To Binvelt
"You both did well."
The count praised Isaac and Carlson. House Goethe was now free from the old church's influence. In exchange for turning a blind eye to the bishop's atrocities, the Papal Court had agreed not to collect tithes or dispatch a new bishop. No one knew how long the promise would hold, but at least for the time being, Goethe could breathe easy.
"Carlson, is there anything you want?"
"I want to continue serving the young master."
"If you return to Winterband, you could be promoted to company commander."
"I want a position that suits me."
The count's fingers, which had been tapping the desk, slowed before resuming their original rhythm.
"Very well. If that's what you say. Isaac."
"I'd feel more at ease with Carlson as my guard."
"Understood. Along with the role of Isaac's guard, I'll grant Carlson 200 denarions."
"Thank you."
Carlson bowed his head. The count's gaze shifted to Isaac.
"Isaac."
"Before that. What are your plans going forward? Have you received the royal permission?"
"......Carlson. Could you step out for a moment?"
"Yes."
Once Carlson had left, the count filled the pipe chamber with tobacco and lit it with magic.
"On the way back from Sir Randolf's funeral, I thought I made it clear enough. You've already done more than enough. But from here on, it's beyond your purview."
"Father."
"Thanks to you, we've secured enough supplies for the fortress with just the tithes from my wife. It's commendable that you're thinking of the family, but right now, focus on curing your unique constitution."
"......"
The count's expression and voice were unyielding. He left no room for argument. Isaac had much more he wanted to say, to do, but he closed his mouth. This wasn't a matter of persuasion. It was about trust. Establishing enough trust to match the merit of preserving a tenth of the family's revenue wasn't easy. It was as he had expected.
"Now, tell me what you want."
"In that case, grant me Pfeil's manor."
Isaac spoke the words he had prepared.
"Have you been here all this time?"
Carlson approached Isaac, who stood quietly in front of the drawing room door. But Isaac didn't even acknowledge him. He simply stared blankly out the corridor window.
"Are you really going to Binvelt?"
"Shh. Quiet."
Isaac pressed a finger to his lips. Piano melodies flowed from the drawing room. It was Yonas's playing. The piece was titled Trastis Draco. In the common tongue, it translated to "The Sadly Weeping Dragon." It was his mother's favorite.
A melody-only piece without specific notations, it took on entirely different tones depending on the performer's heart.
"It's strange."
Isaac murmured. When he had killed the deserter. When he killed Niers. When he killed the bishop. The drowsiness that came crashing like death itself. But listening to Yonas's music, that hazy sensation slowly lifted, as if awakening.
The fatigue that had shadowed him his entire life peeled away, and his mind cleared like waking from a deep slumber. It made him feel alive.
Was it because he could hear Yonas's playing again, something he thought he'd never hear? Did Yonas's music hold some power? He couldn't know. All he knew was that he wanted Yonas to never set the instrument aside.
"Carlson, spar with me."
Isaac spoke, lost in thought.
"Have you ever trained in swordsmanship?"
Carlson asked, looking at Isaac who had collapsed, gasping for breath.
"Hoo, I've seen the soldiers training in the parade ground."
"Don't joke."
"Do I look like I'm joking?"
Carlson stared at Isaac, sweat pouring like rain. He couldn't read his true intent. It was odd. Isaac's swordsmanship was elegant. It wasn't sharp enough to exploit openings, powerful enough to overwhelm, or fast enough for real combat. Yet he clearly knew which stances allowed attacks or defenses. With minimal movement, offense, defense, and counters flowed like water.
Considering Isaac's age, this was the level of someone who had gripped a sword since four or five. What was strange was how his stamina was far too weak for someone trained that long.
"What is the purpose of requesting this spar?"
"To seize Binvelt."
Isaac leaned on his wooden sword and stood again, resuming his stance.
Crack— The two wooden swords clashed. The crudely nailed crossguards trembled from the repelling force.
"What do you plan to do once you have Binvelt?"
"You don't need to know that far. Just know it helps with your revenge."
"This level of skill won't cut it in Binvelt."
Carlson angled his wooden sword to deflect the path and kicked it away.
"Guh."
Bitter fluid leaked from Isaac's mouth. But he didn't complain.
"That's why I'm asking you to teach me."
"You can't learn it in a short time."
"I'll handle that."
Isaac staggered to his feet. Carlson's eyes narrowed.
"You can use magic."
"......"
Carlson said in a low voice.
"The vice-bishop didn't have the skill to beat the bishop."
"How would you know?"
"Whether it's magic or aura, once you reach a certain level, you can gauge your opponent's strength."
"Can you say that so casually about reaching that level yourself? Weren't you hiding your skills?"
"You already knew when I massacred the holy knights."
"Hoo."
There were no listening ears in the garden courtyard. Isaac steadied his ragged breath. His arms, legs, and kicked side throbbed everywhere.
"If you show magic, you wouldn't even need swordsmanship......"
"It'd be convenient for a while. But Goethe will be politically isolated. My unique constitution is the same as Zeke von Goethe's."
"......?"
"If you're a mercenary's son, you must know something."
"What kind of joke is this?"
The relics said to have been used by Zeke von Goethe were sought by many. The first and last 10th class in history. Overwhelming mana. Some for collection, some for research, some for the allure of power. They were treasures sometimes worth astronomical sums. Every mercenary dreamed of grasping such fortune. Just as many lost their lives chasing rumors like moths to flame.
"The reason the royals and other nobles leave Goethe alone is because I can't overcome this unique constitution. But if word gets out that I control it without any relics......"
"It's regrettable that you're not joking."
Carlson immediately grasped Isaac's meaning. Isaac using magic meant he had mastered his unique constitution. As a result, Goethe would face scrutiny not just from other lords but from the royals themselves. Some would try to assassinate him, others to exploit it politically. Above all, most of the royal figures who suffered the greatest losses when the capital burned a century ago would likely seek to eradicate Goethe.
"Regretting it? Joining House Goethe out of all the families?"
"I do regret it. But I'm not one to look back. Raise your sword again. You'll be the one regretting."
"Hm?"
"Since you asked me to spar."
Crack. The wooden swords clashed again.
A month passed.
"Are you sure it's alright to leave like this?"
Spring had come, but the wind piercing the carriage was still sharp. Schrader, who had boarded to see Isaac off, wore a worried expression.
"No need to worry now that we're already on the way."
"You didn't even mention leaving to Hans or Gisela."
"They'll find out soon enough."
"They'll be hurt."
"That's not like you, Schrader. Since when do you care about that?"
"Because you care about them, young master."
"......"
At Schrader's words, Isaac turned his gaze to the carriage window. At some point, the road to Binvelt stretched on endlessly through dry grass and dead trees. Barren plains and reed fields continued. Frozen earth and hills with patches of unmelted snow. A desolate landscape.
"Being hurt is better than dying."
"They're people prepared to endure even your mana rampage. They care for you deeply."
"You're so talkative. Shouldn't have let you see me off."
"Young master."
"Just because Hans and Nanny are ready to endure my mana rampage doesn't mean I'm ready to let them sacrifice themselves."
Watching Randolf's funeral, Isaac couldn't help recalling the ends of Hans and Nanny. He had never attended the funerals of those who cared for him. He lacked the face and the courage. What meaning was there in vowing to protect the family, the land, if he couldn't even protect the one person by his side?
But not yet. He still lacked full confidence in completely controlling his mana rampage. When he had ignited the purple flames to face the bishop, he felt his vessel couldn't hold much more.
"I don't want to leave even the slightest possibility."
"Young master......"
Schrader opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. A groan escaped the old steward's lips. He didn't speak again for a long while. The scenery outside grew increasingly barren.
"Binvelt, once Pfeil's manor, is...... a place tainted by the blood of beasts. Nothing grows or sprouts there. It's also the first point of contact with the barbarians bypassing Winterband. Pfeil himself was granted the land merely for a quasi-noble title, not to gain anything from it."
Caw—caw—
"Is this Binvelt from here?"
"Yes."
The steward replied with a displeased face. Now, bleached bones dotted the wasteland. Some looked human, others beastly. With rotting flesh still clinging in places, wild dogs and crows prowled near the bone piles.
'It looks like the last sight of that mansion.'
Isaac pushed away the recurring image of the final mansion landscape. He had come to change things. Reflection on past mistakes was necessary, but constantly looking back was a bad habit. Isaac steeled his resolve.
"Young master."
"Enough. Father permitted it."
"Of course, because you insisted to the end. His Excellency wants you to face reality through this."
The count had granted Isaac Binvelt. But it wasn't purely a reward. He hoped Isaac wouldn't grow arrogant after ousting the old church. He wanted him to know how harsh reality was, what Goethe's reality truly entailed.
"The only residents are a few soldiers garrisoned to block the beasts and some tribesmen."
"I know."
"Young master, the camp is in sight."
Carlson, riding alongside the carriage, spoke through the window.
"No one here will welcome you. You'll face far colder treatment than at the manor."
"I know that too."
"If you know even that, what more do you plan to do in a place like this?"
Schrader asked in frustration.
"Change."
"Pardon?"
"From here, many things in Goethe will change."
Isaac replied softly.
Bwooo—
At that moment, a distant horn trumpet sounded.
"Beasts."
Carlson warned. Black monsters swarmed toward the camp encircled by wooden palisades. Some veered toward the supply convoy where Isaac's carriage rode.
"Battle stations!"
A shout rang from the vanguard of the supply train.
"Young master! Young master Isaac!"
Then, an urgent voice burst from the rear of the supply train. A soldier in gambeson, clutching a spear. It was a face Isaac recognized.
"Hans? Why are you here?"
Isaac looked at Schrader.
"Ahem. How could I withstand that boy harassing this old man every day?"
Schrader coughed awkwardly and looked away.
"What kind of master abandons his servant? I'll protect you. Don't leave my side."
Hans said with a resolute expression. But his legs and spear arm shook mercilessly.
"Haa."
Isaac sighed, pressing his forehead. In the meantime, the beasts' growls drew nearer.