The Duel (2)
“Kuhahaha!”
In the frozen atmosphere, Bessimer suddenly burst into laughter. The laughter spread like a contagion, and soon the other soldiers were chuckling along. Even the supply train soldiers, who had lost their vanguard captain, joined in the mirth.
“What’s so funny?” Isaac asked.
“Kuha, kuhahaha.” But it was as if the laughter dam wouldn’t stop. Now Bessimer was clutching his belly, slapping his knee as he doubled over.
“Didja hear that? The hell wolves are gonna wipe us out.”
The other soldiers repeated Isaac’s words, grins spreading across their faces.
“Bessimer! Bessimer!” Schrader called out in a scolding tone, unable to stand it any longer.
“Big bro, kuhaha, ya heard it too, didn’tcha? Looks like the lil’ young master’s mighty scared o’ those big mutts.”
“I won’t tolerate any more insolence.”
“Insolence? What insolence? Why should we show respect to some greenhorn kid who don’t know squat about this land?”
Bessimer shot back in a gravelly voice.
“Hell wolves? Those mutts ain’t nothin’ more’n wild dog pups. What we’re really scared of is big bro’s half-assed ways! Hidin’ in the castle, watchin’ the empire’s every move, barely keepin’ the family afloat without takin’ a real stand!”
“Can’t you shut your mouth!? Have you forgotten your life was spared by His Excellency’s mercy? Have you forgotten the oath you swore on your tribal warrior’s honor!?”
“Go on home then. Whether ya appoint that cursed cripple as lord o’ Binvelt or not, that’s big bro’s call. But whether we accept him as master o’ this land? That’s mine.”
“Insulting the young master is the same as insulting His Excellency. He won’t stand for it.”
“What, ya gonna kill me then? If ya wanna, go ahead. But ya got someone to replace me?”
“……”
Schrader fell silent, and Bessimer sneered.
“Hmph. Next time ya come, bring some whores instead o’ the cripple. No place to blow off steam in this backwater, so they’re fightin’ each other like dogs. Losin’ men left and right.”
With that, Bessimer turned his back and strode deeper into the camp, as if he’d said his piece.
“The wolves’ king is starting to move.”
Isaac’s voice wasn’t loud. But Bessimer, who had maintained his leisurely attitude until then, halted and turned around.
He wasn’t the only one. Every soldier stared at Isaac. A rainbow of reactions: contempt from some, fear from others, suspicion, disgust.
“Lil’ young master must’ve read too many fairy tales.”
Bessimer approached Isaac, his face twisting into a fearsome scowl.
“Ain’t no fairy tale with the wolves’ king as the hero. Don’t believe me? Go ask yer tribe’s prophet.”
The blood-soaked giant’s appearance would terrify anyone, but Isaac just continued.
“Why listen to a quack who couldn’t even predict his own tribe’s doom?”
“Then experience annihilation again.”
“Heh heh. Sharp tongue on ya, wonder who ya take after.”
Bessimer laughed chillingly as he picked up the axe embedded in the ground. The blood-crusted blade rose slowly into the air following his hand.
“Hup, young master!”
Hans let out a shrill cry, sensing the danger.
The axe whistled through the air, cleaving down toward Isaac’s skull.
Silence fell.
But no sound of a head splitting open came.
The axe stopped precisely at Isaac’s hairline.
“I smashed that wolves’ king with this axe long ago. What d’ya know, ya milk-scented pup?”
Bessimer’s eyes bulged wildly.
Isaac stared back at him without flinching.
“Carlson. Take it away.”
“Understood.”
Bessimer, radiating killing intent, fumbled at his throat in confusion.
“……When?”
Fresh blood stained the spot where Carlson sheathed his sword. A sharp sting confirmed it was his own.
“Believe it or not, that’s your choice, Bessimer. But the wolves’ king is alive. One of two things: either a new one was born, or you didn’t kill it.”
The soldiers began murmuring at Isaac’s words.
“I killed it for sure. Whatever lil’ bro told ya……”
“This has nothing to do with Father. I found it out on my own, and I’m speaking on my own. I came to stop this land from falling to the beasts.”
“Your land? Might as well listen to ghosts eatin’ corpses.”
Bessimer’s eyebrow twitched at Isaac’s words.
“If you stand in the way of my rightful will to protect my land, I’ll have no choice but to remove the obstacle myself.”
“Haha, feisty lil’ young master. So even a cripple’s still big bro and sis’s kid, eh?”
Bessimer laughed loudly. The laughter didn’t last long.
“As one who bears the blood of Great Chieftain’s daughter Adel, I challenge you to a duel.”
“……?”
“I’ll crush you and take command of this camp.”
“Big bro, did that lil’ young master’s curse rot yer brain along with yer body?”
“You’re not backing out because of his size, are you?”
“Hah.”
Bessimer was speechless in disbelief. Did this noble kid barely up to his waist even grasp what those words meant?
“Guess the lil’ young master’s eager to die.”
Bessimer’s lip curled.
“Why say such a thing? It’s not too late. Take it back and head back to the manor. His Excellency won’t scold you.”
“It’s already decided.”
“You’ve never properly learned the sword, have you?”
“Carlson taught me.”
Despite Schrader’s pleas, Isaac silently oiled his blade.
“You think a month’s training is enough? If you’re throwing your life away, do it for something worthwhile. This is insane. Hans, Carlson, say something!”
“No need. My decision won’t change anyway.”
Hans opened his mouth at Isaac’s words, then closed it. He was still down from nearly dying to the hell wolves.
Carlson leaned against a tent pole, staring into space.
“……”
The duel between Isaac and Bessimer was set for noon the next day, when the sun hung highest in the sky.
Bessimer gave Isaac one of the camp tents, telling him to run anytime he wanted. Of course, Isaac showed no sign of fleeing.
No anxiety or fear marred the twelve-year-old boy’s face. Despite the obvious mismatch in build, strength, and experience, Isaac’s eyes remained coldly resolute.
Schrader’s insides boiled.
Since the last mana rampage, Isaac had changed a lot. Mature enough to pass for any other adult in his thinking. He’d even shown wisdom beyond Schrader’s expectations—like unmasking the bishop’s secret to purge the old church’s influence.
Surely this wasn’t just childish impulse or emotion provoking Bessimer.
But common sense existed for a reason.
Bessimer was a berserker who reveled in bloodshed. Such extreme warriors often couldn’t overcome battle frenzy and plunged into death’s abyss. That’s why their lifespans were short.
Yet Bessimer had survived here for over a decade since childhood. Two reasons he’d lasted: he was strong enough to survive reckless choices, and he had the endurance and judgment to overcome peril.
Such warriors only grew stronger with age. Bessimer was at his peak, body and experience in perfect harmony.
And Isaac had challenged him to a duel.
What else could it be but suicide?
“Young master……!”
“Don’t worry. Even if I lose, Bessimer won’t kill me.”
“He’s unpredictable.”
“Don’t even think of begging mercy from him. Not if you don’t want to tarnish the Goethe name.”
With that, Isaac extinguished the lantern and candles.
“You’re so stubborn.”
“Go now. I need rest for tomorrow’s duel.”
Isaac lay down on the bed of layered beast hides, refusing further argument.
“Hans, you go back with Schrader tomorrow too. You’ll just be in the way.”
Schrader and Hans couldn’t say more to Isaac, who had already closed his eyes. He seemed utterly immovable.
“If the young master’s in danger, I won’t stand by. No matter what you say, I’ll send you back to the manor.”
“Do as you like.”
“……”
Schrader stormed out, face sour. Hans hesitated, then followed.
A long while later, Isaac half-opened his eyes.
Carlson was still there.
“Carlson.”
“Moving out?”
“Yeah.”
“Suspicious activity.”
“Ignore it. Just do what I told you, nothing else.”
“Understood.”
Carlson vanished without a sound.
Isaac closed his eyes again. Sleep seemed elusive, but exhaustion from the journey claimed him quickly.
It wasn’t deep sleep. He had a nightmare.
A swamp of cold blood. Made of gore and flesh, sinking deeper the more he struggled. Rotten blood and meat stench assaulted his nose.
Above it floated the severed heads of those he loved: Father, Mother, Yonas, Lucas, Nanny, Hans, the maids……
Isaac wasn’t panicked. He knew it was a dream.
Just wondered where it came from. Guilt from his past life? Anxiety that this life might repeat the tragedy?
As his head submerged in the blood swamp, bone-chilling cold woke him.
Pale light seeped through the tent flap. Isaac lay as he’d slept, buried in layers of hides.
But something felt off. Damp, squishy, reeking foully all around him.
When he lifted the flap and light flooded in, he saw it.
Blood and filth soaking his underclothes, chunks of minced flesh, bone fragments. The hell wolf’s guts from yesterday, dumped all over the bed.
Childish prank.
His restless sleep left him with headache and chills. Body felt off.
“Y-young master!”
Hans gasped in horror.
“Kekeke, what a sight. Did the noble young master sneak some wolf meat last night?”
“Kuhuhu, quit it. The kid’s gonna cry.”
Soldiers snickered as they passed Isaac’s disheveled state.
“You call yourselves Goethe soldiers!?”
“Whoa, someone’s pissed. Scary.”
“Young master, those bastards treating you like……!”
Hans looked ready to charge them.
“Stop. More importantly, get me a change of clothes.”
No river nearby to bathe in this barren plain. Even if there was, it’d be in monster-infested woods.
Isaac wiped down with well water and changed.
“I-I’ll rip ‘em apart.”
Schrader, face flushed with rage, went to confront Bessimer—but he’d been out hunting since dawn.
“Don’t waste your energy, Schrader. He’ll just deny it anyway.”
“Where’s Carlson? What was he doing!?”
“No need to blame Carlson. He’s doing what I assigned.”
“……Young master. What are you planning?”
“You’ll see soon.”
Schrader pressed with questions, but Isaac gave only vague replies. Schrader grew uneasy. He shouldn’t think this way, but dark suspicions crept in.
The cathedral heretic group’s catacombs, where Isaac had baited himself. The horrific cannibalism and nightmarish ritual traces there.
Schrader, who’d investigated the full horror, couldn’t fathom Isaac’s calm. A normal child would be traumatized, skipping meals for days or weeks, maybe even deranged.
But Isaac seemed unfazed. Sometimes his eyes looked eerily vacant.
Schrader had seen those eyes in battle-hardened youths. They seemed cold, silent, trapped in void and nihilism, feeling nothing.
But that emptiness wasn’t absence. It was fullness.
Hearts brimming with revenge, ambition, love—numb to all else. They were the burners. Incinerating everything for overflowing desires. Death a mere obstacle. Even their own lives fuel for the blaze.
Few such souls survived the battlefield. Their flames burned too fast.
Schrader prayed his eyes deceived him. Isaac was still too young to burn it all.
Noon approached relentlessly.
Hans prepared a meal mimicking manor fare, but Isaac refused. He chewed a few strips of jerky. Heavy food would only hinder the fight.
Before noon, Carlson returned.
“Ready?”
“More or less.”
“Heard there was trouble.”
“Just a childish prank.”
Their exchange was dry. Less boy and adult, more veteran soldiers who’d shared years of hardship.
As noon neared, Hans and Schrader tensed with anxiety, but the two remained utterly calm.
“Where’ve you been? While you were gone, the young master got covered in blood and guts.”
“That’s fortunate enough.”
“What!?”
Schrader’s voice rose.
“It could’ve been worse. Binvelt wasn’t won through peace or talks—it’s land Goethe took by force, driving out the tribes. They bow their heads, but they hate Goethe. You know that, butler.”
“……”
“His Excellency’s still strong, so it stopped there. Otherwise, you’d have seen true savagery.”
Schrader’s eyes twitched at Carlson’s cold truth. He couldn’t argue, but lifelong loyalty to Goethe made it sting.
“What I assigned?”
“As you predicted. The hell wolves didn’t raid for food.”
“Then?”
“Revenge.”
Carlson answered Isaac’s question.
Dong, dong, dong. Drums signaled noon.
The duel’s time had come.
Horse hooves echoed from afar—Bessimer, back from the hunt.