The Eldest Son of Goethe Runs
Isaac von Goete, the eldest son of the Goethe family, was running. Whether the manor soldiers wanted to train with him or not.
Even after returning to the manor, Isaac never neglected his physical training. It was partly to hide his magical talent and showcase his swordsmanship to the world. But that wasn't the only reason. It was also to preserve his identity as a mage.
Magic was infinite. The more one explored it, the more familiar concepts became alien, constantly urging the mage to surpass limits for the next stage. The realm a mage sought was always a distant, shimmering blue point—a single, infinitely blue dot. It was forever out of reach. That's why most mages, devoting their lives to magic, didn't fare well. Their memories faltered, or they succumbed to depression and took their own lives. Compared to the infinite world of magic, a human mage was infinitely frail, finite, and insignificant.
Newbie mages might strut like great sages, but those who knew more about magic were inevitably plagued by emptiness. And so, Isaac ran to avoid madness, to keep from sinking into nihilism and stay grounded in reality. In the end, it came down to stamina. Building the body to fortify the mind.
Clang-clang. The basket on his back kept clanging as iron weights and swords knocked together. Not satisfied with just rocks, he'd picked only metal chunks. Yet Isaac led the pack, pulling farther ahead of the manor soldiers.
In truth, setting aside all reasons, Isaac simply enjoyed running. The liberation and freedom of a fit body were immense joys for someone who'd spent a lifetime trapped underground. Even laden with that heavy iron, he didn't tire. His lungs filled not with stale underground air, but fresh early summer breeze. Beyond the path lay not the ruined Goethe Manor, but the intact one. Groans rose from the soldiers behind, but Isaac didn't hear them.
"That crazy..."
The soldiers nearly cursed the little Goethe aloud. No, they'd unleashed a torrent of profanity in their minds. Isaac ignoring their pace and charging ahead alone only sapped their training motivation. When stamina remained, they'd curse and push harder. But soon enough, breath caught at their throats, hearts pounded like they might burst, minds grew hazy—and thoughts vanished. They just prayed this hellish training would end sooner.
Isaac, the subject of it all, had no thoughts about the manor soldiers. Or rather, couldn't. Reveling in the new body he'd never dreamed of in his past life naturally recalled that history. And looming events flickered in his mind. Before long, his head was filled with Bernsi.
Following Yonas's fragmented tales of Goethe history came records of ancestors from his past life, handed by his father. Books read to uncover ways to overcome his unique constitution and learn about Zeke von Goete. They detailed the family lineage from when Goethe was pushed to the frontier.
Isaac had read and reread those records. His father, sensing impending ruin and death, had given them to end his son's pitiable confined life. It was his way of respecting the path his son chose.
According to the records, this year marked great change for Bernsi. A century ago, Zeke von Goete's atrocity of turning the capital into a sea of fire had imposed two restrictions on the Goethe family: bans on commerce and military expansion. Thus, Goethe couldn't levy taxes or tolls on merchants, nor increase troops. Their only funds were the royal shield tax.
This unexpectedly drew merchants flocking. Profits from trade surged, forming a city. Refugees and vagrants poured in too—labor and prostitution abounded. A massive city unfit for the barren north arose. Its underworld economy ballooned accordingly. A black market formed.
Dietrich Marquis, backed by the Second Prince and appointed northern inspector, used trades in weapons, drugs, slaves, and counterfeit money to blackmail the count. But the count neither meddled nor profited from the market. He'd even checked it, though that meant nothing to Dietrich Marquis.
Weapons and counterfeits were treason against the crown. Slaves sowed discord with tribesmen. The count couldn't ignore the threats. In the end, Bernsi gained autonomy as Dietrich demanded. The marquis allied with market leader Baris for a grand free market. Magic stones, magic items, weapons, drugs, slaves, counterfeits—sold to commoners, nobles, royals, rebels alike, for the right price.
Their goal: the kingdom's greatest free trade city, continent's vault, wielding untouchable financial power. The Second Prince provided cover, the market controlled the black market, and rising force Baisman lent muscle. Even the Nears gang Bill now ran had been ousted by Baisman. Rumors said they had over five mana-wielding swordsmen—leagues beyond street gangs or mercenaries.
Bernsi prospered for a time. It once reaped more in a year than Goethe's decade budget. But it didn't last. Powers eyed it covetously; the Second Prince's position weakened. Royals and nobles saw the uncontrollable city as a thorn; ballooning interests bred conflict between marquis and market. Civil war erupted. Merchants fled, mercenaries' blood never dried. Bernsi, turned to a sea of flames, never recovered. Like Goethe.
Normalizing Bernsi would pave Goethe's resurgence. 'To break this cycle of disaster, where and how to strike first.'
Returning first to the training grounds, Isaac scratched diagrams in the dirt with a stick, pondering Bernsi's salvation. Soon, inspector Dietrich Marquis would visit the manor. Market leader and magnate Baris. Baisman with their mana swordsmen. Toppling this triangle was priority one.
Inspector Dietrich Marquis backed by the Second Prince. Magnate Baris commanding Bernsi merchants. Baisman with force to sweep gutter gangs and seize it. Facing them simultaneously overburdened Goethe. Create cracks, then. Was their alliance ironclad, or mere opportunistic fellowship?
"Y-Young master."
As Isaac pondered, the guard captain approached with a stiff face. Discontent?
"Yeah?"
"If it's alright, could we spar again today?"
Not discontent—tension. The captain gauged Isaac's reaction.
"I'd just be a hindrance."
"No. Yesterday's single bout taught us much. Sparring among ourselves made us pond fish. I'd be grateful for guidance during your stay."
"For real?"
Isaac eyed the guard captain steadily, then scanned the soldiers behind. No malice in their demeanor.
"P-Please!"
"Please, young master!"
"Hm."
Isaac scuffed out his dirt diagram with his boot. No harm in it. Compared to past life's Lucas or Carlson, their swordplay was middling. Still, it kept Lucas-taught skills sharp. Useful for honing wolf king's rune stone experience into combat sense.
"Alright."
"Thank you!"
The soldiers' faces lit up at Isaac's nod. 'That good, huh.' Isaac smirked. This was Goethe, after all. Renowned magical house in the kingdom, yet true Goethes bore warriors' hearts over mages' curiosity. Mixed tribal blood helped, but ancestors' lineage set the tone. Even father Helmut von Goete, current head, spent more time at Winterband guarding the territory than delving magic. Patrols, training, battles there took precedence. Such was the magical house of Goethe.
"Come on."
Isaac took a wooden sword and stepped to the training ground's center. Hot gazes converged. A far cry from yesterday's vibe. Then, they'd seen the twig-legged young master back from Binvelt as a poser. But after a dozen veterans fell to him one by one, they felt it firsthand: thick Goethe blood coursed in this grown body's veins. His mage's heart might be broken, but his warrior's pulsed with vigor.
"I'll go first."
A soldier stepped up. The veteran whose wrist Isaac had twisted yesterday. Dark circles under sleepless eyes from humiliation. Yet they burned bright.
"I was careless yesterday. Won't be easy today."
"Looking forward to it. Come at me."
"Hah!"
The soldier thrust cleanly, no frills. Crack. Isaac parried the neck-aimed strike. The soldier stepped back, balanced, thrust again. Crack. Parried once more, he sidestepped diagonally, slashing at Isaac's arm. Crack. Isaac blocked with both ends of his wooden sword.
'Impressive.'
Isaac admired quietly. The soldier, who'd yielded distance too easily to sword wrestling yesterday, now kept range, probing gaps. No grapples or strength contests—unwilling to fight at disadvantage.
'But too fixated on one thing.'
Good to maintain distance and watch Isaac's hands. But that blinded him to Isaac's footwork.
Thwack! Isaac slashed twice horizontally and vertically, closing in. The soldier backpedaled, deflecting. Then Isaac stepped half-beat faster, instep-kicking the soldier's lead leg.
"Guh—"
Fixated on distance, the soldier lost balance and tumbled. No time to react. In a blink, Isaac's wooden sword hovered at his throat.
"Smart. Hoist by your own petard."
Isaac offered a hand. The soldier laughed hollowly, grabbing it to rise.
"Tomorrow won't be easy."
"Good."
"Next, me!"
Before the first retreated, the second shouted, eyes sparkling with resolve.
"...I lost."
"Not bad. Strengthen your lower body more."
A bizarre sight. In battle, no line forms—best fighters survive. Veteran soldiers taking pointers from a twelve-year-old little Goethe defied common sense. But as veterans, they instantly grasped his level. How much they could learn from sparring him, his superb movements and techniques.
World-weary manor soldiers knew the world brimmed with the extraordinary, beyond their ken. So they set aside age and pride, respectfully learning from Isaac's strength what they could.
"Haha, those moves are unreal."
The last was the guard captain. He'd studied from yesterday's bout, preparing counters: wooden sword and shield, favoring counters over attacks. A chivalric purist might scoff at the "cowardly" sparring. But the eyes peeking over the shield's edge chilled Isaac briefly. He treated it like real combat.
Thus, he lasted longest today, trading blows seriously as manor guard captain. Defeat was inevitable, though. Overfocused on counter chances, he obsessed on Isaac's moves. Tuned to rhythmic attacks, one feint exposed him.
"That feint planned from the start?"
"Shield was tricky, so I pondered how to make you drop it yourself."
"...Incredible."
The captain admired genuinely. How did this boy, untrained formally, no combat experience, learn to think in fights? Most manor soldiers fixated on attack/defense in spars. Numb shocks on clashes, chill of exploiting gaps, pain of concessions, thrill of hits—battle's sensations overwhelmed thought. Hence daily training ingrained moves without thinking. Thought halts under combat sense.
Yet Isaac, disadvantaged in build and experience, fought thinking. Yesterday surprised by disproportionate strength and raw style; today, by his approach.
"Nothing incredible. To me, magic or swordplay—same in battle. Dodge, block, attack, deceive. That's how you win."
"Haha, true."
The captain chuckled, soon a pleased grin.
"I misjudged you, young master."
"How so?"
"Thought you nothing like His Excellency. But you're most like him."
"...Am I?"
"Yes. Undoubtedly. You bear Goethe blood."
"Yonas suits it better."
Isaac shook his head.
"No. We just didn't see. You're truly Goethe's eldest son."
"Yes!"
Soldiers chimed, fervor lingering, faces bright with expectations for Isaac's future.
But Isaac's face darkened instead, shadows falling.