Where Demons Live (1)
“What will you do?”
“Nothing changes.”
The Goethe Count answered Baron Bergheim’s question.
“Nothing changes?”
“We fulfill our duty. That’s all.”
“Ah. So no matter if the vassals betray us or Goethe crumbles, you’ll just keep slaughtering the beasts.”
Gray smoke drifted from Bergheim’s mouth as he leaned against the battlements. He removed the pipe and stared toward the White Snake Mountains. They were shrouded in darkness, barely visible.
“No change at all. Even rocks shift shape a little over ten years.”
Bergheim frowned.
“Ripe, Mark, and Hausen have been cozying up to Boatmer for ages. Now even Baron Buechtner’s dead, and his second son’s become Boatmer’s dog. And still, you’ll focus only on the beasts?”
Goethe had five vassal houses: Ripe, Mark, Hausen, Buechtner, and Bergheim. Three had turned their backs on Goethe, hoping for scraps from Boatmer’s table. Baron Buechtner had leaned toward Boatmer too, but at least he understood the weight of oaths. He wasn’t the type to cast aside his ancestors’ vows of loyalty so easily.
Yet he had died suddenly. Practically an assassination. With the bishop of Boatmer’s diocese vouching for it, Buechtner’s second son had inherited the headship. Four out of five vassal houses had abandoned Goethe.
“You’re still here, aren’t you?”
“You’re joking, right?”
Bergheim looked incredulous. His family had lived at Winterband for generations. His ancestor, once a butcher in the villages around the fortress, had caught the eye of a previous Goethe count and been granted a title. The other vassals had received lands south of Goethe territory, building up estates and forces over generations. But Bergheim’s line? Fathers hacked beasts, sons hacked beasts, and their sons hacked beasts. Butcher blood ran true—they were good at nothing but cutting and slicing.
The current Baron Bergheim was no different. He had no separate forces tucked away. Everything he had was at Winterband.
“Berg, what we must fight isn’t humans. The royal court’s intrigues, the nobles’ squabbles—they’re all just pointless wars between men. They end eventually. But the beasts? They never stop.”
“Spare me the greater good nonsense.”
Bergheim sighed.
“It’s not about the greater good. It’s principle.”
“That sounds good only coming from a lord with power.”
“I’ve heard something similar.”
The count gave a faint smile. Bergheim’s eyebrows rose slightly. The count rarely showed any expression.
“‘What principles or justice can a powerless lord uphold?’ they said.”
“Harsh words. Who said that?”
“The hero of the victory report the messenger brought today.”
“Isaac?”
“Yes.”
“That scrawny kid who can barely take care of himself said that?”
“He did.”
“While we’re on the topic, is he really the same person?”
Bergheim scratched his brow and straightened from the wall.
“Why? Can’t believe it?”
“A few months ago, he was rotting away in the manor. And now this pup held off fifty with four hundred? Who’d buy that?”
“He’s a baron now. He grew up without me noticing. By the time I came to my senses, he’d slipped from my grasp. You were right—kids grow fast.”
The count’s smile lingered.
“Then that other rumor too? Taming beasts to overcome the numbers? Even if the messenger was drunk on victory, isn’t that too much bragging?”
“I don’t know. Schrader said when Isaac returned to the manor, he brought a massive wolf with him.”
“Damn, I don’t know what to believe. When you sent Sigbrand’s squad, I figured they’d get wrecked and come crying back here.”
“It happened, that much is clear. Believe it or not, up to you. Dawn’s breaking.”
The light was still faint.
“Berg. I’m leaving the fortress in your hands for three days.”
“Where are you going?”
“To see my mother-in-law.”
“Pardon?”
Bergheim cocked his head oddly. The count’s parents were both dead. The only one he’d call mother-in-law was his wife Adel’s mother.
“No way.”
“That very one.”
And Adel’s mother was the great chieftain of the Granak tribe.
Early dawn. Isaac walked the open fields with Sigbrand and Carlson. Sigbrand had a bandage wrapped around his severed wrist—a wound from the chevalier. The stump had been cauterized to stop the bleeding, but pus was soaking through.
With his remaining hand, he gripped a flour sack from a mill, slung over his shoulder. It held the bones of five men. The shattered corpses had been gathered and burned together, making it impossible to tell whose was whose. Unlike other soldiers who preferred burial for religious reasons, they insisted on cremation.
“That squad’s still the same.”
Carlson broke the silence as the three walked wordlessly. He carried a smaller cloth pouch—the chevalier’s remains. Even Carlson wasn’t sure why he’d bothered collecting them. Pity for a similar fate? A vow not to end up like Boatmer? He couldn’t say.
“……”
Sigbrand glanced at Carlson but said nothing.
“You know them?”
Isaac asked.
“Everyone at Winterband knows the Wraith Squad.”
“Wraith Squad?”
“The longest-surviving squad there. Some call them ghosts. Numb to death, they say.”
Even as Carlson chattered about him right beside him, Sigbrand just kept walking in silence. No expression crossed his face—no irritation, no pride. He simply stared blankly at the distant hills and plains.
Isaac recalled their fight a few days ago. It wasn’t so much fighting as serving as meat shields. At a glance, it looked like pointless deaths—hacked apart blocking the mutated chevalier.
But in truth, they’d made the best choice under orders. Isaac had been at the bishop’s side, and the chevalier had charged blindly at him. It was only a fleeting moment. Carlson had chased a few steps behind, but he couldn’t outpace the aura closing in.
Sigbrand’s squad had followed the order to protect Isaac’s life. Not thinking of their own survival, but calculating how to bind the chevalier’s movements as best they could with their skills. That split-second judgment.
How was that possible? To completely suppress the fear of death, the survival instinct, and step forward willingly?
Even Isaac struggled to understand. But they moved as if it were natural. Thanks to them, he’d bought time to incinerate the chevalier with fire magic.
“This’ll do.”
A gravelly voice like scraping a larynx suddenly spoke. Sigbrand halted atop a hillock.
“Good spot.”
It was a relatively high hill, with a clear view. The wind howled fiercely here too. Sigbrand unslung the heavy sack from his shoulder and upended it. Scorched, discolored bone fragments spilled out in a heap.
He scooped handfuls from the pile on the ground, crushed them in his grip, and scattered them casually. Even as he dispersed his squadmates’ ashes, he showed no emotion.
“……”
Carlson stared blankly before scattering the chevalier’s remains. Burned by Isaac’s flames, they were closer to dark ash than bone—no fragments left. The powder scattered on the strong wind.
It took about the same time for Sigbrand to disperse five men’s bones as for Carlson to release the chevalier’s. Isaac just watched the scene.
He’d come to honor Sigbrand’s squadmates, but no feelings stirred in that moment.
The wind’s cold.
That was all.
The Papal Court sent investigators on a snowy day. A carriage wrapped in white cloth appeared suddenly before the Binvelt army camp. Stepping out were a scribe, an inquisitor, and two holy knights.
The scribe looked middle-aged, like Bishop Alquin. The inquisitor was a man in his forties.
“Long journey.”
“You’re Baron Binvelt?”
The scribe asked. He held himself straight despite his age, white hair neatly combed back. His narrow, slitted eyes made his pupils hard to see—an inscrutable face.
“Yes. I’m Baron Binvelt, Isaac von Binvelt Goethe.”
“Gaspar Monterro, scribe.”
“I’m Raphael de Veriada. As young as they say, Baron.”
Unlike the courteous scribe, the inquisitor treated Isaac dismissively. Younger than the scribe, his skin was rough, one ear torn. A face weathered by decades on battlefields.
“As special inquisitor of the Papal Court, I’ll investigate this incident. Any complaints?”
“Bishop Alquin must have detailed it all in his letter.”
“The Church’s duty is to reveal every truth plainly. Whether the bishop’s letter is fact or fiction is for the Church to judge. Where’s the bishop?”
“After such a long trip, have some warm tea first.”
“No need for needless hospitality.”
Raphael said sternly.
“Regrettable, but fine. Bishop Alquin’s praying. Carlson.”
“Yes. This way.”
Carlson led into the camp. The scribe and inquisitor followed, then the two holy knights.
“Inquisitor Raphael.”
The scribe murmured lowly. He glanced back slightly at Isaac behind them.
“Hm?”
“……Nothing. The cold must’ve tricked me.”
“Odd.”
Inquisitors were fundamentalists. Best to hold words until conviction struck. The scribe buttoned his collar. A chill pierced his clothes.
The divine power God granted him had reacted to Isaac’s mana for an instant. Meager as it was, that made it all the more sensitive.
For a moment, it felt like facing Cardinal Vincenzio.
Gaspar knew well of Goethe as the scribe. A magical house burdened by ancestral sins. Count Goethe was said to be one step from superhuman 5th Class mastery. Yet his children showed no notable achievements. Especially the eldest, Baron Binvelt, crippled by his unique constitution—unable to learn magic, lost to frenzy.
But hearsay, sight, and sensation differed vastly. Hearsay spoke of a mad cripple; sight showed a young baron; sensation… a brief shiver.
Raphael seemed unconcerned, but Gaspar instinctively sensed wrongness. His heart grew complicated. The secret pocket in his sleeve felt unbearably heavy. It held a vial of poison.
The camp of crude log fences was wider than expected. No proper buildings—just tents covered in beast or monster hides. Seemingly chaotic, but sentries stood at key points, and an unusual air flowed among the soldiers.
“Monster!?”
The inquisitor’s hand instinctively went to the mace at his waist. A massive wolf gazed innocently at the sky, mouth agape—as if to swallow the sun.
“Hellhound. It won’t attack. If you don’t want trouble, rein in your aura.”
Carlson warned. Instantly, surrounding soldiers moved in unison. Like drilled protocol, the camp’s flow shifted swiftly and orderly. They drew no weapons but encircled the investigators.
The holy knights’ hands went to their sword hilts. Inquisitor Raphael narrowed his eyes. The camp’s discipline far exceeded expectations. They’d reacted to the merest hint.
“So the rumor that Boatmer’s second son lost to forces several times smaller isn’t exaggeration.”
Raphael eyed the hellhound warily and resumed walking. A massive beast with black fur and red eyes.
Hellhound.
The name grated. A savage brat brushed snow from the beast’s back, playing.
Raphael made the sign of the cross. He prayed not to be tested in this land strayed from God’s teachings.