Astha August sat alone in the study, tightly gripping the freshly delivered imperial decree.

The candlelight reflected off the parchment, making the Empire's golden crest appear dazzling.

Northern Territory establishment, just a few words.

No instructions, no expectations, just a cold third-person imperative tone.

He stared at the candle flame, yet within his heart surged an indescribable emotion.

Unease.

And... a sense of hidden opportunity.

"Finally remembered me?" he murmured to himself, with a hint of self-deprecating sarcasm.

For years, he had almost convinced himself he would quietly, silently age within these courts.

As a prince without achievements, without real power, without a story.

He had long been locked away in the Empire's blind spot of power, as if his name on the genealogical page was merely to make up the numbers.

It wasn't that no one had warned him.

Many had kindly advised him: "You're not suited for the struggle."

He couldn't argue otherwise, nor could he say he was "willing to settle."

He always felt something weighing down on his heart.

It wasn't ambition; it was a dissatisfaction... a dissatisfaction with being categorized as "useless," a dissatisfaction with being deprived of even one chance to try.

But now, his father suddenly extended a hand, pushing him to this already shattered Northern Territory.

"What is this? A test? An exile? Or... a gamble?" Astha didn't believe it was out of any appreciation or affection.

He understood his father, a man who never spoke much, didn't allow pampering, didn't offer opportunities.

He had never heard his father say, "I have faith in you," nor had he received any attention beyond a written mandate.

The Emperor of this Empire excelled in making people fight tooth and nail on their own, treating not only his subjects this way but his own sons.

"Sending me to the Northern Territory... is it giving me power or just watching how I die?"

He looked at the unfolded map; it was the Northern Territory.

A land scorched by insect plagues, a wasteland interwoven with epidemics and cold disasters, deserted by nobility, overrun by mobs — a "land of death."

"But if... I can truly survive, truly sustain a fiefdom, then maybe, I won't just be a transparent prince anymore."

He spoke softly to himself, his tone unwavering, yet like a sharp sword starting to clash within his chest.

But when he recalled how the imperial command was issued, he couldn't help but feel humiliated.

His father did not meet him, did not summon, did not explain anything.

He just had Lin Ze, the head of internal affairs, calmly and efficiently notify him about the personnel, resources, and departure time involved.

After speaking, he left, as if announcing a routine task.

"He doesn't even want to spare me a glance..."

At this moment, Astha couldn't help feeling disappointed, couldn't help feeling perhaps he was merely a "discarded piece" thrown out to test the waters.

He understood the current situation of the Northern Territory, also knowing why none of his brothers competed for it.

He understood he was chosen because he was too "harmless," too "insignificant."

The Empire map spread out before him, with the corners creased under his grip.

His fingers stopped on the Northern Province on the Empire map, his gaze falling on the imperial decree, short as it was.

"Northern Territory establishment, proceed independently, arrangements made."

Terse, indifferent, as if ordering a piece of furniture to be placed rather than pushing a prince into the eye of the storm.

He stared at the line of words for a long time, ultimately unable to discern even a hint of his father's expectations from them.

He spoke softly to the guard: "Has Sefer not arrived yet?"

Just as the words left his mouth, the door was gently pushed open, and an elderly man with silver hair entered, wrapped in snow and wind.

His figure was upright, his gaze sharp, despite his advancing years, his demeanor remained brisk with the unique severity of a soldier.

Astha rose to greet him: "Teacher."

This old man was Sefer, once the Deputy Corps Commander of the Imperial Sixth Legion.

The only elder who still addressed Astha as "Your Highness" when everyone else had long forgotten the name Astha.

"I've heard," Sefer removed his cloak, hung it by the hearth, glanced at the map and decree on the table, his expression complex, "Finally, what must come has come."

"Does he want me dead?" Astha asked directly, his tone somber.

"Perhaps." Sefer did not shy away, "Maybe he just casually threw you out to test the waters, whether you die or not, he doesn't care."

Astha lowered his gaze, silent for a moment: "What should I do then?"

Sefer did not answer but instead sat down, took out an old, neatly folded map from his bosom, and spread it on the table.

"What do you see the Northern Territory as now?"

"A ruin, chaos after the plague, cold disaster, insect disaster," Astha said blandly, "a place no one wants to go."

"Wrong," Sefer pointed at the map, "it's opportunity."

Astha raised his head.

"The old nobility of the Northern Territory either died in the insect plague or fled; those remaining are either severely damaged or teetering on the edge," Sefer analyzed calmly, "You think the Emperor entrusted the Northern Territory to you out of trust? No, it's because there's no one left there. He doesn't expect you to perform any miracles, it's just a casual move in clearing the chessboard."

Astha remained silent.

His pride wanted to refute these words, but he couldn't, for they might just be true.

"But if you can establish a foothold in the Northern Territory, then it's your land." Sefer's tone shifted to steady.

"In the current Empire situation, whoever can secure a territory has a voice. Even if you've always gone unnoticed, as long as you wield real power, no one can ignore you anymore."

Astha's fingers resting by his knee tightened slightly.

"You are not without ambition," Sefer looked at him, speaking slowly, "You are just too afraid of not being good enough, afraid of making mistakes, afraid of failure."

This struck him deeply.

He suddenly raised his head, a wounded rage appearing on his face: "I just have no one to teach me how to do it!"

"Teaching you now," Sefer did not falter, "The Northern Territory is already in such chaos, it is the perfect time for you to practice soldiers, administration, and courage."

"Will they respect me? A prince with no backing, no military achievements?" Astha sneered.

"They won't look at you, but they will see if you have fire behind you, if you can distribute food," Sefer tapped the table with his cane, "If you can save the populace, soothe the refugees, fend off chaos, when your banner rises, there will be those who rally to you."

"...Banner." Astha softly murmured, suddenly remembering the magnificent emblem banners of his brothers.

He never had his own banner.

"Precisely." Sefer nodded, "You've been out of the spotlight for years; no one in court takes you seriously. At this time, being sent to the Northern Territory seems like being thrown into a mess to survive or perish. But..."

He abruptly changed his tone, his gaze piercing: "The Northern Territory is the most real, most brutal chessboard of the Empire right now, and you are the player with the most opportunities."

Astha frowned slightly.

"Duke Edmund is still alive, but old and injured. The Northern Lords under him are mostly dead, and the rest are either still recovering from grave wounds or with shattered territories. And you, even with just a bit of imperial mandate, a bit of force, might become the key to breaking this impasse."

Sefer paused, casually picking up a charcoal pencil and circling a name on the map.

"However, there is one person… you cannot ignore."

Astha looked down; there were some words: Louis Calvin.

"The eighth son of the Calvin Family, newly appointed noble, yet in a little over a year, has risen to Viscount through battle merits, and is one of the few credited for the recent Northern disaster. If it weren't for his surname Calvin, he'd already be a Count.

Moreover, he's Duke Edmund's son-in-law, supported by Duke Calvin behind him."

"How capable is he?" Astha asked.

"Young, but formidable. You can cooperate with him, learn from him, but never underestimate him." Sefer tossed the charcoal pencil, his tone carrying a complex reminder, "He's the type who can carve a bloody path through wastelands. You need to guide him well, but also be wary of him."

Astha remained silent for a long time, eventually saying softly: "I understand."

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.