The afternoon after the ceremony, at Count Lyman's residence.
The atmosphere in the study on the western side of the second floor was oppressive.
Veylin sat opposite his uncle Lyman, a broad black oak desk between them. Neither spoke first.
It was a silent contest, an attempt to redefine their positions after the abrupt change in status.
Veylin calmly surveyed the study.
There were no monster heads boasting of martial prowess, nor any colorful decorative tapestries. Instead, a huge military map of Greenvein City and its surrounding territories occupied the wall, densely marked with symbols in different colors of ink.
The bookshelves were packed with volumes such as Three Basic Methods of Mineral Prospecting and A History of Tax Law in the Haiti Duchy.
Clearly, this was a ruler skilled at calculation, not an old noble lost in pleasure.
His gaze finally settled on a letter weighed down at one corner of the desk. Its opening words read: "Regarding the Eleven Copper Leaf Tax soon to be implemented by the empire..."
Count Lyman noticed Veylin's gaze. He made no attempt to hide the letter, and his deep voice broke the silence.
"The empire's war beast has been roaring on the eastern frontier for years, and its treasury is nearly empty. Naturally, our Haiti Duchy, the richest pearl on the continent, has become a fat lamb in their eyes.
Lyman set down his teacup and interlaced his fingers.
"Restricting our autonomy, raising taxes... the empire's hand is inching toward our purses and our throats. The Klein family, indeed every noble in Haiti, is now walking on thin ice."
At those words, Veylin's lips curled slightly. Meeting Count Lyman's appraising gaze, he said calmly:
"In that case, you and I have quite a lot in common, Uncle. After all, describing my position in the family over the past two years as 'hanging by a thread' would hardly be an exaggeration."
The obvious sarcasm caught Count Lyman off guard for a moment. Then he burst into hearty laughter, without the slightest embarrassment.
"My nephew, you must understand that the family is a collective, not a charity." He leaned forward slightly, a shrewd gleam in his eyes.
"According to a century of family records, the awakening rate among each generation's direct descendants remains roughly two-thirds. That means one-third will always be eliminated. We don't have the resources or energy to tend to the fragile feelings of every 'bloodless' individual."
He spoke without any reservation.
"In the past, you belonged to that unfortunate third. But now," he changed tack, "you stand on the other side. You even possess enough value for the family to tip the scales in your favor."
"Springlaw Messenger is a very rare bloodline gift. It may not enjoy the fame of combat gifts, but in certain respects, its value matches or even exceeds theirs."
"Three ancestors in our family's history awakened the same gift. Without exception, they achieved extraordinary success in potion-making and alchemical agriculture, amassing enormous wealth for the family. They also left behind notes detailing how to make the most of this gift."
Veylin leaned back in his chair, relaxing. He knew the real bargaining was about to begin.
"So what are you proposing, Uncle?"
"The family hopes you will leave the past behind, and will provide all the support you need," Count Lyman answered directly. "Including those ancestral notes."
Veylin fell silent for a moment, as though weighing the offer.
In truth, he was thinking that the neglect and bullying suffered by the body's original owner held no personal sting for him, a transmigrator.
Trading a nominal "grudge" for actual research funding was a deal with nothing to lose.
"Support?" Veylin raised an eyebrow. "Such as treating me the way you treat Leonard?"
"He will receive what he deserves, and you will receive what you deserve." Count Lyman's answer left no opening. "Sunlight favors only the tallest tree-that is our family maxim."
"I need starting resources and an independent status." Veylin stopped beating around the bush.
"Let's hear it." Approval flickered in Count Lyman's eyes.
"I want to apply to become a Pioneer Knight."
The term surprised Count Lyman somewhat. Pioneer Knight sounded glorious, but in reality, it meant reclaiming barren, dangerous wilderness-a choice many children of declining noble families made only out of desperation.
Ignoring his surprise, Veylin continued, "The territory I wish to develop is Graysea Marsh, on the southern coast."
Count Lyman frowned.
"That place?" he mused. "A worthless stretch of saline flats, flooded every rainy season by seawater surging inland. The land can't be farmed. Even the lowliest serfs wouldn't go there. What do you want with that wasteland?"
"You needn't concern yourself with that, Uncle," Veylin said evenly. "I only need the family to use its connections to secure the development rights to that land for me. I'll also need supplies."
Of course, he would not reveal his real reasons.
Highly saline soil, a huge tidal range, stable sediment layers... the traits the locals regarded as a curse presented an entirely different picture to him.
They meant that, with enough manpower, precise calculations, and suitable materials, he could replicate a great engineering project he had seen in his previous life-land reclamation from the sea!
That seemingly useless marsh had a potential area rivaling the entire county. It was no wasteland, but a blank canvas waiting for him to paint.
More importantly, whether he wanted to conceal his special advantage or test his many theories, an overlooked, remote territory where he could do as he pleased was the ideal choice.
Count Lyman studied Veylin intently for a long time. At last, he nodded slowly.
"Very well. I'll have the clerk arrange your status as a Pioneer Knight. It should take about half a month."
"As for supplies... you will receive funding far beyond what an ordinary Pioneer Knight gets." He rose, walked to the wall behind the desk, and pressed an inconspicuous brick.
The wall slid open silently, revealing a metal safe.
A moment later, he returned to the desk with a heavy leather money pouch.
"There are fifty Gold Suns here. The other supplies will be sent to you along with family guards."
"I won't need the guards." Veylin took the pouch and weighed it in his hand. "Please give me their cost in gold coins instead, Uncle. I prefer to choose my own people."
Count Lyman was taken aback again. Then the smile on his face became much more genuine.
"Good. Very good." He opened the safe again and took out a slightly smaller pouch. "You're more of a Klein than I imagined."
The next day, Veylin took his younger sister Lilia straight into the southern district, where people of every stripe mingled.
Lilia clutched his sleeve uneasily. The air reeked of cheap ale, animal dung, and sour sweat. It might as well have been a different city from the upper district she knew.
"Brother, what are we doing here?"
"Recruiting." Veylin kept his answer brief. Developing a territory required a great many workers. Rather than accept the family's spies, he would buy slaves with clean backgrounds whose lives were entirely in his hands.
For his many future "experiments," loyalty and discretion mattered more than ability.
They had barely entered the market when a commotion drew their attention.
A dense crowd encircled an open space in the center of the market, where an outdoor auction was underway on a makeshift wooden platform.
A brutish-looking slave trader banged the platform with the handle of his whip, roaring and spraying spittle.
"Next! Look at that figure, that face! This one's a treasure picked up in the upper district!"
Two burly men roughly shoved a figure onto the platform.
She was barefoot, the filthy rags on her body barely covering her private parts. Her golden hair was tangled, and tear tracks covered her face.
Veylin stared at the trembling figure in surprise.
Miss Powerful Ally?