The Old Church (1)
“Sir Randolf, do you think what the young master said is true?”
“Who knows. But how long are you gonna keep using titles, Carlson? Now you and I are just the young master's arms and legs. We should treat each other like old times, right?”
Randolf said as they walked through the streets of Bernsi.
“But you're still a knight, and I'm just a foreigner. We got chummy before because I thought you were a commoner.”
“I wouldn't know about that. I just feel bitter that my old friend is putting distance between us because of my mistake.”
“……”
Carlson glanced at Randolf. He still had bandages wrapped around his head. The bleeding had stopped, but the spot where his ear had been was flat and empty.
Carlson, Randolf, and Pfeil had been comrades since their trainee days. Carlson had no interest in racking up merits, which led to the rank difference between company commander and platoon leader. It was meaningless now, of course.
“Chest out, walk tall, boss.”
Randolf, noticing Carlson's awkward gaze, called out needlessly to Bill, who was walking ahead.
Bill turned back with a pale face. His eyes were fixed on the leather pouch Randolf carried. Flies kept swarming around it.
“Even a pig headed to the slaughterhouse would walk more proudly than that.”
“Pigs don't know they're going to die, that's why.”
“Who's dying? Don't you trust our skills?”
Randolf grinned. He seemed to be quietly enjoying the situation.
“You're the new boss who took down that nightmare Nyers, aren't you!? Seeing you shake like this makes his infamous rep cry.”
“Yeah, yeah. It's all my fault for being inadequate.”
Bill let out a string of sighs. His upper body went limp, his back hunched so low his knuckles nearly scraped the ground. He looked like someone with a noose around his neck being dragged along.
Suddenly, Randolf and Carlson stopped. Hearing no footsteps behind, Bill halted too.
“Sirs?”
“Pfeil……”
Heads on spikes in Bernsi's square. They belonged to murderers and robbers. Most had been pecked beyond recognition by crows, but Pfeil's relatively recent one was still identifiable despite the bites.
“A pity.”
Carlson murmured softly.
“He was always gonna go out like that. He used to say he was born a stray dog with nowhere to go.”
“……And that he'd die like one too.”
“Yeah.”
“Ralph.”
Carlson suddenly called him familiarly, dropping the title.
“Hm?”
“Don't go out like that. You've got a family to protect.”
“I won't.”
Randolf nodded heavily.
“Black magic is spreading like the plague! Apostles of evil hide in the shadows, raping women and devouring children!”
On one side, heads impaled on stakes; on the other, a man in priestly robes preached in the street.
“The original sin and evil from Goethe's ancestors have taken root in this land, and demons crawling from the Demon Realm cast darkness over this city! Thus, Pope Anasius has personally sent holy soldiers to purify it!”
Hundreds cheered. Around the priest stood stern-faced men in plate armor, surrounded by dozens of citizens with expectant faces.
“Attain salvation through the practice of faith! Belief will be answered. God will protect you from evil. Don't rely on lords who do nothing—trust in Him!”
“Right on!”
A roar of agreement erupted from the crowd.
“……”
For that moment, Carlson, Randolf, and Bill shared the same sentiment.
“I can't believe a tenth of the tariffs coming into Goethe goes to those ink-stained bastards.”
“And that a religious nut openly insults the lord like that.”
Bill nodded in agreement with Randolf.
“Pfeil would've asked me how many silver coins that preacher would fetch if we sold him.”
“Who knew I'd miss that guy so soon.”
“Let's go. It's worthless bullshit not worth hearing.”
The three headed toward the sewer district without another word.
Through Bernsi's southern market district, past the red-light and slum areas below, to the sewer entrance slightly west.
“You know the way, boss?”
“Yeah, I do.”
Bill's face was like he'd eaten shit.
“Watch your speech from now on. Use informal. We're your capable underlings, skilled swords for hire.”
“Yes. You bas—”
“Informal.”
Randolf smacked the back of Bill's head.
Bill said solemnly, “Got it, you fucker.”
“……”
The moment Bill spoke, Randolf's hand instinctively went to his sword hilt.
“Hey, you told me to!”
“Ralph.”
“I know.”
At Carlson's restraint, Randolf took a deep breath.
“Good job, boss. Keep it up.”
“Right. Let's go then, you fuckers.”
Bill said it again and hurried ahead like he was fleeing.
“Carlson.”
Randolf placed a hand on Carlson's shoulder. Carlson had unconsciously gripped his sword hilt. Fortunately, Bill reached the destination before his head flew.
“Here to trade with Nyers.”
Somewhere in the labyrinthine sewers. In darkness even street rats avoided, a black-robed figure squatted.
“Nyers?”
Bill tilted his head, and Randolf tossed the leather pouch. The black robe opened it, revealing a head swarming with maggots and flies. The rotting head of Nyers.
“I'm Nyers now.”
Bill said, voice slightly trembling.
“Do we really need to go this far? We could get another bait even if it's not you.”
“It's my choice. With Carlson and Sir Randolf here, it'll be fine.”
On a sunny day, Isaac and the count strolled the garden. It had been ages since father and son walked like this. The count dredged up vague memories. Back when Yonas was still in the womb. He'd often give Isaac piggyback rides when visiting the manor. Adel, belly swelling, watched anxiously lest Isaac fall. Teasing her had been fun. The warrior woman who could fell any monster with her sword fretted over a mere scratch on Isaac.
“……”
Now that child was big enough to walk beside him. He'd thought he'd always be the family outcast. Worried the unique constitution too burdensome for a child would keep him holed up in his room forever. Yet here he was, worrying about the family. Even resolved to throw himself into danger for it.
“……So they won't have wealth like mine. Kids with this much mana are rare, and my position as Goethe's heir draws the territory's eyes. They need notoriety. To cultists, I'm perfect prey.”
“You've got your mother's stamp on you.”
The count said after Isaac's explanation. Calmly listing reasons to volunteer as cult bait—it was just like Adel. Logical, rational thinking. Above all, sharp and bold.
“Is that so.”
The old church's doctrine condemned usury and exchange fees as sin. Bound by it, Goethe couldn't amass wealth. Unilaterally cutting ties would provoke the papacy. They needed justification, and Isaac had found it.
“Oh, my lord, young master. Sorry, so sorry.”
As they circled the garden, servants spotted them and bowed frantically before fleeing—what had them so apologetic? Surprise at the count, fear at Isaac beside him.
“Father, may I ask something?”
Isaac watched the servant's retreating back.
“What?”
“If I never cause another mana rampage... will Mother come back?”
“……”
The count stopped.
Adel wandered the continent seeking a cure for Isaac. Her choice as a mother. He hadn't thought Isaac dwelled on it.
“Yes. If you recover, she will.”
“How can I prove it?”
“Prove what?”
“That I won't cause mana rampages anymore.”
“……What do you mean?”
The count asked, face like he'd heard a bad joke.
A few days later, at dawn under heavy clouds, a carriage departed with Hans seeing it off. The count, no sleeper, stood by the window watching it leave the manor. Worry etched his face.
“Don't worry, my lord. Carlson and Sir Randolf are with them.”
Schrader said. Dressed impeccably despite the early hour, not a wrinkle out of place.
“True. They're top talents even in Winterband.”
“Is there another worry?”
“Isaac turns twelve this year?”
“Yes.”
“……He's growing faster than I expected.”
The carriage had long vanished from sight. The count sat at his desk, lit his pipe. Through rising smoke, he stared at silver coins on the desk, stamped with the royal crest.
In the southern forest of Bernsi lay ruined monastery ruins. Once a community of new church monks, now abandoned after old church persecution. Weeds overgrew, birds, insects, beasts claimed it. Burn marks scarred broken buildings. Years ago, new church monks burned alive inside by old church inquisitors.
Under gloomy skies, the buildings looked especially eerie. The carriage advanced slowly toward the lifeless place.
As it neared the entrance, a black-robed figure appeared, lantern in hand even by day. He stared silently; the driver reined in.
“Kiss the entrails of the black calf.”
“……”
“The black calf kisses the entrails.”
The black robe repeated as the driver stayed silent.
“Joy shall mock thee.”
“We've brought the gift for Him.”
Two armed men descended from the back, followed by a bound and gagged boy.
“In the name of the Goddess of Fire, welcome, ye plunged in suffering.”
“Cut the crap and guide us, you fuckhead.”
The driver snapped.
“Is that boy really the promised sacrifice?”
The black robe eyed the tightly bound, gagged youth. Ash-gray hair, blue eyes matched the description; noble air to his face. But certainty? No. What irked him most: the boy's unnatural calm. No anxiety or fear in those eyes—just serene acceptance.
“Fuck, you give us the job then can't recognize it?”
The driver grumbled.
“Gonna nitpick and we leave?”
“We need verification. To pay your price.”
The black robe said flatly. His glimpsed face: noseless, lipless, teeth bared. The driver flinched inwardly.
“Your boss ordered it, so your boss should know. Should the young master carry a certificate saying 'I'm the kidnapped noble young master' just in case, you dumb fuck?”
“……”
The black robe glared; the driver averted his eyes. A face to haunt nightmares.
“The promised sacrifice has arrived—bring the true gift, ye of paper. The Goddess of Fire shall receive it gladly.”
Then, an old woman emerged from the ruins, leaning on a staff.
“As the Goddess wills.”
The black robe bowed.
“Follow.”
“……”
They followed the black robe into the ruins.
“This way.”
The lantern-bearing black robe and hunched crone led them underground. Catacombs.
“Never thought they'd hole up here.”
Randolf muttered.
Narrow stone chambers honeycombed like an anthill. Only the lantern pierced the dark.
“It all began here. When old church zealots burned this place, three saints survived the flames. Scorched head to toe, they unanimously claimed to have seen the true God's form at death's border. An indescribably beautiful goddess.”
The crone hurried on, unasked.
“Human flesh harbors souls. By eating soul-infused meat, they rebirth within us—their intellect, abilities, vitality, pains and joys of life. Thus, frail mortals touch eternity. This is the Goddess's teaching.”
At the catacomb's end, a strangely brighter room appeared. As they entered—
“Fuck.”
Bill cursed involuntarily.
At least Nyers was civilized. He cooked his human flesh. Crunch! Crunch! If hell existed, was this it? Naked cultists tore into dismembered corpses raw on the altar. The body, down to the torso, bore a grotesquely twisted face. Long dead.
“Hearken! The prophetic sacrifice has arrived! Become noble by devouring noble souls! Wise by wise souls! Pure by pure souls! Today we bring one with all three to the Goddess's house! Feast! Fea—”
“Fuck, can't listen to this shit.”
Thud—the driver kicked the crone. Her ecstatic chant cut off. The cultists' eyes turned, mid-meal.
“How long do we play this farce, young master?”
The driver asked the boy.
“……”
“Whew. We blew it after all.”
One escort clicked his tongue at the driver. The other untied the boy's ropes. The boy removed his own gag.
“Just handle the ones that charge. Don't forget the goal.”