Aspiration and Envy
Carlson headed straight for the Merchant Guild building. The area in front of it was packed with merchants, just like at Randolf's wife's inn. Their mood was no different—grim faces all around, as Baris's death had clearly caused them significant losses. A few hotly debated countermeasures or who was to blame, but with the assassin's identity unknown, all they could do was talk.
"What the hell have you all done?"
Carlson muttered as he wove through the noisy crowd. Unease and fear were palpable not just among the merchants but among the citizens too. An old priest seized the moment to preach about evil on the street, emphasizing faith. A peddler hawked cheap daggers, insisting people needed to protect themselves. Off-duty guards must have been mobilized, as there were far more patrolling than usual. They were conducting inquiries around the mayor's mansion next to the guild.
Carlson asked passersby and learned where the inspector from the capital was staying. Knowing it was a high-end inn near the guild made it easy enough. Soldiers blanketed the area around the inn due to Baris's death.
"I've come to see the marquis."
"Piss off if you don't want a spear in your gut."
The soldier eyed Carlson up and down and growled. As expected, the inn was blocked by soldiers, entry impossible. There was no need to deliver Isaac's parchment note in person.
"Then at least pass this along. It's a message from Mayor Baris to the marquis."
"What kinda bullshit is that?"
"If word gets out you didn't deliver it, it won't end well for you. You'd be letting a clue to catching the assassin slip away."
"...Gimme that!"
The soldier snatched the parchment from Carlson. He unfolded it but, illiterate as he was, just alternated between staring at the upside-down note and Carlson.
"Who should I say sent it?"
"It's written right there."
"Why not come in and explain properly?"
"Afraid I don't have the time."
"Grab that bastard!"
Suspicious soldiers around the inn rushed at Carlson. But capturing or even chasing him was impossible.
"What the hell kinda guy...?"
Carlson effortlessly slipped their encirclement, scaled the building wall, and vanished onto the roof.
"You! If we catch you, you're dead meat—execution!"
A furious soldier bellowed, but Carlson was already gone beyond the rooftops. A few soldiers tried climbing using window sills and railings like him but soon slipped and fell on their asses. The verdict from onlookers was harsh.
"Idiots."
In any case, Carlson's suspicious behavior prompted the soldier to report the note to his superior. It passed to the marquis's attendant, then to the marquis himself.
The marquis, head muddled by Baris's gruesome death, had been lounging in the arms of a high-class courtesan since morning, sipping wine. Bernsi's mayor position could be filled with someone new. But finding another as shrewd and influential as Baris would be tough. Even if one existed, building ties from scratch would take time and money.
Especially the assassin. That was what gnawed at him most—an unknown assassin with unknown motives. Well-versed in court intrigues and most assassination groups, he'd never heard or seen such a bizarre method. To kill amid so many guards...
If that assassin targeted him, the marquis wouldn't escape unscathed. The thought sent a chill down his neck.
"A note from some shady character."
The marquis took the note from his attendant and read the common tongue script several times through alcohol-hazed eyes. The elegant handwriting suggested nobility, but the content baffled him at first.
"This city isn't your piggy bank...? What the hell does this mean?"
He didn't even consider the name Isaac von Goete at the bottom. A kid with a unique constitution couldn't pull off something so bold, nor grasp the city's complexities or business properly.
It was the note's message—and the intent of whoever dared use Goethe Count's eldest son's name. Rubbing his sluggish, drunken head, the marquis mulled it over and summoned his attendant again.
"Tell Baisman to meet me. We need to figure out who's screwing us over."
Having easily shaken the soldiers, Carlson bought a decent sword and chain at a smithy. Then he headed to a slum brothel recommended by the sword-for-hire.
In a fetid slum alley, he settled in and ate the bread and cheese from Randolf's wife. Hungry beggars swarmed, but each time Carlson drew his sword. The beggars, having seen it all, didn't back off—they drew their own blades.
Carlson slashed them all. He didn't kill them, just left them with limb wounds, bleeding as they fled.
"Devil bastard."
One wounded beggar spat curses at Carlson, who ignored it. Calmly, he shoved the remaining bread and cheese into his mouth with bloodied hands.
Thirsty, he entered the brothel. Prostitutes flocked to greet him; he ordered a drink and downed a glass of sour wine. It was spoiled, worthless as merchandise, but kept for the vanity of visiting customers.
Carlson tossed each prostitute a coin and spent time chatting idly. It dredged up old memories—growing up among whores, mercenary days burying the stench of death and blood under their cheap perfume and powder. To Carlson, dingy brothels anywhere felt like home.
Of course, he wasn't here for nostalgia today.
"Hey, Bison's sixth sword-for-hire. Finally graced us with your presence."
The sword-for-hire appeared in an outfit that mildly disgusted Carlson. The dress—plunging neckline, bare shoulders and back—screamed prostitute, yet the burly, hairy man wore it. Complete with heavy eyebrow makeup and powder. Even so, he had a belt and sword at his side.
"Unique taste."
"Ah, this? Wanted to know what it feels like to be a woman. Actually, it's from a woman I killed. Deeply meaningful. Like a ritual to remember her. Just play."
"..."
Carlson showed no emotion. He'd seen plenty of crazies as a mercenary and serving at Winterband.
"But you... you're different today."
"Am I?"
"Yeah. You look like you're here to kill someone. Not me, I hope?"
Staring straight at Carlson, the sword-for-hire already seemed to know. Completely hiding killing intent was beyond Carlson's level—especially against such an opponent.
"It's you, you pervert."
Carlson drew and charged. The sword-for-hire countered, drawing his own.
Clang—!
Sparks flew.
Do you know the difference between aspiration and envy?
Aspiration is a pure emotion. Respect and longing. An intense feeling welling from the heart's depths.
...But envy seethes with desire. Envy and jealousy when someone has what you lack. Craving and wanting to seize what they possess.
Isaac recalled a book he'd read long ago. Lucas had recommended it.
"Those dreaming of knighthood say they aspire to knights. But in truth, they envy them. They covet what knights have. More tragedies than you'd think arise from mistaking aspiration for envy."
Back then, Isaac hadn't grasped the meaning—or bothered to. But now he did.
"Historically, kings who claimed to aspire to their predecessors' feats often made that mistake. Blinded by conquered lands, rich domains, mighty armies, they ignored the virtues and wisdom to emulate. They envied, not aspired."
"What's the difference?"
"For a time, the kingdom might prosper from pursuit. But they never achieved the stable rule or people's respect of the great predecessor. Rebellion or ignoble ends awaited most."
It was around ten years into learning swordsmanship in his past life. Despite nearly a decade, Isaac never once gained the upper hand against Lucas. His wooden sword never touched Lucas.
Isaac felt he had no talent and lost interest in training.
"Young master, don't mistake aspiration for envy. You envy my swordsmanship, not aspire to it. What you truly aspire to is something else, isn't it?"
What Isaac aspired to back then wasn't swordsmanship. He'd never aspired to be a knight. Through training, he sought a sound mind and body to overcome his unique constitution—to become the family's pillar, bring peace to the house.
No different from what he aspired to now.
The goodwill, recognition, respect, reverence from servants, soldiers, those around him... Those were objects of envy for Isaac, not aspiration.
His aspiration lay in the family's peace. In the carefree laughter of his household.
'Lucas, I'm trying true aspiration. But it's a bit tiring.'
Isaac pinched the bridge of his nose. His blue eyes reflected a prisoner's face screaming in agony.
One of Baisman's five swords-for-hire. Initially, his odd attire and missing front teeth stood out, but now it didn't matter.
"Answer. Who's Baisman's boss? Where's he hiding?"
"Gaaah!"
Carlson yanked out another nail. Isaac felt no guilt. He'd killed Bernsi's mayor Baris just this morning, after all.
And in that moment, Isaac shuddered. The sensation of mana coursing through his body felt more vivid than ever. Not mana flowing, but fire in his veins—every vessel burning hot.
It wasn't the thrill of killing. It was joy from manifesting ultra-long-range magic unknown even in the future he knew.
Euphoria from expanding humanity's narrow magical horizons, even by an inch.
But the aftertaste wasn't sweet. Success in ultra-long-range magic meant someone's death.
Future magical history would flow the same. Rapidly advancing human magic would owe much to war and death.
'Even so, this is my path. Unchanged.'
It was a burden he'd accepted the moment he returned to the past. Nothing new.
He didn't know the price of that miracle, but if it was this mental weight, it was trivial.
"Fuck you, you goddamn bastards! All you sick fucks with worse hobbies than me are gathered here."
"One more. No need to pull it clean."
"Gaaah!"
In the mansion's underground prison. The prisoner's agonized scream echoed beyond, disgust showing on the guards' faces.
Isaac oversaw the torture.
"Young master, he won't talk no matter what. Maybe stop here? Doing this without His Excellency's permission..."
"You want mercy for the worms eating away at Goethe?"
A fed-up guard spoke up, but Isaac ignored him.
"Not that, but... this feels wrong. And young master, you reek of alcohol."
"Think I'm drunk and doing something stupid?"
"..."
"Then try stopping me. Carlson, one more."
"Yes."
"Gaaah!"
The guard's face hardened. Another paled completely.
This would spread as another rumor, compounding Isaac's infamy tied to his public image. Snowballing.
The mansion servants would fear him more—or pretend to.
Necessary.
He'd decided not to mistake aspiration for envy. Abandon envy, choose aspiration.
Thus, getting bloodied in the shadows was enough for him and those he chose.
Binvelt's soldiers, Hans, Bill, Carlson, Bessimer. They were building a foothold for the Goethe future Isaac wanted. Those who'd bleed together.
That's why he saved those meant to die. Freed them from tragic futures.
They were his people.
But these—the family's people—were different. Father's, mother's, Yonas's people.
They must strive for Goethe's prosperity. No need to bleed in shadows.
Thus, Isaac needed infamy to sever unnecessary bonds with them.
"What the hell is this?"
Suddenly, a cold, low voice echoed in the underground prison. All eyes turned. Faces blanched.
Thick, unkempt blond beard matted from subjugation, coat flapping loosely. Breastplate tangled with blood, mud, flesh, and dead hairs. The weary-faced count stood there.
His mere angry presence crushed them like air pressure.
"We've finished subjugating, Father."
Only Isaac calmly greeted the returned count.