Spring Rain
Lucas was dead. The vessel had shattered. An explosion had torn through everything. Isaac ordered that from then on, no one—not even his attendants—was to enter his room. New clothes, fresh towels, emptying the chamber pot, food—all of it came through the slot in the door. That was the best Isaac could manage.
His heart lay empty, unfilled, haunted by sporadic flashes of those he loved. Apathy and self-loathing. Guilt and depression. They were constant companions. Days passed without meals, without so much as lifting a finger. Memories of the decades spent with Lucas surfaced in fragments—the conversations they'd shared. Beyond them, glimpses of Hans, the nanny, the maids. Isaac chewed over each one meticulously. Sometimes he laughed, sometimes he wept. But when he surfaced from the recollections, there was only the moldy wall.
He should have kept his distance. Shouldn't have let affection grow. Should have been ruthless. Then they might be living ordinary lives now. Such regrets were far too late. All that remained was pain. And so several more years slipped by.
Now, even the vivid memories worth savoring were gone. Isaac realized it in a flash: the period of mourning had ended. What lingered was pain alone. And the pain whispered truths—that he was no monster, but human. That he was still alive. That he had a reason to live. And so, now, he must look forward, not back.
"Time to start with the body again."
The youth had become a middle-aged man. Middle-aged, yet his appearance was that of an old man. Still, he didn't give up. Fall, and rise again. That was Isaac. The iron will of Goethe blood. Lucas had awakened it in him.
The marks etched on the wall numbered over forty. He was past forty now. Not as before, but his condition had improved markedly. He ate every meal, trained steadily as he had with Lucas. He compiled, organized, reviewed what he'd learned over the years: circulating rumors in books, periodic papers from the magic towers, Goethe's secret spells, magitech, alchemy. On paper, there was nothing left for Isaac to learn. What remained was solving problems through intuition and inspiration.
Five more years passed. The food deliveries dwindled noticeably. New towels and clothes were stained or frayed. Had the family's fortunes declined? Isaac brushed the thought aside. He focused only on what mattered.
And one day, a frail old man in the prime of decline opened the door. He carried the ancestral sword Valerich and a satchel. Isaac only recognized him after staring for a long moment, noting the worn coat. The Goethe Count. His father.
He looked far more aged than when he'd brought news of Lucas's death. His dignity had fled with his gaunt cheeks, replaced by age spots.
"...Isaac?"
"I've disgraced us."
The count froze, scrutinizing his son without a twitch. "You've grown old."
"And you, Father—are you unwell?"
"No mirrors here, I see."
The count glanced around the room, then pulled a mirror from his satchel. "Look."
He was right. The man in the mirror looked older than the count. Snow-white hair. Deep wrinkles. Sparse teeth and thinning scalp. Corpse-pale skin. He'd thought his body recovered somewhat, but outwardly, he was just a wretched old man.
Isaac let out a hollow laugh.
"Amusing, is it?"
"What else can I do? Laugh or nothing."
"Sit."
"Pardon?"
"Sit."
Snip-snip. The count sat Isaac in a chair and began cutting his hair. Straggly white locks fell away, scattering like snowflakes. Isaac wondered when he'd last seen real snow. He couldn't recall.
"If you wish it, the pain can end."
The count spoke suddenly. Isaac grasped the meaning at once. The famed sword Valerich, reforged many times, its blade rippling like waves. Bestowed on executioners who did anything for the house. The count had come to end his son's life today. To spare him further misery. To grant rest. Mercy. In person.
Even trimming his hair on impulse—wanting his son to leave looking presentable. It also meant the count's own end was near. Sensing death, he couldn't rest with his son weighing on him.
Isaac could guess it all: his father's heart, his failing health, the house's plight. But he shook his head.
"...Is that your will?"
"Yes."
"Very well."
The count nodded slowly. No questions, no persuasion. He just kept cutting silently.
"Today will be the last I see you."
The count brushed white hairs from Isaac's shoulders, then kissed his forehead. "Achieve what you desire."
"..."
Isaac had no words. Despite all the books, none came to mind.
"May this help."
The count drew a crumbling book from his satchel. "What is it?"
"From generations before me. Our ancestors' records. More for you than Yonas."
The count gripped Isaac's hand as he took the book. "I'll go ahead. When you come, leave all regrets here."
Isaac stared blankly at his father. The count never looked back as he left. Valerich scraped the floor. His gait staggered—one leg dragging after the other. Each step crushed Isaac's heart like stone. He listened quietly to the fading presence.
Years passed. A letter arrived for Isaac. From his mother. His father had passed peacefully. She'd caught a vicious plague while subjugating monsters in the White Snake Mountains. Priests and doctors had tried, but there was no hope.
Isaac longed for his mother. Desperately so.
More years flowed by. Isaac was past fifty. His father's ancestral records proved invaluable. Historically, once: someone with Isaac's unique constitution. His great-grandfather, Zeke von Goethe.
He'd suffered mana rampage, once burning the capital to the ground. The king had bowed to the imperial emperor for aid. Some authorities claimed Zeke had reached the superhuman 10th class.
Records said Zeke bought rare relics from across the continent, always wearing them dangling from his body. Isaac found his clue there. If a narrow channel carries far more water, it floods violently. Solutions: widen the channel or split it into dozens to share the load. Zeke's relics must have done that. But hunting century-old artifacts was impossible. So, he would make his own.
Fortunately, magitech had advanced rapidly through endless wars. And though under Yonas's name, Isaac was among its top authorities. He needed only time.
As Isaac neared sixty, after filling over thirty pages of fiber paper with proofs, he drew a single rune. All his knowledge and logic sparked, aligning into equation and pattern. A thrill raced through him. Now, to manifest the abstract theory: craft rune stones from mana stones and tools to suppress rampage, prove it through endless tests.
More years passed. Yesterday's bread through the slot was moldy. No new clothes or towels. Something was wrong with the house. But research materials still came steadily. Time marched on indifferently. Isaac approached an age fitting his decrepit body.
His worn frame disobeyed. It screamed limits daily. Precision engraving runes into mana stones improved, but trembling hands caused errors. So close, yet not. The old man grew frustrated. Isaac neared seventy. If the wall marks weren't wrong, he was seventy-one.
"Brother, it's Yonas."
Yonas spoke to him. Isaac thought it a hallucination. But the voice continued outside the door.
"Brother? It's Yonas. Are you asleep?"
Reality. Isaac feared. He, who'd taken his brother's right hand in childhood—what grudge now? Or a new nightmare?
"Brother."
"...Yonas."
Yonas knocked for a long while, tentative and weak. Isaac answered softly.
"What brings you?"
His voice trembled faintly.
"May I come in?"
Isaac checked the old mirror his father left. A corpse's visage. Hard to believe he lived. Some things needn't be faced.
"Speak from there."
Yonas leaned against the door; Isaac pressed his back to it from inside. Wanting his brother's voice closer. But words came hard.
"How have you been?"
"Too long a tale."
Yonas sighed like a groan. "Do you know? Today is Father's death anniversary. Can't recall which."
"How did Father... pass?"
"Long story. Want to hear?"
"If you're willing."
"Hoo."
Yonas took a deep breath, heavy with fatigue. As he said, the tale was long. Starting thirty years back: the succession war between the First Prince and Second Prince. The Second's betrayal. Imperial invasion. Massacre at the coronation. Kingdom's fall. Witch hunts by the imperial state religion, the old church. Goethe as refuge for mages, new church priests, royalists, defeated rebels, refugees. Declaring city-statehood with neighbors' and new church aid. Hellish old kingdom lands. Wars large and small. Corpses and plagues. Vanishing forests...
"So much... happened."
Yonas's summary of decades. Isaac was speechless. Too ignorant of the world.
"Enough gloom. Know this? Much of your food was Mother's cooking."
Yonas shifted tone abruptly, lightening.
"Mother... cooked? Hard to imagine."
"Yes. Started awful, improved. You'd know—you ate it. Her beef stew was masterful."
Yonas recounted the house's saga over Isaac's absent half-century. Daily life, minus grand tragedies. Human touches. His political marriage. The commoner woman he loved. Children born, children lost. Surviving grandchildren. Butler Schrader's successor's blunders. Schrader's death. Visitors to city-state Goethe. Journeys and humiliations Yonas endured for neighbors' support...
Decades flowed like water in hours. More gripping than any book Isaac devoured. Joyful. Even as thirst dried his mouth and hunger sapped his voice.
Yonas's stories wouldn't end.
"One thing I'll grant: you're a born storyteller."
What use at this withered age? Isaac thought. Still, he wanted to say something. Anything good, however small.
"Haha, me?"
"Fine silver tongue."
"Should've wandered as a bard before heir. One hand's a hassle, though."
"...Sorry."
"Know this? Father, Mother, me—we hated you so much."
"..."
Isaac's chest stabbed like a needle. Amazing such feeling lingered. A bitter smile.
"And... missed you terribly."
"...?"
Hallucination? He doubted his ears.
"Loved you. Truly."
"..."
Isaac blanked. Like a blow to the skull.
"Brother?"
"...Listening."
"Haha. Pouring it out feels good."
"Good for me too."
"Really no opening the door? My memory's you as a boy. Handsome, virtuous."
"Mine differs."
"That wooden doll you made... I still have it. Most burned, though."
"..."
"Pity. Ah, wanted one last look."
"Last?"
"While war raged... the door opened."
Yonas's voice faded, slowed.
"Door?"
"Monsters from another world... New church radicals' atrocity... *cough cough*."
Sudden harsh coughs.
"Yonas, you okay?! What's wrong?"
"Now... Goethe is... gone... Now... at least you... live out your days... peacefully... Ah... If only... sooner..."
"Yonas? Yonas!!!"
The floor was wet and cold. Isaac finally saw the blood seeping under the door. Long dried and cold.
Creeeak—the door swung open. The corpse leaning against it slumped to the chill stone. A knife pierced the old man's gut, like his father's in old age. Left in to stem bleeding.
"You held out... to tell it all."
Regret at death? Unfinished tales? Yonas stared blankly, eyes open.
"Rest now, brother."
Isaac closed his eyes. He sat dazed for ages. The last chance at atonement gone.
"...Come. Can't lie here forever."
Isaac splashed his face, hoisted Yonas's body, descended step by step. Past seventy, muscles atrophied—he could barely hold himself. Yet Yonas felt light as air.
"How starved were you?"
No answer. Isaac's eyes reddened.
Thud-thud. Footsteps echoed.
"Winter...?"
Air chilled ascending. Ground level. First time in half a century. But no time for sentiment. Corpses rolled across the floor, greeting them. Grotesque monsters unknown. No limb intact. Crests on shields, armor, robes: Goethe mages and knights, imperial knights and soldiers, Second Prince's men.
The manor, untended long, littered with shattered furnishings. No glass intact. The once-grand great hall collapsed beyond trace.
"Remember, Yonas? Sun through these stained glasses... beautiful."
He muttered hoarsely.
"Snowing."
Desolate ruins without roof. Silent heavy flakes fell. Breath steamed. Bones ached with cold.
"Huff, huff."
Isaac clawed frozen earth with bare hands—impossible. That winter, coldest of his seventy-one.
The old man survived till spring on rotten bread crumbs. In his seventy-second year, thaw came. He buried Yonas in the family plot. Now, he too could rest.
Whoosh—a tiny flame. Flickering, near extinction. A faint ember bloomed in the old man's palm.
"See, Yonas? Finally... finally reached it."
He groped the soil. His brother's grave.
"Now, can I rest? Now, now, I... now..."
The old man choked up.
"A bit... forgiven?"
Plip-plop—spring rain fell. It pattered the husk of his back. Like a gentle pat. *Well done. You tried.* Soothing.
Clink. The rune stone that conquered his unique constitution shattered, spent. The faint ember danced at his fingertips.
The old man smiled faintly. At last. He could end it cleanly. Quiet joy lit his face.
Pouring rain. But joy fled fast. The smile washed away. The flame sputtered out. Frozen corpses thawed, rotted. Flies buzzed. Crows cawed, fleeing rain.
No one to bury him with family. No one left. Alone. He'd die alone. Beasts and monsters drawn by corpse-stink. Wreck the place. He'd rot like the others strewn about.
"Ah."
Fading eyes to the void. A butterfly flits, seeking shelter from spring shower. Wings frail. It alights on Valerich's pommel atop the grave. Wings wetting.
Suddenly. Like lightning. Reality struck the old man.
Goethe gone from the world. Family gone. Nothing. Alone. Dying alone.
"Fleeting."
He thought: if only a bit faster. Less time to despair. Would this blood-and-ash scene differ? He shook his head. Too late.
Shower ceased. Gray desolation bathed in golden spring sun. Drowsiness flooded him.
He dreamed.
"Bad dream?"
In the dream, Hans asked worriedly. Splint on one foot, leaning on crutches. The past. Long ago. Cherished. One day.