It Must Become a Holy Land for Mages
The count wandered the manor. The servants passing by bowed deeply in greeting, but he either overlooked them or nodded absently. It wasn't disregard for them—his mind was simply preoccupied. Pacing aimlessly when deep in thought was an old habit of his. Most often, it happened atop the walls of Winterband fortress. Gazing at the vast frozen wastes and the distant White Snake Mountains at their edge, he would ponder the future amid the cold and desolation: defense plans and strategies, troop redeployments, movements of hostile tribes or beasts, diplomacy with vassals, collaterals, and other nobles, territorial management, soldiers' pay and supplies... The worries never ended.
But now, the count was in the manor, lost in thoughts different from the usual. His steps, which he'd thought were aimless, had led him to the central courtyard of the main building. A small garden in the open space surrounded by the three-story structure. The oak tree planted there had been set by his predecessor a century ago, when the family was exiled to this frontier. Now nearing the end of its lifespan, it had grown into a magnificent specimen.
The count's gaze fell not to the tree, but beneath it. In Isaac's absence, the blue flowers that had wilted for a time were blooming vibrantly once more. Those flowers had been brought from the Demon Realm by his wife. Unnamed plants that fed not on soil nutrients or sunlight, but on mana. Isaac's chambers were on the second floor of the main building, overlooking the courtyard. Their freshness meant his unique constitution persisted.
When he'd seen Isaac resist his own mana to save the marquis, the count had thought the boy's condition fully cured. But no. Isaac hadn't escaped his unique constitution—he had mastered it. How that was possible eluded even the count, but it was so.
"...Adel."
The name slipped from the count's lips unbidden. Whenever she returned from her long journeys and briefly visited the manor, Adel always checked these flowers first, harboring faint hope that Isaac's affliction might have healed. Where on the continent was she wandering now?
Before Isaac's unique constitution manifested, the courtyard hadn't been like this. It was a place where Adel, Isaac, and Yonas had strolled leisurely, swinging from a rope hung on the oak branches. The count remembered. When Isaac was born, he'd stood here for a long while. Snow had fallen endlessly that day. Adel had labored for two full days—a ordeal that would have endangered a normal mother's life. But Adel was a warrior first, the count's wife second. Thanks to that, both she and Isaac survived.
The second-floor room now Isaac's chambers was where Adel had given birth. The memory resurfaced vividly: Isaac drawing his first breath, his first cry echoing. That moment of joy, the gratitude swelling in his faithless heart—how astonishing it had been.
The count looked up at the second-floor window as he had then. It was a quiet afternoon. With worry etching his face, he stared at the curtained window before turning away. This wasn't the time to reveal a father's anguish.
The city's accumulated pus had burst. Goethe had decided to excise the rot and fill it with fresh flesh. It was Isaac's will, but also the count's. Now was the time to focus on that change.
"You're sending a maid to the tournament?"
The count eyed Isaac steadily, pipe clenched between his teeth.
"Yes."
"Why?"
These days, the count no longer gave Isaac a yes or no first. He asked for reasons.
"Because I can't use magic."
"You endured my mana force to save the marquis."
Mana and mana force were often used interchangeably, but here the count meant the latter specifically: a mage's will infused into natural mana. Like ink dropped into water, it altered the mana's nature to the caster's intent. By some definitions, that alone qualified as magic. Especially from a mage of the count's caliber.
"When will you finally tell me the truth?"
The count's acknowledged level was 5th Class. From 6th Class onward lay superhuman realms where the class system lost meaning. In other words, he had reached the pinnacle attainable by conventional mages. In the kingdom, only Clavius—the king's advisor and one of the three sages—and Kroitz, master of the Blue Tower, matched that rank.
The mana force he had unleashed in anger then would overwhelm even seasoned mages. Yet Isaac had withstood it—a feat far beyond manifesting lesser spells.
"Not yet, at least."
Isaac gave an ambiguous non-answer.
"Then what am I to trust in sending that maid in your place? Is she a once-in-a-generation genius?"
"No."
"A secret disciple of some renowned mage anyone might have heard of?"
"No, that's not it either."
"Then what's the reason I should grant your request?"
"I can demonstrate achievements like this."
Whoosh!
Flames erupted from Isaac's fingertips. The count drew deeply on his pipe and exhaled. The fire Isaac conjured was pure and refined. A steady stream of mana held steady without fluctuation, the elemental conversion smooth and natural. No novice could achieve this in moments. But fire magic, no matter the mastery, was basic.
"Not enough."
"It's not over yet."
The crimson blaze shifted to blue.
"...!"
This surpassed 1st Class fire magic. Only from at least 3rd Class could one condense mana to such density. Blue flames burned hotter and hit harder than red, capable of melting iron outright depending on the modification.
But Isaac's proof didn't end there. The air hummed. The abnormally high heat expanded and vibrated it. The blue flame took on a pale violet hue. Tiny as a fingernail, its mana density was visibly extraordinary—the air around it shimmered, warping incoming sunlight into heat haze.
Isaac stood just two paces from the count's seat, yet the heat felt like it could sear flesh. The count had to summon a bit of mana to shield himself.
Fwoosh—
The flame at Isaac's fingertips vanished in an instant.
"Sorry. Got focused."
Isaac was unscathed, but his surroundings weren't. The count opened a window. The air reeked of scorched desk and paper. Books and sheets near Isaac were singed red; distant documents had curled edges. The desk corner closest to the flame smoldered, a thread of black smoke rising from the fading red embers.
The boy with an old soul wiped sweat from his brow with his sleeve, looking regretful. His first spell demonstrated before his father in this life—he'd wanted perfection. A slight error had crept in, detectable only to him, with over sixty years devoted to magic.
"Is this sufficient?"
"...".
"Father."
"...".
The count's mouth hung slightly open. The pipe dangled precariously from his teeth.
"The circles... how many did you link?"
Schrader had reported Isaac could use magic, but not its level. The count hadn't imagined this.
"As you know, my vessel can't form circles."
"Then...".
"I'll explain in detail when the time comes."
The count already faced heavy duties and upheavals. Isaac didn't want to add confusion. He knew the anguish it would bring as family head, lord, and father. The knowledge he'd used to conquer his unique constitution was decades ahead. Moreover, circle-less magic stemmed from Zeke von Goethe's closest techniques. It would only deepen the count's worries.
"...What level is that maid?"
After a pause, the count set aside questions and turned to the future. He knew his son wouldn't answer prying.
"Mana condensation in two hours."
"Impressive talent. But the tournament is less than two months away."
"I'll teach her proper magic by then."
"Vassals and collaterals will object fiercely. I know you favor those around you regardless of status. But the tournament is another chessboard. For a proxy, it's better to hire blooded nobility, even at a premium."
The count voiced concerns, grasping Isaac's intent. He best understood why Isaac hid his abilities. Though Isaac claimed family worries, the real danger was to himself if his mastery spread—a repeat of the tragedy that burned the capital a century ago. The royals would demand extreme punishment. Only then would Goethe face peril.
"No noble likes commoners wielding magic. It's like the old church calling mages heretics, claiming magic divine right."
"True enough."
Isaac nodded readily. Commoners using magic—and outperforming noble scions as he intended—directly challenged noble privilege. It would breed unease, resentment, uproar.
"But that's what I want."
"Why?"
"Goethe will need many mages ahead. Bloodlines alone won't suffice."
Isaac answered.
"So, you'll promote talented commoners?"
"More than that."
"More?"
"For Goethe to stand firm, 'magic prestige' isn't enough. It must become more than a magic house."
The reason he'd accelerated multiple circulation paths before the count to push fire magic's limits. Isaac explained. It was one dream he'd cherished lifelong—a foundation to build gradually, over ages.
"Like the church's inviolable holy sites. Goethe must become a holy land for mages."
On a low hill some distance from Bernsi lay a paupers' cemetery. One silver coin per body secured eternal rest. Eight corpses were interred there—all Baisman members. Not for lack of funds, but because there was nowhere to send them, no Bernsi citizenship.
Three aura users at the vanguard died pointlessly to crossbows. The other five succumbed to wounds fending off mercenaries. After paying respects, the Baisman scattered in groups, craving drink. Only Violet and Gerald remained.
Pallichi, her shadow guard, lay immobilized by three bolts.
"It's getting dark. Time to go."
Gerald spoke, eyeing the fallen sun. A lantern-bearing gravedigger approached slowly to ward off night scavengers.
"...".
Violet simply gazed at the graves, praying inwardly—not with closed eyes or clasped hands. For their peace, their rest. She wasn't devout. It was all she could offer the dead.
"Committee member."
Gerald called to her silence. A chill wind stirred—not natural, but from spirits stirred by her emotions.
"Let's go."
Violet sighed the words. They nodded to the gravedigger and descended the hill slowly.
"Hand healing?"
Violet asked, viewing Bernsi's faint glow afar.
"Much better. Still itches, no strength yet."
Gerald flexed his fingers. Regrowing nails would take months. Burying lost comrades in his heart, as long.
"Today's the day. Will that kid keep his word?"
Gerald had questioned allying with Goethe repeatedly—not just grudge against Isaac. To the marquis, Baisman were cheap, reliable muscle. To the count, mere gang thugs—a risk.
"He will."
Violet's voice lacked conviction. Exiles had no homeland shield, always braced for betrayal. Retribution was theirs alone. Five years with the marquis endured because he kept promises.
"Be cautious. Kingdom nobles aren't trustworthy."
Gerald said obliquely. If Goethe turned on Baisman, now was ideal. Having toppled the marquis and great house, their utility waned. They'd spotted and shattered mercenaries, blocked house guards—merit, yes, but would exiles' pacts hold amid chaos? Bordering turbulent republic, Baisman were a spark. Cleaner to eliminate.
"Don't worry. If Goethe betrays us, we won't just take it."
Violet said, ear to the wind.
"But it's too early for that worry."
The breeze whispered suspicions in the city.
"Just as the kid said, again."
Gerald scowled.