Chapter 24
“You both did well.”
The Count praised Isaac and Carlson.
Goethe was now free from the influence of the Old Church.
In exchange for overlooking the atrocities committed by the bishop, the Vatican agreed neither to collect tithes nor to dispatch a new bishop.
No one knew how long that promise would be kept, but for the time being, Goethe would be able to breathe.
“Carlson, is there anything you want?”
“I would like to continue serving the young master.”
“If you return to Winterband, you could be promoted to company commander.”
“I want to find a position that suits my capabilities.”
The Count’s fingers, which had been tapping the desk, slowed for a moment, then resumed their original pace.
“Very well. If you say so. Isaac.”
“I would feel at ease if Carlson remained by my side.”
“Understood. Carlson shall be appointed Isaac’s guard and will receive 200 denarii.”
“Thank you.”
Carlson bowed his head slightly.
The Count’s gaze shifted to Isaac.
“Isaac.”
“Before that—what will you do from now on? Did you receive royal permission?”
“Carlson. Would you excuse us for a moment?”
“Yes, sir.”
As Carlson stepped out, the Count packed tobacco into his pipe’s chamber and lit it with magic.
“I thought I made things clear enough on the way back from Sir Randolph’s funeral. You’ve already done more than enough. But from here on, this matter is beyond your concern.”
“Father.”
“Thanks to you, the tithe we saved was more than sufficient to resupply the fortress. I commend you for thinking of the family, but now you should focus on curing your unique constitution.”
The Count’s expression and tone were unyielding.
He made it clear that no further discussion would be allowed.
Isaac had many things he still wanted to say, but he closed his mouth.
This was not a matter of persuasion.
It was a matter of trust.
Even if he had saved one-tenth of the family’s revenue, that alone was not enough to earn complete trust.
He had expected as much.
“Now tell me what you want.”
“In that case, please grant me the estate at Pyke.”
Isaac spoke the words he had prepared.
***
“So this is where you were.”
Carlson approached Isaac, who was standing quietly at the parlor door.
But Isaac didn’t respond to him.
He just blankly stared out the corridor window.
“Are you really going to Binfelt?”
“Shh. Quiet.”
Isaac raised a finger to his lips.
A piano melody was drifting from the drawing room.
It was Jonas’s performance.
The name of the piece was “Tristis Draco”.
In the common tongue, it meant “The Sorrowful Dragon.”
It was Isaac’s mother’s favorite piece.
The composition had no specific dynamic markings—only melody—so its emotional tone depended entirely on the performer.
“It’s strange.”
Isaac muttered.
When he killed the deserter, when he killed Nias, when he killed the bishop, drowsiness came over him like death.
But when he listened to Jonas’s music, it felt like his dulled senses were slowly awakening again.
The weariness that had cloaked him all his life lifted, and his mind cleared as if waking from a heavy sleep.
It felt like being alive.
Was it because he could once again hear Jonas’s playing, something he thought he’d never experience again?
Did Jonas’s music possess some kind of power?
He didn’t know.
He only knew that he never wanted Jonas to put down the instrument again.
“Carlson, spar with me.”
Isaac, lost in thought, finally spoke.
“Have you ever learned swordsmanship?”
Carlson asked, watching Isaac panting while seated on the ground.
“Whew, I’ve watched soldiers train at the drill grounds before.”
“Don’t joke with me.”
“Do I look like I’m joking?”
Carlson stared silently at Isaac, who was drenched in sweat.
He couldn’t read his intentions.
It was strange.
Isaac’s sword movements were graceful.
Not sharp enough to catch one off guard, not strong enough to be powerful, not fast enough to be practical.
Yet he clearly understood what posture to take for attack and defense.
With minimal movement, his attacks, blocks, and counters flowed seamlessly.
Considering Isaac’s age, he would’ve had to start training with a sword at five or six to reach this level.
What was puzzling was that his body was far too weak for someone who had been training that long.
“What’s your purpose in asking for a spar?”
“To take control of Binfelt.”
Isaac rose again, leaning on his wooden sword.
Then he assumed a stance once more.
Clack!
Their two wooden swords collided.
The crudely nailed cross guards trembled from the force of the clash.
“What do you plan to do by taking Binfelt?”
“That’s none of your concern. All you need to know is that it’ll help you get your revenge.”
“You’ll need far more skill than this to survive in Binfelt.”
Carlson twisted his wooden sword to deflect Isaac’s trajectory, then kicked him.
“Urgh.”
Bitter bile spilled from Isaac’s mouth.
But he didn’t complain.
“That’s why I’m asking you to teach me.”
“This isn’t something you can learn in a short time.”
“I’ll handle that.”
Isaac staggered to his feet.
Carlson narrowed his eyes.
“You can use magic.”
Carlson said in a low voice.
“The deacon wasn’t strong enough to defeat the bishop.”
“How do you know that?”
“Once you reach a certain level—whether in magic or aura—you can estimate the opponent’s strength.”
“And you’re just saying that? Didn’t you claim you wanted to hide your skills?”
“When the paladins were slaughtered, you already knew, didn’t you?”
“Whew.”
There were no eavesdroppers in the garden courtyard.
Isaac calmed his ragged breathing.
His arms, legs, and the sides where he’d been kicked ached all over.
“If you’d just use magic, you wouldn’t need swordsmanship at all…”
“It’d be easier for a while. But Goethe would become politically isolated. My unique constitution is the same as Zeke von Goethe’s.”
“…?”
“You’re the son of a mercenary. You must’ve heard of it.”
“What kind of joke is this supposed to be now?”
Artifacts once used by Zeke von Goethe were sought after by many.
He was the first and last historically known 10-Class mage.
His magic power was overwhelming.
Some sought them out of collector’s desire, others out of scholarly curiosity, and some out of a craving for power.
They were treasures that sometimes commanded astronomical prices.
Any mercenary dreamed of clutching such fortune.
As a result, many were lured by rumors and lost their lives like moths to a flame.
“The reason the royal family and the other nobles leave Goethe alone is because they believe I can’t control this peculiar constitution. But if it becomes known that I’ve been controlling it without any artifacts…”
“It’s unfortunate that you’re not joking.”
Carlson quickly understood what Isaac meant.
The fact that Isaac could use magic meant he was in control of his unique condition.
As a result, Goethe would face pressure not only from other lords but also from the royal family.
Some would attempt to assassinate Isaac, and others would try to use him for political gain.
Most notably, many members of the royal family who suffered during the great fire of the capital a century ago would likely try to annihilate Goethe.
“Do you regret it? Joining the Goethe family of all places?”
“I do. But I’m not the kind of man who looks back. Raise your sword again. You’ll be the one to regret this, young master.”
“Hmm?”
“You were the one who asked for this spar.”
Clack.
Their wooden swords clashed once more.
***
A month passed.
“Are you really leaving just like this?”
Spring had come, but the wind piercing through the carriage was still sharp.
Schiller, who had boarded the carriage to see Isaac off, wore a worried expression.
“You bring this up now, on the way out?”
“You didn’t even tell Hans or Gisela you were leaving, did you?”
“They’ll find out soon enough.”
“They’ll be hurt.”
“That’s not like you, Schiller. You’re not someone who worries about such things.”
“Because they matter to you, young master.”
At Schiller’s words, Isaac turned his gaze toward the window.
At some point, the road to Binfelt became a stretch of dry grass and dead trees.
Only desolate plains and silvergrass lay ahead.
Frozen ground, with hills still patched in unmelted snow.
A barren, lifeless landscape.
“Being hurt is still better than dying.”
“They’re people who are ready to endure even your mana explosion. They care deeply for you.”
“You talk too much. I shouldn’t have let you come see me off.”
“Young master.”
“Just because Hans and the nanny are prepared to endure my mana explosion doesn’t mean I’m prepared to accept their sacrifice.”
At Randolph’s funeral, Isaac couldn’t help but remember the end of Hans and the nanny.
He never once attended the funerals of those who cared for him.
Because he felt too ashamed, and lacked the courage.
If he couldn’t protect even one person by his side, what meaning would there be in pledging to protect a family—or a land?
But now wasn’t the time.
He still couldn’t fully control his mana rampage.
When he summoned the violet flames to face the bishop, Isaac had felt that his vessel couldn’t withstand much more.
“I don’t want to leave even the slightest possibility.”
“Young master…”
Schiller opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again.
The old butler let out a silent sigh.
It was quite some time before he spoke again.
The scenery outside the window was growing bleaker.
“Binfelt, once the estate of Pyke is a place tainted with the blood of beasts. Nothing grows there. It’s also the first place that enemies bypassing Winterband encounter. Even Pyke himself accepted that land not to gain anything from it, but simply to be granted a minor noble title.”
Caw, caw—
“So this is Binfelt?”
“Yes.”
The butler responded with a displeased expression.
Bones bleached white littered the barren land.
Some looked human, others animal.
Stray dogs and crows occasionally hovered near the piles, perhaps drawn by the smell of rotting flesh still clinging to some of the remains.
‘Looks just like the last sight I had of the manor.’
Isaac tried to erase the image of that final manor that kept surfacing in his mind.
He came here to change.
It’s necessary to reflect on past mistakes, but it’s not good to keep looking back.
Isaac steeled himself.
“Young master.”
“Enough. Father approved this.”
“That’s only because you insisted. His Grace hopes this experience will help you face reality.”
The Count had granted Isaac the land of Binfelt.
But it wasn’t a reward.
Even though Isaac had succeeded in driving out the Old Church, the Count didn’t want him to grow arrogant.
He wanted him to understand how harsh reality could be—what Goethe’s reality truly looked like.
“The only people living here are the soldiers stationed to fend off the beasts and a few scattered tribes.”
“I know.”
“Young master, the encampment is in sight.”
Carlson, riding alongside the carriage, called through the window.
“No one here will welcome you. You’ll be treated colder than you were at the manor.”
“I know that too.”
“If you know all this, then what more do you hope to do in a place like this?”
Schiller asked in frustration.
“Change.”
“…Excuse me?”
“From here, many things in Goethe will begin to change.”
Isaac replied softly.
Bwooo—
At that moment, a distant horn sounded.
“Beasts incoming.”
Carlson warned.
Dark monsters were charging toward the encampment enclosed by wooden palisades.
Some of them veered off toward the supply convoy where Isaac’s carriage was.
“Battle stations!”
A shout rang out from the front of the convoy.
“Young master! Lord Isaac!”
Then a desperate voice came from the rear of the convoy.
A soldier in a gambeson with a spear.
It was a face Isaac knew.
“Hans? What are you doing here?”
Isaac turned to Schiller.
“Ahem. He pestered this old man day after day—I couldn’t hold him off.”
Schiller coughed and looked away.
“What kind of master abandons his servant? I’ll protect you. Don’t leave my side.”
Hans said with a solemn expression.
But his legs and arms, the ones holding the spear, trembled wildly.
“…Haa.”
Isaac pressed his forehead and sighed.
Meanwhile, the growls of the beasts were drawing closer.
