It Means You're Not Alone
Darkness had fallen, and even the servants had clocked out or retreated to their quarters. Isaac, who had been gazing quietly out the window, picked up his wine bottle and wandered into the garden.
“Autumn must be on its way.”
The wind had grown quite chilly now. Isaac murmured as he gazed at the moon. In Goethe, autumn brought snow. Sometimes rain, sometimes hail. And occasionally, clear skies with brilliant sunshine.
Isaac didn't remember Goethe's seasons all that well. It had been far too long ago. Yet the wind of those seasons, the temperature, the humidity, the weather—they were etched somewhere deep within him, unchanged by time or a different body.
“Suuuup... Hoooo—”
Isaac inhaled the familiar yet unfamiliar air. At the far end of the main house's second floor, a light still burned. The count's private study. And at the opposite end of the first floor, another light glowed. Schrader's office.
It was serene. Crickets chirped from somewhere, and a cool breeze soothed his heated forehead.
Things have to go well. They mustn't go wrong.
Isaac had a plan. One possible only because he knew the future, the history, and the knowledge of magic.
But that didn't make him omnipotent or omniscient. Even in Binvelt, even in Bernsi, there had been unexpected turns. The information he possessed had its limits and gaps.
Still, at least up to now... everything had gone according to his will. Not perfectly satisfying, but not wildly off course either.
He had stopped the bishop who created heretics, resolved the Binvelt dispute, and protected Bernsi's autonomy. And onward, onward—through season after season, year after year, even until the end of this flesh finally came—could he keep protecting Goethe?
Sometimes, the fear he'd pushed aside and the weight settled in his heart tormented him especially. Today was one such day.
“Haa.”
Isaac drew in and let out a deep breath.
“The night breeze is chilly, young master.”
A slender silhouette flickered at the main house entrance. The voice carried the weight of seasoned years.
“Schrader.”
“Not sleeping?”
The head butler stood ramrod straight, as always.
“Yeah. Guess I've gotten used to Binvelt's hard floors. This soft bed feels all wrong now.”
“That's because you haven't been moving your body. I hear you've just been shuttling between your chambers and the study lately.”
“Everyone's dodging me, but you all keep tabs on where I go and what I do, huh?”
“If you weren't around, half the servants would get bored and quit the manor life.”
“That's... comforting, I suppose.”
Schrader chuckled along with Isaac's wry laugh.
“You look lost in thought.”
“I've always got thoughts swirling.”
“What kind?”
“Oh, this and that.”
“Not planning to share, I take it.”
“Just the usual worries.”
A brief silence fell. Schrader broke it.
“How about it? Care to cross swords with this old man?”
“You?”
Isaac had never once dueled Schrader with blades.
“I heard from the guard captain that your swordsmanship has improved noticeably since Binvelt. To the point no manor soldier can match you.”
“...The guard captain said that?”
Isaac tilted his head at the unexpected news. After deciding to play the wastrel, he'd been deliberately rough with anyone but his closest allies. Especially the manor guards who looked up to him after sparring sessions. He'd humiliated and belittled them. Even assaulted one in front of the marquis. He hadn't expected praise from the guard captain.
“He said you're a natural with the blade. That man's survived over ten years at Winterband. He doesn't hand out compliments lightly.”
“Weird.”
“So, will you humor this old timer?”
“You're the young one now.”
Isaac murmured with a smile. Schrader was entering his sixties. Middle-aged for a knight. Compared to Isaac, who had lived past seventy in his past life, he was still a kid.
“Pardon?”
“Nothing. But as you see... I'm drunk.”
Isaac shook the bottle. The last dregs of wine sloshed at the bottom.
“You're not drunk. I can tell.”
“You knew?”
“The other servants might buy it, but not my eyes.”
“You're the one who confessed my magic to Father, aren't you?”
“I'm His Excellency's man, after all.”
“Tch, I've got a spy right beside me.”
“A trustworthy one, at least.”
“I know.”
“Now, on your feet. When your head's cluttered, move your body.”
“If we're doing this, let's use real steel.”
“As you wish.”
The training ground seemed brighter than usual tonight. The moon was full.
Clang—
The boy and the old man's blades clashed. Isaac and Schrader probed each other's level, gradually unleashing their true skills.
Kagang!
“Eek—”
Isaac tried to close in for sword wrestling, pressing his body against Schrader's, but the butler shrugged him off effortlessly, creating distance. A smooth, precise motion.
“I'd hate to admit it—pride won't let me—but I can't beat you in raw strength, young master.”
“Growth spurt.”
“So it seems.”
Schrader held his flawless stance. Isaac was inwardly surprised. He knew Schrader was a veteran who'd marched battlefields with the count. But he hadn't realized the butler's skill ran this deep.
Similar to Carlson... or maybe even above.
Isaac swung faster, harder, but Schrader's blade matched him, growing quicker and stronger in turn.
He's adjusting to me.
Self-control, composure, balance, harmony, awareness of limits, flexibility. Flawless in every aspect, all calibrated to sync with Isaac. Distance control, weight shifts, fluid yet intricate—and crystal-clear—motions. Reading Isaac's movements and psyche, always a beat ahead.
Carlson would surely become a sword master someday. But Carlson was still a growing swordsman. Schrader was complete.
Carlson would surpass him eventually, but not now. Isaac, who had blocked Carlson's blade hundreds of times a day to beat Bessimer, knew it well.
Why, with men like you here, did Goethe have to decline?
Clang!
Why didn't brilliant talents like Carlson stay in Goethe?
Kiiing!
Why did Goethe, guardian of the kingdom for a century against foreign powers and monsters—with brave soldiers and mages—end up as crow food in ruins?
Kagak—
Can I change that history—
Clang!
With a sharp ring of metal, Isaac lost his balance and staggered. Before he knew it, a cool blade hovered perilously at his throat. The edge was blunted—it wouldn't cut.
“Too many stray thoughts.”
“Told you. Lots to think about.”
“Hmm.”
Schrader sheathed his sword.
“Young master. Have you ever trained swordsmanship with Madam?”
“Huh? With Mother?”
“Yes.”
“No. Shame.”
“Yet it's remarkably similar.”
“What is?”
“Madam's sword and yours. Rough but sharp, full of feints, every limb a weapon. Focus on the blade, and suddenly a foot flies at you—or a fist or elbow.”
“Is that so.”
“It is.”
“Hm?”
“You're not alone, young master. You've inherited the Granak blood from Madam, and the Goethe line. That blood entwines the swords and magic of your ancestors.”
“What...?”
Isaac eyed Schrader curiously.
“It means you're not alone. Whatever burdens you're packing... don't carry them all by yourself. Someone's waiting for your call for help. Someone's praying for you. Someone's wandering the continent even now, for your sake.”
“...”
Sharp old man.
Isaac thought. The veteran who held the manor to the end in his last life. I hope he lives easy this time.
“Enough ticklish talk. One more round.”
“You sure?”
“Don't wanna lose to an old geezer.”
“Spare a thought for an old man who hates losing to a pup.”
“Then give it your all.”
“You too.”
Claang—!
The blades clashed once more.
“In theory, it's simple. Minor spirits instinctively avoid higher-grade spirits. We'll use that to find whoever holds the spirit stone. When the holder approaches, the minor spirits will react.”
“How do you... know that?”
“I was stuck inside reading books as a kid.”
“Spirit arts texts are all in ancient tongue, though.”
“Read 'em in ancient tongue.”
“...”
Violet was floored. As expected of a magical noble house. They even had rich spirit arts scholarship.
Of course, the most astonishing part was Isaac grasping the essence of it all back then—at an even younger age than now. And here he was, still just twelve, talking about his “childhood.” She felt the flow of their times was fundamentally different.
“Even famed mage scholars spend lifetimes mastering ancient tongue.”
“Well, it was a lifetime for me. Close enough?”
Isaac shrugged. He couldn't very well say he'd clung to ancient tongue for sixty years.
“The young master must be... a once-in-a-century genius. And the second young master has spirit affinity rivaling the republic's best.”
Violet, weary of marveling, accepted the Goethe brothers as such.
“Praise? I'll take it. So, you'll follow this once-in-a-century genius's plan again?”
“It's a good method. No real understanding of spirit arts, and you wouldn't dream it up.”
“Oh, then...”
“But a few issues.”
“Issues?”
“Spirit affinity is ultimately determined by a person's unique mana qualities. Density, form, pattern, flow and speed, inherent will or values. All that combines to draw spirits.”
“Like human charm.”
“Similar. Like being drawn to—or repelled by—someone's looks, speech, actions, attitude. The spirit mage's mana qualities set their affinity.”
Violet nodded.
“But affinity isn't constant. People's charm shows at different times, varies with health or mood. Same for the second young master's mana—it doesn't always attract minor spirits. He doesn't realize it, but when he plays, he infuses mana into the sound.”
“Did he?”
Isaac scratched his chin, nodding. Now he understood why Yonas's piano playing was so captivating, why he craved it, why it stirred emotions and memories more than other sounds.
When manifesting fire magic via Jacob Rakan's theory, Yonas had woven images of two boys playing piano and their mother. His playing carried nostalgia from that time. Cozy, joyful, wistful, yearning...
The minor spirits must have been drawn to that quality in Yonas's mana.
“The tournament's in the great hall, right?”
“Yeah.”
“One entrance for guests, and even conservatively, over 150 people.”
“Participants plus their servants, yeah.”
Six houses participating, plus retainers, escorts—ten to twenty per house. Add scholars, noble mages, kingdom spies from empire or republic... easily over 150. They wouldn't all rush in at once, but stagger their arrivals.
“So the second young master needs to guard that entrance for at least two hours. Holding the minor spirits the whole time.”
“Hm. Tough, huh?”
“Near impossible. Two hours of that focus, draining mana. How long can he last without even a circle? And even if he does, how's he compete exhausted? Giving up?”
“What if Yonas uses a mana crystal?”
“Minor spirits are like dandelion seeds or feathers. Sensitive to changes. Not his unique mana, and he'll lose his natural affinity.”
“Tricky.”
“Can't we inspect belongings?”
Violet rubbed her lower lip with her index finger—her thinking habit.
“You know nobles. Father would seem to doubt his vassals' loyalty. They'd rage about tarnished honor. Just breed distrust and resentment. And they won't hand over everything meekly.”
“...Hoo.”
Violet sighed.
“Still, it's not hopeless.”
Isaac recalled one possibility.