Lord: Starting from the Pit-Dwelling Courtyard

Chapter 1: The Last Young Master

When Ron opened his eyes, he felt dizzy.

He lay on a broken-down carriage, with a gray sky overhead and moldy hay beneath him.

Two memories flashed through his mind like a slideshow, giving him a severe headache.

One moment he's an architect who dies in an accident at a construction site in the 21st century, the next he's the last young master of the Ashwood family in the Kingdom of Auster.

The two memories merged for about ten seconds.

Ron slowly sat up and cursed.

"Oh dear, Mother, you're dressed so in the worst possible time."

His father was once the lord of Ashwood County, the behind-the-scenes boss of the Dream Merchant Guild, and owned one-fifth of the farms in the South, making him a truly wealthy man.

Ten years ago, a fire swept through the entire Earldom's workshops, leaving the Ashwood family with a huge debt of default penalties.

Although this caused the Ashwood family to bleed heavily, it was not crippling. Half a month later, the Red Hats, the kingdom's largest bandit group, launched a night raid on the territory and eventually stormed into the lord's mansion.

That night, Ashwood Castle was stained red with blood.

Ron's last words were spoken when his mother, Theresa, sent him into the secret passage, his face filled with pain and despair.

"Live on, and don't come back."

Unfortunately, Ron disobeyed and returned at the age of fifteen, bringing with him fifty henchmen left by his mother, attempting to contact Ashwood's old men and seek revenge.

Then he was crushed like an ant by that important figure in the capital, that enemy whose name he still doesn't know.

The remaining power of his family was eradicated, and he himself was accused of treason. He should have been hanged, but he was spared.

The expansion of the Blackthorn Wasteland in the northern border of the Kingdom of Auster requires a large number of cannon fodder lords.

So he went from being a death row inmate to a pioneering lord, and was escorted here with more than four hundred refugees and criminals.

"Some people want my life, while others want to protect me!"

That was Ron's first reaction.

"I still have a chance to turn things around!"

"Young Master!"

A voice sounded from the side.

Ron turned his head and saw an old face, over fifty years old, with an old scar on his left eyebrow and a steady gaze. Anyone who saw him for the first time would regard him as a reliable knight.

But who would have thought that the other party was a mage?

That was old Hall, a retainer of the Ashwood family, his father's old subordinate, and the leader of those fifty men.

"We're here," said old Hall.

Ron got out of the car and stepped onto the land of the Blackthorn Wasteland.

The land was cracked and barren, with low, thorny bushes in the distance and, further still, the outline of gray-black mountains.

There was also a faint, rotten smell in the air.

More than four hundred people stood crammed together on this wasteland.

The escorting soldiers were unloading the goods, taking down moldy grain, rusty tools, and three tattered tents, before leaving without looking back.

The refugees had empty eyes, while the criminals had hostile eyes.

Ron's gaze swept across the crowd and stopped on the three people at the very front.

They were wearing prison uniforms, but were large in stature, and their shackles had been removed.

One of them was openly scrutinizing the equipment of the fifty family guards.

"Hey!" The man nudged his companion next to him. "Nice equipment, standard one-handed sword, the new model from the North."

All fifty guards looked at Ron.

Old Hall's eyes narrowed slightly.

Ron did some simple stretching exercises.

A voice echoed in my mind.

The "Master Architect's Heart" system is now activated.

Ron paused for a moment, and then there was no more system notification sound.

Architectural wizards are a unique magical profession in this world. They can use magic to build houses by using specified materials and blueprints.

Architects are a very important support class in all major factions, and Old Hall is one such Architect.

Ron didn't have time to think about the system in detail.

Because the man who was examining the guards' equipment had already walked towards the supply truck.

"I'm starving!" the man spat. "Get me something to eat first."

"What's your name?"

Ron walked over with a smile.

The man stopped, turned around, grinned, revealing his large yellow teeth.

"My name is Bagher, from the Northern Cavalry Regiment." He paused, emphasizing the word "origin," as if savoring something interesting. "Then I worked as a mercenary for two years. I've killed more people than you've ever seen, young master."

As he said the words "young master," his gaze swept over Ron's tattered aristocratic attire, and the corner of his mouth curled up with undisguised contempt.

Ron didn't look at him; his smile grew even more intense.

He looked at the other two criminal knights.

"And you?"

A second man stepped forward. He was thinner than Bagl, but had a large frame and a gruesome old scar on the back of his hand.

His posture was different from Bagl's; Bagl was a wild dog, and he was a drowning dog trying to maintain his dignity among the pack of wild dogs.

"Winston Kyle," he announced with a habitual arrogance, "the second son of the Kyle family. My fief has been confiscated, but I remain a nobleman. According to the laws of the kingdom, noble criminals are entitled to privileges."

A flash of sword light.

Winston Kyle's words caught in his throat.

As his head flew up, his face still held that arrogant expression, as if he didn't believe that this gentle and weak noble young master would actually make a move.

Blood splattered three feet deep.

Bagher reacted quickly; his hand reached for his waist and found nothing. The shackles had been removed, but the weapons had not yet been returned.

He cursed, grabbed a stick from the ground, and lunged at Ron.

Ron's sword was already out of control.

But old Hall's sword was faster.

A short sword pierced Bagel's ribs, angled upwards, and went straight through his heart.

Old Hall's technique was clean and efficient; he didn't even draw much blood when he pulled out his sword.

Bagl looked down at the hole in his chest, then looked up at Ron.

"you……"

Ron, with a smile on his face, chopped off the other man's head.

It was a bit difficult, but for some reason, he just felt really good.

More than four hundred people stood silently on the wasteland.

The dust kicked up by the escorting soldiers in the distance was still clearly visible.

The third criminal knight remained standing still. He didn't move, didn't speak, and didn't even change his expression.

He looked at the two corpses on the ground, then raised his head and looked at Ron: "Young Master."

Ron recognized him.

Memories flooded back: the guard at the door of his father's study was named Ghosn.

The person who was on night watch on the night of the massacre.

The person who should have been the first to die, but survived.

"It's been ten years," Ghosn said. "You've changed a lot."

Ron's smile slowly faded as he looked at the other person.

"I was placed here, but not in the way you think. Someone told me to tell you that the Ashwood family's architectural blueprints are still there."

"In the capital, at number 13 Kings Avenue, Houston Street."

Ron looked at him: "Who sent you?"

Ghosn shook his head: "I can't say. If I do, my daughter will die."

"Then you're useless!"

"Old Hall!"

Old Hall waved his hand, and two guards suddenly attacked from behind, beheading the man.

Ron held his sword in one hand, blood still dripping from it. Facing more than four hundred vagrants and criminals, he remained expressionless, a stark contrast to the smile on his face when he had just killed them.

"My name is Ron Ashwood. From this day forward, this land is my property."

Ron paused, his gaze sweeping over the three corpses.

"Those who want to live, take your tools; those who want to die, keep standing."

"Some of you have been wronged, and some haven't. I don't care who you were before, how many people you killed, or what you did."

"From this day forward, you will have only one identity: my subjects."

"If you want to eat, work! If you want to live, obey orders."

Ron looked down at the three corpses on the ground.

"Those who don't want to live, the wasteland is vast, and if they want to cultivate it, they need a lot of fertilizer."

No one spoke yet, but something in the crowd had changed.

In those empty eyes, something else began to appear—not fear, but something indescribable.

Old Hall was the first to move.

He walked half a step behind Ron, turned to face the crowd, and roared, "What are you all standing there for! Didn't you hear what the lord said? Those who want food, come and get your tools!"

The crowd began to move slowly.