Chronicle of the Villain (1)
It was around this time in his previous life that Isaac had vaguely heard the story of the infantryman who escaped from the execution grounds. His memory of it was hazy, and he'd never even seen the man's face. He learned the infantryman's name only while spending his days locked in the underground vault, idly reading a book called Chronicle of the Villain out of boredom.
It was a rare book, filled with copious illustrations. It pieced together all sorts of rumors about villains circulating in the markets and included wanted posters' composite sketches here and there. Nears even made a brief appearance among them. He was drawn far more devilishly than in real life, but it was quite believable.
Chronicle of the Villain had gained such popularity among the nobility that it ran to three volumes. By the time the third volume came out, the kingdom's civil war was intensifying. The villain featured in that book was Kyle—the death row inmate standing before Isaac's eyes, the very infantryman who had escaped the execution grounds in the past.
The author had written critiques for each villain, but he was especially generous in his assessment of Kyle.
The world sees Kyle as little more than the leader of some ragtag rebel rabble stirring up pointless chaos. But his true essence is far more complex. He was a genius who might have become the seventh Sword Master on the continent. Yet he couldn't untangle the grudge festering in his heart and failed to let what should have bloomed come to flower.
He is undoubtedly a villain. Hundreds, thousands of commoners lost their lives at his hands, and even the Archduke is said to have suffered frequent headaches because of him.
However, wise and merciful readers—even good has its reasons, and evil has its reasons too. I hope you will come to understand this point through this book.
The author of Chronicle of the Villain Volume 3 was purged by the Second Prince, who had ascended to the rank of imperial duke on his own. Isaac had no idea why he'd given Kyle such an evaluation or written such content. All he could glean from the book was that, whatever the case, Kyle possessed tremendous talent.
At the time, the book was passed hand-to-hand among the nobility, read until the pages were worn thin. Some nobles even paid scribes handsomely to make copies. The one Isaac had read was the seventeenth hand-copied edition, after all. For a figure who sparked that much curiosity, he must have truly wrought deeds to match.
"How...?"
Kyle couldn't hide his shock.
"It's too early to be surprised. I know far more than just your name."
Isaac could sense Kyle's mana.
Impressive.
Where he'd seen the seed of a potential mage in Enet before, in Kyle he beheld a flowering tree laden with buds on every branch. How much effort must he have poured in to reach that point? What level of power would he attain if they all bloomed fully? It was beyond imagining.
Of course, this was all just imagery Isaac had conjured in his mind after acquiring his fifth circulation path. How accurate it was, he couldn't say. But if the decades of training he'd accumulated over half a century weren't in vain, then one thing was certain: Kyle was the talent Goethe needed.
"What do you know about me?"
"For example, I know you're Cayenne's son."
"Who the hell are you?"
Kyle shot to his feet in astonishment, his eyes brimming with wariness—no, outright hostility.
"Don't you recognize me from your service at Winterband? My name is Isaac von Goete. Eldest son of the House of Goethe..."
"That's not what I'm asking! How do you know that? You here to kill me?"
"You're getting ahead of yourself. You think a chaotic republic would bother tracking down some mercenary's bastard brat who vanished over a decade ago? Relax. I'm not some mage disguised as a young master, mind-controlling you, or hired by a fortune teller."
"You're really Young Master Isaac?"
"Believe it or don't—your call."
Kyle's face was a mask of confusion. This was the first time he'd come face-to-face with Isaac. Freely entering the manor basement prison under guard escort. Healthy complexion, dressed in fine noble garb, impeccably groomed. All he could infer was that he was just a kid whose blood hadn't even fully heated yet.
"If you're truly the heir of House Goethe, how do you know so much about me?"
"I'm smart. Pieced it together from what I'd heard."
Isaac tapped his temple as he spoke. A lie, of course. It was all from books and what his brother Yonas had told him in his previous life.
"That makes no sense..."
"You don't get to ask questions right now anyway. You have two choices: answer mine, or don't."
"......"
"Want to keep your secrets? Pay with another one."
"......"
"I'll ask again. Why are Winterband's company commanders tangled up in slave trading?"
"If you're really the young master, that's all the more reason I can't answer."
Kyle used polite speech, but his guard remained up.
"Why? Worried about Randolf? Scared his family—your old commander you were like brothers with—might get dragged in?"
Isaac was speculating based on what the count had told him.
"......Think what you want."
Kyle slumped back down. Isaac fired off more questions, but Kyle gave no further responses.
"Planning to escape the execution grounds, I bet. With your skills, it's doable. But what then?"
"......"
"Pfeil and Randolf could pin all the blame on you. You'd be a wanted man in the kingdom. And if I let slip your origins, the republic's hunters would be on you too."
"......"
"Your revenge isn't over yet, Kyle. This mess'll set you back a few steps. That old bastard—doesn't look long for this world even without anyone killing him. You in no rush?"
"......"
Isaac chose his words to stab deepest, but Kyle didn't react.
Just as I heard.
Isaac recalled what Yonas had told him in his previous life. The infantryman who escaped near the manor was framed as being in cahoots with the sewer crime syndicate and lived as a fugitive. When the kingdom fell to the empire, he joined the rebels and rose to lead them. It was possible only thanks to his overwhelming martial prowess. In his past life, Yonas had called Kyle "one blessed by the gods."
During the time when House Goethe was gathering supplies to advance on the city-states. The rebels' hardliners argued for stripping resources from Goethe. But Kyle refused to attack comrades he'd shared Winterband with. The result? The rebels split into moderates and hardliners, tore themselves apart in infighting, and collapsed. After that, Kyle vanished from the records. At least he wasn't the type to sell out comrades who'd shared life and death with him.
Even with his own life and goals on the line, he kept silent for his commander's sake. A far cry from the crime of lese-majeste.
Not the sort to move purely on profit and loss like Bill. In that case...
"Young master, what're we gonna do? At this rate, those Nears bastards'll get spooked and all run off. Just gonna let 'em?"
The moment Isaac returned to his chambers, Bill blurted out in panic. Not even a full day had passed, yet his face was ashen, like he'd starved for days.
"Calm down."
"Calm? Would you be calm in my shoes? You keep treating this like it's someone else's problem, but if I open my mouth..."
Crunch!
Ice crystals manifested in Isaac's hand, swiftly taking the shape of a blade. A basic application of frost magic, chill radiating from the icy sword. It hovered at Bill's throat.
"Maybe think about how your head might roll before you open that mouth."
"......Guh."
"You haven't forgotten the contract, have you? You'll die before you can speak."
Isaac reminded Bill of the contract terms.
- Keep silent about Isaac and do him no harm.
- Violate this, and die.
- In whatever way Isaac chooses.
Bill's face filled with resentment.
"Prepare a seat."
"A... seat?"
"Nears' new boss says he's done paying tribute to the knights. If they've got gripes, tell 'em to come complain in person."
"Fuck, are you insane?! You want me dead?!"
"I'll go."
The ice sword Isaac had conjured floated into the air, spinning lazily.
"Huh?"
Bill gawked like an idiot.
"These punks have guts coming out their asses."
"Didn't think that Nears psycho would actually die."
"This one's crazier than the psycho. Least Nears knew where his lifeline was tied."
Pfeil clicked his tongue as he gathered his gear. Since returning to the manor, he hadn't taken off his gambeson or chainmail—just belted on his sword and robe, and he was ready.
"No need for you to come, Pfeil. I can handle it alone."
"Better if I do. They know our strength and still provoke us like this—they've gotta have something up their sleeve. We should prep properly too."
"......"
"Randolf. Just some old-man worry, but show no mercy at swordpoint. Those scum are just Bernsi's parasites. Not our territory's folk we protect, nor the Goethe we serve."
"Got it."
The two knights borrowed horses under the pretext of a patrol and galloped toward Bernsi. The biting wind slashed their faces, but neither flinched. It was a mere breeze compared to Winterband's northern gales.
They stabled the horses at an inn nearest the southern slums and headed for the sewers. They pulled their hoods low and tore robe hems to cover their mouths. Not that any slum-dweller would recognize northern knights anyway, but caution cost nothing.
The slums' and sewers' vagrants scattered from the knights on instinct. Unprotected by any lord, they didn't pick fights with those who looked strong. The rotten stench assaulted them even from afar, and the vagrants naturally gave Pfeil and Randolf a wide berth.
"Gives me the creeps. Hey, Randolf—this the right way?"
Pfeil asked. Managing Nears was Randolf's job, so Pfeil wasn't familiar with the sewers' layout.
A labyrinth of sewers. The stench of rotting sewage and corpses. All manner of human filth: groans, screams, mad cackles. Pfeil's face twisted involuntarily.
"Yeah. But it's weird."
"What?"
"No sign of Nears' thugs."
As Randolf said, the main paths—usually guarded by bandits to prevent kidnapped "merchandise" from fleeing—were empty.
"All tucked tail and ran?"
"Then why provoke us?"
"Dunno."
Pfeil stroked his chin.
"Check this out."
"What? Place is empty."
Even the iron-barred holding pens for "merchandise" stood wide open.
"What the hell? That guy who killed Nears—really planning to botch everything?"
Pfeil cracked his neck side to side. Pop pop. A habit when things pissed him off.
"No clue what their game's about."
Randolf muttered, eyeing the open cages. The slaughterhouse was the same. Where Nears' black-magic freaks disposed of useless goods. Maggots and flies boiled in the filth, but only decayed organs and body chunks—no fresh meat.
"Nears is definitely dead."
"Yeah, figures."
Having scouted Nears' lair, the knights had drawn daggers at some point. Longswords weren't ideal in tight channels. The more they investigated, the less sense their foe made. After money? Bloodthirsty lunatic? Zealot for some ideology or cult? Lust-driven degenerate? That was the bottom-feeders they'd seen before.
But the one claiming to be Nears' new boss fit none.
"......"
Pfeil halted abruptly. Randolf nodded. Deepest in Nears' lair. Where Nears himself lurked. Signs of life there.
"If you're here, why not greet us first?"
A voice drifted from within—they'd already sensed the knights' presence. But the voice was too young. Like a monster mimicking a child's.
"Bill, entertain the guests."
Screeech.
"P-P-P-Please, c-come in."
"......"
A ragged door creaked open, and a liveried servant spoke. Pale-faced, utterly terrified. No threat to them.
Nears' bizarre chamber was cleaned up—no more revolting human flesh stench, just faint herbal aroma. It didn't fully mask the sewers' reek, but it was tolerable.
"This scent..."
Randolf felt a jolt of familiarity laced with unease. The herbs matched those used at Goethe Manor.
"Got nine lives, huh, new Nears boss? Your underlings all fled in fear? Or maybe you lack that murder-crazed freak's charisma?"
Pfeil mocked, surveying the empty lair.
"......"
The man seated where Nears should be said nothing. Hooded, but his childlike scrawny build was obvious. Too far from torches and candles to make out his face.
"Mind if I ask one thing?"
The diminutive man spoke in a boy's voice.
"Eh, you're dead soon anyway—one question's fine. Creepy fuck mimicking a kid."
Pfeil raised his dagger. Faint blue aura shimmered along the blade.
"Why'd you do it?"
The small man stood, doffing his hood. Pfeil took it as attack prelude and lunged—but suddenly felt his shoulder crushed down.
"Randolf? ...What the fuck?"
"On your knees."
Randolf gripped Pfeil's shoulders with both hands, forcing him down.
"What the...!"
"You really don't recognize him?"
Only then did Pfeil look up at the man's face.
"A real kid... no, young master?"
"Good to see you, Sir Pfeil, Sir Randolf. Care for some tea?"