Although the name Duke Duncan's Territory sounded impressive, the locals still preferred to call it the Barren Land. The place was simply too poor.
The Duncan Family had lived here for generations, but they were no wealthier than the old aristocratic families in the Province of Roses.
Hamilton Duncan was lucky to be part of such a large family.
Hamilton Duncan was also unlucky to be part of such a poor family.
Being born into a noble family had placed him on a height countless commoners could only dream of reaching, but it had also saddled him with an immense burden of responsibility.
Nevertheless, Baron Hamilton was a noble and the lord of these lands. To the poor people who lived here, he was the master of their fate.
The people of Saint Brieuc Fortress considered themselves fortunate, because Baron Hamilton was neither greedy nor tyrannical.
He had inherited the lordship from his father and, over the course of more than twenty years, had turned a ruined, sparsely populated village into the town it was now, with a population of over two thousand. He was a more than capable heir.
He couldn't exactly be called a loving father to his people, but he had never done anything as despicable as exercising the right of the first night.
Taxes in Saint Brieuc Fortress were low, so small merchants were glad to make a living here, bringing the town a little prosperity and vitality. As for the tenant farmers, a full belly, a new set of clothes for the holidays, and a bit of meat were enough.
If the Goddess of Fortune hadn't abandoned Baron Hamilton, he would have stayed here in peace, slowly awaiting the day he died of old age.
That was, if nothing unexpected happened.
Few people could enjoy a peaceful old age in this chaotic place, whether they were honest commoners, merchants richer than kings, or powerful adventurers.
What kind of place was the Barren Land?
Mention it, and people could think of countless unflattering names: a paradise for criminals, a hell for slaves, a place of exile for criminals, a land without laws.
All in all, the Barren Land was a poor, remote backwater where not even birds would shit. Just hearing its name could bring a person bad luck.
Harsh lands bred hardened people. The brutal conditions had forged a fierce local character, and people died here every day. Even a simple brawl over an argument could leave several dead.
But the terrifyingly high death rate did nothing to dampen the gold seekers' enthusiasm. The Barren Land was a genuine paradise for criminals—and a source of wealth and opportunity.
Looking northwest from Saint Brieuc Fortress, a mere thirty miles away, the mighty Ambrisset Mountains stretched across the land.
The Ambrisset Mountains belonged to the monsters. They contained every creature one could imagine, from low-level goblins to high-level wyverns.
Danger often came hand in hand with opportunity. The mighty mountains concealed countless riches: precious timber, rare medicinal herbs, scarce ores, and dazzling magic crystals. Any one of them could make someone rich overnight.
The poor folk of the Barren Land often heard tales of this person or that person slaying a monster and taking its magic crystal, which they sold for hundreds or even thousands of gold coins.
What did hundreds of gold coins mean? They meant you could buy an estate in the Barren Land, marry eight or ten wives, purchase dozens of servants and slaves, and acquire hundreds of acres of fertile farmland.
And what did thousands of gold coins mean? They meant you could buy a two-story villa with a garden in the kingdom's capital, then live in luxury for the rest of your life on the interest from the money you put in the bank.
Thus, countless adventurers, blinded by greed, flooded into the Ambrisset Mountains, their faces alight with an obsessive hunger for wealth.
Yet of every ten adventurers who went in, only two or three made it out alive. And among the survivors, very few came away with great rewards.
The Ambrisset Mountains had stood there for tens of thousands of years, burying the remains of countless fortune seekers. But the next wave still came in droves, never diminishing.
Even now, no one knew how vast the mountain range was. No one had ever explored its depths, and even the people of the Barren Land didn't know what lay beyond it.
All people knew was this: for ordinary folk, going in meant certain death; for adventurers, it meant almost certain death.
Just as a thousand people see a thousand different Hamlets,
some would say, "The Ambrisset Mountains are hell!"
Others would say, "The Ambrisset Mountains are heaven!"
For the more than ninety-nine percent of commoners living in the Barren Land, whether the Ambrisset Mountains were heaven or hell had little to do with them.
Being commoners meant they could only listen in silence as some legend was born, sigh over it a few times, then work day and night for their wages. They would marry and have children, watch their sons and grandsons do the same, and eventually die in peace.
It was practically a nightmare!
Renard shuddered involuntarily, a gleeful grin spreading across his face. Then he kicked away the stray cat huddled in a corner for warmth.
The lackeys behind him couldn't help applauding. "Oh! Young Master Renard is amazing! He's gotten rid of another eyesore."
Renard Duncan, the only son of Baron Hamilton, lord of Saint Brieuc Fortress, had just turned sixteen. In the eyes of the townsfolk, he was the very definition of a spoiled young master.
Unlike the benevolent Baron Hamilton, he possessed all the vices expected of a noble: arrogance, conceit, lechery, and cruelty. He also had a streak of cunning and treachery uncommon even among nobles.
Ever since he had become a man in the arms of one of his family's maids, he had grown increasingly arrogant and unruly, making life miserable for everyone in Saint Brieuc Fortress.
Two years earlier, in the interest of peace and stability in his territory, Baron Hamilton had gritted his teeth and sent him to study at Constantinople Academy, thousands of miles away. He had even spent most of the family's wealth to do so.
The residents finally enjoyed a long-awaited peace and quiet, and praised their lord's greatness and wisdom.
But before long, Renard was sent home to reflect on his actions after getting into fights and spying on his female classmates while they bathed. No one had expected it—not even Baron Hamilton found it believable.
His son might have been unruly, but he knew how to read a situation. How could he have caused trouble at the academy?
No matter how many times they pressed him, Renard refused to say a word. His temper only grew worse, and the townsfolk had already begun imagining the grim future in store for them.
The snow fell harder and harder, but Renard paid it no mind as he strolled along the deserted streets with his lackeys.
Strolled wasn't quite the right word. He was more like a menace to the townspeople.
Perhaps his outrageous behavior had angered the heavens. After he kicked over an old man's cart of dried vegetables, retribution arrived.
Several thunderclaps suddenly rang out from the sky. The noble Young Master Renard collapsed on the spot, eyes rolling back and foam spilling from his mouth. A moment later, he was dead.
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