The Wastrel's Performance (2)
“How do you know about that?”
“Does this mean you're finally willing to talk with me?”
“Ahem.”
Reich scowled deeply as he sat back down.
“Did Helmut put you up to this?”
“Is that what you think?”
“No, that doesn't sound like him at all. So, who is behind you?”
“Why don't you hear my story first before asking questions?”
“No, tell me how you found out first.”
The long-distance communication tool referred to a mana-based communication magitech device. Scholars from the academy and the Blue Tower were collaborating on its development. If successful, it would allow rapid contact across the continent—a convenience that could prove militarily invaluable. This was information that absolutely could not leak to the Empire or the Republic. How on earth had Isaac learned of it?
If necessary...
The elderly dean was even considering the possibility of eliminating the boy. Even if it meant burning bridges with Helmut forever. This project was that critical to the kingdom.
“Your mana is getting wild.”
“Should I call this keen sensitivity, bold nerve, or just plain foolishness?”
Reich's expression turned fierce. Isaac once again felt the overwhelming pressure of that immense mana. It was the same sensation he'd experienced when he'd blocked the count from killing the marquis. Of course, with six multiple circulation paths active, it was bearable now—unlike back then, when even breathing had been a struggle under the count's fury.
“Don't worry. I haven't told a soul.”
“I asked who you heard it from.”
“I can't say.”
Isaac shrugged. Claiming he'd read it in a book from the future would only make things worse.
“What the hell do you think you're doing!?”
Reich's mana surged even more ferociously. Isaac's assessment that it was tolerable had been a miscalculation. A high-pitched whine echoed through his soul as his multiple circulation paths spun violently.
“Impressive endurance. Let's see how long you last.”
Veins bulged on Reich's forehead. The mana he exuded slowly tightened around Isaac's throat, slicing into his skin like a razor-sharp blade.
Whoa!
Suddenly, cheers erupted from the Great Hall. The formal tournament had ended, but the ceremonial exhibition matches were in full swing—flashy displays of synchronized spell duels for the spectators' entertainment.
“Making a scene won't do you any favors, Dean.”
Isaac wiped away cold sweat as he spoke. There was no killing intent in Reich's mana, which made it manageable, but it was still nothing to dismiss lightly.
“Is it your unique constitution? Does it not affect you?”
“Not quite. My whole body is tingling.”
Even as he said it, Isaac's expression remained unchanged.
“Hoo.”
Reich massaged the nape of his neck and withdrew his mana. Despite the pressure, Isaac hadn't flinched. Intimidation through force was an option, but it wasn't Reich's forte. He was a scholar, not a battle mage—he despised using magic to harm others.
“I don't care for conversations that run parallel without intersecting. If you're going to be stubborn, start by telling me what you can say.”
“I'll tell you who the spy is.”
“A spy?”
Reich raised an eyebrow.
“How else would I know about a top-secret project?”
“Everyone involved was handpicked personally. It couldn't be...”
“But I have a condition.”
“You're laying down conditions to me? Right now, you're in a position to beg for your life.”
“If you don't agree, the information will keep leaking. Before the kingdom can even put it to use, some mercenary band, knight order, noble house, or foreign nation will get their hands on it.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“If necessary.”
Isaac stared blankly at Reich's twisted scowl.
“What proof do you have that you're not in league with them?”
“None.”
“You think this is a game?”
“But there's one thing I can promise on my life: everything I do benefits the House of Goethe. I'd stake my neck on that.”
Isaac's blue eyes met Reich's without wavering, shadowed by deep thought but steady as stone.
“...I'll hear you out and judge.”
“War is coming soon. Ensure that communication gear can be deployed in it.”
Isaac said.
The tournament's closing ceremony doubled as the awards. The winner of the magic demonstration was, without question, Yonas.
“Yonas von Goethe, second son of the House of Goethe. You have achieved results worthy of your name in this tournament. This award honors your effort and talent, and encourages your future path.”
Applause and cheers filled the Great Hall. If anyone had left the deepest impression this tournament, it was Yonas. Swept up in the adulation, he didn't lose his excitement—instead, he fixed his gaze on one spot: his brother Isaac, standing below the dais.
Isaac smiled and nodded. Yonas beamed back in response.
The academic conference winner was Felix of the Mark family.
“Felix von Mark, eldest son of the House of Mark. Your 'Structural Reinterpretation of Fire Magic' went beyond theoretical hypothesis to offer a fresh perspective on fire magic. Your scholarly insight will serve as an example to many successors.”
Finally, the tournament champion was Beltran of the Bühitner family.
“Beltran of the Bühitner family. You demonstrated swift judgment and brilliant tactical insight in this magic chess tournament.”
The three winners each received trophies and cloaks befitting their achievements. Conquering the irregular Goethe tournament was enough to catch the eye of the magical world's elite. It was tantamount to starting their careers as mages from a position of advantage, with the Royal Academy and continental scholars sure to remember their names.
After the awards, the count descended the dais to shake hands with the winners, patting their shoulders lightly in encouragement.
The closing ceremony wrapped up with Marcel Reich's address.
“...The achievements of today's winners are not mere personal accomplishments. They are the hope and pride illuminating the kingdom's future. I believe everyone here will long cherish the sight of snow falling in this Great Hall. We shall not forget the burning passion of scholars or the heat of duels sparking with flames. It has been an honor to share these moments with you all.”
Amid gentle applause, Schrader announced the final luncheon. Those preparing to leave began heading out of the tournament grounds.
“But before that, one meal remains to bring this to a close.”
Schrader infused his voice with mana.
“There's still more?”
People who had been packing up halted at the mention of another meal.
“I ask the esteemed guests gathered here to bear witness.”
“Isaac von Goethe. Approach the dais.”
The count called out in a resonant voice laced with mana.
Servant Paul handed the count a greatsword bound in red cloth. Engraved on its pommel was a shield crest—its name was Valerich.
Shing—
The wavy-patterned blade gleamed as it was unsheathed.
Clang!
The tip struck the floor with a heavy scrape. The hilt reached nearly to the count's shoulder.
“Isaac von Goethe! Eldest son of the House of Goethe, approach the dais!”
Head steward Schrader bellowed.
A brief silence fell, followed by murmurs. Voices of those startled by Isaac's name.
To them, Isaac was still a bomb with his unique constitution unmastered, prone to mana rampage. They feared getting caught in an explosion. Some questioned if the count was sane, others wondered what would happen, and a few slipped out early for safety.
But most of the crowd stayed. They were mages, capable of defensive spells against mana blasts. Above all, they were curious why the count would summon his firstborn at the closing ceremony. Mages couldn't resist curiosity, after all.
Thud, thud—
Suddenly, clear footsteps rang out. The murmurs ceased as all eyes turned toward the sound.
No one took the boy for Isaac. He seemed too mature for twelve—more like thirteen, with eyes sharp and indifferent from harsh experience. His ashen hair and blue eyes gave off a chilling aura.
People quickly looked away, assuming he couldn't be Isaac. Probably just had business near the dais.
But the boy's steps didn't stop at the front row. He ascended the dais itself, halting only a single step from the count.
Even then, the crowd thought it a mistake.
“What's this? A stand-in for the first prince?”
“That's Goethe's heir?”
“I heard he was twelve.”
“He sent a proxy for the magic demo, and now this?”
The whispers didn't last. The count spoke.
“Isaac von Goethe. Kneel.”
Isaac knelt.
“The north's security isn't forged by one person's effort. It must be guarded together, with stronger roots. But strength isn't built alone. One tree sways, but two endure. Today, I plant a new tree here.”
The count's voice spread through the hall.
“You, the eldest of Goethe, shall from this day be the independent lord of Binvelt.”
Murmurs swelled.
Ignoring them, the count raised Valerich.
“By the authority granted me by His Majesty, on the honor of House Goethe, I appoint Isaac von Goethe as Baron of Binvelt. You shall govern its lands and ensure the welfare of those upon it. Once of Goethe, you now depart it as that land's new master.”
The count spoke gravely. Valerich's flat touched Isaac's shoulders in turn. He felt its cold weight throughout his body.
“As lord of Binvelt, do you swear to uphold honor, defend the land, lead it to prosperity, and serve His Majesty?”
“I swear.”
Isaac met the count's eyes.
“Isaac von Vinfelt Goethe. Rise as lord of the domain, Baron of Binvelt.”
Isaac slowly rose.
“Not even a vassal—independent lord of Binvelt. The heir's done for.”
“Second son will be the successor now.”
Whatever the count's intent, the message to the crowd was clear: the eldest got discarded land. Among the north's barren wastes, Binvelt was one of the harshest—frozen tundra yielding nothing, haunted by hellwolves from the Black Forest. Granting such land as an independent lord was a roundabout way of saying nothing else for the firstborn.
But to Isaac and the count, it meant something else entirely. No more coddling the boy as a child in their bosom. He would be seen as a proper lord, held to accountability, required to prove himself at every turn. And as family head and father, the count would respect Isaac's will.
“...Don't die.”
The count gripped Isaac's shoulder.
“Don't get hurt either. That's an order from your sovereign, Baron of Binvelt.”
“That might be tough right now.”
The count's command moved him, but Isaac knew he couldn't obey it fully.
Right on cue.
His sharp hearing picked up approaching footsteps.
“What?”
As the count frowned in confusion—
Bam—
The massive oak doors burst open. Flushed from the cold, impeccable uniform adorned with heavy chain and a black cloak embroidered in gold with a swan crest: Gutrurt, chamberlain of Boatmer.
He strode firmly toward the center. Guards blocked him, but he produced a scroll from his robes.
“I am Gutrurt, envoy of Viscount Boatmer!”
The count nodded, and the guards withdrew.
Gutrurt advanced unhindered to the dais. Every eye in the Great Hall fixed on him.
“Speak. What message does Boatmer send here?”
The count's voice was low and heavy. He already sensed the hostility in Gutrurt's demeanor. As expected, this winter would be brutal.
“Lord of Goethe, Helmut von Goethe. Our master, Klaus von Boatmer, sends a formal declaration of war.”
The air in the hall froze instantly.