CHAPTER 51………………..
The Overlord of the North, the Ice Maker
The heart of the North, where a blizzard raged in the dead of winter.
Through the hazy snowstorm, a massive silhouette loomed faintly.
A fortress, more imposing than the jagged peaks rising behind it.
The domain of House Ice Maker, known as the very heart of the North.
Icecrown.
The fortress walls spread out in a square, held by four towering spires that seemed to pierce the heavens.
On each spire, banners bearing the crest of House Ice Maker whipped violently in the storm.
Along the walls connecting the spires, torches flickered here and there while countless soldiers patrolled, keeping watch.
And the soldiers weren’t only on the walls.
They patrolled the gates, and their numbers filled the city streets as well.
Rows of ash-gray buildings were arrayed neatly, stacked layer upon layer along the sloping terrain.
Snow blanketed the rooftops, while smoke rose from chimneys.
A city where cold, crystalline order seemed to settle like frost.
Following the snow-crystal-like roads toward the city’s center, one would arrive at a vast plaza.
The largest street branching from the plaza led to the highest point of Icecrown—
The royal fortress.
A structure of flawless symmetry.
Its outer walls, built from pure white stone, were dazzlingly bright.
A visage of near-perfection, allowing for no flaw.
A northern royal castle, raised with ancient mysteries now impossible to replicate.
Before the empire’s unification, it had been the seat of the Northern Kingdom.
Now, it belonged to the Overlord of the North—House Ice Maker.
Inside the fortress were even more soldiers than in the city or on the walls.
Within its corridors, armed men stood lined along both sides, and down the center stretched a long blue carpet bearing northern sigils, simple yet arresting.
Doors opened left and right along the hallways, but following the carpet led only to the grand banquet hall—
A vast, empty, circular chamber.
Stone tablets carved with the visages of past Ice Maker patriarchs hung from the walls, creating an eerie atmosphere.
At the far end stood a few ascending steps—
And atop them, a single solitary chair.
A throne, carved from the same pure white stone as the fortress itself.
Northern patterns were etched vividly across its surface.
A pelt of a white bear draped from the backrest down to the seat.
But the throne was empty.
The one who should be seated there—
The lord of Icecrown, head of House Ice Maker—
Valhar Ice Maker.
He was deep within the castle, in a secret place whose entrance no one knew.
Down hundreds of steps into the underground.
At the center of a cavern-like chamber sat a massive round pool.
“Haa…”
Valhar reclined within it, his body submerged.
Beneath his wet white hair, half-lidded pale eyes flickered faintly.
“Fuu…”
He exhaled slowly and rose to his feet.
The torchlight glimmered off his muscled frame, broad shoulders and iron-hard body defying the years of his age.
As he stepped out of the pool, water cascaded over the edge and spilled onto the floor.
A woman emerged from the shadows, holding out a robe for him.
“Sully.”
Valhar ignored the robe, calling her name instead.
At the sound, Sully flinched, her small shoulders trembling.
“Y-Yes?!”
Valhar’s thick arm shot out, his hand clamping over her cheek.
“The spring is tainted. What happened?”
“I-I’m so sorry… I-I did cleanse it, b-but…”
Sully stammered in tears, but Valhar cut her short.
“No excuses.”
He flung her aside like trash.
Glaring down at her crumpled figure, he growled lowly.
“Was there not enough time? Were the ingredients lacking? Or has your skill declined?”
“N-No! Absolutely not! Forgive me! Forgive me, Lord Valhar!”
She scrambled upright, bowing her head into the floor, pleading desperately.
His handprint burned red across both her cheeks.
“The banquet is soon. Will it be ready in time at this rate?”
“I-I will finish it! I swear, before the banquet…!”
Her whole body trembled as she forced the words out.
“Fill the next pool before the banquet begins. This is your last chance.”
“Th-Thank you! Thank you, Lord Valhar! I won’t— I’ll never fail you again!”
“You’d better not. I’ve grown fond of you…”
His pale eyes gleamed coldly.
“…but I’d rather not use your corpse to fill the pool.”
“I-I’ll be careful…! I swear…!”
“There won’t be a next time.”
“Y-Yes, my lord!”
Valhar strode into the darkness and vanished.
From within the blackness he entered,
Vmmm.
A pale white light flickered.
Sully held her breath until it disappeared completely.
When the glow was gone—
“Hhh… hhhk…”
She wept softly in the dark, her shoulders shaking.
Valhar Ice Maker announced a grand banquet.
All eight lords of the North, save for House Ice Maker, were summoned.
A “summons” in name only—for refusal meant erasure from the North itself.
“Damn it!”
A portly middle-aged man cursed, throwing the invitation to the floor.
“P-Please calm yourself, Baron.”
“Calm? You want me calm at a time like this?!”
The man shrieked at his steward.
This was Baron Günther of House Weinhelm.
“This isn’t an invitation! It’s a threat! And I’m supposed to accept it?!”
On the surface, the letter spoke of unity among the northern lords. But within its lines was a call to rebellion against the Empire.
“They’re not even hiding it anymore! Summoning the Second Prince means they’re going to use him as a figurehead for the rebellion! And this—this line here at the end! ‘Join alongside the brave warriors of the North, and let their martial might grace the banquet…’ Tell me this isn’t just code for bring your army! Gods damn it!”
Günther felt his chest tighten with despair.
The Ice Maker had long shown naked ambition for rebellion.
Several lords had already pledged their support with soldiers and wealth.
All but one: Günther of Weinhelm.
Not because of blind loyalty to the Empire.
But because his land could not afford it.
Weinhelm was too poor—its people already struggled to eat.
Its meager forces could barely defend the small domain.
And now this demand to join a rebellion?
Starve to death, or be crushed in war.
It was no choice at all.
“M-Maybe… we could hire mercenaries, my lord…”
His steward whispered carefully.
Günther groaned, scratching his head.
It wasn’t a bad idea.
Ever since the Ice Maker expelled the Solius Order, rumors of rebellion had spread. Mercenaries flocked north in droves, sniffing for coin.
The other lords had already hired many.
But Günther?
“…Can we afford it?”
He had no money.
Mercenaries would do any job—but always for a price.
And Günther was the poorest lord in the North.
“Besides, the good ones are already taken…”
He’d tried once before. But just as a deal was nearly struck, the mercenaries left—bought out by another lord offering more.
Now even the mercenaries knew of Weinhelm’s poverty.
Only the dregs, or fools ignorant of his situation, remained.
Neither would come cheap. And he had no will to hire them anyway.
Yet…
“There’s no other way. If we refuse, then… the young lady…”
“I know! I know, damn it!”
Günther trembled with rage.
Valhar Ice Maker had taken women from across the North.
Dressed it up as “unity” or “cooperation,” but everyone knew it was for his own lust.
And to avoid his wrath, lords sent women willingly.
Some even sent their own daughters.
Most were never heard from again.
If Günther attended the banquet without troops or wealth, Valhar might demand his only daughter.
That could not be allowed.
“Heinz.”
He clicked his tongue, addressing his steward.
“Ready the carriage.”
“Where to, my lord?”
Before the words were finished, Günther answered:
“To the Ice Hammer.”
Weinhelm Territory, Feldstein.
A small but fertile land, able to sustain itself through farming.
Travelers often settled here as well, drawn by its southern location—it was the gateway into the North.
Naturally, inns prospered. The largest among them: the Ice Hammer.
“It’s already noisy.”
“It is where the most outsiders gather, my lord. Shall I… announce your presence?”
“No need. We’ll just slip in quietly, see if there’s anyone worth hiring—?!”
BANG!
The inn doors burst open before the two robed figures, men tumbling out with screams, rolling across the ground.
“What in the…?”
“What happened?!”
Günther and Heinz peeked inside—
And froze.
The inn was a wreck.
Tables smashed, bottles shattered, hulking mercenaries sprawled unconscious across the floor.
At their center stood a lone black-haired man.
“Say it again.”
His boot crushed the chest of a fallen mercenary. His voice was low.
“Who was it you called small fry?”
“S-S-Spare me—!”
The man’s foot lashed the mercenary’s jaw. His eyes rolled back as he fainted.
Thud.
His skull hit the floor with a heavy crack.
“Anyone else want to try me?”
The black-haired man glanced their way. For a moment, Günther nearly bowed.
“N-No…”
He pulled back his hood, stepping inside.
“I came to hire mercenaries…”
He glanced at the groaning men littering the ground and chuckled bitterly.
“Though it seems there’s no one left worth hiring.”
“Or perhaps,” a voice came from behind the black-haired man, “you should be glad the trash was already taken out.”
“…?”
It wasn’t him who spoke.
The voice belonged to a towering giant whose head nearly brushed the inn ceiling.
From behind his massive frame, a golden-haired man strode forward.
The innkeeper clearly recognized Günther’s face when his hood fell.
At once, I invoked Magic.
『 The Contractor invokes magic. 』
『 Contractor’s wish: Insight. 』
Mana rippled around the newcomer.
Three engravings—Triple Chain.
And cleanly carved ones at that.
This man was undoubtedly a noble.
“Or perhaps it’s better not having to weed out the chaff yourself,” I said with a grin, stepping closer.
“Why not contract with Three Coins?”
Found him—our employer.
