The Northern winds continued to slice deep into Nicholas Albert's chest, as if testing the limits of a man who had only just set foot in this frontier.
He strode across the deep snow. No matter how thick the drifts became, his steps remained steady and firm, leaving deep imprints without a hint of hesitation. He was a man accustomed to moving forward, even when the path ahead held nothing but ice and imminent danger.
Slowly, the forest loomed before him.
It was a vast, brooding expanse of trees, stretching so far that one couldn't distinguish where it began or where it ended. The towering trunks were draped in cold, white shrouds of snow, standing silent like emotionless sentinels.
Nicholas narrowed his eyes.
He noticed an area near the forest's edge where several trees had been felled. The cuts were jagged and clumsy, as though the person responsible had been in a frantic rush or on the verge of collapse.
At least, that was how it appeared at first glance.
But the longer he observed, the more his gaze darkened with intent. Those chop marks... they weren't disorganized. The angle of the strike, the depth of the notch, the intended direction of the fall—it all followed a familiar logic. This was a proper, systematic logging technique; it was just that the person performing it lacked the physical strength to see the job through to completion.
Nicholas understood this perfectly.
In his past life, he had once personally brought down a tree over ten meters in diameter in the garden behind his house—back when he still had a place he called home. That memory flickered for an instant before he ruthlessly suppressed it.
Now was not the time for nostalgia.
He stopped before a dilapidated hut. Compared to the other dwellings in the village, this one was in even worse condition—the wooden walls were thin, riddled with cracks, and the roof was so poorly constructed that the freezing wind could whistle through it with ease.
Nicholas stared at it for a moment.
"It seems this man... always puts himself last," he murmured to himself.
Prioritizing others above oneself—that was something he had never done, nor ever intended to do. In his era, no one was foolish enough for such sentimentality. A survivor... was someone who looked after themselves first.
Fragments of wood lay scattered around the hut. Each piece was unfinished, the cuts stopping halfway as if the woodcutter had been forced to abandon the work in a hurry. Nicholas glanced at them and shook his head.
The weather here was so brutal that even a slight delay could cost a man his life.
He reached out and lightly touched a log. It was ice-cold.
"Cutting wood without knowing how to maintain the blade... is no different from shortening one's own lifespan."
A faint smirk played on Nicholas's lips. This visit was proving to be worthwhile.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
The sound of his knocking was dry and sharp, echoing through the frozen air like seasoned wood striking ice.
A minute passed. No answer.
Nicholas remained still, his breathing steady, showing no sign of impatience.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
He knocked again. The rhythm was neither faster nor slower than before.
"Who is it?"
This time, a deep, gravelly voice answered, followed by the heavy sound of a latch being thrown back.
The door swung open.
A hulking figure of a man stood before Nicholas. In terms of height, they were nearly equal, but the disparity in their builds was immediate and striking—broad shoulders, dense muscle, and the calloused, rugged hands of a true laborer. The contrast between a noble young master and a man who lived by his hands couldn't have been clearer.
"I am the newly appointed Lord, Nicholas Albert," Nicholas began, his voice calm as he held out the scroll. "I've come to greet Geralt the carpenter."
"Hmph." Geralt took the scroll, a mocking smirk playing on his lips as he unfurled it. "This godforsaken place... actually has someone coming to play Lord?"
His eyes stopped.
The crest of the House of Albert was stamped clearly upon the parchment.
In an instant, Geralt's entire face contorted. His gaze turned feral. He hurled the scroll to the ground and lunged forward.
A fist swung through the air—brutal, heavy, and without a shred of hesitation.
Nicholas didn't flinch. He didn't dodge.
Only when the fist was less than a centimeter from his face did it stop.
"Why... why didn't you move?"
Geralt's head hung low, his arm trembling as a flood of bloody, humiliating memories surged back. The feeling of being dragged across the cold earth. The sound of his wife's desperate screams. The guards pinning his body down.
And on the chest of that nobleman—the crest of the House of Albert.
"I am Nicholas Albert," the voice spoke directly in front of him, pulling him back to the present. "The third son of the House of Albert."
Geralt looked up. The young man before him was... too calm. Nothing like the noble from years ago—the one who had shrieked for his guards the moment a punch was thrown.
"I don't know exactly what happened," Nicholas said. "But I know... it involves my family."
Nicholas reached out. "At this moment, I have no right to represent the House of Albert."
He gripped Geralt's tensed arm and gave a light, firm pat on the shoulder—a gesture that held no trace of condescension or suppression.
"But as an individual," he continued, "Nicholas Albert... offers you his apologies."
Geralt's worldview shattered.
For the first time in his life, a nobleman had... apologized to him. He stared at Nicholas as if looking at a creature that didn't belong to this world.
"I have business to discuss with you," Nicholas continued, releasing his grip. "May I come in for a moment?"
"...Ah... yes... please, come in." Geralt stepped aside awkwardly, his mind a blank slate, his body moving like a machine.
The wooden floorboards groaned under their footsteps. In the dim interior, the faint, sharp scent of fresh-cut wood lingered in the air. Large and small pieces of wood lay scattered across the floor—handcrafted works that, while not sloppy, clearly lacked a finished edge.
On the table sat an iron axe—the primary logging tool—and beside it, a medium-sized knife used for finer detailing. Aside from a single wooden chair, the hut was empty.
"Please, sit..." Geralt murmured, moving to push the lone chair toward Nicholas.
"No need," Nicholas shook his head. "I can stand. You sit."
"Then... forgive my lack of manners." Geralt sat down and picked up his knife, resuming work on a half-finished piece of wood. He wasn't like Garrick; he loathed the nobility and felt no need to maintain their stiff etiquette. But inside, he was burning with curiosity about the young man standing before him.
"I've looked at your work," Nicholas said, his voice steady. "Your technique is excellent. Your logging angles are precise."
No flattery. No empty praise. Just the objective truth.
Geralt continued carving, his voice flat. "Thank you, My Lord. It's just my job."
On the surface, he acted indifferent, but a strange sensation stirred in his chest. He was used to being thanked, but to be recognized for his skill—that was a first.
"However—" Nicholas's tone turned ice-cold. "No matter how good the skill, if the tools are too weak... you can go no further."
The spark of pride that had just ignited in Geralt's heart was instantly doused. He stopped his hands. His gaze darkened. He knew it. No one knew it better than he did.
Back in the South, his family hadn't been rich, but they had enough. If an axe went blunt, you replaced it. If a knife chipped, you traded it. But here... this axe and knife had followed him through countless brutal winters. The steel was worn thin, its life fading alongside his own.
"I know," Geralt sighed, setting the knife down. He clenched his fists, his voice thick with suppressed resentment. "This isn't the South! There are no replacement materials here! This old friend of mine... it simply can't win against time!"
He slumped down, his face etched with bitterness.
"Do you not know how to whet or maintain your tools?" Nicholas asked bluntly.
"Maintain? Whet?" Geralt looked up, a flash of surprise crossing his face before he looked away again. "In all my life... I've never heard of such a thing."
This world, Nicholas thought, is even slower than I imagined. In his era, this was introductory knowledge. Here, it was like a lost secret art.
"That slab of stone outside the door," Nicholas asked. "Where did you get it?"
"I found it on the mountain," Geralt replied. "Near a cliff. It looked strange, so I brought it back to study... but it's just common stone."
"Not necessarily."
Nicholas stepped outside, hauled the heavy stone slab back in, and placed it on the chair. "Lend me the knife."
Geralt didn't ask questions; he simply obeyed. Nicholas gripped the knife firmly.
"Sharpening a blade... is done like this."
In his memory, the image of a silver-haired old man appeared—a gentle smile, patiently teaching the exact angles to hold a blade. Water is worth more than gold here, Nicholas noted, so I'll have to sharpen it dry.
The blade touched the stone.
Shhh-shk—shhh-shk.
The rhythmic, steady sound filled the dilapidated hut. Metal dust began to fall to the floor.
Geralt stood frozen. The image would stay burned into his mind forever: a Nobleman—kneeling on a filthy floor, using his own hands... to sharpen a tool for a commoner.
"Done." Nicholas stood up and handed the knife back. "Try it."
Geralt took it, still struggling to process what he had seen. He returned to the wood he had been carving. But the moment the blade touched the timber—
Slice.
The cut was effortless. Without any force, a large chunk of wood fell away. Geralt's eyes widened as he looked at the knife—his "old friend" felt as though it had been reborn.
He looked up at Nicholas.
"This is called sharpening," Nicholas said with a smirk. "My dear Geralt."
Geralt gripped the knife tight, the cold dread in his heart replaced by a mixture of shock and awe. "You... who exactly are you?"
Nicholas adjusted his cloak, standing tall in the middle of the rotting hut.
"I am Nicholas Albert." He paused for a beat. "The third son of the House of Albert."
His gaze deepened. "I have no mana. But I possess something that magic can never replace."
He looked Geralt straight in the eye.
"Knowledge."