House of Mercy (1)
Rooms of various sizes lined the corridor. Children played here and there—in chess matches, card games, or pillow fights. On the surface, it all looked utterly peaceful and harmonious.
But one by one, two, three, four. As Isaac met their eyes and counted the children, assessing their states, he quickly realized how far this was from true peace or warmth. The children's bright faces were, in reality, utterly vacant. The boy playing chess moved his pieces repeatedly to the same spots—moves that didn't even follow the rules. The same went for the card players and those tussling with pillows. They were just mimicking the actions with smiling faces. Not truly doing them, not enjoying them.
Isaac drew only one conclusion from his observations.
They've been drugged.
Narcotics. The puzzling part, though, was the activities themselves. Why would drug-addled children mimic these pointless, purposeless behaviors? Chess, cards, pillow fights. They seemed natural at a glance, but they were more adult pastimes than children's games. Swap the pillow for a knife, and it becomes a spectacle for grown-up onlookers.
In other words, they'd been drugged and forced to repeat these acts through some twisted means. That was the part Isaac couldn't quite grasp.
All boys.
Some had delicate features that could pass for girls, but a closer look revealed they were all male. Fortunately—or perhaps not—they appeared healthy. But the more he watched, the harder Isaac's expression grew. He was beginning to guess the orphanage's true purpose.
"How do you feed all these children?"
"Because there are kind souls like you, young master, who generously share what they have for the children's sake."
"Were there that many good-hearted people in Bern?"
"Bernsi is a city built by merchants, for merchants. A true merchant knows how to price and pay for intangible value as well."
The Mother Superior explained in a gentle voice. She was right. Bernsi wasn't ruled by a single marquis. There were the five great merchant houses—or merchant nobles, as they were called. Baris was one of them.
"Does that include Baris the market leader among your 'true merchants'?"
"Yes. He was a giant among giants. It's such a shame—someone envious of his fame and fortune must have committed that wicked deed...."
The Mother Superior sounded genuinely regretful.
"For a tragedy like that, the city doesn't seem too shaken up."
"A city isn't supported by just one pillar. And real chaos often brews out of sight."
"What do you mean by that?"
"It's probably hard for you to understand, young master. It's the cutthroat ways of the lowly. This way, please."
The Mother Superior led him to a reception room.
"Flashy," Isaac muttered.
The room brimmed with opulent decorations. A statue of a praying saint. A massive pot with lush potted plants. A tapestry embroidered with saints. An enormous oil painting by what looked like a master artist. A table embossed with ornate vines. Plush chairs gilded with gold leaf. Nothing here fit an orphanage.
"Many wealthy donors visit with good intentions. We must treat them appropriately. Please, sit. Tea will be out shortly."
The Mother Superior smiled. As she said, a mercenary in a gambeson soon brought a tray with a teapot and cups.
"I hope it suits your taste. We brew it strong for health benefits."
The tea she poured was revoltingly bitter. Isaac thought chewing raw grass might be preferable.
"You have a lot of mercenaries here. Something important going on?"
"What could be more important than the children? The city's mood is tense, so we're extra cautious about their safety. And you, young master—traveling alone without your entourage?"
"I prefer moving solo. My guards are waiting at the inn nearby."
To be precise, Hellhound was currently shaking off the city watch and rampaging through the southern district. Through their bond, Isaac shared its senses—frantic views of dashing about, screams, shouts. Hellhound was stirring chaos to lure Carlson here.
"What if something happens?"
"What could go wrong in an orphanage?"
"Still, better safe than sorry. How's the tea?"
Her expression was odd. Her gaze fixed on Isaac, her lips twitching. As if she'd gotten the reaction she expected.
"Bitter."
"It's meant to relax you. No changes yet?"
"Not really."
A faint wrinkle creased the Mother Superior's brow. She seemed dissatisfied with his response.
"No matter how I look at it, selling just that one statue could feed dozens of starving kids in the southern slums for days."
Isaac pointed to the saint's statue in the corner.
"True enough. But charity isn't that simple a calculation."
"And having only boys—is that part of the math?"
"A bit different, but adults have their reasons."
The Mother Superior deftly sidestepped the thorny question, as if accustomed to it. Isaac let it slide. It wasn't time yet.
"Who's that?"
A massive painting on the wall. A noble stood in it, holding an ornate ceremonial sword. He faced a horned giant with red skin and a goat-like face. It was an imagined scene of the noble battling a demon. Though just a painting, it felt eerily alive—the flaming background, the demon's searing visage, the sharp, cold sword. As if it might leap from the canvas.
Isaac felt a touch of dizziness and shook his head.
"Without that man, our angel-like children would still be wandering the dangerous slums."
As the Mother Superior answered, a faint blue haze began to rise from her fingertips. Like smoke, it unfurled like unraveling thread, drifting slowly toward Isaac through the air.
So that's how it works.
Invisible to the naked eye, the thin, viscous mana slithered like a thread toward his brow. Classic mental magic. Now the pieces fit. Drug the children to lower mental resistance, then hit them with mind spells.
A mere 2nd Class mage like the Mother Superior couldn't control that many kids at once. So she'd implanted suggestions one by one—repeatable commands for specific behaviors.
Isaac pondered briefly. Should he let this feeble mana thread hit him? He could dodge or dispel it easily. Compared to the future history of magic, her attempt was crude.
But he didn't want to tip his hand yet. He'd only read about mental magic in books, never experienced it firsthand.
In the end, the thin, wriggling blue thread touched his brow.
Ping!
For an instant, a snapping sound echoed in his ears—like a taut bowstring cut. Or rather, that's how Isaac perceived it. His senses plunged into darkness, like ink in a well. No sight, sound, or feeling.
So this is what it's like.
Isaac curiously examined his state. Some matched his expectations, some didn't. Magic's mysteries never failed to intrigue him. Reincarnation and this second life were burdens of duty and fatigue, but magic was always fresh.
"Raise your right hand."
The Mother Superior's voice rang out. Isaac raised his right hand.
"Now your left."
He raised his left. Convinced, she nodded. The waiting mercenaries approached to check him. Her spell wasn't potent, so they moved quietly.
Now they'd dose him with heavy drugs periodically and layer on suggestions. Two main ones: view this orphanage as a bountiful, happy home and live by its routines; obey the Mother Superior absolutely.
At her level, magic alone wouldn't suffice for such deep implants. It required tedious rituals and drugs.
The mercenaries bound his limbs carefully to avoid breaking the spell.
"Find out whose kid this is and why he's here."
Once secured, the Mother Superior ordered.
"The kid's smiling? The drug?"
"Nah, pre-op stuff is different from this."
"Hindina? What the hell?"
The mercenaries panicked.
"......"
The Mother Superior suddenly raised her right arm, then her left. She bared her teeth in a grin. Her eyes were vacant, like the children's.
Dance.
Isaac commanded. She shot up, writhing and shaking unnaturally. Eyes wide, mouth grinning, arms raised—it was grotesque, like a puppet jerked by an amateur.
"......?"
By the time the mercenaries noticed something off, it was too late.
"Gahk—"
The boy they'd thought ensnared plunged a dagger from a mercenary's belt into his throat. The ropes binding Isaac had long been sliced.
"Shit—"
The witness couldn't dodge Isaac's blade either.
"Gaaah—"
He blocked the throat strike with his arm, but it only worsened the pain. Arm pierced, wrist shredded. He tried to flee, but a dagger sank into his back.
"S-sor—"
Perfectly placed between ribs, it punctured a lung—just as Isaac remembered from anatomy diagrams. He flailed and crawled briefly before Isaac mercifully stabbed his nape. He had no taste for prolonging suffering.
"It works."
With two corpses nearby, Isaac lounged on the sofa. The Mother Superior kept dancing awkwardly, a marionette on clumsy strings.
"Time for a real talk, Mother Superior. Sit."
She slumped into a chair at his words, her gentle smile and feigned warmth gone.
"What's your name?"
"Hindina."
She answered stiffly.
"Original occupation?"
"......Mercenary. Mage mercenary."
Her face twisted. One hand twitched toward her mouth, resisting. Isaac accelerated another circulation path in his vessel. She quieted, hands on knees, expression blank.
"Two days—no, three now. You brought the Randolf brothers here?"
"Yes."
She nodded.
"Why?"
"Because they were beautiful."
Her lips curled up—not at Isaac's command, not escaping control. An unconscious, instinctive reaction.
"Beautiful enough to turn into artwork."
Her smile deepened.