Dawn Breaking for the Demons
Isaac, Carlson, Violet, and Pallichi arrived at Randolf's inn, dragging the bound orphanage director along with them. They all looked like bedraggled crows soaked by the rain—utterly worn out.
Randolf's wife, who had been dozing off with her chin propped on the table, sprang to her feet the moment she spotted Isaac.
"Young master, was that you?"
"What?"
"It's chaos out there. The House of Mercy burned down, and boys are running through the streets...."
Isaac glanced at his companions. It was Violet who had set the fire. She hadn't wanted to leave such a horrific facility in the city, so she'd torched it from the basement to the roof. He'd thought the Baisman were just a cold, ruthless crime syndicate based on rumors alone. Apparently, they weren't entirely like that.
"Yeah. Can't tell you everything, but... something like that."
"Thank you, thank you." Randolf's wife clutched Isaac's hand and burst into tears. Her eyes were already puffy, but the tears kept flowing without end. Anyone would think her Randolf sons had died rather than returned alive.
"The boys?"
"They seem pretty shocked, but nothing major wrong with them. I cleaned them up and put them to bed. Looks like they hadn't slept properly for two days."
"Figures."
Isaac grunted in agreement. Locked in those narrow iron cages, force-fed drugs, trembling in terror—there was no way they could've slept.
"How can I ever repay this kindness...? Should I prepare some food?"
"No. Nobody's got an appetite."
Isaac answered for the group. Pallichi avoided the woman's gaze, while Violet kept her head bowed. They'd ridden with the marquis. Even if they hadn't known, this young wife had nearly lost her children because of his "business." Not just slum orphans—perfectly healthy kids enjoying their parents' care had been kidnapped and murdered simply for being beautiful.
Shock, shame, guilt. Their faces betrayed a tangle of emotions.
Isaac was glad to see it, in a way. At least it meant they still had some humanity left.
"But... that lady looks like a nun...."
Randolf's wife trailed off, eyeing the orphanage director. The disheveled woman had her arms bound behind her back and a gag in her mouth. She wasn't in good shape. Conscious now, but grimacing in pain, her face slick with cold sweat, her complexion ashen like she'd swallowed poison.
"Don't worry about her. She deserves this treatment. Anyway, we need a room for some private talk. Can we borrow one?"
"Oh, take the rightmost room at the end of the second floor. It's the biggest."
"Thanks."
Isaac headed up the stairs to the second floor first, followed by Violet and Pallichi escorting the director.
"Thank you, Carlson."
As Carlson climbed the stairs, Randolf's wife suddenly spoke up.
"Ma'am, I... was just following the young master's orders."
"Still. I know from Randolf how skilled a swordsman you are. Without you, the young master would've had a tough time."
She spoke as if she'd seen it all herself. Carlson bowed his head in silence and ascended to the second floor.
"...."
They'd agreed to continue their talk in a quiet space. But even after entering the spacious inn room on the second floor, no one spoke easily. They silently claimed their spots—perching on beds, settling into desk chairs—each finding a place in the hush.
Back at the orphanage, Isaac had led them to the basement. He'd shown them everything: the glass orbs on display, right down to the iron door inside. Pallichi and Carlson had stayed composed, but Violet had vomited up everything from the day before right there.
That was when Isaac had told her to decide. Would she stick with the marquis, or side with Goethe?
Violet had asked for time.
"Got an answer now?"
Isaac finally broke the silence.
"I... didn't know. I knew people were bought and sold in the sewers, but... at least... at least kids were off-limits. That was the unspoken rule."
"That's not what I asked."
"...."
Violet stared fixedly at the floor, not moving a muscle. She wasn't clueless. Life was an endless cycle of desire and suffering, and the world built by those trapped in it was bound to be brutal. That's why she'd long abandoned any ideals about doing good. She'd taken pride in choosing the lesser evil, at least. Aligning with the marquis had been that choice.
Or so she'd believed.
But what they'd seen at the House of Mercy was something else entirely.
"You look lost in thought. Take your time. Meanwhile, let's hear from her."
Isaac removed the director's gag.
"Feeling like talking now?"
"M-monster, devil's bastard, pig. Y-you'll fall to hell, leper spawn, freak."
The director spat curses wildly. Her jaw trembled, lips blue. Her condition was dire.
"Yeah, I bet getting beat by me hurt your feelings. But if you don't answer, it'll hurt a lot more."
Isaac drew his dagger and pressed it to her cheek.
"The swelling'll go down eventually, bruises fade. The cuts aren't deep, so they'll heal. But if I carve you up, those scars'll stay on your face forever."
"...Young master, I get you're angry, but... no."
Pallichi tried to intervene but backed off after meeting the boy's eyes. Isaac wasn't in a state to be reasoned with.
"You're an artist, right? You care about beauty?"
Isaac pressed the dagger harder against her cheek. Flesh would split and blood would flow any second. Terror flooded the director's face—but it seemed off, not just from the blade.
"Young master."
Carlson called out.
"What if an artist who makes beautiful works ends up looking hideous herself?"
"Young master."
"You'll have a face even uglier than the men you hated."
"Young master!"
"You gonna do it?"
Isaac snapped irritably. Carlson met his furious gaze calmly.
"No need."
"No need for what? We have to find out why the marquis built that orphanage."
"Yes, we do. But no need for torture."
"Why? Torturing an old woman go against your knightly code?"
"It's not that."
Carlson remained steady despite Isaac's sharp words.
"Then what?"
"She's a powder addict. Withdrawal symptoms are worsening."
"Powder?"
Isaac eyed the director. Powder was a drug made from the lowest-grade magic stones, worthless for anything else. It induced a euphoric high like reaching new magical heights, which was why even some mages got hooked.
"Yes."
"M-monster. G-get away. Please. D-don't come closer."
The director shuddered pitifully, trying to shrink away from Isaac. She huddled in the room's corner, curled up tight. It was just like the kids in the basement cages. Their fear hadn't been just from terror—it was powder withdrawal.
Up top, mental magic, drugs, and suggestion kept them in line. Down below, they induced withdrawal to crush any thought of escape. If that was the "secret" to housing so many kids, well...
"Aaaah—bugs, bugs eating my flesh. Get them off, get them off! Save me!"
The director writhed alone, rolling on the floor. But no one in the room showed pity. They either watched coldly or ignored her entirely.
"Brought some powder. This should be enough."
Carlson pulled out a folded square of cotton fiber cloth. Unfolding it revealed a fine blue powder.
"What for?"
"You'll see."
He pinched out a pinch—about a tenth—and sprinkled it on the floor. The director flung herself down like a ghost, snorting it up her nose.
"Cough cough, krek—!"
But it was just dust, not powder. Coughing, she licked the floor for more.
"More, more, more."
She clung to Carlson's leg.
"...."
Carlson sprinkled another pinch. She licked the floor again.
"More, more, give me more."
"Answer, and you'll get more."
Carlson nodded to Isaac.
"...Those glass orbs in the basement. Who funded them? Who's buying?"
"...."
The director's eyes shook violently at Isaac's question. They locked onto the cloth in Carlson's hand, the fine powder piled on it.
"Guh—"
She lunged in a frenzy, but Carlson kicked her away.
"No answer? Guess I'll toss the rest."
He opened the second-floor window and shook out the cloth lightly. The powder drifted away outside.
"N-no, nooo!"
"Answer."
"I-I don't know exactly."
"Half gone now."
"Don't know exactly, but... the m-marquis said. A very... precious person."
"Precious person?"
Her eyes stayed glued to the powder.
"Who?"
"S-sadly, the marquis... d-didn't say."
"You must have a guess."
"...If the m-marquis calls someone precious... it's o-obvious."
"Royalty?"
"Wh-what else... would it be."
"Why would royalty have such a sick hobby?"
"B-because nobles... kn-know beauty. Th-there. Now give it."
"...."
Isaac's grip tightened on his dagger. From what he knew of future history, the identity was obvious.
The Second Prince, probably...
Based on what Yonas had told him in his past life, only one figure fit.
This was enough. They'd gotten everything from the director.
"Carlson. How long after dosing do withdrawal symptoms hit?"
"Depends on the dose."
"About an hour?"
"This'll do. She's already craving because it's not enough."
Carlson split the remaining powder in half.
"Then give her just that much."
"Understood."
He tossed the other half out the window.
"Wh-what are you doing!?"
The director panicked at the scattering powder, but it didn't last.
"A deal's a deal."
Carlson set the cloth on the floor. She pounced, snorting it greedily.
"If you're disposing of her, I'll do it."
Carlson said, eyeing Isaac's white-knuckled grip on the dagger.
"No. I won't. Not with my hands, at least."
Isaac sheathed the blade.
Faint sunlight shattered on the cold stone floor. It was a dreary morning.
In the square's center stood a wooden pillar with a criminal bound to it. Her head and hands were fixed in place, unable to move, while thick ropes wound tightly from waist to toes.
"S-save me, s-save me. I-I...."
The criminal kept her head bowed, face smeared with terror. The world she saw was pure hell. The city burned; unknown bugs crawled her body, devouring flesh. Passersby sprouted horns, their red skin bared fangs. Everything wavered like heat haze, engulfed in flames.
"This woman's name is Hindina! She posed as head nun at the House of Mercy in St. Urs, kidnapping boys! She used them for her own gratification and sacrificed them to demons! When it was about to come out, she set fire and tried to flee the city!"
A guard bellowed.
"This woman's name is Hindina! She posed as head nun at the House of Mercy in St. Urs...."
One guard shouted, then another repeated verbatim. They took turns, echoing the charge.
"That do it?"
Pallichi muttered from a distance, more to himself than anyone.
Decapitating boys for glass orbs was phrased vaguely: used them for her own gratification and sacrificed them to demons. Open to far crueler, uglier interpretations.
"Young master, why not say it straight? We grabbed all the glass orbs as evidence. Show them, and her crimes are laid bare. Could've erased the marquis's influence in the city too."
Unable to hold back, Pallichi asked Isaac. Before Violet torched the House of Mercy, they'd loaded every usable orb into the carriage. They'd even secured the coded ledgers stamped with the marquis's seal. Reveal them, and they could uproot the whole horror from the ground up.
But why hold back? Pallichi couldn't fathom it.
"Goethe can't handle it yet."
"Huh?"
"The 'precious' one the marquis mentioned. I think I know who. Goethe's too weak to take him on."
"So...."
"We play dumb. His sick hobby, his dirty secret. Expose it, and he'll do anything to cover up. Besides, the marquis still owes Goethe."
"You won't tell me even if I ask?"
"...."
Isaac chose silence.
"Hoo—"
Pallichi sighed. Once for Isaac's cryptic words, once for the obvious end awaiting the director—no, the mage mercenary Hindina.
"My son, where's my son!?"
"Give back Hagen, Hagen! He hasn't come home!"
Fierce women swarmed in, each clutching a blade. The guards didn't stop them—just as Isaac had instructed, with generous silver.
"D-don't come. Devil spawn, ugly bitches, monsters! Stay back, stay back!"
Soon Hindina was surrounded, screaming.
"At least those women saw the missing kids as family. But no guarantee all the vanished boys were her doing, right? Isn't that so, miss?"
Pallichi asked.
"...."
But neither Violet, Isaac, nor Carlson answered.
"Ah."
Pallichi sighed faintly, realization dawning from the silence.
It had never mattered in the first place.
Hindina's screams had stopped. Blood trickled along the cracks in the square's stone floor, glinting in the broken sunlight.
It was a chill morning.