Chapter 22
Strangely, Isaac felt drowsy.
Clang!
Clang!
A dim darkness settled in the corners of the interrogation room, lit only by torches.
One wrong move and a stake could be driven into his forehead, yet oddly enough, Isaac felt no tension.
‘It was the same back then.’
Isaac doesn’t know war.
But he knows fragments of war.
The final year of his previous life.
Two soldiers who had deserted from the army of the public king—namely, the second prince—hid in the ruins of Goethe.
They were on the brink of starvation, and their fingers and toes were rotting from frostbite.
Isaac provided them with shelter.
He shared what little food he had.
But once they regained their strength, they repaid Isaac’s kindness with betrayal.
To monopolize the last crumbs of bread, they tried to kill Isaac.
They must have thought he was hiding food.
The two deserters argued.
Let’s kill the old man.
No, don’t kill him. Let’s not give up on being human.
In the end, the deserter who wanted to kill Isaac murdered the other one.
But he couldn’t bring himself to kill Isaac.
—What’s the point of killing an old man like me? There’s nothing left but bones. No meat to scrape off.
—If you had just shared the hidden food, none of this would’ve happened!
—I’ve said it again and again—there is no hidden food. What you saw is all there is. Will you still kill me? If you don’t believe me, go ahead.
Isaac looked at the deserter with a detached gaze.
The deserter’s hand, stained with his comrade’s blood, was trembling.
He hesitated.
But Isaac did not.
He stabbed the deserter in the neck with a fire poker.
The reason an old man over seventy could kill a young man was simple.
To the young deserter, even if he survived today, there was only the despair of having to survive tomorrow.
But to the old man, who had nothing left but regret, there was a mission to fulfill.
He had to escape his peculiar constitution.
He had to free himself from the curse he was born with.
That was the only reason he had lived until now.
That’s why he could kill.
The persistent old man, filled with nothing but determination, killed the struggling young man.
As he looked into the fading eyes of the youth.
Isaac, somehow, felt drowsy.
At that moment, he vaguely realized.
He didn’t know what war was, but he knew it did not rely on mercy or understanding.
Not expecting mercy, not giving it, and exerting the maximum possible force.
That is a fight to the death.
That tiresome, cumbersome, and grueling struggle has continued since the beginning of history.
And it is destined to continue in the future.
Thus, Isaac felt the fatigue creeping in.
He felt sleepy.
He wanted to sleep.
To no longer be bound by that cycle.
He wanted to sleep forever.
Because he knew he couldn’t.
He wished even more strongly, more desperately.
For eternal rest…
Even now.
In a fleeting moment.
He deflected a flying stake with an ice crystal.
Sent out an ice crystal.
Adjusted its trajectory.
When a crystal was blocked, he made another by gathering the Deacon Silvio’s blood.
Moment after moment, his life teetered on the edge, to the point his spine chilled.
Yet what Isaac felt was not tension or threat.
It was fatigue.
But regardless of that.
Isaac was deflecting projectiles with ice crystals, with not a millimeter of error, even ones too fast for the naked eye to follow.
Why was that possible?
Even Isaac didn’t know.
—Young master’s greatest strength is his imagination.
‘Why am I thinking of that guy now?’
The voice that popped into his head answered Isaac’s question.
Lucas.
It had been years since he learned swordsmanship from him.
Isaac’s body could never keep up with Lucas’s sword strikes.
But at some point, Isaac began to predict Lucas’s movements.
Even if his body couldn’t respond, he would take the correct defensive stance before the strike landed.
That was the result of enduring day after day, imprisoned underground.
In a world where he could neither see nor hear the outside, what became clear was the landscape drawn in his mind.
And sensation.
Through that, Isaac sparred with Lucas hundreds of times a day.
He imagined himself casting magic he couldn’t even use with his own hands—thousands of times over.
He became friends with the heroes and sages in books and talked with them.
He gained insight and wisdom and envisioned an impossible future.
Yes, to light the tiniest spark.
To escape the curse.
To ignite a spark of hope.
For that final day to come someday.
And then.
In front of his family’s graves.
Isaac finally lit that spark.
‘Lucas, you were a truly great teacher. You were right.’
A world imagined through precise logic and reason closely resembled real experience.
Countless experiences in that unseen world shaped the Isaac of today.
“Amazing. To think you were hiding this level of skill.”
The bishop reached into the pouch at his waist.
There were no more stakes left.
“Now it’s your turn to show your skill, Bishop.”
Isaac’s expression and tone were the same as when they first met.
“Did you really sell your soul to the devil?”
The bishop couldn’t help but be flustered by Isaac’s composure.
Isaac’s nonchalant attitude didn’t seem like someone who recognized the danger of the situation.
He didn’t look like a child facing life or death.
“If you must put it that way, didn’t both of us sell our souls? The only difference is to whom.”
“That sounds like blasphemy.”
“Is there still divinity left to blaspheme?”
“…How dare you.”
The bishop’s jowls trembled.
“This can’t be the end, can it? A bishop of the old faith resorting to flinging stakes through a magic tome hardly seems divine.”
The bishop knew there was no benefit in responding to such a remark.
But his pride wouldn’t allow him to stay silent.
“Fine. I’ve refrained from using my authority directly to avoid leaving a signature pattern, but it seems there’s no other choice now. You know far too much. And that talent and cleverness of yours seem a bit dangerous. I’ll have to cut you off here.”
Depending on the school—
Whether one is a mage or a priest—
The way they learn and use magic differs.
Because of this, a certain framework for handling mana forms, which creates what’s called a “signature pattern.”
It appears in the body of the spellcaster who has trained in the same magic their entire life, but more often, it remains on the person who receives the spell.
Experts can use this to identify the caster.
The bishop felt the need to eliminate Isaac, even if it meant dealing with the bothersome aftermath.
“Go ahead and try—if you can.”
Shiiick—
An ice crystal formed from blood sliced through the air.
Fwoosh!
In an instant, flames burst from the bishop’s fingertips.
The ice crystal oxidized as it touched the fire.
The evaporated blood reeked of iron.
“Behold. This is the authority granted to me: the Sacred Flame.”
The fire the bishop revealed was different from a torch.
It was a blazing orb of deep blue fire.
To some, it might seem awe-inspiring—but Isaac didn’t even blink.
“That’s the Sacred Flame?”
“Yes. A flame of purification no ordinary mage could even hope to imitate.”
The bishop spoke with a proud tone.
“With this, even your ice crystals will instantly sublimate.”
“Indeed, that may be so.”
Isaac nodded.
“I didn’t want to burn a child I baptized with my own hands, but perhaps this too is the will of the Lord.”
Fwoosh~!
“Is it this?”
“!?”
“!?”
From Isaac’s hand, a similarly blue fireball appeared.
Ignition, followed by compression—then compression again.
It was the same magic he had used when dealing with the Winter Spider Queen in the abandoned mine.
The difference was that the flames around the orb were far more vicious than the bishop’s.
“W-What? How did you…?”
“Your reaction is very honest. It’s simple. I just compressed it twice.”
“What nonsense! Are you mocking me? Authority doesn’t work like that. It requires a specific process. It’s not that simple…!”
“So that’s what you call divine authority, huh? But I suppose I’m a heretic then. My spellcasting runs in parallel. That’s why this is possible.”
Isaac compressed it once more.
Now the once-blue flame burned violet.
Though it didn’t burn Isaac, the heat was overwhelming.
The hem of Deacon Silvio’s robe nearby began to smoke and scorch.
‘It’s still too much to maintain this level for long.’
Isaac felt a stabbing pain deep in his chest.
His mana circuits were raging.
To further compress the flame, he had to supply mana equivalent to his entire abdomen.
He had gone through that process three times already.
And now, the flow of mana—already almost unmanageable—had accelerated even more.
“This is absurd! How could a boy born of savage blood wield such authority—”
“Perhaps you’ve been neglecting your training. Or maybe, God just loves me more.”
“What blasphemy! I’ve spent decades training in divine authority!”
Fwoosh!
The blue orb at the bishop’s fingertips swelled.
Perhaps he had drawn in his maximum mana—veins popped on his forehead and the backs of his hands.
His heart raced to support his overworked brain.
“Decades, you say… I’ve done this my whole life.”
Whoosh!
The violet fireball left Isaac’s hand and shot toward the bishop.
The bishop tried to counter with his own flame orb.
But Isaac’s mana density vastly surpassed his.
The bishop’s spell disintegrated into glittering particles.
“Gah—!”
The bishop gasped.
His widened eyes reflected the violet orb—like the gaze of a demon.
“Kuaaagh—!”
With a horrible scream, the bishop was consumed in violet flames.
If hell had a landscape, it would look like this.
The bishop rolled across the floor.
But the fire didn’t extinguish until there was nothing left to burn.
The screams didn’t last long.
The bishop had turned to ashes.
Unrecognizable by anyone.
Isaac stared at the heap of embers, where only cinders remained.
Did the bishop go to heaven, or hell?
Or perhaps purgatory?
Isaac wondered.
Perhaps due to excessive mana consumption—
A wave of exhaustion washed over Isaac, and he collapsed to the ground.
“At the very least, if there is an afterlife, we won’t be seeing each other in heaven, Bishop.”
In front of him lay the bishop’s remains.
Behind him lay the corpse of Deacon Silvio.
And ahead lay the endless scattered tragedies to come.
Though still distant, the war was approaching, step by step.
That’s why Isaac could not sleep.
Even if drowsiness crashed over him like a wave.
Even if the weariness crushed him like a boulder, making him want to let go of everything.
The wails of Jonas, who lost his right hand.
The screams of those who died in the mana explosion.
The sighs of his father, filled with worry and regret.
The weary voice of his mother, wandering in search of a cure for their son.
Until the voices demanding he repay those emotional debts disappeared—
Until true silence came—
Isaac could not sleep.
No, he would not sleep.
Footsteps echoed from the corridor on basement level two.
“Young master.”
Bloodied, Carlson was supporting the limp Randolph.
“What about the paladins?”
“…How did you know?”
“I heard it from the bishop. Though, as you can see, it’s all over now.”
Carlson followed Isaac’s gaze to the ashes.
“…What happened…?”
“There was a quarrel between the deacon and the bishop. As you can see, they perished together.”
“…I see.”
A flicker of doubt passed over Carlson’s face, but he nodded.
“The paladins have all been dealt with.”
According to the bishop, they had been a significant force.
Too strong for two knights to handle alone.
But Isaac, like Carlson, simply nodded.
They chose to leave the details buried for now.
After all, both still had things they weren’t ready to reveal to each other.
“What about Randolph?”
At Isaac’s question, Carlson’s gaze darkened.
He didn’t need to say it.
The Randolph being dragged along was no longer the Randolph they knew.
“He asked me to take care of his family.”
At the word family, Isaac paused.
“I see.”
Despite this exhaustion and sleepiness—
Despite this life that felt endlessly long—
This was why Isaac kept his flame alive.
“…Let’s go home, for now.”
