Pursuit
Isaac's decision to help Mrs. Randolf wasn't born purely from goodwill or kindness.
The guards in Bernsi might draw their pay from the city council, but most of them were Goethe soldiers who'd served at Winterband. Veterans with injuries, or those worn down by the aftershocks of war and depression, unable to continue frontline duty. They'd drifted into the city for a way to scrape by, each with their own reasons.
Such men wouldn't be ignorant of Randolf. He'd served the Goethe family for half his life as a knight. At the very least, any soldier who'd wintered with him at Winterband would have protected his children, not kidnapped them.
So, bandits or gangs? 'Why bother?' If it was human trafficking, there were plenty of orphan urchins without parents or backing—far less risky than semi-noble brats.
That left one conclusion. The culprits had bold backers. It was probably driven by some specific motive, not simple slave trading. Isaac suspected those backers—whether the marquis or some shadowy force in the city—had a hand in it.
"Carlson, head to the slums and check if anyone's seen kids like Wolfgang or Hermann. You remember the descriptions from Mrs. Randolf, right?"
"Yes."
"Bill. You check the sewers. If the kids were sold to slavers, they'll pass through that black market for sure. See if there's any link to the Baisman crew."
"Got it."
As the sun dipped low, Isaac arrived in Bernsi and gave his orders to Bill and Carlson. Two full days and a half had passed already, with another half day ticking away.
"Where... where are we going?"
Mrs. Randolf asked, her face drained of all color—like a corpse that had somehow found its voice. Exhaustion had hollowed her out completely. Resignation that her children might already be dead clashed endlessly with flickering hope and the maternal drive to at least recover their bodies, strangling her from within.
"The inn—don't they have the kids' things there?"
"Yes."
"Then let's go to the inn."
Randolf's inn felt eerie. The place that once buzzed with tasty ale and flower-scented beds was now deathly silent. Tables and chairs lay scattered, and as dusk deepened, shadows thickened in every corner.
"What now?"
Mrs. Randolf's vacant eyes turned to him.
"Light the fires first. Then gather everything the kids used—especially anything that touched their skin and might hold their scent."
"What for...?"
"Hurry."
At Isaac's command, she moved like a ghost. She stumbled into tables, the bar, stair railings, but paid no mind, staggering on.
Tsk.
Isaac clicked his tongue. Loss destroys routine. Lose your routine, and you lose time; lose time, and you lose your life. He'd felt it himself—losing Hans, the nanny, Lucas.
So the first thing for someone grieving was to cling to routine. To keep living.
While Mrs. Randolf lit lamps around the inn and gathered the children's items, Isaac straightened the first-floor tables and chairs.
'Randolf's kids.'
On the carriage ride, he'd heard their story: Wolfgang was ten, Hermann nine. He'd never heard those names in his previous life. Wolfgang had started dreaming of becoming a merchant after hearing Carlson's tales. Hermann stubbornly wanted to be a knight like his father.
Would fate allow those boys a future? Probably not. Winter and war marched steadily northward.
Still, Isaac thought—like him, they deserved a second chance. His path was set, but theirs brimmed with possibility.
"Here... this is everything."
The wife returned, arms full of the children's belongings: spare clothes, a battered wooden sword, toy-like wood carvings, a primer in simple common tongue.
"Will this help?"
"It will. A lot."
Imprinting a hunting dog with a prey's scent was an ancient method, mentioned even in records predating the kingdom's founding. Its longevity meant it was proven.
Conveniently, Isaac had a very large "dog." Showing it to Mrs. Randolf or the townsfolk would have caused panic or foaming fits—it wasn't called a hell wolf for nothing.
Luckily, it didn't need to enter the inn. Thanks to the Wolf King's legacy, they could share senses.
What he needed now was a distinctive scent—one that stood out from the city's stench.
"What are you doing?"
To Mrs. Randolf, Isaac just seemed to pick up and set down items repeatedly.
"Quiet."
Unlike appearances, he was hyper-focused on smell. Human noses fatigue quickly, so he had to share precise sensations with the hell wolf. Once done, the wolf would handle the rest—its superior senses would track the Randolf brothers.
"Milk... garlic... wildflowers... lavender."
Isaac murmured the distinct scents. Amid the city's miasma, that unique blend was rare.
"Pardon?"
"Stay here—they might come back. Wait for them."
"...Can't I come with you?"
Fear etched her face. Alone in the empty inn, grim thoughts would devour her.
"Don't give up. You're all Wolfgang and Hermann have."
"..."
"Keep the lights bright. Take guests, cook food. They'll be hungry when they return."
"...Yes."
Mrs. Randolf nodded faintly.
By the time Isaac stepped out, night had fallen.
His steps didn't head south to the slums or sewers—but north to the residential district. Past the central city council, through the upscale inns, farther west.
Screeeee—
Suddenly, a shrill whistle pierced the air from the vigilante patrol.
'There it is.'
Isaac bolted toward the sound.
"Monster! A monster!"
"It's a huge wolf!"
"On the rooftops!"
Thud thud crash!
Slate roof tiles shattered onto the street. Pedestrians gaped upward, spotting the massive wolf leaping between roofs.
"Kyaaah!"
"Monster!"
The hell wolf bounded wildly. Vigilantes and guards blew whistles in pursuit. Chaos erupted. Wherever its bulk passed, roofs crumbled.
"Where the hell do you shoot, you idiot!"
"Crossbows! Get the crossbows!"
The guards gawked like dogs chasing chickens skyward. Their hasty ranged shots missed wildly. They chased, but inwardly dreaded it leaping down to attack. That ambivalence slowed them further.
Awooooo—
Suddenly, the hell wolf howled from a three-story rooftop. The cry froze pedestrians and guards alike in the twilight. It stirred primal fear—the dread of prey facing a predator in the wild.
"N-no way. Calling more monsters?"
"It's moving again!"
The howl cut short, the hell wolf raced toward Bernsi's north gate.
'Thanks.'
That howl signaled lone pack members to a spot. No nearby hell wolves to summon—it was a message to Isaac. The scent trail led to the brothers' location.
A stone-walled mansion stood at the site.
"What're you, kid?"
Two men guarded the front. Leather gambesons gleamed with fine tanning and hardening. They'd seen the hell wolf rampage yet remained nonchalant—beasts were familiar to them. Seasoned mercenaries, their vibe distinct from Baisman's blades like Pallichi or Gerald.
"Asked you a question!"
One shoved Isaac roughly.
'House of Mercy?'
It was the city council-sponsored orphanage.
Isaac spoke slowly. "I'm Isaac von Goethe, eldest son of the Goethe family."
"...?"
The mercenaries exchanged glances. The boy's looks and tone screamed nobility—poised, calm, subtly condescending.
"Uh... so, what brings you here?"
Their tone softened, though suspicion lingered. The border count's heir, alone at night? Visiting an orphanage? Odd.
"I'd like to make a donation to the House of Mercy."
They eyed him skeptically. He had class, but that didn't prove heir status—merchant nobles' kids carried similar airs.
"How do we know?"
"This enough?"
Isaac handed each two silver coins.
"Hm."
Their faces brightened. Silver was persuasion enough.
"Wait here."
Whether he was truly noble didn't matter—they'd do the job for pay. One entered; awkward standoff with the other dragged on.
"Come in. The mother superior's waiting."
Entry granted.
House of Mercy, sanctuary of Saint Ursus.
Creeeak—
Iron double gates swung open. Past a birch-lined path lay a small garden. Well-kept grass and shrubs amid children playing kickball. Eerie, despite torchlight—the ball was hard to see. Yet the kids seemed joyful, laughter unending as they chased the pig-bladder ball.
"These brats never tire."
The mercenary tsked wearily, leading Isaac to the building.
Crickets chirped amid giggles and cheers. Peaceful, yet off-putting.
Suddenly, Isaac locked eyes with a child. Grinning wide, but its gaze was unfocused.
'What?'
Gambesoned mercenaries dotted the corners, yawning boredly. Swords hung at their belts. At least half a dozen patrolled the garden.
Along the flagstone path, they reached the mansion's entrance—more chapel or modest palace than orphanage lodging. Why lavish such funds on orphans? Isaac guessed it wasn't just charity.
"Wait here."
The guide entered. Soon, a middle-aged woman in nun's robes emerged.
"The young lord?"
"You the mother superior?"
"Yes. An honor. I'm Mother Superior Hindina."
"Sorry for the sudden visit."
"Not at all. Donations for the children are always welcome."
She was younger than expected—not elderly, but newly middle-aged. She lacked a nun's aura. Perhaps the silk habit, golden cross necklace, or riveted glasses gave her the air of a stern jeweler instead.
'A mage?'
Isaac sensed two circles from her—a 2nd Class Mage. Not unusual; the old church viewed magic as divine gift, honed to glorify God.
But her leaking mana felt sinister, unlike typical clerics'. Mana responds to a sapient's will—reflecting worldview.
'Intriguing.'
As a lifelong magic scholar, Isaac was hooked. What inner darkness made even her mana reek of gloom and damp?
Bishop Lebonius hadn't been this bad.
"Please, come inside."
The mother superior smiled warmly.