Wastrel's Performance (3)
“Isaac von Goethe, the eldest son of the Goethe family, has dared to unilaterally execute a servant of the Boatmer Viscount's house and send his head to the family.”
“……!?”
The crowd in the hall buzzed at Head Steward Gutrurt's response.
“Is this true?”
The count glared at Isaac.
Isaac's name had popped up from a completely unexpected direction.
“It is.”
Isaac replied with utter nonchalance.
The murmurs in the hall grew louder.
Not only was it shocking that the tall, handsome boy standing on the dais was Isaac, but what he'd done was even more astonishing.
It went far beyond mere wastrel antics.
Yet the immature boy seemed oblivious to the gravity of his offense.
“Viscount Boatmer deems this an insult to the entire family and has officially declared full-scale war on the Goethe Count's house. This is His Excellency Klaus von Boatmer's final ultimatum.”
Gutrurt handed the sealed scroll to a guard.
“His Excellency makes it clear there will be no further negotiations or talks…… What are you doing!?”
The guard tried to deliver the scroll to the count, but Isaac snatched it away.
“This is addressed to me.”
“What……”
“Boatmer's servant Emil said it. That I'm a cripple raised without a mother, right?”
“Lies! Emil would never……”
“Why not? Tongues loosen when the wine flows. He just spat out what he really thought.”
“Emil's head arrived in my hands before the banquet even began.”
Gutrurt's face twisted savagely.
“Who knows? Maybe he planned to do something unbearable without a drink during the tournament.”
“……!?”
For a split second, Gutrurt felt his breath catch at the glint in Isaac's eyes.
“Typical. Boringly so.”
Isaac glanced indifferently at Gutrurt and unfurled the sealed scroll.
The guards looked back and forth between Isaac and the count in bewilderment.
Deep wrinkles etched the count's face, but he didn't stop Isaac.
“W-Whatever, fine. What's done is done. Goethe must prepare for war……”
As Gutrurt opened his mouth again, a fist flew at him, and darkness swallowed his vision.
“Guhk—!”
Thud, thud—
Gutrurt couldn't immediately grasp what had happened.
Something hard rolled in his mouth.
He realized belatedly it was a broken tooth.
“Wh-What the hell……”
Before Gutrurt could protest, Isaac's fist smashed into the steward's face again.
Isaac's strength, inherited from the Wolf King, surpassed that of an ordinary man.
“Kuhk—”
Gutrurt clutched his nose and toppled over.
A massive bell seemed to toll in his head.
His vision stained red.
But there was no time to wallow in pain.
Isaac kicked Gutrurt's fallen side relentlessly.
Boatmer's head steward rolled ignobly across the hall floor twice before slamming his head into the ground.
“Before starting a war, you pay for interrupting my enfeoffment ceremony.”
Isaac grinned ferociously.
“Y-You, mad wastrel—!!!”
Gutrurt tried to curse, but even that was denied.
Isaac stomped on the steward's head repeatedly with his booted foot.
“Beg a little.”
Not satisfied, Isaac drew a sword from a guard's belt.
The guards were thrown off by the sudden chaos.
“Stop him!”
The count bellowed.
Isaac raised the sword high.
The guards, snapping to their senses, rushed at him.
“Let go! I can't let the bastard who sullied my honor live like this!”
Isaac thrashed as the guards seized his arms.
“Ha, what a deranged spectacle……”
Laughter rippled through the crowd.
Some clicked their tongues; others muttered curses.
Many were vassals.
Isaac was dragging them into war with Boatmer.
The wealthiest house in the north, deeply tied to the imperial faction—a formidable foe.
If not for the count, some might have attacked Isaac on the spot.
A beating was medicine for a wastrel.
They couldn't kill him, but half-killing him? They'd do it gladly.
Helmut, what the hell is in your son's head?
Reihi wasn't much different.
From the long-range communication device Isaac had mentioned just days ago during his visit, things had felt off.
And now he'd blown it all up.
In a way Reihi never could have predicted.
“If you're Goethe, you cut down enemies! You dare block me!? I'll kill you all!”
Isaac snarled.
His voice hadn't fully deepened, but it dripped with chilling murderous intent.
“Haa.”
The count rubbed his temple and waved a hand.
Drag him out.
“Tell the viscount! Isaac von Goethe von Binvelt will face him! Tell that syphilitic old bat, who fluttered like a bat between the Republic and Empire, he'll taste bitterness!”
Isaac screamed, veins bulging in his neck, as the guards dragged him away.
The luncheon was canceled.
Both Isaac and the count stared out the study window.
The non-vassals hurried from the manor.
The count sat at his desk, puffing his pipe steadily.
Isaac scratched his cheek and brow, enduring the awkward silence.
“Are you angry?”
Unable to bear it, Isaac spoke first.
The count said nothing.
No sign of rage.
His face was utterly impassive, unreadable.
More time passed.
“My lord, the lords await.”
Schrader called from outside the study door.
The vassals waited in the manor’s meeting room.
Already irked by the black market closure, now this wastrel was dragging them into war.
They wanted the count's explanation and a fitting response.
If he offered none, vassal revolt was the worst-case scenario.
“I know.”
The count replied, then clamped the pipe back in his mouth.
The ashtray overflowed with ash from the tobacco he'd packed and lit repeatedly.
“There was a reason for acting that way.”
Isaac spoke again.
He'd planned to answer if questioned, but the situation demanded it.
“If not……”
“Boatmer would have waged war on Goethe to spark civil war.”
“You knew.”
“……”
The count fell silent again.
He grasped the broad picture of why Isaac had acted.
His informants across the northern territories reported Boatmer's suspicious moves.
Intensified military drills, frequent meetings with collateral branch heads.
Mercenary summons, stockpiling supplies under winter prep pretext.
War preparations, plain as day.
A little thought made it obvious: Boatmer's sharpened blade aimed at Goethe.
Northern lords largely ignored royal politics.
Royalists or parliamentarians, the capital was a distant tale.
In this royal influence-free land, only Goethe was deeply tied to the crown.
Downgraded and exiled for treason a century ago, yet Goethe remained royalist.
Unlike collateral branches on the pro-empire path, Goethe upheld loyalty to the crown across generations.
The royals eyed Goethe warily but deemed them indispensable.
Hence, bans on commerce and armament expansion in exchange for shield tax payments.
“Boatmer and the collaterals have likely finalized their talks. Per Boatmer's scheme, Goethe faces thousands mustered by the branches. The royals can't stand by—the north's sole royalist house vanishing.”
Isaac said quietly.
Bernsi's black market closure had sparked vassal backlash.
If they turned, Goethe faced Boatmer, collaterals, and even winter beasts from the White Snake Mountains alone.
With the king's illness worsening, the crown cherished every royalist house.
Especially Goethe, whose elector rights lingered nominally despite ancestral exile.
They'd support Goethe with other royalists' aid.
That meant civil war's start.
Not Goethe vs. Boatmer, but royalists vs. parliamentarians.
A vassal state's strife was perfect imperial intervention pretext.
Especially with heir investiture nearing.
The empire could crown a puppet.
“……So that's why you wanted the title? Independent land, not vassalage?”
“Yes.”
Isaac nodded.
“Killing Boatmer's servant was planned.”
“Of course.”
Isaac glossed over it.
No mention of the Spirit King's rampage in the Great Hall.
It'd only deepen the count's worries.
“Beating the steward too?”
“Yes.”
Isaac had deliberately provoked Boatmer.
To frame it as Baron von Binvelt vs. Viscount Boatmer, not Count Goethe vs. Viscount.
“Hoo.”
Tobacco smoke drifted from the count's mouth.
Should he laugh or rage? Unclear.
Isaac was wise.
But reckless.
Noble wars hinged on pretexts.
No matter the sunken interests and desires, skip pretext, gain nothing.
Isaac tossed Boatmer an intolerable one.
A fresh-titled wastrel brat defiled Boatmer's name before Great Hall nobles.
And gobbled their declaration of war on Goethe.
If Isaac, who executed Boatmer's servant unilaterally, was family, Goethe should receive the declaration.
But Isaac was a separated outsider.
Boatmer lacked pretext against Goethe.
Whatever they contrived, Isaac would twist it into reason to fight as Baron von Binvelt.
Civil war spark downgraded to private grudge.
“Your judgment was sound. But you're no match for Viscount Boatmer.”
The count chewed his pipestem, face conflicted.
Binvelt's forces numbered barely fifty.
Impossible against Boatmer.
“Can't know till I try.”
Isaac just smiled lightly.
Clink—
“Not this one.”
Clink—
“Not this either.”
The Lion King's descendant, red hair striking, shoved glass orbs off the desk with his scepter, shattering them one by one.
The scepter, shaped like a staff, bore a golden lion head.
Marquis Dietrich watched the Second Prince's antics with familiar indifference.
Shattered orbs spilled preserved boys' heads onto the floor.
The prince swept back his red hair and irritably stomped the corpses.
Embalmed, guts hollowed, soaked soft—they crumbled easily.
“That woman's skill seems off lately, Marquis?”
“I'll tell her to refine it further.”
“She'd better.”
What refining killing boys and bottling heads entailed, neither knew, but the prince moved on satisfied.
That was him.
Past thirty yet "prince" while the king lived; his cruelty and madness earned "little tyrant."
“So, a retainer said you had words for me.”
The prince spun his scepter and stood before the marquis.
Up close, the prince's face was made up like a lady's or noblewoman's.
Powder whitened already pale skin; rouge painted cheeks and lips.
Less regal prince, more castrato singer preserving high notes from boyhood.
Yet none in the palace dared say it.
Save the king and First Prince.
The marquis dipped his head slightly and spoke.
“It's about Goethe.”