Phield had considered buying more slaves, but his purse was already stretched perilously thin.
Surviving in the death-fog meant relying on mist-repelling lanterns—exclusive magical devices sold only by the Church, and ruinously expensive—even if one set aside the threat of monsters altogether.
Add to that the cost of feeding and supplying over two hundred souls, and the numbers became daunting.
"Well? Did you secure the loan?" Phield asked as Kaor emerged from the merchants' guild, striding forward eagerly. One look at the steward's thunderous expression told him everything.
"I'm sorry, my lord. Even the greediest moneylender in the city refused the moment they heard your name." Kaor spread his hands helplessly. "The northern frontier is synonymous with hell. Imperial expeditions have been wiped out to the last man. No merchant is willing to throw coin into that abyss."
"That's odd," Phield muttered. "I only received the formal appointment today. How do the merchants already know?"
Kaor rolled his eyes; he was in no mood to coddle a lord marching to his doom.
Had he not once stumbled upon the count's sister in the stables with a groom, he might have risen to become chief steward of Golden Eagle City—or even tutor to the count's eldest grandson—instead of being exiled to a cursed wasteland to die.
"Because your second sister learned of your fief in advance," Kaor answered wearily. "She issued a quiet warning to every merchant in the city: anything sold to you is to be marked up tenfold. And they understood her meaning perfectly—no credit, no favors, no convenience of any kind."
Phield wiped cold sweat from his brow. Thank the gods he hadn't announced his full name at the slave market, or the bill would have been far higher than fifty-three gold.
"Fuck! My deepest thanks to my dear sister!" Veins throbbed at his temples.
Not a single one of them saw him as human.
Worst of all, the original Phield had lived his entire life without saving so much as a copper. One-third of his allowance had been donated to the family vaults; the remaining two-thirds given to border fortresses for weapons against corrupted creatures.
Truly the poorest noble in the realm.
"No loan, then," Phield said with forced nonchalance. "Their loss—for lack of vision. Now, let's buy some tools of production."
He spent a hundred and eighty gold on essentials for pioneering: horses, farming implements, food stores, and books.
Seventeen pack animals in total—all old or lame. In this era, horses were vital assets, tightly controlled by lords. The food was packed to overflowing, enough for the free members of the party to eat for perhaps half a month to a month.
Slaves required far less. One black bread a day kept them alive; two loaves laced with bark and sawdust would have them on their knees calling you father.
With such rations, the supplies would easily stretch thirty-five days.
"As for magical gear, we'll buy it in one of the border towns," Phield decided. "The corrupt officers there will sell Church lanterns at a discount."
Like armies of old, frontier commanders lined their pockets by quietly fencing soldiers' equipment while still drawing full payrolls for phantom troops.
Phield had originally planned to visit taverns and recruit talent or mercenaries, but the moment they heard "Nightfall Domain," every one refused without hesitation.
"That place is no different from a death sentence."
"My advice, lad? Flee to another kingdom. Even the hardiest dog has to live there with its tail between its legs."
The mercenaries' words echoed in his mind as Phield rubbed his temples. His gaze drifted to the beast-eared girl curled amid the hay in one of the wagons. He was burning with curiosity: what made her so special?
Finding an inn along the road, Phield called a halt so the entire company could rest for the night.
The next morning, Phield summoned the beast-eared girl to his room at the inn.
"What's your name? Did you sleep well last night?" he asked, looking her over with open curiosity. His fifty-silver slave stared back blankly, and he couldn't help an amused twitch at the corner of his mouth.
"As… Ashina."
Her lips moved hesitantly for several long moments before the name finally emerged, halting and rusty. She hadn't spoken aloud in over a month.
She had spent that time braced for the worst fate imaginable, never expecting someone would simply talk to her like a person.
After a thorough scrubbing by the inn's maids, Ashina was transformed. The matted, brittle fur and hair had been washed into sleek, lustrous white strands that spilled down her back like fresh snow. Paired with refined, delicate features, she carried a quiet, elegant maturity—the exact type of beauty Phield favored.
Yet her wolf ears twitched incessantly, and her tail quivered behind her, betraying deep unease.
Suddenly the green dot above her head vanished, replaced by a simple panel floating in his vision.
Name: Ashina
Level: Unawakened
Advancement Path: Wolf Rider Divine Chosen Status: Malnourished, Near Collapse (Urgent: Provide Nutrition!)
"Holy shit!" Phield blurted before he could stop himself.
The green dot marked an unawakened Divine Chosen.
He stood frozen, mouth slightly agape.
If his map could flag one, it could flag others. There would be more.
Every year on the first of September—the national Awakening Day—every eligible female underwent examination. The odds of manifesting as a Divine Chosen were astronomically low, but given their immense value, the kingdom spared no expense in the search.
Excitement surged through him. He paced the small room, then pumped his fists twice in silent triumph. His ability clearly held enormous potential.
The Nightfall Domain might not be a death sentence after all—he could actually carve out a foothold there.
Ashina watched his strange behavior with mounting dread. She assumed he was savoring some new, twisted way to torment her. Her legs trembled; her fingers clenched and unclenched the hem of her skirt. She had no idea what was coming.
In truth, the moment Phield bought her, she had considered lashing out. Even if the soul contract burned her to ash from the inside, she refused to die in humiliation—she would rip out her enemy's throat first.
But then the maids had taken her, stripped away the filth, scrubbed every inch of her clean. No one had ever bathed her like that in her life. More astonishing still, they had dressed her afterward in soft, weightless fabric that didn't itch, didn't harbor fleas, didn't chafe her skin.
"They must be preparing me as a sacrifice to some demon," she thought desperately. "I'll wait for the right moment—then strike. I'll make these wicked humans pay."
"There's no need to be afraid," Phield said, lowering his voice and trying to sound gentle. He leaned back lazily in his chair, limbs loose, posture deliberately unthreatening. "I'm not the kind of monster who kills for sport. I bought all of you to help settle and develop my new territory."
He nodded toward her clothes. "Does that fit comfortably, by the way?"
It was a modest maid's dress, altered slightly for her. Servants' attire in this world leaned conservative—exposing only wrists and a stretch of ankle below the skirt—more like a nun's habit than anything provocative. Certainly not the scandalous sort.
...
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