The Tale of the Heart's Debt
The tale of the heart's debt took shape. Every sin was pinned squarely on Pfeil. They reported it straight: it had all been to replenish the company's supplies. But every other arrow pointed at Pfeil. Crushing the Nears organization? Pfeil. The slave trading? Pfeil. Driven by greed for money, he'd even laid hands on the manor maids. When that failed, he'd tried to sell Isaac off to another country. And the one who stopped him? The honorable knight, the loyal knight Randolf.
"……."
The count glanced back and forth between Pfeil's head on the desk and Isaac and Randolf standing before him.
"It's true. Pfeil kidnapped me, and Randolf saved my life."
Isaac met the count's gaze and answered.
"Carlson caught on to this and tried to stop Pfeil. That's when the fists started flying in the barracks, and soon enough they were drawing swords on each other. I had to step in to hold them back. Pfeil stopped, but Carlson wouldn't sheath his blade until the kidnapped were freed."
In truth, neither Pfeil nor Carlson had refused to lower their swords—it was Randolf who hadn't. Unlike Carlson or Pfeil, Randolf had a family, and if word got out about the slave trading, they'd all be slaughtered in the count's wrath. Randolf had aimed to injure Carlson enough to silence him. All he'd ever learned was how to let his sword do the talking. But Carlson's swordsmanship far outmatched his. Carlson could have cut down both Randolf and Pfeil and fled, but instead, to make them listen, he merely sliced off Randolf's ear before getting arrested on the spot. Randolf spun a suitable tale from it.
"Why speak of this now?"
The count, having heard everything, wasted no words on outrage. He focused solely on grasping the situation.
"I never expected Pfeil to go this far."
"It sounds as if you'd have let it slide if Sir Pfeil hadn't tried to kill my son."
"……I couldn't tell what the right call was. It was true that Pfeil had orchestrated this for the infantry of the company. It was also true that it reduced their casualties and quelled their complaints."
Randolf met the count's eyes as he spoke. These were words he'd harbored but never voiced. That the count gave his all for Winterband and the territory. That unlike other nobles, he was incorruptible, shunning luxury and indulgence. Most at Winterband Fortress knew it. But reality demanded more.
"Is that your excuse for shirking your duty?"
The count's voice was as steady as ever. He showed no flicker of emotion, even as Randolf—this near-noble who owed his position to the count himself—pointed out his own failings. He sat there purely as Winterband's supreme commander.
"I'll gladly accept any punishment. Just know this is the state we're in."
"Understood. We'll discuss punishment tomorrow. You're dismissed. ……Thank you for saving Isaac."
"I'm deeply sorry."
Randolf gathered Pfeil's head from the desk and bowed before leaving.
"Have someone hang Pfeil's head in Bernsi's square for public display."
"Yes, sir."
"Isaac. You stay."
The count called back Isaac, who had turned to follow Randolf.
Clank—
Clank—
The condemned man, Carlson—real name Kyle—looked baffled. The guards unlocked his manacles and shackles.
"Follow me."
Carlson staggered after the guard.
"Ugh."
Outside the underground dungeon, it was daytime. An especially bright sun. Kyle winced.
"Nice weather, huh? Spring must be coming."
Isaac was sipping tea in the courtyard adjoining the manor's garden. Kyle stared blankly at him.
"What're you looking at? Sit."
"……."
"Hans, tea for him."
"Yes, sir."
Hans placed a teacup before Kyle with practiced grace and poured the steaming brew. Warm vapor rose, carrying a faint, elegant aroma to Kyle's nose.
"Thanks, Hans. Now give us some space. Warn me if anyone's coming near."
"Yes, sir."
Hans bowed and retreated well away from the table. Kyle inhaled the scent and twitched an eyebrow.
"Familiar aroma, right? From the country you grew up in."
"I have no nationality."
Kyle answered curtly. Schnapfluke. A tea whose common name meant "snowflower," beloved in the Republic. His sister had adored it too. Kyle eyed Isaac. A twelve-year-old's face, but his actions were anything but childish. He knew Kyle's secrets and had even used them to coerce him. No telling what he was thinking or what he wanted. Did all young nobles have this sly, adult mindset? No. At least, not the ones Kyle had encountered. This kid named Isaac was the exception.
"Sir Randolf spilled everything."
"……."
Kyle couldn't hide his surprise, but he quickly clamped his mouth shut. Questions burned inside, but he held back. Harsh years had taught him that much.
"Half-truth, half-lie."
"……What do you mean?"
But Isaac's next words forced a question.
"Pfeil died by Sir Randolf's hand."
Isaac recounted the events and the lies they'd fed the count. Kyle tried to school his expression at first, but soon forgot entirely. As the story unfolded, his mouth hung open wider and wider.
"……."
Considering that Randolf had stopped Pfeil and saved Isaac's life, he kept his manor and near-baron title. But he was stripped of his company command at Winterband. Carlson, too, was spared execution for trying to halt his superior's wrongdoing, but the crime of insubordination against a higher rank stood, so he lost his platoon command at Winterband.
"Didn't know you were a platoon leader."
Isaac's tone, explaining it all, was as casual as chatting about the lunchtime stew.
"……Why didn't you report it?"
"Report what?"
"That my name isn't Carlson."
"Gotta save that. Spill it too soon, and I can't use you."
"……."
"You told Sir Randolf something like this, right? A sword that cuts anything without breaking is a famed blade, but if it gains a will, it becomes a magic sword. What about you?"
Kyle's face clouded with turmoil. This kid knew too much, and his intentions remained opaque. Everyone Kyle had met before had clear motives and goals, using them to command him—be they mercenaries, knights, or high nobles. Amid it all, Kyle had learned one thing: those whose hearts you couldn't read were dangerous. The baffling part? This time, it wasn't some fox-like old schemer, but a greenhouse flower of a boy. Possessed by a demon, maybe.
"Instead of trying to read me, stick to your purpose. Hiding in my room with books showed me how complex people are. That's why I like folks with clear goals. Like you."
Isaac smiled brightly. His face betrayed no schemes whatsoever.
"Do you know what my purpose is?"
"Killing them. The greedy old bastard who slaughtered the family you barely gained. Want me to say the name?"
"……."
Kyle stared piercingly at Isaac instead of answering, daring him to continue.
"Boatmer Viscount. Klaus von Boatmer. Richest house in the north."
"……."
Kyle's eyes wavered. He'd never dreamed the kid knew this.
"He's…… a noble of the kingdom."
"So?"
"I'm a foreigner. And yet you'll help me kill him? Just to ally with a foreigner?"
"I need a magic sword. A famed blade with its own will. That's it."
Isaac gazed into the distant, snow-capped mountains and took a sip of his cold tea.
"Sir Randolf says you train nonstop, asleep or awake. Like you'd only rest in death. Any progress? Enough to take down three hundred elite soldiers and eleven knights single-handed, claim the viscount's head?"
"……."
"Boatmer Viscount hasn't got much time. Syphilis, at his age. He'll cling to life, but he won't last. Your sword won't reach him in time. Help me, and I'll help you."
Kyle couldn't tell if every word was true. But one thing was clear: Isaac had kept silent on the company infantry involved in the slave trade and saved Randolf. Which meant he'd spared Kyle's comrades too. He recalled his father Cayenne's words.
— Merchants weigh goods on the scale, mercenaries weigh their lives and their comrades'. That's the deal. One you must honor. A mercenary who breaks deals loses the right to put his life on any scale.
The sun hid behind clouds, then emerged. They sat in silence that whole time. Kyle spoke first.
"One question?"
"Ask."
"What's all this for?"
"If I must answer, for me. Gotta settle a debt."
Isaac replied offhand. An essential truth that slipped out unbidden. Officially to protect the house, but deeper still. An ancient, tattered ledger lay buried in his heart, crammed with debts he'd incurred. Debts of the heart.
"What do you think?"
"……Nothing short of astonishing."
"Did this really come from Isaac's head?"
"It's not like you're hiring a different teacher because of the mana rampage."
Schrader answered the count's question. Sending Randolf out first and keeping Isaac was a father's worry for his child. People were fragile. Face a brush with death, and body or mind soon cracked. The count had killed border tribesmen at eleven. But he didn't want Isaac or Yonas confronting death so soon. He knew better than anyone how horrific it was.
Yet Isaac, nearly killed by Pfeil, was far calmer than expected. Calm to the point of pinpointing the root cause of it all. An idea even the count hadn't grasped—audacious, frame-breaking.
"Sever ties with the old church……."
With each passing year, the royal shield tax dwindled. Compensation for guarding the border in the crown's stead. Less tax meant tighter budgets to feed and clothe the troops. But Goethe couldn't complain or hoard wealth. The stigma of Zeke von Goethe—the 10th-class mage who'd torched the capital a century ago. Ancestral treason branded them. Any wealth-building smacked of disloyalty; they'd face not just lost tax but scrutiny. Better to scrape by preserving the status quo than risk the house. That was the count's view, upheld steadfastly by past heads.
Isaac called it presumption.
— The royals' finances worsen yearly. Shield tax will keep shrinking. If Goethe declares independence from it now, would the crown fear or welcome it? Worth discussing.
And he struck home.
— Truth is, you lack viable revenue to risk losing the tax. Barren lands, enemies all around. So you've leaned on it, wary of the crown's eye.
Isaac's point cut deep. A blind spot from generational inertia, willfully ignored. It started as youthful bravado, but it held real weight. For it to matter, though, he needed concrete solutions.
And Isaac met the count's tough demand.
— Start by cutting ties with the old church.
The count approached the study window. From this third-floor nook in the main building, the courtyard was visible. Isaac and Carlson deep in talk. What were they saying? He was curious. His son felt a touch unfamiliar.
"……."
Schrader watched the count and thought his mood wasn't half bad. His hand drummed the chair back without pause. Though cursed with that freakish constitution, Isaac was exceptionally gifted. And here was the father beholding his prodigy surpassing him, even if just in part. How could he not rejoice? Schrader smiled faintly.