Unique Constitution
What noble bows his head to his own servant? What noble steps forward to help with his maid's chores himself?
Isaac von Goete did.
The House of Goethe was a border count's domain in the northeast of the kingdom—a place where the barren land and merciless weather stripped away even the last scraps of humanity. Yet Isaac never lost his sunlit smile, even in the winter manor.
"Nanny, I'll handle the laundry myself. Your hands are all chapped."
"Oh, no, young master. This is what I get paid for."
"And here—some kind of plant oil. They say it keeps your hands from cracking if you rub it in."
"Young master…."
The nanny gazed at the noble boy, just turned eight, her face crumpling with emotion. Could there be such an angelic child in the world? Ash-gray hair like Lady Goethe's, eyes of piercing blue like Count Goethe's. Pale skin, cool gaze, straight nose, lively lips. He was as beautiful inside as he was out.
"Huff, huff. I'm so sorry I'm late, young master. The baby had a cold last night and was in a lot of pain, so I… I overslept…."
Beside her, a pale-faced servant trembled at the severe punishment surely coming his way. In his previous manor, he'd been whipped once for every minute late—and after ten lashes, he'd been thrown out, bedridden with fever for a month. Would it be the same here? He just wanted to avoid being dismissed. Without money, his family would starve or freeze in the coming winter's brutality—one or the other.
"You're Hans, right?"
"Y-yes? Yes."
"Your son's Peter."
"H-how did you…?"
"Asked Nanny. Is Peter okay? Colds hit different here. Can turn bad fast. Schrader! Schrader!"
But Isaac issued no punishment. He simply dashed from the room, calling for the head butler. Hans flinched. Too soon to relax—the young master might still demand harsh discipline from the butler, who was a devil to the servants, doling out merciless penalties without a drop of pity.
"Hans. I've heard everything from the young master."
The head butler soon found him hauling luggage. Hans shuddered as if struck by midwinter's icy gale.
"B-butler, please. Just let me work through the winter! If you send me away, my wife and kids… they'll all die…."
"Still half-asleep? Get your head straight!"
"Eek! I'm sorry. So sorry."
Hans bowed repeatedly.
"I said get your head straight! No one's chasing you out of here."
"P-pardon?"
He finally looked up. The shrewd old butler's face was stern, but what he offered was a leather pouch.
"Brew this and drink it. You have a pot at home, I assume?"
"Y-yes. But… what's this?"
"Medicine. The young master had me give it to you."
"Oh… oh, thank you. Thank you so much! Truly, thank you!"
"Save your thanks for Isaac, young master. If it were up to me, you'd be out on your ear today."
Butler Schrader's expression held a touch of dissatisfaction. To him, Isaac was too soft, too lenient. But regardless of Schrader's views, Isaac commanded the respect and love of every soul in the manor.
Isaac was only nine at most.
"Congratulations, young master!"
"Don't forget us!"
And in the year he turned ten, the prodigy—hailed as such from early on—received an invitation to the royal academy. He'd devoured magic tomes that stumped academy students and solved the toughest exam problems alone. The winter manor erupted in celebration. Count Goethe and his lady, brother Yonas, and every servant rejoiced from the heart. They all hoped this boy of fine character and keen intellect would grow into a great man.
But Isaac failed to meet those hopes. He never made it to the academy.
A sudden flu struck a month before enrollment. Relentless fever, vomiting, even coughing blood. The start date was postponed again and again, but the illness showed no sign of lifting.
Three months in, Count Goethe dismissed the doctors who all called it flu and summoned an old scholar from the magic tower.
"A unique constitution."
The old scholar said.
"Unique constitution?"
"As you know, my lord count, every living being has a mana vessel suited to its size, circulating mana at matching speeds—like water flowing, evaporating, falling as rain, flowing again. The natural cycle of the great world. But the young master's mana circulation is… abnormal. Immeasurably fast and violent."
"Make it simple."
The count pressed.
"In the southern continent, monsoon rains cause floods. The river swells too much, the current too fierce and swift. Villages drown and shatter. The young master's mana is like that. The difference? The south suffers only in monsoon. He endures it always. Soon, his vessel will shatter."
"That means…."
"Prepare your heart. Once it breaks, he won't last. Crippled, or wasting away…."
The scholar trailed off. No sense provoking the count's wrath.
Twenty years passed.
The beautiful boy once loved and revered was gone.
The family's secret underground vault. A chamber thick with chill and damp. Every wall lined with Dimegtrium, a rare mineral resistant to magic.
Isaac slowly opened his eyes. No sense of time lost in meditation. Walls cloaked in mold and moss. Staring long enough, the dark stains seemed to form his father's face, his mother's, Yonas's. Faces he could no longer see—or should.
Memories only.
Many had died or been hurt because of him. All people he cherished.
"I should have been colder to them."
The gaunt young man murmured like a ghost.
The old scholar had been half right. The vessel broke. Mana burst like a dam. Internal mana clashed with external in an instant—mana rampage. Furniture shattered, Nanny injured while folding his clothes.
But Isaac didn't end crippled or wasting away. His vessel reformed as if nothing happened.
All called it a miracle at first. God pitying the good boy.
But it was a curse.
The cycle repeated: shatter, explode. Many who loved him died.
"No, young master. I still like you. Just… just now's a hard time. It'll pass. Life's like that, right?"
That was Hans's last words.
As explosions grew frequent, wounds piled up, yet Hans insisted no one else should tend him. He left behind a family to support—and died first.
In the blast, his body flew into the wall. Neck snapped. Instant death.
One by one, those around him vanished.
For a time, Isaac starved himself and raged like a madman. Shattering glasses at breakfast, plates at lunch, upending wooden tubs at dinner. Sometimes striking servants or butlers.
Those still faithful to him aside, all said he'd finally lost it. After this explosion, he'd never rise again—a total wastrel or cripple.
It made sense. An incurable unique constitution. Loved ones dying because of it.
Isaac was just thirteen.
Even adults struggled; how could the little master keep his sanity?
Yet after despair, he pulled himself together.
"Nanny, I'm sorry. I've been a disgrace."
"Disgrace? No, it's fine. Couldn't be helped. Truly unavoidable."
Tears welled as she beamed. She'd poured all her love—even what she'd saved for a child lost to pneumonia—onto him. Seeing him rise above pain, admit fault, filled her with pride and sorrow.
Peace held for a while. Isaac apologized personally to servants and butlers, bowing regardless of station, thanking them for enduring him. Not all accepted, but some thawing hearts warmed.
Winter came, yet warmth lingered in many.
It was fine up to there.
Isaac had thrashed in the mire, then snapped alert. Ropes still dangled from those who'd thrown them—those who loved him.
"I should have cut ties."
Again, the young man intoned like a specter.
Opinions split then: uncontrollable monster, or noble young master bravely fighting hardship.
Those trying to save him saw the latter. They tied ropes to their own bodies to pull him from pain's swamp. Willing to die for his life.
Death followed.
A year after Hans: Nanny caught in an explosion.
Next year: two maids.
Isaac wept till tears ran dry, screamed till his voice failed.
Yet he pressed on. Amid surging rage, he toiled day and night: meditation, running, swordplay, probing magic and alchemy, scouring for artifacts or stabilizers, mana control drills, spells to slow circulation, scholars' counsel, explosion prediction.
Eyes closed, he saw the dead and wounded. No rest.
Four days clinging without sleep, then two days straight crashing—a weekly cycle.
He was fifteen.
He knew it was a fight he couldn't win.
Yet he neither wavered nor quit.
The dead because of him. Mother wandering the continent for years seeking a cure. Father enduring any loss from his failings. Unchanging brother Yonas.
Despair and surrender felt like luxuries.
He shook endlessly but never broke. Fell, but rose.
Thought he could forever.
"Ah."
He rubbed his dry face.
His brother's innocent face, twisted in pain, haunted him. Even after decades.
Yonas had just wanted to play the lute for his sleepless brother. Mother's lullaby favorite.
Misfortune struck without warning.
All praised the boy's playing—even court musicians called him prodigy.
Then Isaac's explosion tore off his right hand.
The memory burned vivid: dust-choked ruins, fallen servants. Rain like blood through broken windows. Blood and iron on his tongue. Brother's disbelieving eyes. Blood gushing from the stump. Delayed screams. Endless freefall vertigo.
Never had life felt so cursed.
That day, Isaac told his father:
"Lock me somewhere no one can enter, where no one can get hurt."
The fifteen-year-old boy's face was already an old man's.