Listen to This Silence
The carriage, shrouded in silence, was heading toward Black Goose Village.
"Mana reacts to the will of intelligent beings with sensitivity. And that reflects their worldview."
Isaac alternated his gaze between Yonas and Enet as he spoke. Carlson, occupying one corner of the carriage, stared silently out the window. He had little interest in magic.
"This gooseberry—what color does it look to you?"
"Ruby red!"
"...It looks red to me."
Isaac held up a gooseberry between his thumb and forefinger, prompting their individual responses.
"To me, it's like the color of a sunset. See? This proves the world is subjective to every intelligent being."
"Subjective?"
"Yeah. When an intelligent being looks at an object, their own nature is reflected more than the object's essence. The same knife—someone might think of it as a cooking tool, while another imagines slicing through flesh."
Enet's expression, which had looked as puzzled as if hearing a foreign language, relaxed at Isaac's explanation.
"That's the root of magic. Magic is imposing your subjectivity onto the external world."
"By infusing your will into mana?"
"Yep, exactly. Smart kid, Yonas."
"Hehe."
Isaac ruffled Yonas's hair, and the boy grinned from ear to ear. Enet now wore the face of someone confronting another riddle.
"Alright, Enet. Time for practice. Like last time, aggregate the mana—but this time, infuse it with a property."
"S-suddenly?"
Enet's eyes widened round.
"...You've overplayed your hand, Marquis."
The marquis spoke while gazing at the glass orb where a severed head floated. In the end, his prediction had been correct. If he mobilized all available forces, the enemy would drop the veil and reveal themselves. What they wanted was control over the city's interests—or the city itself. They had no intention of destroying it.
Mercenaries were even now swarming into the plains southwest of Bernsi. Over five hundred in total. That was how much gold the great houses had poured out alongside him.
If the veiled foe was the count, the count would find it hard to escape suspicion of treason from the royals. That many troops suddenly flooding the city? Explaining it away would be no easy task. The royals would take the word of the marquis, their inspector, at face value—over the descendant of the monster that had burned the capital a century ago.
Even if it wasn't the count, the enemy would have to choose upon seeing the city trampled by five hundred mercenaries: abandon it or step forward and beg for negotiations.
In the end, it was the count who walked out from behind the veil. Just as the marquis intended. Now he merely had to respond accordingly.
But not everything went as planned. A chill permeated the study. It wasn't the air growing cold. It was the icy energy crawling up his spine. Gooseflesh rising on his arms. Mana released by the count. Infused with the will to kill. Pure murderous intent.
"I don't understand what you're getting at."
A twisted smile flitted across the count's lips. He regarded the marquis once more with his usual impassive gaze. The marquis couldn't bring himself to meet those eyes. It was instinctive terror. Cold river water seemed to flood his lungs instead of air. Breathing was difficult.
He had come prepared for this, clad in dimegtrium chainmail and magitech artifacts engraved with protective spells. Yet the marquis had underestimated the count. The priceless artifacts were useless before him. They offered no relief from the cold and agony.
"I'll ask again. Do you know anything about this?"
The count inquired about the glass orb. But to the marquis, it sounded like a beast growling low in its throat. That predatory rumble stiffens muscles and slows movements. Konrad von Dietrich, marquis. Such a thing hadn't happened since he'd risen to his rank. He was the beast, the apex predator—not prey.
"..."
The marquis sensed it instinctively. A twitch of that man's hand, and all his amassed wealth and power would turn to ash. No matter how much one possessed, it meant nothing without life. He was rediscovering the truth of that old adage.
"You're sweating profusely. Unwell?"
With those words, the count withdrew his mana as suddenly as a blizzard dying out.
"Hahk, hahk."
Like a man dragged from drowning, the marquis gasped for air.
"My apologies. The tobacco has muddied the air."
The count opened the window. Fresh air flowed in.
"You've made quite the effort, in your own way."
The marquis forced a bitter smile. He'd never thought it would be easy. This was the count's final spasm. The howl of a cornered beast. As long as he kept his composure, capturing a trapped predator was child's play. The marquis composed himself.
"...Seeing this 'artwork' before me, you've probably gathered the ledgers as evidence too."
"What are you talking about?"
"Unfortunately, I have many cards, while yours is just this one."
The count asked, but the marquis pressed on. From the moment he'd shoved the orb in his face, the war had begun.
"I'll spell it out since you don't seem to know. Covering up something like this is trivial for me. I have no shortage of scapegoats. Even as a robed noble, I'm still a noble. Laying hands on one without trial is tantamount to defying the crown. And the crown will side with me over you."
"..."
The count neither affirmed nor denied. He merely stared.
"What about you, Count? If I request a formal investigation from the Papal Court in my capacity as inspector, what do you think will happen to Goethe? Do you imagine those who see Goethe as a thorn in their side will sit idle? You could turn the entire old church against you. Can you bear that?"
"..."
"You must have pulled out your hidden card upon hearing of the mercenaries gathering in Bernsi. Pity. They won't disband until the city gains autonomy."
"Marquis. I'll give you a chance."
The count, who had listened silently, slowly opened his mouth.
"Disband the mercenaries now and withdraw your unreasonable demands. I'll overlook your rudeness. And all the harm you've inflicted on Bernsi until now."
"Hahaha!"
The marquis burst into sudden laughter, as if hearing the funniest joke.
"When the scales are tipped so heavily my way, it seems you can't do the math."
"This is your last chance. No second offers."
Despite the marquis's mockery, the count spoke in even tones.
"I understand. You lack the force to disband them. You can't pull troops from Winterband, hiring mercenaries is banned amid military buildup, your vassals are busy with planting season, no heir is named, so begging help from retainers or collaterals would only stir trouble."
"..."
"Ah, I know. With your esteemed mastery of magic, a rabble of hundreds is laughable. But alas, word is an Akanlaufer is staying in Baldarin. You know them—the professional mage mercenary band. They were resting after a job and are heading to Bernsi now. Of course, even without them, you can't use lethal magic without royal permission."
"I don't follow your words, but I grasp that the scales tilt your way."
"Then make the wise choice. Just sign here."
As if waiting, the marquis unrolled a parchment scroll. It declared full transfer of Bernsi's autonomy to the marquis and great houses—the city council.
The count eyed the contents impassively.
"Nothing major. Just recognizing it as a free city. To make it better for merchants."
Contrary to the marquis's words, every clause stripped the lord's control: militia for city defense (military rights), independent judiciary, autonomous trade and city league membership, direct tax to the king. It carved a new domain for the marquis and great houses within Goethe territory.
"..."
The count set down the parchment and looked out the window. The marquis watched his expression closely, but it betrayed nothing.
"I still have something unplaced on my side of the scales."
"Futile resistance won't help, Count. You have only two choices: grant autonomy now, or after your house suffers harm. So..."
"Don't you hear it?"
"Pardon?"
"This sound."
"What sound?"
The marquis frowned at the count's seeming deflection.
"I hear nothing. Refusing reality so badly you're hearing phantoms?"
"Exactly. Nothing at all."
"What nonsense is this?"
"This silence. Don't you hear this silence?"
"...!"
Suddenly, the marquis's eyes widened. He sprang up and rushed to the window. Even with it open, it was quiet. Dozens of men should be waiting around the carriages lined up outside the manor. Too far for clear noise, perhaps, but murmurs should faintly carry. Not even the servants' sounds. Nothing. Silent as a ghost town.
"...When did this happen."
The garden was littered with corpses. All in plate breastplates—the marquis's mercenaries. Guards were clearing the bodies. The marquis's eyes met the steward overseeing the cleanup. The man bowed politely to the noble as if it were routine, then calmly ordered the guards to tidy the blood and flesh.
"..."
Hairs stood on end across the marquis's body. This time, it wasn't the count's mana. He felt it himself. Even during their talk, the count had maintained a soundproofing spell outside. He'd waited until the marquis revealed his true face, dredging up the depths of his ambition. Confirmation complete—what remained for the marquis now?
"You spoke of scales? Then I'll place one thing on mine."
The count knocked out his pipe ash and repacked tobacco as he spoke.
"Your life. That should make my side heavier, no? Now I've done the math right."
"Y-you must have seen the letter. This is no bluff. By now, nearly five hundred mercenaries..."
"Ah, that. Doubtful they'll make it. Want to go verify together?"
The count rose, eyeing the marquis. The marquis involuntarily stepped back. Had the count always been this imposing? Tall himself, the marquis now felt like he'd encountered a bear in the woods.
Southwest of Bernsi. Unlike other areas with scattered homes beyond the moat, this zone was empty—perfect for hundreds, even thousands, to gather.
"Got more?"
Pallichi stood rigidly, sword planted in the ground. The able-bodied men, lured by offers of several times the market rate, had lost their will to fight. Pallichi and his Baisman comrades surrounded him—including the aura users dubbed Baisman's blades. Outnumbered and outmatched. Over fifty by eye, tightly knit, while the would-be mercenaries were divided. Some had no stomach for blood without contracts; others resented Baisman for blocking easy pay—but those lay sprawled, dead or alive.
"That's all."
Gerald unwound the cloth binding his sword hilt and right hand. Poor circulation made his wrist throb. Bleeding had stopped at the nail-less spots, but pain still hindered gripping.
"Seems so."
Pallichi watched the survivors scatter with their wounded.
"Is allying with Goethe really the right call?"
To Gerald, everything about Goethe grated. Carlson had yanked his nails; Bill was once the head of Nears gang, targeted for extermination on the marquis's orders. But what irked him most wasn't them—it was Goethe's first heir. Not the pampered whelp he'd assumed; the kid's depths were unfathomable. He obeyed Violet's command, but doubts lingered.
"No time for deep thoughts. Talks fell through, I guess."
Pallichi pulled his sword from the ground. He glared toward the city's west gate. Soldiers approached in formation, three banners at the fore—all different houses. Over a hundred strong. Private troops of the great houses that dominated the city.
"How the hell did that kid think this far ahead?"
Gerald scowled.