Chapter 1

An Unusual Constitution

What kind of noble bows their head to their own servant?
What kind of noble personally steps in to help with a maid’s chores?
Isaac von Goethe was such a person.

The Goethe family were margraves stationed in the northeastern frontier of the kingdom—
a place where the harsh land and brutal weather could strip away even the last remnants of humanity.
And yet, even in the winter estate, Isaac never lost his sunlight-like smile.

“Wet nurse, I’ll do the laundry myself. Your hands are all chapped.”
“Oh my, no, young master. This is the work I’m paid to do.”
“And this—some kind of plant oil. They say if you apply it, your hands won’t crack as much.”
“Young master…”

The wet nurse looked at the noble boy—barely eight years old—with misty eyes.
Could there really be such an angelic child in this world?

Ash-gray hair like Lady Goethe, piercing blue eyes like Count Goethe.
Pale skin, cool and refined eyes, a straight nose, lively lips.
A beautiful child, just as beautiful in heart as in appearance.

“Huff… huff… I’m sorry for being late, young master. M-my child was very sick with a cold last night, so I… overslept…”

Beside them, a servant with a pale face trembled, bracing himself for the punishment that would soon come.

In the estates he had worked at before, he was whipped once for every minute he was late.
He had once been struck ten times and thrown out, left bedridden for a month with a burning fever.
Would it happen again?

At the very least, he wanted to avoid being dismissed.
Without money, his family would either starve or freeze to death in the coming winter.

“Your name is Hans, right?”
“Y-yes, yes.”
“And your son’s name is Peter.”
“H-how do you know that?”
“I asked the wet nurse. Is Peter okay? The cold here is different from other places. If you’re not careful, it can be dangerous. Schiller! Waller!”

Without giving any punishment, Isaac ran out of the room and called for the head steward.

Hans flinched.
It was too early to feel relieved.
The young master might ask the steward for severe punishment.
And if that happened, the steward—no different from a devil to the servants—would deliver a merciless penalty.

“Hans. I’ve heard everything from the young master.”

Soon, the steward came to find him.

Hans, who had been carrying luggage, trembled as if struck by the biting wind of midwinter.

“S-steward, please! At least let me work until winter passes! If I’m thrown out, my family will die…”
“Are you still not awake? Pull yourself together!”
“Eek! I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”

Hans bowed repeatedly.

“I said, get a hold of yourself! No one here is going to throw you out.”
“Y-you’re… not?”

When he finally lifted his head, the seasoned steward stood before him with a stern expression.
But what he held out was a leather pouch.

“Boil this and drink it. You have a pot at home, don’t you?”
“Y-yes… but what is this?”
“Medicine. The young master told me to give it to you.”
“Ah… ah… thank you! Thank you so much!”
“Give your thanks to young master Isaac. If it were up to me, you’d have been thrown out today without question.”

The steward, Schiller, looked slightly displeased.
To him, Isaac’s actions were far too soft, far too lenient.

Regardless of what Schiller thought, Isaac was loved and respected by everyone in the estate.
And he was only eight years old.

“Congratulations, young master!”
“Please don’t forget us!”

And in the year he turned ten—
Isaac, already hailed as a prodigy, received a recommendation letter for admission to the Royal Academy.

He could effortlessly read and understand advanced magical texts that even academy students struggled with,
and he solved the most difficult competition problems on his own.

The winter estate erupted in celebration.

Count and Lady Goethe, his younger brother Jonas, and every servant—
all rejoiced from the bottom of their hearts.

They hoped that Isaac, blessed not only with character but also with intellect,
would grow into a truly great person.

But Isaac could not live up to those expectations.

In the end, he never entered the academy.

A month before admission, he was struck by a sudden, severe illness.

He suffered constant high fevers, retched endlessly, and sometimes even coughed up blood.
The enrollment date was postponed again and again, yet the illness showed no sign of improving.

After three months had passed,
Count Goethe dismissed all the doctors who insisted it was merely influenza and summoned an old scholar from the Mage Tower.

“It’s an unusual constitution,” the old scholar said.

“An unusual constitution?”
“As you know, Count, every living being is born with a vessel for mana. Mana circulates within it at a rate suited to its size—like water flowing, evaporating, becoming rain, and flowing again. It is the natural cycle of nature. But the young master’s mana circulation is… abnormal. Incomprehensibly fast and violent.”
“Explain it more simply.”

The count pressed him.

“In the southern continent, during the rainy season, excessive rain causes floods. Rivers swell beyond measure, their currents becoming violently fast. Nearby villages are submerged and destroyed. The young master’s mana circulation is the same. The difference is that the southern continent only suffers this during the rainy season… but the young master suffers it constantly. At this rate, the vessel will eventually shatter.”
“Then that means…”
“You must prepare yourselves. Once the vessel breaks, he will not last long. He will either become incapacitated… or waste away…”

The scholar swallowed the rest of his words.
He had no desire to provoke the count’s wrath.

***

Twenty years passed.

The beautiful child, once loved and respected, was no more.

Deep within the family’s secret underground vault—
a room filled with cold and dampness—
every wall lined with a rare mineral called Demetritium,
a substance highly resistant to magic.

Isaac slowly opened his eyes.

He did not know how much time had passed while he meditated.
Before him were walls covered in mold and moss.

As he stared quietly at them,
the stains seemed to take shape—like his father’s face, his mother’s face, Jonas’s face.

Faces he could no longer easily see—
faces he should not see.

Faces that remained only in memory.

Over the years, many people had died or been injured because of Isaac.
All of them were people he cherished.

“I should have been colder to them…”

The emaciated young man muttered like a ghost.

The old scholar who had diagnosed him had only been half right.

The vessel had shattered.
The mana within Isaac burst forth like a broken dam.
In an instant, the mana inside him expanded and collided with the mana outside.
Then came the explosion.

Everything in the room was destroyed, and the wet nurse who had been tidying his clothes was injured.

But Isaac did not become an invalid, nor did he slowly waste away and die.
His vessel restored itself as if nothing had happened.

At first, everyone thought it was a miracle.
They believed the gods were showing mercy to Isaac, who had always lived kindly.

But it was a disaster.

The vessel shattered again—
and again—
each time followed by an explosion.

Many who loved Isaac died.

— “No, young master. I still like you. It’s just… just that you’re going through a hard time right now. Once it passes, it’ll be nothing. That’s what life is like, isn’t it?”

Those were Hans’s final words.

Even as the explosions grew more frequent and the wounds on his body kept increasing,
Hans insisted that if not him, who would take care of Isaac?

The result—
he died before the very family he had to support.

With an explosion, Hans’s body was flung against the wall.
His neck snapped. He died instantly.

And so, the people around Isaac slowly disappeared.

For a time, Isaac stopped eating and drinking and behaved like a madman.
In the morning, he threw water cups.
At noon, he hurled plates.
At night, he overturned wooden bathtubs.

Sometimes, he even struck servants and attendants.

Except for a few who still believed in him,
most said he had finally gone insane.

They expected that after the next explosion,
he would never rise again—
that he would become a complete wreck or a ruined invalid.

It was only natural.

An incurable condition.
Because of it, the people he cherished kept dying.

Isaac was only thirteen.

Even grown adults would struggle to endure such things.
There was no way a young boy could keep his sanity.

And yet—after a period of despair, Isaac gathered himself again.

— “Wet nurse, I’m sorry. I’ve behaved disgracefully.”
— “Disgraceful? No, it’s alright. It couldn’t be helped. Truly… it couldn’t be helped.”

The wet nurse wept with emotion.

She had already lost her own child to pneumonia,
and poured all that love into caring for Isaac.

Seeing him acknowledge his mistakes and try to rise above his pain,
she felt both proud and heartbroken.

For a while, peace returned.

Isaac personally apologized to the servants and attendants,
thanking them for enduring him.

He bowed his head to each of them, regardless of status.

Not everyone accepted his sincerity,
but some whose hearts had turned cold began to soften again.

Winter approached,
yet warmth returned to many hearts.

Up to that point, it was still bearable.

Isaac, struggling in the swamp, had managed to regain his footing.
There were still those who threw him a rope—
those who loved him.

“I should have cut off my attachments…”

Once again,
the young man murmured like a ghost.

Back then, opinions about Isaac were divided into two.

One side called him an uncontrollable monster.
The other saw him as a kind and loving young master,
enduring a difficult battle with unwavering resolve.

Those who tried to save him belonged to the latter.

They tied ropes around themselves
to pull Isaac out of the swamp of suffering.

They were willing to stake their lives to save his.

And the result—
was death.

A year after Hans died,
the wet nurse was caught in an explosion and killed.

The following year, two maids died as well.

Isaac cried until his tears ran dry.
He screamed until his voice gave out.

And still—
he did not stop.

Even as waves of grief surged up from deep within his chest,
he continued relentlessly.

Meditation. Running. Swordsmanship.
Studying magic and alchemy.
Searching for magical tools and stabilizing potions.
Training to control mana.
Spells to slow mana circulation.
Exchanges with magicians.
Methods to predict explosions.

Whenever he closed his eyes,
he saw those who had died or been injured because of him.

So Isaac never rested.

He would go without sleep for days,
then collapse and sleep for one or two days straight—
a cycle that repeated endlessly.

He was fifteen.

He knew he was fighting a battle he could not win.

And yet,
he neither faltered nor gave up.

Those who had died because of him.
His mother, wandering the continent for years in search of a cure.
His father, enduring every loss caused by his son.
His younger brother Jonas, unchanged no matter how Isaac became.

To him,
giving up or despairing felt like a luxury.

He wavered constantly—
but he did not collapse.

He fell—
but rose again.

He believed he could continue like that forever.

“Ah…”

The young man wiped his face.

The image of his younger brother—once so pure—twisting in pain
never left his mind.

Even after decades, it remained vivid.

His brother…
Jonas…

All he had wanted
was to play the lute for his sleepless older brother.
To play their mother’s song like a lullaby.

But misfortune did not choose its moment.

Everyone praised his brother’s performance.
Even court musicians applauded him as a prodigy.

That brother’s right hand—
was torn apart by an explosion Isaac caused.

It was a memory that remained painfully clear.

The dust settling in the air.
Collapsed servants.
Raindrops falling like blood through shattered windows.
The metallic taste of blood in his mouth.

His brother’s eyes, staring at him in disbelief.
The blood pouring endlessly from his wrist.
The delayed scream.

And that overwhelming sensation—
as if everything was collapsing,
as if he himself was falling endlessly into an abyss.

Never before had being alive felt so cursed.

That day, Isaac said to his father:

“Please… lock me away somewhere no one can come, and no one can be harmed.”

The face of the fifteen-year-old boy
already resembled that of an old man.