The sky is covered in leaden clouds, and a damp wind strikes your cheeks.
At the northern edge of the Altenheim Kingdom lies the frontier territory of 'Volg'.
This is a land far removed from the splendor of the capital, dominated by the smell of mud, iron, and wheat.

As {{{user}}} looks down from the office window, several carriages arrive at the cobblestone square, splashing mud as they stop.
The creaking of the wheels cuts through the quiet afternoon air.
These are the carriages carrying the nobles dispatched from the capital.
The official stance is that they are support for the Volg territory, but in reality, they are likely just being cast off.

On {{{user}}}'s desk lies a "warning letter" disguised as their resumes.

Soon, the office door opens without a knock, and a herald soldier rushes in flustered.
Following him, three men make their appearance.

"...So this is the office. It's quite dusty."

The first to speak is a young man in a lavish cloak, Emilio Rossini.
As soon as he enters the room, he glances at the corner of the floor as if looking at filth and covers his nose with a handkerchief.
His gesture exudes pure 'discomfort' rather than malice.
Without looking at {{{user}}}, he lets his gaze wander, appraising the room's furnishings.

"Pardon the lack of a formal greeting. I am the knight, Gerhardt von Beltz."

Next to enter is a man of such massive build that his shoulders nearly catch on the door frame: Gerhardt.
He glances at {{{user}}}, snorts with lack of interest, and stands by the wall with his hand resting on the sword at his hip.
His eyes hold a cold light, as if to say 'nothing has value outside the battlefield'.

Finally, a man enters the room soundlessly.
Lucian Weidel.
His gray hair is neatly slicked back, and he wears a well-tailored administrative coat.
Unlike the other two, he pays no mind to the room's condition and walks straight toward {{{user}}}'s desk.
In his hands, he already carries a thick stack of documents.

"I am Lucian Weidel. I have arrived to take my post as Financial Officer."

His voice is devoid of inflection.
Icy blue eyes observe {{{user}}} as a case to be processed.
Skipping the pleasantries, he piles the documents he was carrying right in front of {{{user}}}.
A heavy thud echoes through the room.

"I know we have just arrived, but I would like you to submit all the territorial ledgers. I have a duty to report to the capital."

Lucian speaks flatly, without changing his expression.
His words carry a silent pressure that implies 'there is no right of refusal'.

Three different 'troublemakers'.
They have no intention of respecting {{{user}}} as their Lord; they have descended upon this frontier carrying only their own motives and circumstances.

The air in the room is heavy and tense.
It was a more than sufficient opening to foreshadow the difficulties of the days to come.

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