Clumsy Conversation
"...And so, we caught the bastard and were in the process of coaxing a frank conversation out of him."
Isaac's tale was long and winding. He'd gotten a taste for liquor in Binvelt and headed to an inn in Bernsi, where trouble found him. The trigger? A drunken mercenary runt blabbing that "the Goethe heir's a cripple thanks to some freak illness." So Isaac had Carlson drag the fool in, and they were torturing him to find out who was spreading such rumors.
"You expect me to believe that?"
The count removed his pipe from his mouth and exhaled what seemed like a sigh of smoke. The acrid haze masked his stench. He hadn't bathed in days, sleeping rough in the wilds to lead the subjugation. But thanks to Isaac's misdeeds, he'd rushed straight here to his private study. He was the type who wouldn't eat, sleep, or rest until his duties were done.
"Believe it or not, it's the truth."
"The truth."
The count's voice echoed through the underground dungeon, laced with fury, but his face betrayed nothing—at least, not to Isaac's eyes. The count Isaac knew was straightforward and simple. He acted on his convictions, and once he gave his heart, he rarely took it back. Yet he was a stickler for principles, upholding his noble standards with iron rigor.
The path Isaac walked diverged sharply from his father's. For you, it'd be best if I stayed the wastrel son, the disappointment, Isaac thought. That way, his father would naturally pour attention and power into Yonas, and the Goethe house would have no succession troubles, at least.
"You keep racking up mistakes. Binvelt's your land; do what you want there. But this is my territory. You don't leave the manor without my permission. You sure as hell don't head to a crowded city 'just in case,' and you especially don't stir up trouble there. You know better than anyone why not."
"Ah, yeah. Got too used to freedom in Binvelt and slipped up. I've got that unique constitution everyone fears, after all."
Even as the count dissected right from wrong, Isaac's attitude remained defiant.
"And Schrader tells me over half your Binvelt forces got wiped out fighting monsters. Word is you provoked the hell wolves into attacking. That true?"
"Can't say it's wrong."
Isaac shrugged.
"If you'd asked for my aid, I could've saved far more men. But as lord, you chose independence—and sacrificed all those lives."
"Sacrifice? Nah, they were just weak and paid the price for slacking on training. 'Sacrifice' is too grand a word."
Bam!
The count slammed the desk. His voice rose steadily.
"Dozens of men died. In a place where reinforcements and funds are both capped. You grasp what that means, and still you flap your mouth?"
"What choice did I have? I'm Binvelt's lord; I had to defend my land with what I had. And it's the territory you granted me. Those soldiers were mine before they were Goethe's."
Isaac shot back crookedly.
The count shook his head in dismay. He clamped the pipe back between his teeth and drew a deep drag. Thick smoke billowed from his mouth. He turned his gaze to the window. Outside was dark, but the stars shone bright.
"So what now? What should I do?"
Isaac, who'd been staring at the floor, looked up.
"Grab you by the collar and toss you out the window? Slap some sense into you? Or pick words that'll wound and send you packing?"
"No idea what you mean."
Isaac tilted his head. But the count had no intention of clarifying.
"Still don't grasp your mistakes?"
"Well, yeah—picking fights with your wishes every time..."
"No. Your sin is dishonesty with me. How long do you plan to keep up that clumsy act in front of me?"
"...!"
Isaac's eyes widened at the count's words.
"You think me a fool. I know you thwarted the bishop's scheme. You didn't call for aid in Binvelt to build your soldiers' loyalty and attachment to the land. Right?"
"..."
"You boosted their morale, won the war against the hell wolves, even took down the wolf king. You think I'd buy that you're some drunken torturer or mad dog after that? Isaac, answer me. Do I seem that foolish a father?"
The count turned from the window. His blue eyes bored into Isaac's like drills.
Isaac's lips twitched, but no words came. This was beyond his expectations.
"You couldn't fool me. So tell me now—why act like a lunatic?"
"..."
Deep silence settled over the study. The count stood motionless, eyes fixed on Isaac.
You're simple and stubborn. Once convinced, you don't waver without solid reason.
Isaac realized he needed to tweak his plan.
"Because I have to."
Isaac spoke. No need to spill everything—just reasons the count could accept. You only know part of it anyway.
The political bind Zeke von Goethe had saddled the family with for nearly a century. Royal spies lurking somewhere in the territory, watching. The vassal and collateral kin conflicts that would erupt if Isaac were recognized as heir.
That would suffice.
"...So you'll hide your true self and play the madman?"
"Yes."
"You know what that means?"
"Yonas fits as Goethe heir, not me. You know better than I there are no other options."
"..."
The count groaned. He knew better than anyone. As family head, he had all the records memorized. Zeke von Goethe's legacy—the unwanted one Isaac had inherited through blood.
Isaac's judgment was spot-on.
"Who's the one being tortured in the dungeon?"
"As I said, the one spreading slander about—"
"Isaac."
The count scowled. Isaac let out a soft breath.
"One of Baisman's blades."
"Baisman—the new gang in Bernsi?"
"Yes."
"Why him?"
As Isaac predicted, the count was clueless about the links between the marquis, the market head, and Baisman. Naturally, he knew nothing of their plots.
Better if Father stays in the dark.
Bernsi's issues tied deeply to commerce. Zeke von Goethe's torching of the capital had banned the family from trade and military buildup. If the count meddled, the marquis would twist it into a violation, drawing other nobles' scrutiny and greater political risk.
If things went south, it had to end at Isaac's level. The count must remain uninvolved, oblivious.
"Gonna commit some crimes. Show I'm unfit as heir, do something to scrub 'Goethe' from my name."
"..."
"Don't worry. No innocents harmed. Just a scuffle among petty villains. Pick the right moment and strip the family name from me."
"You really mean to shoulder that burden?"
"I'm no good son to you or Mother. But I'm Goethe's firstborn. That won't change."
The tobacco in the pipe burned low. The count's chest tightened. He drew and exhaled the gray smoke repeatedly, but the stuffiness lingered.
"Remember what I said coming back from Randolf's funeral? I told you it was fine to stay a child a bit longer."
"Yes. You did."
"And you ignored every word."
"Sorry."
"Enough. I need rest. We'll talk later."
The count tapped out the ash as he spoke. Isaac bowed and headed for the door.
The count's mouth worked silently several times before he finally managed,
"How's your condition?"
Isaac paused.
"Same as ever. But now I can predict mana rampages. No more innocent casualties ahead."
That wasn't what the count meant. But he didn't press.
"Good. I see. Speak if you need anything."
"Thank you."
"Nothing else?"
"About what?"
"..."
"...?"
A brief silence hung. Isaac hoped the count would elaborate, but he just waited for a reply.
"...If not, go."
"Understood."
Creak—thud.
Isaac left, and the door shut. The count had words he wanted to say, feelings to convey. But unformed, they scattered with the lingering smoke.
"You've grown so much taller."
Tobacco's bitterness coated his tongue. Only after Isaac left did the words surface—what he'd truly wanted to say.
How glad he'd been hearing Schrader's reports of Isaac's feats. How much he'd missed him. How proud he was. No injuries? No trauma from his first battle? Supplies sufficient? How was the victory feast?
They bubbled up too late. Especially about magic. Per Schrader, Isaac had used it in Binvelt—not flashy, but definite mana flow, and he'd admitted it.
Could that be the key to overcoming mana rampage?
The count wanted to ask. But Isaac, deep enough to play madman for the family—he couldn't force answers from such a son. There must be reasons. He'd wait until Isaac spoke first.
"Hoo..."
The count gnawed the pipe's stem. Only ash remained.
Isaac's act was clumsy, he'd said. The count's was no better.
He thought suddenly of his wife, Adel. She'd have handled it warmer, maybe. Told him to drop the patriarch airs and fatherly authority, give the boy a real talking-to. What kind of father...
Where was she wandering now?
The count refilled the pipe's chamber with fresh tobacco.