Viscount Rebion, Part 1
The outskirts of the Farrow Territory.
In the farmlands near Lake Baitan, the crops were ripening under the warm sun.
Along the road cutting through the Farrow plains, a military escort marched—ten knights and fifty soldiers surrounding a single, lavish carriage.
The carriage's exterior was gilded with gold, and the knights were fully clad in plate mail and armed with longswords, a testament to immense wealth.
The soldiers carried pikes and wore light armor crafted entirely from ogre leather.
Viscount Rebion stared out the window, his eyes gleaming with a strange curiosity at the landscape of the fief.
Before arriving, he had been thoroughly displeased with the task of investigating a mere barony. But now that he was here, he could see that something was definitely different.
"Halt the carriage for a moment," he ordered.
"Yes, my Lord!"
Screeech!
The carriage door swung open, and a pair of thick, heavy feet planted themselves on the ground.
His eyes, buried deep in folds of flesh, resembled tiny buttonholes, and the creases of his flab glistened with sweat.
He possessed a jiggling belly, a massive frame, and a garish array of ornaments that did not suit his grotesque appearance in the slightest.
Moving on his own was a struggle, forcing the knights on either side to support him.
Because the procession was so ostentatious, the commoners of the Farrow Territory immediately realized a high-ranking noble had arrived.
While a noble from another territory could not harm Farrow's subjects without cause, things would be different if the peasants violated noble law.
The farmers working the fields quickly prostrated themselves on the dirt to show their respect.
"Sir Asti, didn't you say the Farrow Territory was impoverished?"
"That is what I heard, my Lord."
"Look around us. Does this look like a construction project an impoverished estate could afford?"
The southern walls were being expanded.
Expanding the walls all the way down here, rather than just at the northern border which served as the front line, meant the Farrow Territory was undergoing a fundamental restructuring.
As a lord himself, Viscount Rebion knew all too well how much capital was required to expand and reinforce walls in the rear.
Laborers carried heavy loads of stone up the ramparts, while masons busily filled the gaps in the masonry.
War slaves were being driven to work with a harshness that bordered on cruelty.
Beyond the walls, the barren wastelands were being reclaimed.
This alone was a massive undertaking, yet they were also simultaneously digging waterways to connect the lake to the farmlands.
This was not the behavior of a lord struggling with poverty.
This is completely different from what I heard.
A massive construction boom was sweeping the entire territory.
Such a feat was impossible unless they had discovered a rich mine somewhere.
To Rebion, the Farrow family had always been an object of ridicule.
They had fallen so far that it was hard to believe they were once a county. Banished to the northern frontier, they had been unable to escape the shackles of poverty.
Since the Farrows were always on the verge of losing their lands, Viscount Rebion had never even considered the Farrow Baron a peer.
Had he not received a personal letter from Duke Lyon, he would have gone his entire life without ever interacting with someone from the Farrow family.
My dear Lord Rebion,
I am always deeply grateful for your dedicated efforts on behalf of our faction.
To solidify your position within our circle, all of our fellow nobles are offering their full support, both material and spiritual, so there should be good news soon.
...
...Out of nowhere, Duke Langton has asserted trade rights with Baron Farrow, which is highly unusual.
It is as if Langton has openly declared his intention to sponsor the Baron. If the trade rights fall into the Baron's hands, it will become a major thorn in our side.
I would like you to personally visit the Farrow Territory and investigate the situation.
While we have our suspicions and various rumors are circulating, nothing is more accurate than seeing it with one's own eyes.
— Duke Lyon
Because Viscount Rebion showered the political sphere with massive bribes, Duke Lyon's letter was highly polite, framed as a request.
However, to a mere frontier lord, it was practically an absolute command.
He was to find out how Baron Farrow, who had been drowning in poverty, managed to establish a connection with Duke Langton, and whether the rumors of a grand transformation in the Farrow Barony were true.
The political world was reportedly in an uproar over this issue.
Rumor had it that the new Baron Farrow, determined to make a final stand in his generation, had liquidated all the ancestral assets passed down through the family and gone all-in.
Believing that the Farrow family's continuous decline threatened the very survival of their fief, Jeron Farrow had reportedly taken this desperate gamble.
This was why Viscount Rebion had dragged his heavy body all this way.
Since mere spies wouldn't suffice, Duke Lyon had ordered him to investigate personally, forcing him to at least make an appearance.
Now that Viscount Rebion had finally entered the Farrow domain, he was witnessing the staggering transformation with his own eyes.
Then, something caught his attention.
It was the sight of farmers using iron tools to clear the land.
"Sir Asti, bring me that pickaxe the farmer is using."
"Pardon? My Lord, this is strictly Farrow territory. Tampering with their private property could cause diplomatic friction."
"Do you think I don't know that? We'll just inspect it for a moment and return it. Is it a crime to examine a high-quality farming tool? It's not like we're strangers; we're neighbors."
"I suppose... that is true."
Calling themselves "neighbors" was a massive stretch, but who would dare defy the Viscount's absolute command?
The knights quickly retrieved the exceptionally sturdy-looking pickaxe.
Viscount Rebion examined the beautifully sleek lines of the tool.
It was forged from a single piece of steel from the head to the handle, yet the shaft and grip felt remarkably light.
"Why on earth would anyone put this much craftsmanship into a mere pickaxe?"
Even a glance revealed it was no ordinary tool.
The Viscount lightly tapped the pickaxe with his dagger.
Ting!
"What in the...?"
To his utter shock, the lowly pickaxe deflected his dagger—which was alloyed with mithril—without a scratch.
Although the pickaxe was covered in dirt and dust from active use, Viscount Rebion's discerning eye did not deceive him.
From a distance, he had seen the farmers wielding tools that looked like mithril weapons.
At first, he had doubted his own eyes.
What kind of insane lord would forge farming implements out of mithril?
"Sir Asti, hand me your sword."
"Yes, my Lord."
Surely, it can't be.
Rebion assumed he was mistaken.
Perhaps he had been swindled by a merchant when purchasing his dagger.
Viscount Rebion swung the knight's sword with all his might, striking the head of the pickaxe.
Clang!
"Good heavens!"
"W-what kind of madness is this?! Is this actually made of mithril?!"
Viscount Rebion and his knights broke into a cold sweat in sheer astonishment.
The pickaxe was so incredibly hard that it had not only deflected the knight's sword but had actually chipped its blade.
At this rate, this wasn't a pickaxe; it was a lethal weapon.
Already struggling to breathe in the summer heat, the shock left Viscount Rebion hyperventilating.
"H-pant... does this make any sense?!"
"I cannot believe my eyes either, my Lord. Unless Jeron Farrow has completely lost his mind, there is no reason to invest such resources into farming tools..."
Surely, it wasn't actual mithril.
But it was undeniably high-quality steel.
Viscount Rebion could not accept the reality of the situation, so he ordered them to bring over a farmer's sickle.
The sickle's handle was wooden, but its blade was razor-sharp.
Would this deflect a sword as well?
Clash!
"..."
This time, the sword snapped clean in half.
Everyone stood frozen, their jaws dropping in sheer disbelief.
Never in their lives had they heard of farming tools made from such high-grade steel.
Viscount Rebion could not fathom the Farrow Baron's intentions.
"Even if he is obsessed with farming, what sane man would forge agricultural tools out of metal fit to arm an entire military? Just what kind of lunatic is this new Baron Farrow?"
What is with this pig? He's gotten even fatter.
That was Jeron's immediate impression upon seeing Viscount Rebion.
When he had seen the Viscount as a child, the man had merely seemed stout. Today, he was morbidly obese.
He looked like a walking catalog of chronic illnesses.
Despite his lavish attire, the midsummer heat had him sweating profusely, making him look like a drowned pig.
Though Jeron felt a grimace rising, he quickly plastered on his best business smile.
"It is an honor to meet you, Viscount Rebion, whose name is so renowned in high society. I am humbled that you would visit such a modest territory."
"Hahaha, think nothing of it. I heard a young, new Baron had appeared like a comet and shaken up the political world, and seeing you in person, the rumors certainly do not do you justice."
"The rumors are merely generous, my Lord."
Viscount Rebion continued his silent probe.
Even as he smiled, his sharp eyes scanned the changing landscape of the estate.
Just as expected, he had clearly come to spy.
Jeron made no effort to hide anything. Although he had tucked away his secret weapon—the modern crane—inside a warehouse, the territory's overall poverty was still plain to see.
Jeron had merely reformed the mindset of his subjects and introduced a few economic systems; he hadn't magically transformed the entire territory overnight.
All the way to Jeron's office, Viscount Rebion never stopped snooping.
Look all you want. See if you find anything.
Jeron was busy calculating how to thoroughly fleece this wealthy mark.
Specifically, what he could sell him to acquire the wasteland lying between the Rebion Viscounty and the Farrow Territory.
Finally, Jeron came up with a brilliant scheme.
Screeech!
As the rusty hinges of the old door shrieked, Viscount Rebion flinched slightly.
The office was revealed.
A single desk, a cabinet, and a table with guest chairs were all it contained.
Parchments were scattered in disarray across the desk.
Is this truly the office of a noble?
Viscount Rebion frowned instinctively, but then his gaze drifted toward the terrace.
There, amidst the worn and battered furniture, sat a brilliantly glowing glass bottle.
It was the hour when the sun shone brightest.
As the sunlight struck the crystal decanter, the whiskey inside revealed its magnificent, amber glory.
Golden light refracted in every direction.
Because the office was so shabby, the exquisite beauty of the whiskey decanter stood out even more dramatically.
Viscount Rebion stood frozen, his eyes utterly glued to the crystal decanter.
Jeron smirked inwardly.
The crystal decanter was scavenged from Earth, taken straight from a high-end liquor cabinet.
To the people of this era, its design was nothing short of revolutionary.
The clear, radiant crystal was intricately engraved like a precious gem.
Even the stopper was extraordinary.
It featured a delicate, web-like pattern that softly scattered the light.
On the bottom of the bottle...
It certainly didn't look like a cheap dollar-store item.
A thirty-thousand-won bottle was quite premium.
The decanter was filled to the brim with rich whiskey.
Even after being guided to the guest seat, the Viscount's eyes kept drifting back to the terrace.
"My Lord?"
"Ah! Hahaha, forgive me. There is such a stunning gem sitting on your terrace that I couldn't help but stare. What on earth is that?"
"Surely a man of your refined taste would recognize it better than anyone, my Lord."
What an enchanting color.
Viscount Rebion's pupils dilated with intense longing.
Jeron had been debating how best to pitch his product.
Since the Viscount was wealthy enough to own a silver mine, Jeron couldn't let him leave empty-handed. If he had come to spy, it was only fair that his pockets were thoroughly picked in return.
Rather than showering him with sweet talk, Jeron decided to let the Viscount judge its value for himself. His calculation was spot on.
Viscount Rebion's eyes burned with pure greed, his gaze trembling with excitement.
In his mind, he was already running countless calculations on how he could exploit this treasure.
To seal the deal, Jeron brought out a glass.
It was a tumbler that looked as though it had been carved from a jewel, a perfect match for the decanter.
The glass was clearly part of a set with the bottle.
Pour...
As Jeron poured the whiskey, a sweet yet bitter, deeply rich aroma wafted through the room.
"Have a drink."
"T-thank you."
Like a man possessed, Viscount Rebion immediately inhaled the scent of the whiskey.
"..."
The aroma was intoxicatingly potent.
It felt as though his senses were being completely overwhelmed.
Even if this were poison, I would gladly drink it!
The Viscount downed the liquor in a single gulp.
"Aaaah!"
He shuddered violently, his entire body trembling.
Jeron had successfully reeled him in.
"This is madness! Everything I have drunk in my life until now was nothing but dishwater!"
"I am glad it is to your liking. Would you happen to be interested in this product?"