The Old Boy
Old Bill pulled tool after tool from the leather satchel—sledges, knives, hammers studded with nails, saws, and more. With each one, the color drained further from the knife-hand's face.
Bill was one of the gang bosses who'd been roughed up by the Baisman crew. Half of Bill's Nearus gang had been slaughtered by this very man. Knife-hand didn't even want to imagine how that hatred would pour out through torture.
"Heh heh hum~"
Bill started humming a tune. To knife-hand, it sounded like the devil's own lullaby.
"I'll talk! I'll talk!" Knife-hand spilled everything he knew. There was no reason left to endure the torment. The assassin had already confessed all the important details. Even he—the strongest in the Baisman organization—hadn't held out. Knife-hand knew he couldn't either.
He knew Violet, the head of Baisman, well. She was decisive when it counted, but soft-hearted at her core. She wasn't the type to hold a daughter accountable for her father's sins.
"So, the republic's revolutionary forces splintered into factions, and Baisman is what's left of the moderates?"
"That's right."
"And that woman Violet just wants to carve out a safe space in Bernsi for her moderate comrades."
Isaac neatly summarized knife-hand's story.
"They've got themselves a saint."
Carlson muttered in disbelief.
"It's not just about setting up shop in Bernsi. She plans to pool funds and manpower there to build up strength against the radicals."
"So that's it."
Isaac nodded. Suddenly, the pieces of the puzzle he'd been missing clicked into place.
Baisman's core forces were soldiers from the republic's moderate faction—a handful, small enough to count on one hand. But to them, who'd survived great and small wars alike, the sewer gangs were nothing more than snot-nosed brats. Plus, Baris had greased the guards' palms, and the marquis provided the cash. In Bernsi at least, they were invincible.
"That's all I know. You gonna let me die easy now?"
Knife-hand's face was ashen. All ten nails ripped out, locked in a cold cell all day, doused in icy water—he looked like a drowned rat. Especially in those clothes, which made him seem all the more pathetic. The gaping, sagging dress was less garment now and more ragged scrap.
"Who knows."
"Fuck you, you promised!"
"My promise was to torture you till you talked. Didn't expect it to be this quick."
Isaac shrugged. He'd learned all he needed about Baisman. But Carlson apparently hadn't.
"What about that whore?"
"What whore?"
"Those clothes you're wearing. Said they belonged to the woman you killed."
"This is..." Knife-hand avoided Carlson's piercing glare. "This is my mother's dress."
"?"
"Sometimes when I miss her, I take it out and..."
"Gahhh!"
Carlson suddenly drove his dagger into knife-hand's thigh.
"Told you to be honest."
"It's true, fuck, it's true! In that stinking shithole sewer, I had to act crazy just to get those bum bastards to follow me! That's why I said it!"
"You were faking it?"
"Fuck yeah! My mom died giving birth to me, so yeah, I killed her, you fuck! Sure, it's whore rags. My mom was a whore. What of it? Got something to add, you dog?"
The room fell deathly silent at knife-hand's sudden outburst. Carlson glanced at Isaac. Isaac looked back at Carlson.
"Doesn't sound like a lie."
Carlson looked flustered at Isaac's words.
"Ahem."
Bill cleared his throat awkwardly and packed the blades back into his bag.
"You bastard, if you've got a mouth, speak up sooner!"
A carriage waited at the entrance to Goethe Manor.
"You're really just letting us go like this?"
Pallichi asked Isaac over and over.
"What, you planning to stick around for a thousand years?"
"No, but..."
They'd stormed the manor basement for an assassination. Used an aura sword on the count's firstborn son. Pallichi couldn't fathom being sent off unscathed—especially with Gerald handed back too.
"Guhhh, fuck, guhhh..."
Gerald didn't look great, but he was alive, at least.
"You're not my enemies yet. No need to kill you."
"Yet implies you might make us enemies someday?"
"Depends on that woman's choice."
Pallichi got it. "That woman" meant Violet, Baisman's leader. He let out a wry chuckle. The marquis had underestimated Goethe badly. Rumors of the count's eldest being a worthless cripple were just bullshit from the ignorant.
Baisman had lost the intel war against Isaac completely. The sly firstborn had turned Pallichi's words against him, using the fact that he'd spilled everything—nearly getting his balls cut off in the process—to squeeze Gerald dry.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck..."
Thanks to that, Gerald—nails yanked from all ten fingers, thigh slashed—muttered curses nonstop. Body and mind in ruins.
Normally, Violet would kill Gerald to silence him. Losing a key Baisman asset for nothing. Pallichi already dreaded facing her wrath.
"This isn't bad for your side either."
"Yeah, right."
Pallichi narrowed his eyes at Isaac's words. If this wasn't bad, what was?
"It's an opportunity. Think carefully about whose side to pick."
"You saying the young master is worth betting on?"
"If you've got a brain, judge for yourself."
"Hah."
Isaac tapped his temple with a finger. Pallichi smiled bitterly.
"Want something more interesting?"
Isaac beckoned. Pallichi leaned in close.
"You're looking for Baris's killer, right?"
"The marquis is obsessed. New assassination method, after all."
"That was me."
"What kind of joke is this?"
Pallichi's brow furrowed.
"Sound like a joke?"
Pallichi stared at Isaac. A brief silence hung between them.
"If that's true, you might meet the Committee Member sooner than you think."
"Committee Member?"
"Violet. That's what we all call her. She really was a moderate faction committee member."
"Looking forward to it."
Isaac grinned at Pallichi's cracked expression.
Gerald and Pallichi boarded the carriage one after the other.
"You—Gerald, was it?"
Carlson stuck his head in the window. Gerald, utterly spent, didn't even respond. His hands were wrapped in cloth, thigh bound with blood-soaked linen.
Isaac had ordered it, but Carlson had done the deed. Naturally, Gerald hated Carlson more than Isaac.
"No malice intended."
"...Bullshit."
"And I'm a whore's son too."
Gerald, mid-snarl, suddenly looked at Carlson—then scowled.
"You fuck. I was off-guard then. Next time, you won't see it coming."
"Suit yourself."
Carlson stepped back, and the coachman cracked the reins.
"This okay?"
Carlson watched the carriage vanish down the road, then turned to Isaac. "Letting them go—won't the marquis hear about us?"
"If Baisman's head sides with the marquis, sure."
"You think she'll side with us?"
"At least she'll want to meet me before picking a side."
"And if she picks the marquis anyway?"
"Eh, cross that bridge when we come to it. No point turning a potential ally into an enemy early."
"You're awfully relaxed."
Carlson hardened his expression.
"What, worried? Then go wipe out Baisman yourself if you're so able."
"Not one for gambles. But how'd you do it?"
"Do what?"
"Baris the market boss. The marquis's side never dreamed it was you."
To Carlson, Isaac was a born noble with real talent. Still green, but he stacked up against any aristocrat Carlson had seen or dealt with—his thinking, his people-handling, even his veiled magic prowess.
Isaac was exceptional; he knew that. But assassinating Baris was beyond Carlson's grasp.
"What do you think I did?"
"Magic?"
"Obviously."
"What kind? No traces left."
"Secret."
Carlson squinted at the answer.
"Feeling beat. Need a drink and bed. You want one?"
"Pass."
Isaac nodded as if expecting it and headed to the manor proper.
"..."
Carlson watched him go. For a split second, the gait looked like an old man's—days numbered. But a blink, and it was purely a boy's silhouette.
Isaac fetched a bottle of wine from the basement storeroom. Even in his past life, he hadn't been much of a drinker. Since absorbing the Wolf King's rune stone, he couldn't get drunk anyway.
Still, he couldn't quit booze now. At least not inside the manor.
Whether wastrel or madman, it didn't matter. Taming ill-fitting clothes took time. No need for forced rampages or tantrums. Just enough to let onlookers infer, imagine.
What kind of man the firstborn, Isaac von Goethe, was becoming.
Booze was a fine start.
He cracked the wax seal and took a swig straight from the bottle. Berry notes lingered—cranberry, lingonberry, cloudberry. Goethe was too cold for fine grapes, so they fermented these local fruits. Tannic finish compared to regular wine, but it had its charm.
Clutching the bottle openly, Isaac wandered the manor.
"Young master, no training grounds today?"
"Do I have an obligation to go there?"
Isaac eyed the guard captain coolly.
"N-no, but..."
"Then don't waste my time."
Isaac glared. "...Sorry." The captain retreated.
Isaac's sharp ears caught the servants' chatter. He could tune it out, but his heightened hearing sucked it in.
"Told you. Heard screams all night—gave me nightmares."
"Someone saw the young master head to the basement dungeon yesterday."
"Guards say he grabbed a guy and tortured him. Turned the bastard into a wreck."
"Nah, killed him. Hauled the body out at dawn."
Isaac chuckled dryly. No worries about building infamy; a little effort would do it.
But some servants defied his hopes.
"Did you see it yourself?"
"Huh?"
"Don't jump to conclusions on hearsay."
"Right. If rumors count, why ignore the ones about Young Master Isaac shining in Binvelt? Driving off giant wolves, saving the camp?"
"That's obviously bullshit!"
The three maids Isaac had once saved: Enet, Clara, Hilde. With Hans off visiting family and Nanny Gisela seeding potatoes in the village, these three defended him.
Grateful, but ultimately futile debate to Isaac.
"Hoo."
Whenever servants appeared, Isaac chugged from the bottle.
His aimless wandering halted before the drawing room. Drawn by a familiar piano melody.
Tratis Drako. "The Mournful Dragon." His mother's favorite, Yonas's go-to.
As expected, Yonas sat at the piano stool. Short legs straining for the pedals, tiny fingers danced gracefully over white and black keys.
Good mood today, huh.
A soft smile touched Isaac's lips.
Back in Binvelt's camp. That lonely wind slipping through the tent flaps—he'd longed for this sound.
The gentle piano flow. Isaac didn't want to interrupt Yonas's playing. Didn't want the piece to end.
So he sank down outside the door, listening quietly.
For some reason, Yonas's final moments surfaced.
Outside the underground vault, gut stabbed, unraveling decades of events in that weary, aged voice—yet oddly vibrant.
Isaac closed his eyes, lost in the moment. No thoughts of assassins, torture, envy, longing, fatigue.
Just... alive.
The old boy began to nod off.