The Boy's Transformation
Rumors spread like wildfire through Goethe Manor that Isaac had returned from Binvelt noticeably taller and more grown-up. But most of the household staff didn't welcome the change.
His sudden growth spurt had transformed the twelve-year-old boy into the frame of a thirteen- or even sixteen-year-old young man. He still had room to grow and retained a boyish innocence, but the servants weren't pleased. There were several reasons, but the biggest was the fear that Isaac might trigger another mana rampage.
Even before his growth, his mana explosions had terrified people and caused minor injuries. Now that his body was bigger, it was only natural for them to worry about even larger blasts.
On top of that, his appetite had become pickier.
"Bring out more meat. Hurry up. I'm hungry."
He'd never complained about the food before, no matter what was served. That had been a point of pride for the manor’s head chef. Satisfying Isaac—who had once acted like a spoiled brat and was still an object of fear or avoidance—through his meals was no small feat.
But now, with Isaac back from Binvelt, the chef had to overhaul parts of the menu.
In truth, the ones most bothered by Isaac's changes were the soldiers stationed at the manor.
"Mind if I use the training grounds?"
"How do you guys train? Can I join?"
From the very first day back, after indulging in a bath and a hearty meal, Isaac showed up at the training grounds. It was an awkward situation.
With the count and the steward away, here was the little Goethe heir throwing a tantrum to join their training. The soldiers weren't sure whether to refuse or accept.
Refuse, and he might explode in rage. Accept, and he might explode during training.
Above all, the massive hell wolf that always lay belly-up at a distance from Isaac made them nervous. Who knew if it might rip their heads off if Isaac got even slightly hurt or upset during sparring?
"Don't worry. He's tame."
Isaac assured them, but not a single soldier believed him.
"Father's permission? It's fine. When Father's away, I'm the acting head of the house."
The soldiers' reasons to refuse dwindled, and Isaac was persistent. In the end, they had no choice but to deal with what felt like a walking mana bomb.
But contrary to their fears, the soldiers cracked first.
"Is that all you've got?"
It started with Isaac's bored assessment of their training.
The soldiers ran the manor’s winding paths with heavy stone-filled baskets on their backs, sweat pouring down. The trails weren't flat—gentle hills and gravel stretches made it grueling. Even these veterans, who trained daily without fail, were exhausted after one lap.
They figured Isaac would quit before even entering the paths, especially since some pranksters had tossed iron weights into his basket as a hazing ritual for newbies.
Yet Isaac finished the brutal course standing tall on his own two feet. No vomiting, no complaints of exhaustion. Sure, he was sweating and breathing hard like the rest, but it didn't look like he'd hauled a boulder up steep inclines or rough terrain. More like he'd jogged a few casual laps around the garden.
He even looked satisfied.
"Easier than I thought. What's next?"
His words made veins bulge on the soldiers' foreheads.
To them—who hadn't heard of the Binvelt battles—Isaac was just a big-bodied novice. Most had served at Winterband, foreign armies, or mercenary bands, with real combat experience under their belts.
And now this kid was looking down on their training.
"Sparring."
A veteran replied. Murderous intent gleamed in their eyes.
They came from different backgrounds and reasons for being here, but right now, they shared one thought: smash this punk.
Isaac's lips curled into a grin.
"Sounds fun."
The soldiers were eager. They wanted to humble the brat and teach him the cold, hard wall of reality.
But they were the ones who hit the wall.
"Raaah!"
A soldier swung his wooden sword in an overhead arc. Isaac leaned back to dodge effortlessly, then stepped forward with his back foot, driving his weight into a charge. Their bodies collided.
No sound from the impact, but the soldier felt his bones rattle inside. He barely regained his balance—unwittingly pushed back three steps.
By the time he tried to reset his stance, it was too late. Isaac's wooden sword rested against his throat.
"Is that all you've got?"
The soldier's face twisted in fury, but he had to concede.
"I lose."
"Next."
Soldier after soldier challenged him—and lost the same way every time.
Not one was smaller or shorter than Isaac. They knew weight class mattered in close combat, so they ate big and trained hard.
Yet they always yielded to him. Colliding with his torso felt like slamming into rock—bones aching.
"You fight like you've barely seen battle."
The veterans recognized his style. Many had served at Winterband, and lately, frontier tribesmen filled the ranks. Those big, sturdy warriors always created openings in blade-and-shield melees using their bulk.
Isaac fought just like them—like a grizzled vet of decades.
"What's that guy's name? Ragnar? Bjorn? Didn't those berserkers fight like that?"
"What the hell did he do in Binvelt?"
Their shock wasn't just from the tribal style. It was the skilled swordplay woven in.
His sword flows transitioned seamlessly—attack to defense, defense to attack. But unpredictable for opponents.
His swings shifted constantly. Sword-like one moment, then axe-chops cleaving air. Soldiers accustomed to blade speed faltered against his power and half-beat timing shifts.
And his arsenal wasn't just the wooden sword.
"Hup!"
A clean upward strike from below—like something out of a manual. But the soldier panicked. Isaac didn't block or parry—he stepped in boldly, trapping the arm in his armpit.
Isaac wrenched the wrist with his free hand.
"Agh—!"
The soldier screamed, dropping his sword. This fifth opponent was the best among the guards—a true veteran.
"……."
Awe lit the soldiers' eyes.
Sword wrestling appeared in manuals, but it lacked practicality. Rare in duels, suicidal in chaotic battlefields—flank stabs galore. Useless against mana-wielding knights, who outpowered you and kept distance with aura.
Without confidence, strength, and anatomy knowledge, no one attempted it.
Yet Isaac dove in boldly and snatched the sword like it was nothing.
"Next. Next! No more?!"
No one stepped up. All dozen or so had fallen.
"I'll be the last."
A soldier clutching his sore wrist replied.
"Really? You all fell short of expectations. Gotta step it up."
Isaac smacked his lips in disappointment. His mutter—meant to be overheard—had them grinding teeth and clenching fists.
The humiliation stung.
"Looking forward to tomorrow."
The soldiers didn't know how to process it. A twelve-year-old kid, no formal sword training, plagued by mana rampage. Back from lording over Binvelt, he'd subdued the entire guard.
It was just sparring, and early opponents had gone easy—but after those losses, everyone gave their all. Even in real combat, the result would've been the same. They sensed it.
Did the greenhouse flower return from Binvelt a sword genius?
Watching Isaac leave the grounds, their minds swirled with thoughts. They missed his final words.
Isaac had provoked them for three reasons.
First, they were perfect sparring partners to test his skills. Carlson and Bessimer were too strong; Binvelt's untrained soldiers too weak. The manor guards were veteran close-quarters fighters, handpicked by the count. Skilled, dedicated, proud protectors loyal to the family.
Ideal for Isaac to warm up. He'd wondered how wolf king combat techniques and Lucas's swordsmanship meshed in practice. Plus, post-rune stone effects: mana spreading through his body, reinforcing joints and muscles unnoticed.
The wolf king's rune stone hadn't just grown him—it dispersed mana like the Baitur tribe instinctively did, akin to knights with aura. The first spars satisfied greatly. He grasped how to wield his new gifts.
Second, to motivate the guards. They were good, but Isaac saw room to grow. War loomed; Goethe struggled to expand forces. They needed to be worth ten men each. A growth spark.
Third, crafting his public image. Zeke von Goethe's mana rampage had burned the palace; Isaac inherited it. Casting magic endangered the family. But he couldn't skulk forever.
To dodge suspicion and act freely, he needed a reputation: sword genius and delinquent. That would secure his movements.
No need to play delinquent with everyone, though.
"There was an ancestor named Zeke von Goethe. The first and last to reach 10th Class in history—a superhuman."
In the family archive, Isaac shared old tales with Yonas. Secrets from records only heads should see—but the future heir benefited from early knowledge. Heavy burden, but fuel for faster growth.
Sorry, Yonas, but this was for his good.
"……He burned the royal palace, and Goethe was exiled here to the frontier."
"Really? For real, so……?"
Yonas's baby-fat cheeks flushed with shock. Tough for a kid to grasp, but he listened like a true heir.
"How do you know, big bro?"
"Snuck a peek in Father's private study. And probably… that ancestor's unique constitution manifested in me."
"So people in the capital fear you?"
"If it gets out. The whole family might be in danger."
"No way, that can't happen."
"Yeah. So it's our secret, Yonas. Just you and me."
"Mm, shh. Super secret. Never, never, never tell."
Yonas pressed a pinky to his lips. Isaac chuckled.
"Big bro."
"Yeah?"
"I'll get strong. Strong enough to protect Dad, Mom, you, and everyone here."
Yonas declared solemnly.
"Good. You're all I need."
Isaac smiled, ruffling his brother's curly golden hair. What a smart, spirited kid.