A Bigger Fire (2)
Oddly enough, Isaac felt a wave of drowsiness crashing over him. Clang!Clang! In the dimly lit interrogation room, shrouded in hazy darkness lit only by torches, a single misstep could mean a stake driven through his forehead. Yet strangely, Isaac felt no tension at all.
It was the same back then.
Isaac knew nothing of war itself. But he knew fragments of it.
In the final year of his previous life, two deserters from the Mad Prince's—the Second Prince's—army had slipped into the ruins of Goethe Manor. They were on the brink of starvation, their fingers and toes rotting from frostbite. Isaac had given them shelter. He'd shared what little food he had, scraping the bottom of the barrel.
But once they'd regained their strength, they repaid his kindness with betrayal. They tried to kill him over the last crumbs of bread, convinced he was hoarding more.
The two deserters fought. "Kill the old man." "No, don't." "Don't give up on being human."
In the end, the one who wanted to kill Isaac murdered the other. But he couldn't bring himself to finish Isaac off.
"What good's killing an old wreck like me? There's nothing but bones left—no meat to pick off."
"If you'd just shared your hidden stash, none of this would've happened!"
"I've told you over and over—there's no hidden food. What you saw is all there was. Still gonna kill me? If you can't believe it, go ahead. Try."
Isaac stared at the deserter with empty eyes. The man's hands, already stained with his comrade's blood, trembled. He hesitated.
But Isaac didn't.
He stabbed the deserter's throat with a poker.
The reason a man over seventy could kill a young man was simple. The young deserter had only the despair of surviving today only to face tomorrow. But the old man, left with nothing but regret, had a mission to fulfill.
To escape his unique constitution. The curse that had plagued him since birth.
That was the only reason he'd clung to life this long.
So he could kill.
The hideous old man, fueled by sheer obsession, murdered the young man thrashing to survive. He watched the light fade from the youth's eyes.
And somehow, drowsiness came over Isaac.
In that moment, he dimly realized it. He didn't know what war was, but he knew it wasn't built on mercy or understanding. No pleas for mercy, no granting it—just unleashing maximum force. That was deathmatch.
People had endured that exhausting, cumbersome, grueling ordeal since the dawn of history. And it was their fate to continue.
And so.
Isaac felt the fatigue closing in. Drowsiness. He wanted to sleep. To escape that endless cycle forever. To sleep eternally.
But he knew he couldn't.
So he yearned for it all the more fiercely, desperately. Eternal rest…
It was the same now.
In that split second. He deflected the incoming stake with an ice crystal. Launched the crystal. Altered its trajectory. Gathered Silvio the priest's blood to form a new crystal in place of the blocked one.
Moment by moment, his life hung by a thread, chills running down his spine. But what Isaac felt wasn't tension or threat.
It was exhaustion.
Yet regardless, Isaac was batting away projectiles too fast for the naked eye to follow, striking them down with ice crystals without a millimeter's error.
How was it possible? Even Isaac wondered.
"Your greatest strength, young master, is your imagination."
'Of all people, why'd that guy's words pop into my head?'
The voice that surfaced in his mind answered his question.
Lucas. After years of sword training under him, Isaac's body couldn't keep up with Lucas's strikes. But at some point, Isaac began predicting them. Even if his body lagged, he'd assume the perfect defensive stance before the blow landed.
It was the payoff from years locked underground, enduring day by day. Cut off from the outside world, unable to see or hear it, what grew clearer were the landscapes and sensations in his mind.
Through that, Isaac sparred with Lucas dozens, hundreds of times a day. He imagined casting spells he couldn't actually use, thousands of times over. He befriended heroes and sages from books, conversed with them. Gained insight and wisdom. Painted impossible futures.
Yes, kindle even the tiniest spark. Escape the curse. Ignite the spark of hope. For that final day someday.
And.
Before his family's graves, Isaac finally kindled it.
'Lucas, you were a great teacher. You were right.'
The imaginary world built on precise logic and reason mirrored real experience. Countless trials in that unseen realm had shaped the Isaac of today.
"…Incredible. Hiding your skill like that."
The bishop reached into the pouch at his waist. No stakes remained.
"Now it's your turn to show your power, Bishop."
Isaac's expression and tone were unchanged from when he'd first seen the man.
"Did you really sell your soul to the devil?"
The bishop couldn't help but falter at Isaac's composure. The boy's almost bored demeanor refused to treat this as a threat. He didn't look like a child facing life or death.
"If we're using that phrasing, didn't both you and I sell our souls? The only difference is who we sold them to."
"That sounds like blasphemy."
"Is there any sanctity left to blaspheme?"
"…How dare you."
The bishop's jowls quivered.
"This isn't the end, is it? For a bishop of the old church to rely on grimoires and hurl stakes—it hardly seems holy."
"…"
The bishop knew engaging would yield nothing. But his pride wouldn't allow silence.
"…Fine. I've held back on using my direct authority to avoid leaving a unique signature. But no other choice now. You know too much. And that talent, that cleverness—it's a bit dangerous. Time to cut it short."
Depending on the school. Mage or priest. The way magic was learned and used differed. This created fixed patterns in mana handling, birthing a unique signature. It appeared in lifelong practitioners but mostly lingered on the target. Experts could identify the caster from it.
The bishop felt the need to eliminate Isaac, even enduring the messy cleanup.
"Go ahead and try. If you can."
Whoosh— The blood-forged ice crystal sliced the air.
Whoosh!Hiss—
In an instant, blue flames erupted from the bishop's fingertips. The ice crystal touching them oxidized. The evaporated blood reeked of iron.
"Behold. This is the authority granted to me: Holy Fire."
The flames the bishop conjured weren't like the torches. They were intensely blazing orbs of deep blue. Awe-inspiring to some, but Isaac didn't blink.
"That's Holy Fire?"
"Yes. Flames of purification no ordinary mage could imitate."
The bishop's voice brimmed with enthusiasm.
"This will sublimate your ice crystals in an instant."
"I see. So it would."
Isaac nodded.
"I didn't want to burn a child I'd baptized myself, but this must be His will."
Roar—!
"This?"
"…!?"
A blue flame orb identical to the bishop's formed in Isaac's hand. Ignition, condensation, then condensation again. The spell he'd used against the winter spider queen in the abandoned mine.
The difference? The wild flames wreathing the orb burned far more ferociously.
"H-how…?"
"Your reaction's so honest. Simple. Just condense twice."
"What!? Are you mocking me? Authority doesn't work that way. It requires a sequence. Not that simple…!"
"So that's old church authority. But I'm probably a heretic. My magic processes in parallel. That's why this is possible."
Isaac condensed once more. The former blue flames now blazed violet.
It didn't burn Isaac the caster, but the heat was immense. Silvio the deacon's robes nearby smoked and charred.
'Maintaining this level's still too much.'
Isaac felt his chest interior shredded by something sharp. His mana circuits were rampaging.
To condense the flames again required feeding his bellyful of mana into it. Three times over. His already vessel-straining flow accelerated further.
"Impossible. Why can a filthy barbarian-blooded whelp wield such authority…?"
"Looks like you slacked on training. Or maybe God loves me more."
"Such insolence! I've honed my authority for decades!"
Whoosh! The blue orb at the bishop's fingertips swelled. Veins bulged on his head and hands—maximum mana draw. His heart raced to sustain the overtaxed brain.
"Decades…? For me, it was a lifetime."
Whoom! The violet flame orb left Isaac's hand, surging toward the bishop.
The bishop tried countering with his own, but Isaac's mana density overwhelmed it. The bishop's spell scattered into particles and vanished.
"Gasp—!"
The bishop swallowed air. His widened eyes reflected the violet orb like a demon's pupil.
"Gaaah—!"
With a horrific scream, violet flames engulfed the bishop. Like hellscape scenery.
He rolled on the floor. But the flames burned until nothing combustible remained.
The screams didn't last. What had been the bishop soon turned to unrecognizable ash.
Isaac gazed at the smoldering pile.
Heaven? Hell? Or purgatory?
Isaac pondered.
Exhausted from excessive mana use, he collapsed.
"At least if there's an afterlife, we won't meet in heaven, Bishop."
Before him lay the bishop's remains. Behind, Silvio the deacon's corpse.
He'd see more scattered like this. War crept closer, step by step, though still distant.
So Isaac couldn't sleep. Even if drowsiness surged like waves.
Even if fatigue crushed him like a boulder, begging release.
Yonas's wails losing his right hand. Screams of those sacrificed to mana explosions. Father's sighs of worry and lament. Mother's weary struggles wandering for a cure.
Until those debts of the heart were settled. Until true peace arrived.
Isaac couldn't sleep. No, he wouldn't.
"…"
A presence echoed from the second basement passage.
"Young master."
Bloody Carlson supported the limp Randolf.
"The holy knights?"
"…How did you know?"
"Heard from the bishop. As you see, it's… like this now."
"…"
Carlson followed Isaac's gaze to the ashes.
"What happened…?"
"A fight between the deacon and bishop. Mutual destruction, as you see."
"…I see."
Doubt flickered on Carlson's face, but he nodded.
"I took care of all the holy knights."
According to the bishop, they were formidable. Too much for two knights.
But Isaac nodded like Carlson. Details could wait. They still hid things from each other.
"Randolf?"
Carlson's eyes darkened at the question.
"…"
No need to ask. Randolf, dragged limply by Carlson, was no longer himself.
"He said… entrust his family to you."
"…"
The word "family" made Isaac pause.
"Right."
Despite the fatigue and drowsiness. Despite the life that felt endlessly long.
This was why Isaac kindled the spark.
"For now… let's go home."