The Kingdom of the Golden Lion.
Warm ocean currents brought abundant fisheries and vibrant trade to the southern provinces, while the beautiful Agate River irrigated vast fertile plains in the center.
But in the northern provinces, snow-capped mountains stretched endlessly, and frost-covered coniferous forests stood solemnly on barren land.
The sunlight was weak, the air crisp, and a chill lingered.
The noble youth, Yeats, lifted a snowy owl on his arm and stood atop a hill, overlooking the village at the mountain's base.
Frostridge.
A frontier barony nestled by the jagged peaks, facing the impending cold wave head-on.
Below, a silvery stream wound through the village. Stone cottages, warm and fireproof, stood guarded by fences. Outside the village loomed towering pine and fir forests. Beyond them, the snow-dusted, majestic peaks of the jagged mountains rose, beyond which lay the frozen northern territories and the boundless Ice Sea.
Frakas mounted his steed Radish and rode swiftly into the village, delivering the news of their lord's arrival to local officials and the regent.
The militia soon allowed passage but their eyes held unmistakable suspicion.
Hooves clattered on the stone streets as the carriage traveled the empty road to the manor.
Farmers kept their doors tightly shut; an unusual silence hung over the village.
Only when the carriage stopped at the manor did villagers cautiously peek from behind cracked doors—and quickly slam them shut when the armored girl by Yeats's side glanced their way.
"Looks like the locals aren't too welcoming," Gray whispered.
"A new lord means new, uncertain taxes—people always get uneasy," Yeats replied.
He understood their worries well. Frostridge was already poor; a notorious young noble like him taking office could easily push the villagers to rebellion if taxes grew harsher.
Gray's expression grew serious.
"Just so you know, I'm only a guard. I won't be helping you suppress the peasants like your vassal knights might."
"You seem worried about conflict with the locals," Yeats observed.
"I just don't think you're the kind of lord… without foresight," Gray said quietly. "At least, you're not the typical noble I imagined."
Yeats smiled.
"The cold wave is coming. No matter noble or commoner, human or beast, the cold treats us all equally."
Gray paused, staring after the silver-haired youth's tall figure walking toward the manor.
Equal?
She shook her head and quickened her pace to catch up.
Clearly, this boy was younger than her—but spoke with surprising gravity.
The manor was old and dusty, but it had an office.
A stone fireplace flickered with warm orange flames.
A handcrafted wooden desk held an ink bottle and quill, with a high-backed chair behind it.
Bookshelves bore heavy tomes.
Yeats sat at the desk, turning the quill in his hand as he listened to Derek, the official.
"My lord, Frostridge has awaited your arrival for some time. We trust under your wise leadership—"
Yeats cut off the flattery.
"Tell me straight: what's the situation here, Derek?"
He adopted his former self's blunt tone.
"I need current numbers on population, taxes, expenses, and main industries. Don't tell me, as regent, you don't even have these reports ready for my arrival."
Derek's cloudy eyes flickered oddly; he bowed lower and spoke more respectfully.
"Of course, my lord. Please wait a moment."
Shortly after, a servant wheeled in a cart loaded with thick ledgers.
Yeats blinked.
Looks like the next few days will be buried in these books.
"I'll review these later. Now tell me something else."
"Ask anything, my lord," Derek replied humbly.
"What do you know about the cold wave?"
"It comes every year," Derek said. "And it triggers a corresponding magical tide. In previous years, the royal guard was dispatched, but this year we have yet to receive clear orders."
Yeats tapped his fingers lightly on the desk.
"How large is this magical tide usually?"
"It varies. Last year's tide was small. After we and the royal guard pushed back the monsters, the snow melted soon after."
"Snow melt?"
"The cold wave always brings heavy snow. Once the snow melts and the sun shines, it means the cold wave has passed."
"And the orcs?" Yeats asked. "I heard they invade northern provinces during the cold wave."
"Not just the cold wave," Derek corrected. "Orcs invade whenever food is scarce."
"Though orc attacks have lessened recently, the cold wave also threatens them. They must survive it too."
Over twenty years ago, the King of the Golden Lion led cavalry across the jagged mountains, striking the tribes like divine intervention and winning the Battle of Black Fortress—securing a great victory over the barbarians.
But now the king is ill, and the orcs may seize the opportunity.
They are far stronger than goblins or gnolls.
Yeats nodded thoughtfully.
"You may leave for now. I will summon you when needed."
"Of course, my lord," Derek bowed and left.
The campfire crackled warmly as Yeats opened the heavy ledgers, eyes scanning tiny, cramped writing.
Paper was precious here, so scribes wrote as small as possible.
If only there was a magic to read ten lines at a glance or memorize instantly.
No such luck.
Only the sharp refreshment of lemon tea.
Yeats sipped slowly, reading.
Frostridge had about 5,500 acres, over 200 farming households, and roughly 800 inhabitants.
Though populous for a barony, it barely qualified as an administrative village.
The entire population could at most support one aspiring transcendent knight.
Before the cold wave arrives, many farmers would likely flee; leaving 200 households was the baseline Yeats could accept.
Night fell.
The snowy owl awoke in the corner, opening its eyes.
It watched Yeats's serious expression, tilted its head, and remained silent.
"The main industry is a copper mine. Most men work there; women tend chickens and sheep, making cheese. Only a small part of the fields grow wheat and cabbage. Diet is mostly fish and dark bread."
Yeats murmured,
"The copper mine barely covers half the expenses. To develop further, we must find new sources of income."
Two ideas sprang to mind.
First, distribute a new healing potion recipe to villagers, letting them produce and sell it to merchants.
In Phantom Wings, basic healing potions require wheat and blue mountain flowers.
Adding butterfly wings and a special brewing process lowers the difficulty and improves potency.
This would bring short-term profit before the recipe is inevitably cracked.
Enough to ease the finances and establish Yeats's initial reputation.
Yeats wrote the recipe and brewing steps on parchment.
The game never detailed this process, but his knowledge of food and medicine helped him innovate.
Second, tap into the appetites of nobles' purses.
The candle flickered, illuminating Yeats's deep eyes.
He opened the necromancer's production manual, a slight smile playing on his lips.
"Mold… cheese… this is it!"