Chapter 28
One month ago.
Isaac asked Carlson.
“Carlson. What would I have to do to beat you in swordsmanship within a month?”
To Carlson, it was the first time Isaac had asked a question that sounded like something a kid would say.
Noble children often believed they were naturally gifted in swordsmanship and thought they could surpass someone who had trained for over a decade in just a short time.
“It’s impossible.”
Carlson replied without a moment’s hesitation.
“Not even a one in ten chance?”
“No.”
“How about one in a hundred?”
“Are you serious?”
“You always think I’m joking whenever I say something.”
“That’s because you only say things that don’t make sense.”
“But what if I have to win? No matter what?”
“If it’s with magic instead of swordsmanship, you would win, young master.”
“It has to be with swordsmanship.”
Carlson shook his head.
It was a firm expression that there was no hope.
“Then let me change the question. What would I have to do to have even a one in a hundred chance of winning?”
“Sigh.”
Carlson let out a long sigh and stayed silent for a moment.
By then, Isaac had already been beaten thoroughly by Carlson’s wooden sword.
Any ordinary child would have lost their will, but Isaac was thinking about how to win.
You’d wonder what made this little kid so desperate, but there was no emotion visible on Isaac’s face.
“There are three conditions.”
“Tell me.”
“First, I would have to completely underestimate you and let my guard down. Second, the sword fight would need a specific win condition—something that would close the skill gap even slightly.”
“Of course. What’s the third?”
“Finally, in a situation where both of those conditions align, you would need a definite move to seize victory. If you only have a month, that’s what you’d need to train the whole time.”
“You really have a way of saying impossible without using the word.”
“So yes, it’s impossible.”
“Still sounds worth trying.”
After that, Isaac started relentlessly pushing Carlson.
Everything he worked on was for unrealistic goals.
For example, overcoming a significant physical disadvantage just to push the opponent back with a single strike.
“You have to swing upward harder.”
“Hooah!”
“Your stance is off! The opponent is positioned farther from their center of gravity, and you’re too close to yours! You have to parry it with the blade closer to the crossguard!”
Isaac had only asked for one hour of training per day.
But Carlson quickly realized that Isaac’s training didn’t stop after that one hour.
At some point, Isaac started wearing leather gloves.
When Carlson handed him the wooden sword, he caught a glimpse of the gloves—darkened brown around the palms.
Carlson, who had lived with the sword, recognized it immediately.
When you overtrain without rest, first you get calluses, then blisters, then the skin tears open.
“You should get treatment.”
“You told me to make sure people underestimate me. Shouldn’t that start with people around me not knowing?”
“This is a crazy plan.”
“Which is exactly why it’s worth it.”
As the training continued, Isaac gradually began sharing his plan with Carlson.
Even before he was assigned to Binfelt, Isaac had already assessed the place.
The issues it had, the countermeasures, and the ideal use of the site.
For any of that to happen, he first needed to bring Binfelt’s garrison under his control.
But most of the soldiers in the garrison were former members of defeated tribes who had been subjugated by Goethe’s force.
That’s why many of them resented Goethe and often acted out against royal administrators.
That was also why Pyke, who was from a tribe himself, had been given Binfelt.
“Trying to use Goethe’s power or authority on them will only make them more hostile. The only way is to respect and follow their traditions.”
“But it’s too reckless. It’s been two weeks since training started, and you still can’t deflect even my lightest strikes.”
“I’ll deflect them. You’ll see.”
Then came the final day before they left for Binfelt.
Carlson had no expectation that Isaac would be able to deflect his sword.
“We’re using real swords. Just so you know, I’m not joking.”
“And hit harder than usual.”
Carlson hesitated.
Where was this confidence coming from?
Isaac had trained non-stop for a month.
If he pushed himself too hard now, he could get seriously injured.
Besides, even during wooden sword training, Isaac had never once successfully countered Carlson’s attacks.
But then—
Clang—
“…!”
With a sharp metallic clang, Carlson’s hesitation was blown away.
“Harder!”
Clang—!
“Harder!”
Clang!
“More!”
Clang!
“G!”
Isaac caught his breath and reset his stance.
Carlson’s eyes trembled.
Isaac had deflected his sword multiple times—the same strikes he hadn’t blocked once in the past month.
The harder Carlson struck, the stronger Isaac deflected.
And his timing was perfect.
“What did you do?”
“A little trick.”
Isaac smiled.
It wasn’t a grand trick.
Isaac’s scabbard was wrapped in torn-up magic scrolls.
They were pages from the phase-shifting spellbook Bishop Levonius had used to launch stakes.
A spellbook that allowed repositioning of objects from multiple angles.
When infused with mana, the spell recorded in the page would activate.
Isaac had selected only the pages with the necessary spells, pasted them onto the scabbard, and wrapped the whole thing in cloth to hide it.
Isaac only appeared to be gripping the sword—it was actually floating in the air.
Floating an object with phase-shifting magic was simple enough.
But manipulating that object as if wielded by a human—it was unthinkable.
Not unless you had multiple brains.
But Isaac could do it.
Thanks to the swordsmanship he learned from Lucas in his past life and the countless imagined duels he had simulated in his mind while trapped underground.
Just by watching Bessemer’s footwork and shoulder motion, he could predict the next strike.
With imagination, he could forecast several seconds ahead and move five mana circuits simultaneously.
Like five fingers, the circuits would identify and activate the exact spell needed at any moment.
The most important part was controlling the mana.
Output of mana.
In other words, precise control of magical power.
To block a powerful warrior’s blow with a floating sword, the most critical thing was balance.
If the mana was even slightly too weak or too strong, the unsupported sword would lose balance.
It could fly off—or worse, the spinning blade could injure its own user.
With gestures, Isaac adjusted the position, angle, and direction of the sword’s mana flow.
Moment to moment, not a fraction too early or too late.
Isaac’s consciousness moved like a musician, syncing to Bessemer’s rhythm.
It required extreme concentration, control, reflexes, and athleticism.
It was the kind of insanity no normal mage would ever dare attempt.
But Isaac was ready.
No—he had to succeed.
And then—
Clang—
The first clash was made.
Isaac was certain of his success.
‘Carlson’s sword yesterday felt much heavier than before.’
At the same time, Isaac cast a freezing spell on Bessemer’s arm as it entered his domain.
Freezing someone like an ice crystal while their blood is still warm is impossible, but inducing frostbite is certainly possible.
One cast wouldn’t be too effective, but each clash of blades would stack the chill, and that couldn’t be ignored.
As the temperature drops, the hand loses feeling and grip strength.
No matter how powerful a giant of a man may be, he’s still human and cannot avoid that.
Especially if he’s excited and doesn’t suspect such a trick, he wouldn’t even be able to react.
Thud—
The sound of an axe sinking into the mud rang clearly.
That’s how silent the soldiers were as they watched the duel.
Even after seeing Bessemer drop his axe, they didn’t fully grasp what had happened.
Despite nearly a hundred people gathered, an eerie silence lingered in the air.
“I win, Bessemer.”
Bessemer stared at Isaac, his head twitching like a broken wooden puppet.
His face was painted with disbelief.
“H-He won. That kid actually won!”
Finally realizing what had happened, a soldier shouted.
“The young master beat Bessemer!”
Waaahhh!
The soldiers erupted into cheers.
Whether from a tribe or from Goethe, it was undoubtedly a rare sight for all of them.
They were flushed and exhilarated.
A comeback by a clearly disadvantaged kid was enough to make their blood boil.
“I’m not just the young master—I’m Isaac! Isaac von Goethe!”
Isaac raised his sword.
Isaac!
Isaac!
Isaac!
The soldiers chanted Isaac’s name.
“Shut up! All of you, shut up!”
Bessemer, red-faced with rage, shouted at the top of his lungs, but no one paid attention to a man who lost a duel.
“I said shut up!”
At last, Bessemer picked up his axe and swung it threateningly.
“Whoa—”
Startled, the soldiers backed away.
“You—you cunning Goethe bastard!”
Bessemer grabbed Isaac by the collar and lifted him up.
“What kind of dirty trick did you pull!?”
“You’re refusing to accept defeat? Are you abandoning a warrior’s honor?”
“You’re the one who defiled this sacred duel! I’ll cleanse it with your blood right here!”
Bessemer raised his axe.
“What are you all doing?!”
Schiller shouted in alarm.
“You serve the House of Goethe! If Bessemer so much as harms a hair on the young master’s head, every one of you here will be executed for treason!”
That finally snapped the soldiers out of it, and they rushed at Bessemer.
But Bessemer was so strong that it took two or three grown men per limb just to hold him down.
“Let go! You rotten pigs!”
Bessemer raged.
“Get a hold of yourself, Captain!”
“Are you crazy? You trying to die with us!?”
“Damn, he’s snapped again!”
Even though over a dozen strong men grabbed him, Bessemer flung them off like straw dolls.
But in the end, after the soldiers gave their all, Bessemer lost his balance.
He landed face-first in the mud as soldiers swarmed over him.
“Let me gooo!”
Bessemer couldn’t bring himself to swing his axe at comrades, so he just screamed.
Carlson was the one who finished it, smashing Bessemer’s head from behind with his pommel.
***
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“Go. I won’t say it again.”
“I can’t. I already got side-eyed by the other servants just for serving you. If I get dismissed from being your attendant too, how could I show my face in the manor?”
“You can beg all you want—it’s not going to work this time.”
Isaac had repeated several times that Hans should go back, that he no longer needed a personal attendant.
But Hans showed no sign of listening.
It was frustrating for Isaac.
As long as they were in Binfelt, there would be countless brushes with death.
Even soon, hundreds of hellhounds would descend upon the garrison.
If nothing changed, Binfelt would cease to serve as Goethe’s territory within weeks.
It would become a monster habitat.
Isaac’s first mission in Binfelt was to prevent that.
He didn’t know how much blood would be spilled in the process.
He couldn’t even be sure of his own survival.
He hadn’t come to live well—he came to change Goethe’s future.
It’d be great if he survived and could continue his mission, but the looming chance of death was always there.
He was ready to leap into hell to save his house and those he loved.
And now, someone he cared for was ready to jump into that hell with him.
There’s no way he could allow that.
Schiiing—
Isaac finally drew his sword.
“I let you off once or twice and now you think you can walk all over me? Leave. Or I’ll kill you myself.”
No matter how loyal Hans was to Isaac.
He had a family too.
People he needed to protect.
This was Isaac’s last resort.
“Fine. If I can’t serve you, then dying by your hand doesn’t sound so bad. Kill me. What are you waiting for? You’re not going to do it?”
Hans grabbed the blade with his hand and pulled it to his neck.
“Am I so easy to fool now? You think I won’t cut you?”
“Then do it.”
“……”
“I may be clueless sometimes, but do you really think I don’t know you? I knew from the moment you said you’d duel that giant—Bessemer or whatever. I knew you were ready to die. And you think I’d let you go into a place like that alone?”
“…..”
“Even if you don’t think much of me, to me you’re family—no, even more. Because of you, my son is alive, and my family has food. I’ve spent more time with you than with them. I’d die for my family, and I’d die for you. If they die, I’ll follow them. If you die, I’ll follow you.”
“Very dramatic, but your face is pale as hell.”
“If you’re not scared with a sword to your throat, you’re just insane.”
Even while trembling, Hans spoke every word with firm resolve.
“Whose attendant is he, huh? I’m jealous.”
“Carlson? You heard all that?”
“Well, you were shouting so loud. Honestly, I almost cried.”
Carlson entered the barracks, expressionless.
“Leave him with me.”
“You too? What’s with everyone today?”
“Because I know the pain of failing to protect what you must protect.”
Isaac looked at Hans.
Hans met his gaze with quiet defiance, as if trying to speak with his eyes.
“I’ll train him. Make him a proper sparring partner for you.”
“Sigh.”
Isaac let out a breath.
The pain of not being able to protect something important.
How could he not know that?
He’d lived with that his whole life.
Trapped in the moment he failed to protect someone.
That’s not really living.
If he had miscalculated anything, it was how much Hans truly cared about him.
“Stubborn fool.”
Isaac sheathed his sword and muttered.
“Hans.”
“Yes, young master.”
“You’re now my attendant—and Carlson’s squire.”
“Carlson’s squire?”
“And Carlson, come with me.”
Isaac left the barracks and walked through the garrison.
The afternoon sun was still up.
The news of Isaac defeating Bessemer in a duel had spread among the soldiers.
But that didn’t mean he had won their favor.
As he passed by, they glanced and whispered but said nothing to him directly.
No one greeted him or showed affection.
They avoided him, quietly, cautiously.
Using Bessemer’s words, he was now only slightly better off than a cursed cripple.
Isaac simply walked on, wordless.
Carlson followed silently.
Once they exited the garrison and were out of sight, Isaac spoke.
“Carlson.”
“Yes.”
“If Hans dies in Binfelt, I won’t help you.”
“If you break your word, I’ll cut you down.”
“Sure. Even so, I won’t help you.”
“……”
Only then did Carlson realize the price for swaying Isaac’s heart.
“A commoner attendant is that important to you?”
“He is to me. So protect him—or if that’s too much, make him strong enough to survive.”
“You’re asking for the impossible. Everyone dies.”
“I’m telling you to do your best.”
“I’ve always thought it—young master, you’re one strange noble.”
“You’re not so normal yourself.”
Isaac chuckled and started walking again.
“Let’s head back, Kyle.”
“It’s Carlson.”
Carlson followed Isaac back toward the camp.
“One day, you’ll be Kyle, son of Kaien.”
“Until then, I’m Carlson.”
“Fair enough.”
“Hans, by the way.”
“Yeah?”
“If I train him until he’s almost dead but not quite, is that okay?”
“That’s perfect. Turn the disobedient attendant into an obedient squire.”
“As you command.”
Isaac and Carlson shared a laugh.
‘One more reason to become strong,’ Isaac thought.
If he couldn’t protect Hans, he had no right to talk about protecting his house.
So, he had to become strong.
