“Brother, with a sum this massive, we can do so much!”
The heavy steel door of the office’s most secure vault clicked shut, sealing the freshly signed contract in total darkness.
Ernest stared at the metal surface, entirely unable to suppress the violent tremor of excitement coursing through his veins.
He turned back to Enciodes, his eyes bright and shimmering with genuine emotion.
Even with two lifetimes of memories, even possessing considerable political acumen and a pragmatic understanding of the world’s cold realities, this was the very first time the transmigrator felt the intoxicating weight of true, obvious change.
A total loan of six hundred million Columbian Gold Vouchers.
To the foreign bankers, it was an absolute steal—a bargain-bin price for the six square kilometers of pristine Kjerag land Ernest had just signed away as collateral.
But for the isolated, snow-locked nation of Kjerag in its current era, it was an astronomical fortune.
It was the ultimate angel investment, a mountain of capital capable of breathing life into dormant dreams and forcing the stagnant gears of destiny to finally turn.
“What exactly do you intend to do with this capital?”
Compared to Ernest’s visible euphoria, Enciodes remained a picture of absolute composure.
He did not share in the celebratory atmosphere, his sharp mind already dissecting the practical applications of the newly acquired wealth.
Ernest did not hesitate for a single second.
His answer cut through the quiet office with absolute conviction.
“Build schools!”
He paced across the room, the vision already taking shape in his mind.
“Establish academies, recruit qualified educators, mandate enrollment for every age-appropriate child in the territory, and drag our education system into the modern era.
These are the foundational steps that must be taken!”
Ernest understood the harsh reality of Kjerag’s current political landscape better than anyone.
The prominent figures leading the clans—the Grand Elder, Arctosz, and Ratatos Browntail—were by no means unintelligent.
They were cunning survivors.
But they were also, as Gnosis Edelweiss had once pointed out to Ernest, entirely blinded by the limitations of their own isolated environment.
The older generation was entrenched in centuries of tradition, their worldviews hardened into unyielding stone.
Expecting them to embrace radical modernization was a fool’s errand.
But the youth?
The children were a blank slate.
Why was Enciodes SilverAsh standing at the absolute vanguard of Kjerag’s modernization today?
Was it simply because he was born a genius with supernatural foresight?
No.
That was the domain of Ernest, the transmigrator.
Enciodes’s distinct advantage lay entirely in the education he had received.
It was the rigorous tutelage from his parents in his youth, the eye-opening years of overseas study in Victoria during his adolescence, and the brutal, practical education beaten into him by his political rivals in adulthood.
If more Kjeragian citizens received that exact same caliber of modern, systematic education, the nation would transform overnight.
There would be more minds like Enciodes, more enterprises like Karlan Trade, and a sweeping wave of like-minded individuals dedicated to dragging Kjerag into the future.
Social change required fertile soil, and Ernest was determined to plow the frozen earth himself.
Enciodes stared into his brother’s burning eyes.
The silence stretched between them, thick and heavy, before the elder SilverAsh finally gave a slow nod.
“You have a point.
Education…
I had overlooked the immediate necessity of it, but it is indeed one of the keys to our success.”
He stood up from his desk, watching as Ernest, practically vibrating with ambition, turned to leave the office and make his mark on the world.
As the door clicked shut behind his younger brother, the emotion swirling in Enciodes’s silver-gray eyes settled into a deep, quiet heaviness.
Alone in the room, Enciodes slowly draped his heavy coat over his shoulders and stepped out of the austere office.
Outside, the biting wind howled through the courtyard. This chapter was taken from g.com without permission.
His most trusted subordinate, Matterhorn, stood waiting by the idling vehicle, immediately pulling the rear door open as his employer approached.
Enciodes offered a slight bow of his head against the wind and slid into the leather seat.
Only after Matterhorn had taken the driver’s seat and secured the cabin did Enciodes let out a long, measured exhale.
“Matterhorn.
Head to the Snowcap Patrol’s station.
Tell them to arm themselves and be ready to mobilize at a moment’s notice.”
“My Lord?” Matterhorn glanced at the rearview mirror, his stoic face cracking with genuine astonishment.
“But the Snowcap Patrol’s training regimen isn’t finished yet.
If we force them into the open now…”
“Do exactly as I instructed,” Enciodes replied, his tone leaving absolutely no room for debate.
His gaze remained fixed on the frosted window, his thoughts drifting back to the rare sight of Ernest’s excited tears.
He pressed his lips into a thin line.
“I will not hold his hand through this, but I also refuse to sit idly by and watch him get himself killed.”
He leaned back against the seat, the shadows of the cabin obscuring his expression.
“Let us see just how long this impressive display of diplomacy from my surprising younger brother can last.”
Northeast of Turicum, the frozen wastelands.
While no modern census had ever been successfully conducted in the snowy mountains, it was widely accepted that Kjerag’s total population hovered just over one million.
Naturally, these citizens were not scattered evenly across the lethal, freezing peaks.
They clustered tightly in the dozens of habitable valleys, lakesides, and forest basins, living as subjects under the absolute rule of the Three Great Families.
Because of this intense centralization, Kjerag possessed vast, sprawling stretches of completely undeveloped wasteland.
It was a massive territory ripe for pioneering.
And when it came to pioneering, the Columbians considered themselves the undisputed masters of Terra.
Anton Magnus, a senior pioneering consultant for the Magnus Bank of Columbia, felt his blood pressure spike dangerously high every time he witnessed the Kjeragian people’s primitive, wasteful land management.
To a corporate shark like Anton, Kjerag was a miraculous goldmine.
It was a virgin paradise overflowing with untapped natural resources, dense and valuable biomes, and a delightfully backward indigenous civilization.
More, they had a surprisingly enlightened leader—His Excellency the Prime Minister—who was actually willing to do business.
Anton just sincerely wished that every Kjeragian he encountered out in the field was as reasonable as their Prime Minister, rather than the furious, heavily muscled Ursus man currently blocking his path.
“Sir, I will repeat this one last time.
We are official staff members of the Magnus Bank of Columbia.
We have secured explicit, written permission from your government to conduct on-site geological surveys here.
You have absolutely no legal standing to impede our work.”
The armed Columbian bodyguard standing in front of Anton kept reciting their corporate mandate, but the rugged Ursus man completely ignored the threat of the firearm.
He shoved his broad chest forward, practically spitting in the bodyguard’s face as he bellowed into the freezing wind.
“You better make it real clear, real fast, what exactly you outsiders are doing on our land!”
After the third failed attempt at verbal de-escalation, the bodyguard’s patience snapped.
He drew his weapon, fully prepared to teach the stubborn local a violent lesson in Columbian authority, but Anton immediately waved him down.
The pioneering consultant let out a weary sigh, pushed his gold-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose, and carefully brushed the fresh snow from his tailored suit.
Stepping past his hired muscle, Anton approached the Ursus man with practiced, corporate formality.
“Sir, regardless of who you are or what misguided grievances you harbor, I must insist that you cease interfering with our operations.
Is that understood?”
“Operations?” Gulo sneered, shaking off the bodyguard’s lingering grip and straightening his massive frame.
“I heard what your people were whispering!
You want to carve up this valley and turn it into some kind of…
Snow Mountain Villa Area!
To sell off to your rich Columbian friends!
This is Kjerag!”
Anton’s expression flattened into one of deep exhaustion, but he maintained his customer-service cadence.
“I apologize if our internal discussions caused any undue alarm.
That was merely speculative phrasing.
This land does not currently belong to the bank, and I offer my formal apologies for the misunderstanding.
However, I must remind you that the sole purpose of our expedition is to appraise the viability of this specific sector as loan collateral.
If we wish to walk this perimeter, you have zero legal authority to obstruct us.”
Without waiting for a response, Anton snapped his fingers at a shivering civilian clerk nearby.
He took the heavy leather folder, pulled out a thick stack of contract addendums, and shoved the copies directly into Gulo’s chest.
“As for who granted us such authority, I highly recommend you take your complaints to your local government officials rather than wasting my valuable time.
I am simply executing the rights guaranteed to me by this legally binding document.”
Contract.
Government.
Loan collateral.
The foreign corporate terminology slammed into Gulo’s brain like a physical blow, scrambling his thoughts into a confused, furious mess.
He snatched the folder from Anton’s hands, ripping it open to stare at the dense paragraphs printed in both Kjeragian and Columbian text.
Gulo was a simple man.
His education was limited to survival and hard labor; even with the text translated into his native tongue, the dense legal jargon was a dizzying maze.
But he didn’t need to be a scholar to understand the core transaction.
The numbers, the map coordinates, the word collateral.
It was enough.
Anton Magnus checked his pocket watch, his patience finally expiring.
He reached out to snatch the expensive documents back from the local’s filthy hands, but he froze.
The Ursus man, who had been shouting just moments prior, was now dead silent.
His broad chest heaved like a bellows, and the skin of his face, visible just above the edge of the folder, had flushed a dangerous, violently dark red.
Without a single word of warning, Gulo unleashed a deafening, guttural roar that echoed off the mountain peaks.
His massive hands clamped down on the contract copies, violently ripping the thick stack of paper into shreds in a single, explosive motion.
He hurled the ruined leather folder directly into the snowbank, his eyes burning with a murderous glare as he locked onto Anton and the armed guards.
For a split second, his muscles coiled to strike, but basic survival instincts kicked in.
He was unarmed, and they had guns.
Taking a step back, Gulo pointed a trembling, furious finger at the Columbians.
“You stay right there!
Don’t you dare move!”
He spun on his heel, kicking up a spray of snow as he sprinted back toward the settlement, his voice tearing through the freezing air in absolute, unadulterated panic.
“Enciodes!
Lord Arctosz!
Kjeragandr above!
Ernest is going to sell our home!”
[Rhodes’s Note:
Enjoying the operation so far, Doctor?
(This daily grind literally pays the landship’s rent!
to use the links!)