The Foul Stench (1)
Isaac stared down at his palm. A small, white child's hand, unmarred by even a single callus. Yet the undeniable fact remained: this hand had taken a man's life.
Anew, Isaac felt the grandeur and peril of magic, its utter inhumanity. Without so much as laying a blade to flesh, that hulking brute of ill repute had crumbled in a single blow.
Isaac recalled the myriad emotions described in countless books—the rush of omnipotence after a first kill, the hollow void, the creeping fear, the ecstatic thrill. None captured his true feelings. He sensed no such things. Only a certainty that this hand would soon be stained with much more blood. And a resolve that he would not hesitate to protect what must be guarded.
He didn't know how he'd returned to the past, but he knew how he would live from here on. When the time came to depart this life once more, he would go lightly, unburdened by regrets.
"Young master, may I come in?"
Hans's voice came from beyond the door.
"Come in."
"Good day, young master."
Enet entered with Hans, grasping her skirt and dipping into a slight curtsy with a bow of her head. Isaac was glad to see her but didn't show it.
"Good. I heard you had a rough time."
"Yes. I paid the price for my foolishness. If you hadn't convinced the head butler, Clara, Hilde, and I would have been thrown out of the manor. Thank you."
"I just didn't want the manor staff faces changing all the time."
Isaac brushed it off as no big deal. Though everyone in the manor knew he'd raised his voice in heated argument with Schrader over it.
"How's your health?"
"I was only locked up a few days, so I'm fine. But Hilde and Clara... they were treated like merchandise, so they didn't suffer anything too awful, but just being confined must have been hell. The horrors that go on in a place like that would break most minds."
"I imagine so."
Isaac nodded unconsciously. In the wastewater district, in Nears's turf, the slaughterhouse wasn't for animals—it processed people as meat. Even for Isaac, with the mental age of over seventy, it had been a shocking sight. He'd lost sleep for days, his stomach churning at every meal. For mere teenage maids, it must have been unbearable.
"Can you tell me what happened?"
"Does it matter? In the end, we escaped, only to be spared on a whim by those thugs."
Enet was just as Isaac remembered: dark brown hair neatly braided and swept back, long narrow eyes, small pointed nose. The only change was her air. Once perpetually shadowed and gloomy, she now seemed merely a prickly girl.
"I'm curious."
"...If you're asking, young master."
Enet let out a small sigh and recounted the tale concisely.
Hilde and Clara, enamored with the debauched lives of nobles from salacious novels, firmly believed the rumor that southern women were so ugly that noble heirs shunned marriage or kept them only as concubines. So they'd sought a broker to send them south, only to fall into the clutches of Nears's lackeys.
The broker abducted Hilde and Clara in sequence, spaced out to preserve the "merchandise's" freshness, minimize storage costs, and evade suspicion from guards who couldn't be bought off. When Clara, who'd promised a letter from the capital, went silent, Enet tracked down the broker—and got snatched too. The slavers rejected Hilde and Clara because they acted like raving lunatics.
"They might have actually cracked a bit. The environment was enough to drive anyone mad."
"Hm."
"A few more days, and I'd have lost it too, one way or another. The cage door was broken—we could have escaped anytime. The slaver fancied me and planned to take me in three days. And right next door in her cage was Clara, soiling herself, cackling madly every so often... I'm sorry. You probably didn't want to hear that."
"It's fine. You only answered because I asked."
Only then did Isaac grasp what Enet had once told him in the past. She'd abandoned Clara and fled alone to save her skin. No one in the manor would have scoured the slums and sewers for three maids otherwise.
"Must have been hard to relive, but thanks for telling me. You can go."
"..."
Isaac thought he'd wrapped it up politely, but Enet lingered, hesitating.
"More to say?"
"The head butler dismissed it as nonsense from numb legs, but it's bothering me."
Enet's hands clenched her skirt hem.
"You at least listen to us..."
"What is it?"
"When the thugs tied us up tight and sent us back to the manor for some reason, Hilde came to briefly in the cart. As the manor neared, Clara and I were thrilled, but Hilde looked terrified."
"Hilde?"
"Yes. She kept saying she'd surely die if she went back to the manor... It seemed more than just fear of the butler's wrath or punishment. She repeated it nonstop."
"She said she'd die if she returned?"
"...Yes."
Isaac had no ready guess. All he knew of the incident came from Yonas's briefing on Nears. He'd paid no mind to Hilde's fate, nor heard anything about it.
"Nothing else?"
"No."
"Got it. If something clicks, I'll handle it somehow."
Isaac fumbled to an awkward close. Enet let out a sudden snort of laughter, then flushed in embarrassment.
"Sorry! No offense. Forgive me."
"Then why laugh?"
"You just seem like a good person. Sorry."
Enet apologized profusely, but showed no real fear of him. More than that, Isaac found her smile novel—he'd never seen it before.
"I talked with Roza yesterday. Oh, Roza's another maid close to me, like Clara. She thinks the thugs changed their minds and let us go because of you. Ridiculous, right? But... it kinda makes sense. You're the only one in the manor who cares about the likes of us."
"..."
Was she always this talkative? Isaac wondered. He remembered her as one who spoke only when necessary.
"S-sorry. I talked too much."
Under Isaac's steady gaze, Enet blushed deeper.
"I'll go now."
She curtsied and hurried for the door.
"Enet."
"Yes?"
Isaac called her back.
"Thanks for saying that."
"Ah..."
"And... never mind. We'll talk later."
"Yes, then."
Enet looked puzzled but nodded and left.
An unexpected talent right under my nose.
Isaac smacked his lips. Not long after killing Nears, another circulation path had formed, bringing his total to five. Strangely, his mana sensitivity sharpened noticeably from then on. Thanks to it, he'd sensed the impressive capacity of Enet's mana vessel. She might even be worth teaching magic to. Not now, of course, but when he had the leisure.
"Hans."
"Yes."
"Don't smirk."
"Yes."
Isaac glared at Hans, who grinned as if it were his own triumph. Hans made no effort to hide it.
"Find Bill and bring him here."
"Right away. Such a fine young master."
After the three maids returned, the manor buzzed. Their gaunt, blood-deprived state, reeking from days unwashed, made for juicy gossip. But what truly drew eyes was the clash between the head butler and Isaac over their fate.
The butler argued it was impossible to trust maids who'd fled the manor once. Isaac ordered a second chance. Even as the Goethe heir, Isaac was overstepping—the butler had served the family for decades, overseeing all manor affairs. Their public quarrel fueled wild tales: Isaac as a lecherous brat, or a white knight on horseback, depending on the spin.
"So, Bill, what do you think the truth is?"
Bill never missed a rumor. Embellishing tales with sweet bait was his specialty. Some ignored the chatter or despised it, but most perked up, pretending disinterest while listening raptly.
"Hey, Bill!"
"What? I'm busy as fuck."
Bill grumbled, sack slung over one shoulder.
"What do you think!? You started the maid scandal talk!"
"..."
Bill eyed the expectant faces with weary disgust.
"Pathetic lot. Do your damn jobs! If you're just yapping like old hens, no one'll stick their neck out when you're sacked."
That was his answer. He spat it out and stomped off to the stable.
"What the hell?"
"What's his problem?"
"All hyped to blab before."
The servants muttered in disbelief. Bill ignored the stares and curses as he dumped the sack in the stable and slumped against it.
"Haa, fuck... how the hell..."
Bill, Bill, Bill. Dumbass. Dumbass life. He'd figured he'd scrape by whining forever, fizzling out pathetically. But who could've foreseen this end?
Now Bill was the boss of the wastewater crime gang, Nears's successor. The second Nears.
Not by his choice. Isaac's.
Precisely, the magic contract forced it.
Slums, the wastewater district. Fugitives, exiles, vagrants would keep flooding in. Wipe out crime gangs, and more would spawn. Better to plant a seed of control—that was Isaac's thinking. Sound in theory. But dumping the burden on Bill?
Now, in gang wars, Bill's head rolled first. Ambitious underlings gunning for the top? Bill's neck went first again.
"You called, boss?"
"Fuck, I said don't call me boss."
Bill snapped, but the two burly thugs who'd assembled on his order just shrugged.
"Light."
Bill pulled out his pipe and clamped it between his teeth. One brute approached, striking flint and steel with practiced ease to light it.
"Hoo."
Smoke billowed from Bill's mouth. His sole consolation was wielding this pea-sized power. Though knowing it could cost his head soured it.
"You're sure those are all our plants in the manor?"
"Yeah. Old boss... told us to watch it."
"That Nears bastard wasn't just a lunatic."
Unlike his rep as a black magic nutjob, Nears had a meticulous side. Not that it mattered now—he was gone, by a mere flick of Isaac's wrist.
"Ugh, suddenly freezing. Shit."
A chill ran down Bill's spine. The weather was cold enough, but thinking of Isaac made it icier. Bound by magic contract to a monster hiding his strength—natural death was off the table.
"If weird rumors about young master Isaac pop up, shut mouths tight."
"Got it."
"Scram. Wanna be alone."
"..."
"Why're you still here?"
Bill waved them off, but the brutes stood firm.
"Tribute."
The silent one suddenly extended a hand.
"What?"
"Knight. Tribute."
Bill frowned quizzically, and the other spoke.
"The tribute for the knight around now."
"What knight?"
"You didn't hear from old boss?"
"Hear what? I lopped his head off first."
"A knight backed us to hold this shithole."
"So, who?"
"Dunno. Just hand over tribute when he sends someone. No face, no name. Just 'northern knight.'"
Bill furrowed his brow at the brute's coherent words. It reeked. Money stench. And back-alley cash always carried a foul whiff.
A few days later.
The count returned.
With a condemned prisoner in tow.