Point of Contact
“Rash judgment. I'm done here.”
Goethe blood ran through his veins. He was the eldest son of Goethe.
Isaac brushed off the soldiers' admiring words.
“How about sharing a meal? I'd love to know how you train, how you learned your swordsmanship.”
“No, I'm tired.”
Despite the guard captain's invitation, Isaac tossed his wooden sword aside and left the training grounds.
It was the first time the manor soldiers had shown him such goodwill, and it pleased him, but he had no desire to spend time with them.
“Did we say something wrong?”
The soldiers looked baffled, but Isaac revealed no emotion and offered no explanation. He simply wiped the sweat from his brow and wandered aimlessly around the manor grounds.
Too complacent.
His elated mood, buzzing since returning to the manor, sank in an instant.
The pleasantly cool early summer air. The peaceful manor landscape. The comfortable, pleasant life. Yonas beginning to show spirit affinity. The soldiers' competitive spirits and drive to improve.
For a fleeting moment, everything had seemed optimistic.
But a few bouts of sparring had turned their gaze upon him as Goethe's eldest son, chilling the childlike excitement in his heart.
The soldiers had done nothing wrong.
Their sudden shift in attitude toward him was abrupt, but hardly surprising. These were men who had spent half their lives on battlefields.
Just as they could guess a mage's character and life from the magic Isaac—devoted to magical research his whole life—had unleashed, the soldiers were no different.
The mistake was his own: Isaac had planted expectations in them.
His elegant swordsmanship. His ridiculously superior physique for his age. His magical abilities that defied common sense.
All of it was the product of miracles.
Only a portion was what Isaac had forged himself. Without that inexplicable miracle of returning to the past, he would have met a tragic end.
And the fruits of those miracles had clear purposes.
They certainly weren't for earning the goodwill of servants or manor guards.
Isaac wanted power. Miracles. He wanted to protect his house. He wanted his family and retainers to be happy.
But then...
Overcoming his unique constitution of mana rampage, letting go of the anxiety and fear of harming loved ones with mana explosions. Running freely, swinging wooden swords, sweating, researching magic.
Saving the nanny's son, the maids, thwarting the bishop's schemes, saving Binvelt.
Indulging in all that freedom, Isaac had grown intoxicated by it, forgetting for a moment what he truly desired.
Sparring with the soldiers, basking in their admiring gazes, he had enjoyed it.
In that pleasure, he had forgotten the consequences of his actions.
Forgotten Lucas's death, his father's, his mother's, Yonas's.
In House Goethe, the eldest son underwent the heir appointment ceremony upon reaching adulthood.
In the original history, Isaac had not been named heir.
Back then, his unique constitution had injured or killed servants. No one acknowledged him as heir.
But now.
Isaac had a chance to gain popularity.
Since returning to the past, he hadn't caused a single mana explosion. He showed exceptional talent in swordsmanship. Popularity and infamy spread like wildfire—once ignited, unstoppable.
If word of Binvelt's victory reached the manor before he did, those viewing him favorably would multiply.
That meant conflict among Goethe's vassals and branch families.
Each side's views on Isaac's unique constitution and Yonas's talents would divide them, sparking infighting.
The moment Isaac—who hadn't even been considered for heir—emerged as an option, the royal family, remembering history, would scrutinize Goethe.
Whether Isaac showed signs of becoming Zeke von Goethe or not.
They would grow warier, more hostile. Intrigues would swirl inside and outside the house.
Idiot.
Even with the privilege of knowing fragments of the future, he had overlooked the obvious possibility.
Isaac shook his head weakly.
He needed to snap out of it. If he had chosen and yearned for it, he must focus and cut away the rest.
Someday, if true peace came to Goethe, he might enjoy it all.
But not today. Not now.
Isaac repeated it to himself over and over.
After meditating until nightfall, Isaac slipped out of the manor in secret.
With the hell wolf now at his command, he no longer needed the hassle of the stables.
It wasn't the most comfortable ride, but the hell wolf made an excellent means of transport for him.
The cool wind on the hell wolf's back eased his stuffy chest a little.
Linked to the Wolf King's will, the hell wolf veered off the roads at Isaac's command, choosing rugged paths free of human traffic.
Near Bernsi's bridges, he dismissed the hell wolf and picked a spot without guards.
Bernsi had no walls per se, but a moat connected to the river served the purpose. Guards only needed to watch the bridges for effective control.
The moat was wide and deep.
But that posed no issue for Isaac.
Crack.
As his foot touched the moat's surface, thin ice began to form.
It works.
The corner of Isaac's mouth lifted.
Another gift from the Wolf King's rune stone.
Normally, mages relied on their hands to cast spells—the body's most sensitive and developed sensory organ.
Some handless mages used lips and tongues, but they couldn't match fingers' precision.
Thus, cutting off a guilty mage's hands—more vital than life—was among the severest punishments.
But with the Wolf King's rune stone exponentially heightening his bodily senses, Isaac could now gather mana and cast cooling magic through his feet.
Of course, freezing the entire moat was impossible. Just enough ice to bear his weight.
Creating a buoyant chunk took time, so crossing the twenty-odd paces took a while.
Even so, one thing was certain: Isaac was walking on water.
A smile spread across his lips at the fact. The small satisfaction lightened his heart a bit.
Entering Bernsi, Isaac headed for the new upscale inn beside the commercial district.
“Welcome!”
A city where kindness was rare, yet the innkeeper greeted him warmly without knowing who he was.
Naturally, no one recognized Isaac, his hood pulled low.
Unlike the rundown outskirts inns, patrons here were mostly sturdy foreign merchants—low crime risk, and even less chance of spotting Goethe's eldest son.
In truth, until age eleven, he'd been confined to the manor, so most locals didn't know his face.
“Staying the night?”
A woman with bright brown hair asked Isaac. Her skin was wrinkled but lively and well-kept. Her friendly smile was unlike any from the jaded nearby inns.
Isaac realized she was Randolf's wife.
“Here to meet someone.”
“Who?”
“Carlson. You know him too, right?”
“Carlson just stepped out. Shall I tell him you stopped by? Or wait here?”
“I'll wait. Get me an ale.”
“...You sure? Our ale tastes great, but it gets even strong drinkers drunk fast.”
Randolf's wife said worriedly. Hood or not, up close, he looked like a runaway young master.
“That's what I want.”
Isaac insisted, and she had no choice but to fill a horn mug to the brim as requested.
“Another.”
He downed the first refreshingly and ordered seconds.
Ever since using the Wolf King's rune stone, Isaac didn't get drunk.
Still, he drank to reek of booze.
Isaac had decided his stance for the house.
He'd show himself distant from Goethe's eldest son, from the heir.
Conspicuous enough to notice, but not enough for great houses to wary of.
That way, Yonas could rise as heir unhindered, and Goethe would avoid needless royal scrutiny.
To that end, his behavior needed to seem rather debauched.
Visiting a brothel to come back stinking of perfume seemed a good start. But first, booze.
“How many ales does this buy?”
Isaac placed a silver coin on the bar.
“Enough to turn half the customer's insides to ale.”
Of course, Randolf's wife exaggerated with a jest. A silver bought about ten coppers locally. An ale here cost one copper.
Ten ales were nothing for a serious drinker—gone in a day's merry session.
But Isaac looked every bit the noble young master, liable to drop after one or two.
“Then let's do that.”
“What if you can't finish?”
“You take the rest.”
“Big spender.”
She grinned, teasing the boyish young master.
“Yeah. But keep it quiet till Carlson shows.”
“...Alright.”
Randolf's wife looked a touch disappointed. What tale brought this well-bred lad to her inn alone, unguarded? Her curiosity went unsatisfied.
Regardless, Isaac focused on emptying his ales. No buzz was a shame, but the taste satisfied enough.
In water-scarce Binvelt, beer substituted for drinking water—probably tasting like piss.
This ale lacked crispness but had a deep malt aroma and a strange fruity-floral note.
For a booze novice like Isaac, it was the best he'd tasted in two lives.
Randolf's wife hadn't opened the inn just for livelihood, Isaac was sure. She knew her ales.
“Carlson, you're here?”
Back to the door, Isaac missed it, but Randolf's wife welcomed Carlson first.
“Yes.”
Carlson replied curtly. His face was somewhat languid, his body faintly scented like a ditch-side brothel.
“You look a mess.”
“Had some business worth it. An ale, please?”
Carlson reached for coppers, but she waved him off.
“Someone's buying your drinks today.”
“Pardon?”
Brushing back his disheveled hair, Carlson followed her nod.
“...”
Isaac and Carlson locked eyes, but no greeting passed between them.
Come to think of it, they hadn't coordinated for this scenario.
Before leaving Binvelt, Isaac had simply ordered Carlson and said he'd visit days later.
“You two know each other?”
Randolf's wife asked into the awkward silence.