The Condemned Man Carlson
“I heard you treated the children in Black Goose Village. Is that true?”
After the knights had left, the count asked. Isaac knew that was why his father had summoned him.
“Did you hear it from Schrader?”
“Yes. When I first read the letter, I thought I’d misread it.”
“I got lucky.”
Isaac answered flatly.
“Lucky?”
Doubt flickered across the count’s otherwise expressionless face. Lucky? Could pneumonia be resolved by luck? In the Goethe territory alone, more than a dozen people died of it each year—mostly children or the elderly.
And his eldest son had cured an outbreak in an entire village as if by magic. Was that something luck could accomplish?
“I happened to read about unusual pneumonia symptoms in a book. Then I heard about Nanny’s village from Hans, and the symptoms matched.”
As if reading his father’s mind, Isaac explained.
“So, you’ve decided to stop throwing tantrums?”
“……”
Tantrum. That referred to how miserably Isaac had behaved ever since his mana rampage—full of self-pity and resentment, snapping at the servants.
“I’m working on it.”
Isaac replied after a brief silence.
“On what?”
“Getting better.”
The count pulled a pipe from his desk drawer. Just as Isaac remembered. Pipes of all kinds were always within arm’s reach around his father. Even the pockets sewn into his worn coat held a small one.
It seemed the count forgot his heaven-sent burdens only when he smoked.
Chiiik—
Grayish-white smoke rose from the stem packed with tobacco leaves, carrying a sharp, acrid scent. His father’s magic was so natural, as if fire had always been there.
“How’s your body holding up?”
Tak tak.
The count tapped the desk with one hand while puffing on the pipe. No word of praise, but Isaac knew his father was satisfied in his own way. He hadn’t punished him for breaking curfew, nor scolded him about what might have happened if a mana rampage had struck there.
“Not sure, but I haven’t had an explosion. And the feeling that one’s coming has faded a lot.”
“Good. Looks like that quack doctor from Oton lives up to the rumors.”
That quack? The retort rose in Isaac’s throat, but he swallowed it. Better to humor the old man’s crotchety temperament for now.
“Still, don’t get complacent. Your constitution is… unpredictable.”
The count chose his words carefully.
“Yes. I’ll keep that in mind.”
“……”
“……”
As far as Isaac knew, it had been over a month and a half since the count returned home. Yet here he was, already out of words, just puffing away.
“Did you stop by Bernsi on your way back from Winterband to the manor?”
“Hm?”
The count took the pipe from his mouth at the odd question.
“Why do you ask?”
“I’ll have to go to Winterband as a Goethe someday. Sure, I’ll have guides, but shouldn’t I at least know the route?”
“……Usually, we don’t go through Bernsi. It’s flatter, but a much longer detour. We pass through the city only if we need supplies or have business with the market lord. I did this time on the way back.”
The count eyed Isaac steadily as he answered.
“Knights Randolf and Pfeil too?”
“Yes.”
“Do you usually travel with them?”
“You’re full of questions today.”
“I’ve been feeling better, so my curiosity’s kicking in.”
The count found Isaac’s barrage suspicious, but the boy brushed it off as youthful inquisitiveness about the family head’s life or the people of Winterband. Not a bad sign for a count. His eldest, once obsessed only with his illness, was now taking interest in the house.
“Anything else?”
The count asked after answering everything.
“Just one last thing.”
“Ask.”
“Father, do you trust Knights Pfeil and Randolf?”
“……Trust them? That’s a tough one. They were born and raised in Winterband’s civilian homes. I don’t trust their character or judgment. But it’s clear as day they want to defend Winterband.”
“I see.”
Isaac nodded.
“That was a longer talk than I expected. Off you go.”
“Military council?”
“Yes.”
“You’ll pass judgment on the insubordination.”
“Likely.”
A glint of surprise lit the count’s eyes. Twelve years old. A bit young, but old enough to prepare for adulthood. And at that age, to fully grasp the count’s words was commendable. He hadn’t even used the term insubordination, yet Isaac had named the crime from context alone—showing he understood military discipline and the gravity of rebellion against superiors.
“I’ll be going, then.”
After Isaac bowed and left, Schrader entered as if waiting.
“How was it?”
The unflappable butler pressed urgently.
“Did something happen to Isaac while I was away?”
“Not that I know of. He’s been like this since waking from the mana rampage faint.”
“I see what you mean about him changing. Looks like he’s turned over a new leaf. Adel will be thrilled.”
The count tapped the desk with his index finger as he spoke.
‘Thrilled? That’s you, my lord.’
Schrader knew it was the count’s unconscious habit when pleased—though the man himself was oblivious.
‘Company commanders.’
According to the count, Randolf and Pfeil were company commanders at Winterband, each leading infantry units of twenty to thirty men. They rarely visited the manor, but had come as parties to a military trial: insubordination. One of Pfeil’s infantrymen, reassigned to Randolf’s company for a mission, had disobeyed orders, drawn his sword, and even slashed Randolf’s ear. A capital offense on its own, yet Randolf had oddly requested a formal military tribunal from the count instead of summary execution.
Tsk.
Isaac clicked his tongue. What a mess. No telling when or how Winterband’s knights got tangled in Bernsi’s underworld filth. But one thing was clear: high odds that Randolf was the man who’d killed Nias’s underling and severed nine fingers. Timeline and description matched.
‘What a circus.’
Human trafficking, failed leadership leading to mutiny. Pathetic.
Isaac planned a trip to Winterband soon to recruit reliable vanguard troops. He could handle magic-ignorant foes alone, but veterans wouldn’t give him casting time. It was inevitable they’d appear eventually. He needed synced vanguards.
But if discipline had crumbled and soldiers’ values shaken, better look elsewhere.
‘In that state, they’re not Goethe’s shield—they’re a disease to purge.’
“Young master? What brings you here…?”
Isaac approached the underground prison entrance on the west side of the manor’s main building. It rarely held prisoners, so guards were uncommon. Today was different. A condemned man awaited execution.
“Came to see who’s locked up.”
“Did the count approve?”
“Yeah. As the eldest son of Goethe, he told me to witness the prisoner and execution with my own eyes.”
Isaac lied smoothly. The guard had no way to verify.
“This way. Be careful—he’s supposed to be quick.”
Guided by the guard, Isaac reached the cell.
“Call if you need anything.”
The guard hurried back to the entrance. No need to spell it out—he’d heard the mana rampage rumors and dreaded staying near.
“You the condemned?”
“……”
No answer. Dim torchlight made the face hard to discern. Messy hair covered half; the visible parts were swollen or bruised. Insubordination—no way comrades or superiors had gone easy. The trip from Winterband couldn’t have been gentle either. And here, until execution, he’d suffer. Hands in manacles, one ankle shackled, clad only in tattered underclothes against the cold. The longer the delay, the worse flu or pneumonia would hit.
“Why’d you cut off Randolf’s ear?”
“……”
No response to Isaac’s rapid questions.
‘Beating around the bush wastes time.’
Isaac had come for one reason: confirm if Randolf or Pfeil truly linked to Nias’s organization. Here was a man who’d mutinied against them, life hanging by a thread. He’d harbor resentment toward superiors and spill dirt without hesitation.
“Know an organization called Nias?”
“……”
“They deal in human trafficking.”
“……”
Clang.
The prisoner shifted, chains rattling. A glint of torch-reflected eyes flashed through his hair. No words, but the first reaction to Isaac’s probe.
‘Face looks familiar.’
Isaac felt a jolt of recognition.
“So, you know your company commander’s tight with that criminal outfit?”
Clang-clang!
The prisoner stood. Worn down, but sturdy build, honed physique. Clank! Manacles hit the bars as he gripped them.
“I’ll say this once.”
Swollen lips, battered face. Voice hoarse and gravelly, likely from thirst. Yet his diction was clear.
“I know nothing. That’s your answer.”
He glared at Isaac, then sat back. He claimed ignorance plainly, but in that moment, Isaac slotted a key puzzle piece.
The torch by the bars lit his face clearly now—and Isaac knew it.
“What’s your name?”
“……Carlson.”
“The only truth you’ve told is a lie? Kyle.”
“……!”
Clang—
The prisoner flinched at the name.