A Chilly Wind Yearning for Song Swept Through the City's Alleys
A cold wind craving song whipped through the alleys of the city. Bernsi's southern slums.
"Not long ago, this place was crawling with slave traders dragging kids around and dealers buying and selling drugs. Pedestrians wandering unguarded got beaten or stabbed, stripped of everything they had."
Benders strolled down the filthy alleyway with his hands clasped behind his back. Isaac walked alongside, listening to his explanation.
It had been less than a month since the purge of the great families and the extermination of their remnants. Not much had changed, but it wasn't as if nothing had.
Guards patrolled every major intersection now, and among them were faces Isaac vaguely recognized.
"Baisman?"
"Aye. The one we passed earlier was one of 'em. We've bolstered the guard with them. They know the lay of the land inside out, yet they still chase the republic's ideals. Makes 'em hard to corrupt. Perfect for keeping the peace."
Benders chatted about various city affairs.
"After the 113 Massacre and the urban reforms—more precisely, after you—there's been no backlash."
"The 113 Massacre?"
"That suspicious incident with you, young master, and Vivi... er, I mean. One hundred thirteen bodies dumped on the streets overnight. All remnants of the great families and gangs, excluding the Baisman."
"So they call it the 113 Massacre."
"Lots of names for it. Ghost attack, the Devil's Night, that sort of thing. Every corpse had a fatal piercing or slash wound, but no projectiles or blades anywhere. Damn eerie. Devil's work wouldn't be a bad guess."
Benders shot Isaac a sidelong glance. Cleaning up after that mess had left him sleepless and starved for half a month, hounded by petitions from bereaved families and interrogations from the city league.
"Scared a lot of folks, huh?"
"Had to. Couldn't make sense of it by any normal logic. Unless I'd hired some top-tier wicked mage, anyway."
Isaac couldn't shake the feeling that he and the title "devil" were drawing closer. First the Frost Devil in Binvelt, now this—devil followed him like thread through a needle's eye. Of course, he'd sown the seeds himself.
"You not scared?"
"If fear does my work for me, I'll fear plenty."
"Picked a good man."
Isaac's lips curved up.
"So, were the devil's results wicked too?"
"Nah. After that, no one's brazenly trading banned goods, collecting stall fees or protection money, or exploiting folks. Least not where I can see. Merchants hurt by the great families' monopolies? Gone. No more great families."
Isaac and Benders left the slums and entered the commercial district. A cobbler hammered leather in his workshop; a blacksmith's forge belched flames over the fence, smoke billowing up. Carpenters sawed and planed extra shutters for winter; stonemasons dressed stone; weavers hung dyed cloth to dry. Market peddlers hawked wares, drawing crowds, taking orders, haggling. But foot traffic was sparse.
"With the black market scum gone, proper craftsmen are starting to show up one by one. Decent techs wouldn't touch this place before. No business in it. But now? Different story."
"Seems to be running smooth enough."
Isaac voiced his impression.
"On the surface, yeah."
"Reality's different?"
"Bernsi's a lame duck right now."
Benders rubbed his weary eyes.
"Great families gone, gangs uprooted—good changes, sure. But the holes they left are huge. This city's run on the black market for ages. Without it, no reason for distant nobles or merchants to come. They wanted what Goethe territory bans."
The old dwarf sighed.
"Smuggling, slave trade, contraband—that's what propped this place up. Now those pillars are dust. No people means no business, money flow's choked. We can hold for now, but drag on like this and the rot sets in again."
Benders led them through the commercial district, turning south again.
"Need capital. Need people. Need real merchants. Or the city slides back—worse than before."
A bit further on, Benders halted. A dead-end reeking of rot. Before the sewer gate.
"Black market started right here. Great families' arrogance—building a sewer system rivaling the imperial capital. Ran out of cash, work stopped, parasites infested the abandoned channels. That's when the pollution began."
"What're you getting at?"
"I've lived here since you were in diapers, young master—no, longer. I won't squander this chance. Plan to rebuild the sewers, turn Bernsi into a proper city. This is home. But if it's just a noble's whim, it'll crumble like sand soon enough. My blood, sweat, and tears included."
The massive iron gate was rusted red. Cracks spiderwebbed the stone structure; the watercourse had become a stinking black bog. Debris floated; fathomless dark water oozed.
"So I ask: How far do you see for this city, young master? Or is it just a chip tossed on some wave I can't see?"
Benders knew the real power lay with the count ruling Goethe territory, not Isaac. But he asked Isaac. Isaac had brought the change. Amid the kingdom's unrest, only Isaac cared about Bernsi, not the count. His gut told him so. That's why he asked Isaac: How far did he see? Was there a future worth his effort?
"Didn't know you thought that deep."
Isaac chuckled at Benders' resolute stance.
"I'm serious—"
Benders bristled at Isaac's levity, but Isaac cut him off.
"Mayor Benders. Keep doing what you're doing. This city won't run aground. I'll make sure of it."
Those words carried no lightness.
The Randolf inn buzzed with revelry. Heavy wooden tables groaned under fresh-baked bread, salt-cured meat, brined cheese, and spice-heavy soup. Ale barrels leaked from open taps; rough hands snatched at food everywhere.
In the center sat Violet and Pallichi, surrounded by Baisman. Drunk and flushed, they bellowed.
"Hell yeah! Never thought I'd see a day like this before I croak!"
"To our comrade, Representative Plour!"
"To the republic!"
"To freedom! May we never grovel at a monarch's feet again!"
"To free citizens! Never forget the night we broke our chains!"
"To our fallen comrades!"
Glasses clashed; ale spilled on the floor. Frau Randolf shook her head but bustled out more food and drink.
"We're starting over here. Look at this!"
A burly man waved his citizenship certificate. Feet on his chair, he jerked his chin.
"This ain't just paper. Proof we're not fugitives, not getting run off this land! No more beggar life. No more bleeding for fake-noble merchants' asses. Buy land, sell it, form caravans or guilds. We got choices now!"
The Baisman fell silent. Memories of endured hardships in Bernsi surfaced. Then, possibilities ahead.
"Why the long faces? Raise your glasses!"
Pallichi stood abruptly, downing his ale in one go.
"Wooo, Pallichi!"
"Pallichi! Pallichi! Pallichi!"
Ale overflowed again. Mugs splintered, chairs and tables toppled—no one cared. They laughed, wept, drunk on new hope.
Violet slipped away quietly. She approached Frau Randolf, lost in worry, and offered a pouch of silver.
"Bear with us, ma'am. We'll make it worth your while."
"No need for this much. I'm hosting on the young master's request."
Frau Randolf sighed.
"Still, it's a day worth marking for us. Please take it."
Violet pressed the pouch into her hands despite protests, then climbed to the second floor. She knocked on the innermost door.
"Young master."
"Come in."
Isaac stood by the window, quietly sipping ale. Fine snow swirled under faint moonlight peeking through clouds.
The door shut, muffling the noisy first-floor hall. Baisman shouts still carried, but the room felt worlds apart. Probably Isaac's presence at the window.
His slow ritual of filling and emptying the glass made him look too old for twelve. Or maybe Violet was tipsy, seeing an old man in his silhouette.
"Think I finally get what booze tastes like."
Isaac muttered.
"No idea how to thank you."
"You got what you earned. Want some?"
"Got something better than booze."
Violet pulled a rolled paper cigarette and lit it between her lips.
Fwoosh!
Flame from her fingertip scorched the tip.
"That tobacco—has powder in it, right?"
"Trace amounts."
Powder was a drug made from low-grade magic stones. The fake abbess mage at the House of Mercy had been hooked on it. Once easy to get in the black market sewers—now gone.
"Gimme one."
"Don't recommend it."
"I'm good."
Violet hesitated, then handed one over.
"Cough, cough."
Isaac inhaled, then hacked. Booze and smokes weren't his thing. He just needed them now.
From the hall below, Baisman laughter erupted into song.
"The day of glory has dawned—stain the tyrant's banner with blood!"
All the Baisman sang together.
"They all know it?"
Isaac coughed lightly, passing the cigarette back.
"Patriotic anthem."
"Patriotic anthem?"
"Emphasizes the nation is the people, not the king. Written by some captain during the revolution—now the republic's signature song."
"The people?"
"If the masses are the ruled, citizens are the nation's members."
"Interesting concept."
"Not so fun when you think of the blood spilled."
Violet exhaled smoke. Her eyes lost focus, staring into some past, not the present.
"So, what's next?"
"Help the old man make Bernsi livable first. Form a guild in the Baisman name, build wealth."
"And?"
"When the time comes, go back. Pour everything into reclaiming what's mine."
"Good luck with that."
"And you, young master?"
"Hm?"
"What'll you do?"
"...Me? Dunno."
Isaac paused mid-sip. No easy answer came.
Violet hadn't really expected one—just courtesy.
The old boy drank; the woman smoked.
After a long silence, Isaac spoke.
"I have dreams sometimes."
He rolled the glass between his fingers.
"Always a snowy evening. In a sturdy brick house, the people I care about prepare dinner. Outside's brutal winter, but inside's just right—not cold, not hot. Comfy as death. Eternal rest."
"..."
"Everyone's so damn cheerful. Only one's frowning is me. Every time, I try to ruin dinner. Sprinkle ash on the food, flip the table, smash every door and window. Chase my loved ones out into the freezing cold. But I always fail. Always."
Isaac refilled his mug from the jug.
"Nightmare, huh."
"After, I'm always confused. Right to drive them from that warm house to the icy outside? Delay their rest, make 'em taste cold and harsh seasons? Can I change the flow of seasons?"
"..."
"My job's making sure I don't dream this shit or wrestle these thoughts anymore. Like your Baisman down there tonight—I want joyous songs echoing in Goethe forever, unending."
"..."
Violet had no reply. She recognized it: mage's melancholy. From overusing mana, thoughts expanding beyond grasp, realizing your existence is meaningless in the infinite world.
But she didn't speak not from caution. She was overwhelmed by the mana Isaac unwittingly exuded in his gloom.
Thick, utterly void mana. Not a twelve-year-old's, not even a magic house heir's. Alien, endlessly deep, profoundly empty.
The spirit contracted to Violet whispered: That boy doesn't belong to this world, it warned.