analogies, and metaphors to liken him to rats, cockroaches, and fleas… before grudgingly concluding that in some ways, he was marginally better than those pests.
Then it moved on to trashing the Hawk Domain—declaring it a fragmented, worthless patch of wilderness. One that only someone as base-born as Rus would see as a "treasure."
Finally, the letter—signed by Winston Otta Engel—provided an address.
If Rus delivered 360 gold coins and his family lineage documents to a wyvern knight stationed at Flashgold Town within three days, the council would graciously ratify his title.
"This is blatant extortion!" Gordon's calm façade finally cracked. "My lord, we cannot—must not—pay this! I'll draft an appeal to the Royal Capital and demand justice!"
But Rus had already cooled off. He could read Winston's intentions clearly.
The members of the Noble Council were nobles themselves—mostly distant branches with no claim to inheritance. True nobles wouldn't dirty their hands with administrative drudgery like this.
Winston's middle name, Otta, marked him as a legitimate viscount or baron by bloodline—likely one without land.
A "Court Noble."
Of course, that was the official term. In truth, most people preferred to call them things like "landless nobles," "pitiful freeloaders," or "the king's useless lapdogs."
A noble without land was like a dog with its spine broken—no matter the title, it meant nothing without a domain to rule.
That scroll's venomous language? Probably just sour grapes. Jealousy disguised as arrogance.
"Calm down, Gordon," Rus said with a half-smile. "It's just the rabid barking of a stray dog. The title—that's what matters."
Gordon still looked indignant. "But, my lord…"
"I understand, Gordon," Rus said, clasping the old steward's thin, bony arm. "As a member of the Claydon family… as the current lord of the Hawk Domain… please believe me, I'm no less angry than you are."
"But anger won't help us. Until the formalities are complete, I'm not even technically a noble. I don't even have the right to slap that letter across his face and challenge him to a duel."
"What we need now is to secure the title, stabilize the territory, and build real wealth. The day will come when he's the one groveling at our feet."
The Noble Council, after all, depended entirely on "donations" from local nobles to function.
Gordon inhaled deeply, then nodded. "I understand, my lord."
He pulled out a few pages from his documents and tore them cleanly. "That lets us delay the renovations and attire expenses. But there's still one cost we can't avoid…"
"Security."
"Every year, from April to July, the Bloody Highlands turn into a muddy swamp during the rainy season. Bandits and raiders regularly cross the Hawk Mountains to plunder nearby villages."
"Although we only control Hawk Town and the castle for now, we must defend our people."
Gordon said "people," but Rus knew what he really meant: protect the lord. And right now, that was a very human—and very non-extraordinary—Baron Rus.
"So what's your suggestion?" Rus asked.
"We hire mercenaries from Flashgold Town," Gordon replied. "A standard 12-man unit usually includes one Tier-1 Extraordinary. They come fully equipped. One year's contract would cost us around 110 gold coins."
Rus tapped the table, then shook his head.
No.
He was far too familiar with mercenaries. In this world, their reputation was mixed at best.
Rude, unpredictable, volatile. Sure, they followed laws—until they ran out of money. Then they could easily switch careers to robbery, extortion, or worse.
And Rus had only Erik as a counterbalance. No second Extraordinary to keep the mercs in line.
Inviting them in would be easy. Kicking them out, a nightmare.
He laid out his concerns. Gordon frowned, while Erik offered an alternative:
"My lord, I once served with the Iron Legion. I know a few veterans who've since retired for various reasons. If you're willing to give them shelter, I could go to Moonen City and bring them here."
"No!" Gordon immediately objected. "You're our only Extraordinary. You can't leave right now—it's too dangerous!"
Rus silently agreed. Erik's offer was valuable, and he made a mental note of it. But Gordon was right—this wasn't the time.
"We'll revisit that plan when our finances are a little more stable," Rus said.
"So… what now?" Erik asked.
"We train our own soldiers." Rus rapped the table decisively. "As a baron, I'm allowed to have up to five knightly retainers, and maintain a private army of up to 500 men."
"If we don't have strength, we'll make it."
He turned to Gordon. "How much food and gear do we have in the warehouse?"
Gordon responded instantly: "Currently, we have 50,000 kilograms of coarse wheat flour, 1,300 kilograms of preserved meat and jerky, and around 500 kilograms of cheese."
"As for weapons… I checked two days ago. Only about a dozen sets of tattered leather armor and fifty rusted weapons remain."
"I see." Rus stood and gave his order.
"Erik, take the gold coins. Go to Flashgold Town. Find the wyvern knight with our title scroll—and while you're there, purchase enough leather armor and spears for 50 men."
"Yes, my lord!" Erik stood up with a clang, his fist striking his armor in salute.
"Mr. Gordon, you'll accompany him," Rus added. "The Hawk Domain is in ruins. Every single coin must be spent wisely."
Gordon stood and bowed. "As you command."
Erik drove the wagon, and the two of them slowly departed.
Rus stood at the window, watching them fade into the distance, eyes sharp and thoughtful.
There was no doubt—Donald had left him a mess.
A shattered territory. A bankrupt treasury. Barely a trace of military might.
But his goals were crystal clear now:
Reclaim the lands that belonged to the Hawk Domain.
Earn real wealth.
Forge a private army under his command.
—
Two days later.
Erik and Gordon returned.
With them came two wagons full of equipment, and a scroll bearing golden ink:
Decree:
After a fair, open, and totally unbiased review by the Noble Council,
Rus Claydon—of noble blood, pure character, and exemplifying the virtues of humility, integrity, mercy, bravery, justice, sacrifice, honor, and soul— is hereby permitted to inherit the title of Baron of the Claydon family.
He is granted the honor of bearing the middle name "Otta", and entitled to the full, undiminished rights of the 2,200-acre Hawk Domain.
Gordon read the proclamation with formal reverence. Then, ignoring the dirt on the floor, he dropped to one knee and held up the scroll like a holy relic.
Rus stepped forward and accepted it. He took the included family crest badge and pinned it to his chest.
Erik also knelt, bowing his head low. "Congratulations, Lord Rus, on officially inheriting the baronial title."
Rus stood in the morning light. Before him knelt two loyal retainers.
It was a quiet ceremony—almost pitifully modest for a barony. But Rus's heart burned hotter than ever.
From this day forth, he was Rus Otta Claydon.
Baron of the Empire.
And in the future… those kneeling before him would be far more than two.
"Stand up," Rus said, lifting them both with firm hands. "Our journey has only just begun."
"Erik—sound the bell!"
"Gather every able-bodied man in Hawk Town."
"We're going to train an army!"