Eve of the Storm
Rutger died with his eyes wide open. He didn't even seem to grasp what had happened to him. His face, etched with shock and bewilderment, hadn't faded even in death.
"I just can't wrap my head around it. Carlson, tell me—how can a father kill his own son?"
Isaac crouched down and gently closed Rutger's eyes.
"It's not that rare. If necessary, they can discard or kill them without a second thought."
"Why? Isn't Viscount Boatmer a wealthy, powerful father?"
Isaac knew it too. In the not-too-distant future, it would become commonplace. Parents selling their children for a meal, children betraying their parents. As Isaac himself had felt, humans weren't that resilient. To avoid pain, they could turn cowardly or wicked in an instant.
But that was only for those pushed to the brink, reduced to raw survival instincts. It didn't apply to Viscount Boatmer.
Isaac didn't pity Rutger or feel sorry for him. He was just curious. And a little angry.
"In this regard, young master, you're too clever for your own good."
"Me? That's funny."
"He's a man before he's a father. Those with much to lose sometimes have to choose something more important than family. The reason Chevalier tried to kill Rutger and Bishop Alquin was clear. There must have been an order from Viscount Boatmer: if they lost in battle and Rutger and the bishop were captured, kill them."
A rough smile crossed Isaac's smooth skin. "By killing Rutger, he'd keep the justification for war alive. And silencing the bishop with his death. Looks like I'm dumber than I thought. I still don't get it. Klaus von Boatmer... Now I want to see that bastard's face. This is hilarious. I've never wanted to kill someone just to do it before. This feeling's new."
Isaac stood up.
"Have the bishop hold a requiem mass."
"I'll talk to him when he wakes up."
"Ah, the bishop wasn't in his right mind either. Tsk."
Bishop Alquin had suffered a shock too great for his advanced age. First, witnessing the death of Rutger, whom he'd supported, right before his eyes—and killed by the long-known Chevalier. Second, nearly dying at that Chevalier's hands. Third, watching that Chevalier transform into something inhuman and burn to death.
"I don't want to bury the enemy commander properly. Have the prisoners cremate him decently enough, then say prayers or whatever."
"Understood."
"And for our casualties, entomb them in the cemetery. Hold funerals according to their traditions. Send a messenger to Winterband with the news."
"Yes."
"Songs won't stop for a while."
Wrinkle formed on Isaac's forehead.
"Oh, and now spill what you know about Boatmer."
"Nothing too impressive."
Klaus von Boatmer hailed from a republican noble family. The family name was Klaus itself, now his own. The Klaus family had amassed wealth through banking and trade for generations, becoming one of the republic's strongest financial powers. But as revolutionary flames engulfed the republic, their fate wavered.
In the revolution's early days, they lent to the revolutionary government and bought public bonds, maintaining stable business. But as it radicalized, radicals began suppressing financial elites. They imposed absurdly high wealth taxes on capitalists and forced bond purchases. Non-participants faced asset seizures or executions for counter-revolutionary crimes.
As an example, most of the Klaus family vanished under the guillotine. In the madness, only eldest son Klaus and his wife escaped dramatically. They smuggled out remaining assets, fled to the kingdom, and bought the declining collateral branch of the Goethe family, the Boatmers, to survive. Their only child was the current Klaus von Boatmer, Viscount Boatmer.
"The viscount now is the embodiment of the Klaus family. Nothing matters more than protecting and reviving it."
"Hm..."
Bill and Bessimer scratched their heads at Carlson's explanation. They exchanged glances and grinned awkwardly, like reuniting with an old comrade.
"From his forebears' experience, Klaus learned money alone couldn't secure the family. So he recruited talented orphans, trained and brainwashed them thoroughly. Absolute knights who never betray—a personal guard. He bound them with the yoke of family, instilling that the house is everything, and without it, they're nothing."
"So that's why."
Bessimer muttered, recalling the bristling Chevalier at the word "orphan."
"Then Rutger wasn't his real son either?" Isaac asked.
"No, Rutger was his biological son. Klaus treats orphans and blood children differently. Orphans get martial arts and swordsmanship; blood children get princely education. Though in the end, it's just weighing pieces on a board."
Carlson sneered. On a chessboard, a knight outranks a pawn. But that's it. Knights too are pieces to sacrifice for victory someday. Like Rutger.
Like father, like son? Isaac thought. Maybe his hatred for Viscount Boatmer stemmed from seeing himself in the man.
If there was a chessboard to protect Goethe, what pieces were these people before him worth?
Guess Carlson's right—I'm too clever for my own good.
Isaac let a bitter smile flicker then vanish. Such reflections could wait until the problems at hand were solved.
"So those orphan knights he raised—ten of them left?"
"Something like that."
Carlson nodded at Bessimer. Viscount Boatmer originally had twelve knights. Carlson included.
Once, the viscount had been a father to him too. Until seeing the man's true face.
"Then those guys all... turn into monsters too?"
Bessimer asked gravely. Chevalier's transformation had overwhelmed even him, a great warrior.
"Who knows. I've been away too long; no telling what he's done since."
"Hmph. Exciting."
Bessimer laughed, leg jiggling. Mind and body clashed: spirit craving battle, flesh prioritizing survival.
"Does our great mage have a different take on those monsters?"
"M-Me!?"
Bill seized the chance to ask silent Enet. She startled, having waited breathlessly for the meeting's end.
"Yeah, Enet. You took down that monster—not our great knight or warrior here. Soldiers are singing your praises."
Bill grinned mischievously. He knew Isaac burned Chevalier; he'd been first to witness Isaac's magic at the manor.
"Ah, uh, th-that was..."
Enet glanced pleadingly at Isaac, but he averted his eyes. He disliked Bill's spiteful pranks but couldn't bail her out every time.
To Isaac, Enet was a conduit for magic, a mask. And someday, the Gray Tower's lord. She needed to learn to think, answer, and advance on her own.
"That was..."
Enet trailed off, head bowed. With Carlson and Bessimer's gazes too, she couldn't meet them.
Yeah, too much to expect from the start.
"That guy..."
Isaac sighed shallowly, about to speak.
"W-Well, I don't know for sure, but it seemed like I burned his mana circuits."
"Mana... circuits?"
"People have a pineal gland in their brains that manifests will to control mana, or something. Ah, probably. Some catalyst abnormally activated it... Um, syncing body and mana extremely, causing overload beyond what the circuits could handle?"
Enet fiddled with her bandaged left hand using her right.
Half-right. But even Isaac was inwardly impressed. Chevalier had used a strengthening drug later deployed in wars. Strictly, Enet's reasoning was off, but her approach spot-on.
"..."
Bill gaped.
"Uncle Bill, get it?"
"Of c-course I do! Think I wouldn't if you do?"
Bill bristled. As manor servant, he couldn't admit a younger maid understood what he didn't—pride stung.
In truth, only Isaac grasped Enet's words amid the command tent. Staying silent claimed half the victory. Bessimer and Carlson did just that.
Thus, discussions on reinforcements, prisoner handling, sowing, and logistics proceeded in relative quiet.
And Bill found Enet a bit intimidating.
Winterband's nights bit like knives. Yet the sky was heartlessly clear. Under countless stars, the landscape lay pitch-black. Faint monster roars echoed distantly from White Snake Mountains—perhaps just wind.
Below the walls, soldiers patrolled in pairs: checking ramparts and stockades, lighting lanterns, sharpening weapons and armor. Tending braziers, warming hands at fires, standing night watch or rounds.
In the inner keep, off-duty soldiers bantered during personal time.
Long winter approached. Soldiers feared not immediate monster battles, but the dread creeping in during lulls.
"This autumn's been eerily quiet."
Bergheim remarked casually, puffing his pipe. Thick tobacco smoke dispersed into frigid air, denser than his breath. The count stared blankly at the sky, expressionless as ever.
Every day felt like the eve of a storm.
"They're here, those bastards! Light the fires! Ring the bells! Weapons up! No shadows allowed! God protects us!"
"...Hoo—"
Baron Bergheim leaned on the inner wall railing, watching a soldier dash madly. The mania-afflicted man hallucinated. He relived his squad's annihilation endlessly.
"Snap out of it, Laghen!"
"Do something about this psycho!"
Squadmates sweated restraining him, faces etched with fatigue and irritation. Not a one-off or rare case here—it was routine.
One by one they cracked; eventually, no one endured without some madness.
"Let go! They're coming! We're all gonna die, all die!"
The count followed Bergheim's gaze to the soldier dragged away by comrades. Both commanders' faces were impassive.
"Winter must be starting. Mania's kicking in."
Breath steamed from the baron's mouth. Skin-slicing cold wove with nightmarish winter memories, birthing mania.
Survivors endured more than life-or-death fights. Here, winter came first and left last.
"What'll you do?"
The baron scratched his gray-streaked beard.
Two reports arrived. One decent: Isaac's victory. The other dire: Baron Buechner assassinated, his second son Beltran taking over and siding with Boatmer.
And the count's knees ached. Magic thickened. Monsters crossing White Snake Mountains, drawing nearer.