Foul Stench (2)
Whoosh—the two fireballs twisted together in flight before splitting apart just before the wall, only to merge again in midair and return to Isaac’s hand.
Sizzle—crack! This time, one fireball extinguished while an ice crystal formed in its place.
Whoosh! Splinter—As the fireball shot forward, the ice crystal arced through the air in pursuit. The fireball was a feint. The real attack was the ice crystal.
Just as both were about to strike the wall, Isaac cut off the mana. The fireball vanished into thin air, and the ice crystal shattered against the stone.
“Whew.”
He wiped the sweat from his brow. Ever since his circulation paths had reached five, he’d realized that relying on a single type of spell was no longer enough.
Nears, the man Isaac had killed for his first murder, had been caught off guard. And he wasn’t the sort who’d ever faced a mage before. His origins lay beyond the northern frontier, in a shaman tribe village at the foot of the White Snake Mountains. He’d murdered his father for assaulting his mother and been exiled by the tribe. Drifting into Bernsi’s slums, everyone he’d butchered had been lowlife thugs scraping by at the bottom.
According to what Yonas had said in his past life, the man survived thanks to his knowledge of secret sewer passages and the forests near the White Snake Mountains. His infamy for terror stemmed from relentlessly targeting weak villagers, massacring them, and displaying their corpses—not from any power that could challenge the Goetes.
Even his death by Isaac’s magic proved it. The spell Isaac used was rare in mage society but basic with a mere frost rune stone.
Nears was utterly ignorant when it came to facing mages.
Isaac wasn’t endlessly varying and practicing his spells because of scum like Nears. It was for the enemies he’d eventually face: mage hunters hired by forces targeting the Goetes, dishonored knights, inquisitors from the old church who viewed magic as the clergy’s exclusive privilege, and so on.
They were optimized to counter mages, knowing their weaknesses and how to exploit them.
He had to stop the Second Prince from dragging the empire into the fray and dooming the kingdom somehow. But if he failed even slightly, the coming era of war would be hell for mages.
No wonder the Goetes would declare a city-state guaranteeing mage freedom as the sole sanctuary.
Even if Isaac had returned to the past, he couldn’t protect everything. But the essentials—the things he couldn’t afford to lose—he would safeguard.
His relentless spell variations were preparation for that.
“Again.”
Isaac raised his hand. Flames flickered to life.
“Young master! Young master!”
Isaac opened his eyes to a late morning. The sun was up, but the sky was overcast, and the wind rattled the windows fiercely.
“Get up already.”
“Mm… what’s going on?”
Hans and the nanny burst in almost simultaneously. Hans set a brass basin on the bedside table, drew back the curtains, and rekindled the dying embers in the hearth. The nanny soaked a rough cloth in the basin water, wiped Isaac’s face, and smoothed his tousled hair.
Having practiced magic until dawn, Isaac was still half-asleep.
“Snap out of it. What’d you do last night to sleep so late?”
“Just… reading a bit.”
Isaac mumbled with half-lidded eyes.
“Hans, clothes.”
“Ah, yes.”
At the nanny’s word, Hans handed over the tunic he’d brought. She dressed Isaac, who still couldn’t open his eyes fully.
“What’s this about?”
“The master’s back.”
“Father?”
“Yes. He wants to have lunch with you and the little young master.”
At her answer, Isaac felt his heart race.
—Go on ahead and wait. When you come to me, leave all your regrets behind.
The last image of his father in Isaac’s memory was that of an aged, frail man. His golden hair had turned white, his cheeks hollowed, his once-imposing frame withered away. A weary old soul worn down by worldly cares.
To the end, the count had tried to preserve his eldest son’s dignity, taking up Valerich himself to end Isaac’s life—a life buried underground until death.
“Young master! Wake up already!”
The impatient nanny snapped. Of course, Isaac had been awake for ages. He was just wading through the swamp of old memories.
How had he died? According to Yonas, a bishop of the old church had poisoned him with something called the “Saint’s Curse.” He hadn’t wanted to show weakness, so he never visited Isaac to the end.
“……”
“Young master!”
“Quit fussing. I’m wide awake now.”
Isaac straightened the tunic over his underclothes.
“I can dress myself. You and Hans, out.”
Hans and the nanny exchanged glances, nodded lightly, and left the room.
Isaac stood before the mirror, staring at himself. Sometimes, when he missed his father, he’d do this. His own face, ravaged by early aging, resembled his father’s so closely.
Isaac had ash-gray hair instead of blond, sharper features, but Goete blood ran true. Seeing his father in his reflection brought comfort—and bitterness. They shared such similar features, yet he’d never once had a heartfelt father-son talk.
Someday, maybe.
Someday. When he could finally lay everything down.
Isaac planned to act spoiled with his father then. Whenever that day came.
“What monster was it this time?”
“Less a monster, more a Schniman.”
“Schniman?”
“Primitive giants. The tribes have their own cultures, but Schnimen are far more primal—beasts in human shape. Picture a giant covered head to toe in white fur. They devour anything: people, wild beasts, even their own kin.”
“Whoa.”
Yonas gaped at the count’s explanation. A mealtime from childhood he could no longer recall. And a father from his younger days.
Very different from Isaac’s memories. A physique suited to a knight rather than a mage, thick golden hair, trimmed beard, eyes gleaming sharply. No trace of the decrepit father Isaac remembered.
He’d fit right in as the head of any knightly house. The count wasn’t as curt as Isaac had thought.
“Must be huge, right? Bigger than you, Father?”
“Aye. If a Schniman walked into this dining hall, its head would scrape the ceiling.”
The count answered Yonas’s endless questions without a hint of annoyance. His face remained expressionless, though. No warm paternal gaze or smile as he looked at his son, no signs of fatigue despite over a month fortifying the fortress.
“Father, look at this!”
Yonas, who’d been bombarding the count with questions, suddenly pulled out a wooden doll.
“A knight. Valiant.”
“Yeah. His name’s Mut.”
“Mut?”
“We learned it in ancient language class. Mut means ‘courage’ in the common tongue. So I named him that.”
“Good fit. Didn’t know you had such handiwork in you.”
The count glanced at the doll a few times before handing it back.
“Big brother carved it! Cool, huh?”
“Isaac did?”
The count’s gaze shifted to Isaac at Yonas’s words.
“I see.”
That was the extent of his reaction. He returned to his meal.
Yonas chattered on until the end, and the count gave measured responses. Nothing more—no questions or words for his sons.
The count preferred simple meals out of consideration for the frontier soldiers, so lunch didn’t drag. A few hunks of rye bread, venison, vegetable soup, and watered wine. Not much time needed for that.
“Big bro, let’s play!”
The moment the meal seemed done, Yonas piped up. He’d been eyeing Isaac the whole time, seizing his chance. For a nine-year-old, that was impressive restraint.
Isaac spent his days holed up in his room except for dawn runs, brushing Yonas off at the door every time he visited.
Isaac knew how Yonas felt but couldn’t answer right away. His eyes kept drifting to the boy’s small right hand. An auditory hallucination echoed: Yonas’s screams as he lost that hand in his past life.
“Sorry, but…”
“Yonas, that’ll have to wait.”
As Isaac opened his mouth, the count cut in.
“I need to speak with Isaac. Isaac, I’ll be in the study. Come when you’re done eating.”
The count dabbed his mouth with a napkin and rose. His plate was already clean.
“Sorry, Yonas.”
Isaac said as he watched their father’s back retreating from the dining hall.
“Tch.”
Yonas pouted.
“Young master, huff, huff, young master!”
A moment later, as Isaac moved to leave, Bill came panting up desperately.
“Huff, what’re you doing here at this hour? You’re always in your room. Took me forever to find you.”
“Do I have to wait for you in my room every time?”
Isaac glanced at Yonas departing with his nanny. The thorn-like bad memory lodged in his soul showed no sign of fading. Touching a long-forgotten barb had sharpened his nerves.
“What’re you saying? It’s that urgent.”
Bill’s face was ashen as lead.
“Urgent?”
“Not for here. This way.”
Bill glanced around and led him to a corner of the manor’s back garden. Lunch hours were quiet for servants without special engagements.
“What is it?”
“Uh, do you know anything about the Winterband knights?”
“Knights?”
“Overheard from Nears’s lackeys—they pay regular tribute to the knights.”
“Tribute? Of what?”
“What else? A cut of the slave trade profits.”
“Why?”
“That’s how Nears kept operating in the sewers—the knights had his back.”
“……”
Isaac’s face hardened.
“Got a report this morning: one of ours turned up dead at Nears’s hideout entrance. Knife fights happen all the time there, so no big deal usually. But for the gang’s face, we gotta avenge it. Y’know, now that I’m the boss…”
Bill rambled pointlessly, thoroughly rattled.
“What’re you getting at?”
“So, young master, the dead guy—everything but his left pinky was chopped off.”
Bill fumbled in the pouch at his waist and pulled something out.
“These… were on my bed this morning! All neatly arranged!”
What he held were human fingers. Grimy, filthy, blackened with drained blood.
“These the dead guy’s fingers?”
“No doubt. All nine besides the pinky. Then a message to my plant in the manor: no tribute in two days, and my fingers are next.”
Bill eyed Isaac resentfully.
“Please, do something. You forced me into this boss seat. If I die, you’re not safe either. Cough up some tribute at least. Can’t even sell the maids yet. Tribute my ass.”
“Watch your mouth.”
Isaac glared. Bill folded like paper under the icy stare. A mere twelve-year-old kid, but Bill had witnessed him casually take Nears’s life.
Damn it, what am I supposed to do!
Stuck in the middle, Bill couldn’t vent openly.
“No witnesses to the killing?”
“There were, but it was so fast they didn’t see much. Sword flashed a couple times, living man to corpse. Fingers sliced off in seconds.”
“Killer’s description?”
“Nothing solid. Just a bandage around the head. Leper drifter? Wounded soldier or merc? No telling.”
Bill’s face grew more miserable by the second.
“Got it.”
“……Got it? That’s it?”
“Don’t worry. You won’t die.”
With that, Isaac headed for his father’s study.
This wasn’t in what past-life Yonas had mentioned. At this point, Nears shouldn’t have been dead yet. Nor Bill the boss.
Unlike terrified Bill, Isaac felt something else: displeasure, betrayal.
Winterband knights, those bastards…
His teeth ground together.
“Convene the military council at once. We behead scum like that to enforce discipline.”
As Isaac reached the count’s private study, a tense voice carried from inside. Armed soldiers stood at the entrance, saluting him with nods.
“Unlike you to be so hasty, Pfeil.”
“It’s a matter of discipline, isn’t it? If they get away with this and keep their heads, who’ll obey our orders?”
“You think so too, Randolf?”
“I follow the commander’s word.”
“Randolf, you stubborn ox.”
“Enough. We’ll end it here.”
The study door opened, and two men emerged. Both wore chainmail under surcoats emblazoned with the Goete crest: a shield, symbol of the kingdom’s bulwark.
“Oh, if it isn’t young master Isaac! Last I saw, you barely reached my thigh. All grown up now.”
“An honor to see you, young master Isaac.”
The tall, lanky one beamed, while the stockier mid-height one placed a hand over his heart and bowed.
Unfamiliar faces to Isaac. From the talk, the tall one was Pfeil, the burly Randolf.
But Isaac’s gaze locked on Randolf. A bandage slashed diagonally across his head. Where an ear should be was flat, crusted with dark brown blood.
“A pleasure. Sir Pfeil, Sir Randolf. Rough campaign, I see. Hope it’s not too grave an injury.”
Isaac and Randolf’s eyes met in the air.
“Haha, heard about your unique constitution acting up. Sharp as ever, remembering our names. Haha!”
Pfeil laughed heartily. But Isaac didn’t join. His face was impassive, like his father’s.