A week after Alexander Shermanyn left Baltes, Victor received two letters: the first from the count, stating that both mines were now legally transferred to his son, along with a gift to be delivered by Vicount Larik.
The lord had heard of this individual, more accurately, of the vicount's son, renowned for revelries and troubles caused to his family.
Larik was a vassal of Shermanyn, whose territory lay northeast of the county, bordering that of Vicount Leppert, through whose lands Victor and his father had passed en route to the duke.
Interestingly, the lord admired Leppert's domain, where he observed cultivated lands and well-maintained villages, starkly contrasting with the count's own territory.
Currently, he did not fully grasp the nature of the gift or why it was entrusted to Larik.
Fortunately, the second message was clearer: it was a notification from Baron Clint, advising him of his impending visit the next day.
Jinn, recalled from work at the brick factory where he now appeared sporadically for supervision, began preparing for the guest's arrival.
Meanwhile, Victor toured his domains with Linea, who, having recuperated, insisted on continuing her training and accompanying him everywhere.
Something had changed in her; she became more communicative, and frequently, Victor caught her gazing at him as if uncovering another secret.
Though mildly perturbed, he felt secure, knowing she already knew enough to prevent her release, yet it remained odd.
Today, they decided to visit the brick factory, where the new kiln had recently been constructed and heated to dry the binding clay. This method of concrete production was far from ideal, but for now, it proved sufficient.
Arriving at the factory, Victor finally beheld the structure, which now resembled a proper kiln.
It matched his blueprints perfectly, but he wanted assurance regarding its interior layout, prompting him to climb inside.
Inside, the kiln towered nearly two meters high, spacious enough for inspection. Observing its construction, he identified a location for a temporary partition.
This wall resembled a sieve: bricks were spaced alternately, creating gaps through which heat from an open flame could circulate evenly, ensuring the fire did not directly impact raw materials.
Thus, even if strong gusts penetrated externally, they would not disrupt the firing chamber, blocked by this wall.
This solution stemmed from flawed experiments in the prototype kiln, and Victor grappled extensively with resolving the issue. Given the outdoor setting and impending winter, he devised this compromise.
It was cumbersome, requiring repeated assembly and disassembly, but until acquiring gas-powered kilns capable of maintaining steady temperatures, it remained optimal.
Grinning widely, Victor examined the structure, oblivious to Linea standing nearby. She assumed it was some torture chamber, rapidly changing her favorable opinion of this baron.
— Load the first batch, — he ordered upon exiting the kiln.
Serfs promptly resumed work, and the lord marveled at their transformation: despite arduous labor, they appeared energized, their physiques noticeably improved.
Food distribution initiated since his arrival had yielded results, sustaining these people, though its quantity barely covered their basic needs. Still, even minimal effort resulted in notable enthusiasm.
"If I can increase pig farming and systematically develop livestock, meat availability will solve nutritional issues for all my subjects."
He relished what he witnessed, driven by his core belief: happiness derived from life was contingent on ensuring his subjects were fed and had prospects for advancement.
Further reflection highlighted that empowered subjects could nurture talents beneficial to him.
Children could become knights, scholars, inventors—anything, given the chance. He rejected the notion that aristocrats overlooked this, reasoning their reluctance stemmed from fear.
Fear of serfs gaining strength, capable of resistance or disrupting societal norms.
Most cowardly nobles, losing magic with successive generations, could not defend themselves against hundreds of iron-knight-class serfs.
Their sloth prevented self-improvement, worsening their oppression of subjects.
Victor harbored no such anxieties. Previously, he lived in a world where humans had mastered governing their peers, democracy epitomizing the illusion of freedom. Citizens were never truly liberated; leaders blamed external factors, confusing minds to blame voters for choosing them. To him, this exemplified an ideal system, aligning with his meritocratic ideals.
Certainly, he did not seek reform, preferring to retain his status as lord and noble, but accepting the fragility of these institutions.
"Strange, when did I start thinking so thoroughly about everything? Does magic influence me this way? Never before did such considerations cross my mind. Once, I couldn't even schedule my day, but now I'm planning years ahead, not just for myself but for an entire country." Gazing at the burning fire, Victor pondered changes within himself.
Swiftly returning to reality, he realized nothing exciting would transpire in the next couple of days. Ready to depart, he noticed Linea's smiling gaze following him.
Wondering if she had lost sanity after illness, he mounted his horse and rode back to the castle.
Spending the evening in his study, poring over parchments piling up, he attended requests from merchants and fellow lords, each seeking favors.
Working tirelessly till nightfall, interrupted only by Lulu's reprimand, he shelved remaining documents, obeying the "orders" of the petite maid, and retired to sleep.
Patting Lulu affectionately on the head and seeing her smile, he felt rejuvenated. These people had become his family, and he vowed to ensure their prosperity.
***
The next day dawned predictably: breakfast and training with Linea, whose improvement was becoming painfully obvious. Again, Algannis drilled soldiers on the practice field, informing Victor that three original guards had attained Bronze level—surprisingly encouraging him to train more vigorously.
Progress, admittedly impressive, drove him to explore further: what defined paladins, how to unlock his journal, and the voices periodically echoing in his mind.
Ignoring them as before, he now recognized them as prayers, albeit without addressees, fragmented at points where gods' names or petitioned entities should appear.
Ambiguities spurred his desire to unlock the diary, believing increased strength held the key.
Training, he was interrupted by Lulu, bearing a message from Baron's courier: the baron would arrive within an hour. Victor halted exercises and, with Linea, prepared for the encounter.
Properly attired and composed, he descended to the parlor, where Clint was soon escorted.
Clint appeared unchanged from their last meeting, except for finer apparel, possibly his best clothes, suggesting either desperation or newly-acquired wealth. Either way, such individuals appealed to luxury brands, marketing logos and selling items at exorbitant markings.
— Delighted to see you again, Baron Clint, — Victor greeted cordially, suppressing extraneous thoughts.
— Long time no see, my friend, — Samuel Clint responded with a broad smile, arms wide-open in greeting.
Such effusive welcome and two new rings on his fingers signaled all Victor needed to know.
"This is just a small-time noble pretending grandeur; the moment gold coins appeared, he splurged on baubles and fancy clothes." Intending to offer the guest a seat opposite his own, he noticed Linea's barely-contained ire.
"That settles it—no loving family here. Father, a spendthrift, and daughter, desperate to salvage their fortune. Now I understand why Linea despises nobility; she witnessed the worst examples possible."
— Ah, um, please take a seat, Baron, — clearing his throat to sober Linea, he invited Clint to sit by the fireplace.
Linea remained standing near Victor, adopting the posture of his personal knight.
Barons engaged in gossip: talk of nearby conflicts, rampant monster activity, and endless boasting by Clint, who prided himself on trade.
Victor refrained from interrupting, letting the noble indulge in empty rhetoric, aware that for aristocrats, vanity was duty rather than fault.
Eventually, after lengthy ramblings and finishing his third goblet of wine, the guest broached the real agenda.
— My dear friend, I would love to hear more about your proposition regarding limestone, which you plan to purchase from us.
Victor deliberately prolonged the pause, feigning deliberation.
— As mentioned in my letter, I'm prepared to pay five silver coins per wagonload, — he responded, swiftly adding: — I'll buy as much as you have, compensating you with my goods in exchange for limestone.
The man's jaw dropped. The offer was overly generous, and Victor calculated that the baron would mobilize all serfs to extract every last trace of limestone, but events diverged from his plan.
— Friend, the price is too low for such labor-intensive work. Ten silver coins would be more reasonable, — the baron finally countered.
"You won't get away with this—you'd bite off more than you can chew by doubling the price."
Victor swiftly computed costs and expenses.
— My final offer stands at six silver coins, — he declared firmly.
Predictably, Clint feigned disappointment, but Victor was certain even five coins exceeded the baron's expectations. Beyond limestone, he sought to appease this greedy soul.
— During your visit, I wish to discuss another matter concerning your daughter, — Victor shifted to a more pressing concern.
Instantly alert, the baron assumed the topic would involve marriage, but he clearly opposed betrothal to an allegedly worthless son known throughout the county.
— I intend to hire her as a knight for one year, — Victor clarified. — Being deprived of magic and lacking numerous loyal troops, I propose compensating you accordingly: five gold coins monthly.
Spotting Clint's reaction to gold, Victor surmised his elaborate speech was unnecessary; a monetary offer sufficed.
— My friend, ha-ha, I cannot make decisions on behalf of my daughter, but if she agrees... Naturally, I support her choice, — Sammyl evasively eyed Linea.
Even fools would interpret the veiled encouragement to acquiesce, but aristocrats customarily feigned ignorance, even when hints were etched boldly on foreheads.
— I agree to serve you as a knight for one year, — Linea promptly declared.
— Splendid! Ha-ha, — cutting her off prematurely, Clint exclaimed triumphantly.
Victor smiled politely at the old man, internally resolved, knowing his decision was irreversible.
"Sorry, but she won't return to you, not in a year, not in ten. I prefer nurturing such talent and cherishing it far more than tolerating such a parent."