Chapter 110

The Place Where Demons Live (1)

“What will you do?”
“Nothing will change.”

Count Goethe answered Baron Berkheim’s question.

“What do you mean nothing will change?”
“We fulfill our duty. That’s all.”
“Ah. So whether your vassals betray you or Goethe gets crushed, you’ll just keep slaughtering the beasts regardless.”

Leaning against the castle wall, gray smoke drifted from Berkheim’s mouth.
He removed the pipe and stared toward the White Serpent Mountain Range.
It was hard to see clearly in the darkness.

“You never change. Even a rock alters its shape after ten years.”

Berkheim frowned.

“Ripe, Mark, and Hauzen have long since thrown in with Botmer. Now even Baron Büchtner is dead, and his second son has become Botmer’s dog.
And you’re still saying you’ll focus only on the beasts?”

Count Goethe had five vassal families in total: Ripe, Mark, Hauzen, Büchtner, and Berkheim.
Of them, three had already turned their backs on Goethe, hoping for scraps from Botmer.
Baron Büchtner had also leaned toward Botmer, but he at least understood the weight of an oath.
He was not a man to easily discard the loyalty sworn by his predecessors.

Yet he died suddenly.
In truth, it was practically an assassination.
With the bishop of the Botmer diocese guaranteeing the succession, Büchtner’s second son inherited the title.
Four out of the five vassal families had now turned away from Goethe.

“Well, you’re still here, aren’t you?”
“Are you joking?”

Berkheim looked incredulous.
His family had lived in Winterband for generations.
Once mere butchers in the nearby villages, his ancestors caught the eye of a former Count Goethe and were granted a title.
While the other vassals were given lands south of Goethe’s domain and expanded their territories and forces over generations, Berkheim’s lineage remained the same—
the father butchered beasts, the son butchered beasts, and the grandson did the same.

The blood of butchers simply preferred cutting and cleaving.

The current Baron Berkheim was no different.
He had no separate army set aside.
Everything he had was in Winterband.

“Berk, what we must fight are not humans. Royal power struggles, noble conflicts—those are all wars of attrition between humans.
They will end someday. But the beasts are different. They never stop.”
“If you’re going to talk about some grand cause, spare me.”

Berkheim let out a sigh.

“It’s not a cause. It’s a principle.”
“Words like that only sound impressive when spoken by a lord with power.”
“I’ve heard something similar before.”

The count gave a faint smile.
Berkheim raised an eyebrow—such expressions were rare for him.

“They said, what justice or righteousness can a powerless lord establish?”
“That’s harsh. Who said it?”
“The hero of the victory report delivered today.”
“You mean Isaac?”

“Yes.”
“You’re saying that brat who couldn’t even take care of himself said something like that?”
“That’s right.”
“Since we’re on the subject—are you sure it’s the same person?”

Berkheim scratched between his brows and straightened up from the wall.

“Why, you don’t believe it?”
“Wasn’t he just a kid rotting away in his mansion a few months ago? And now he held off four hundred men with fifty? Who would believe that?”
“He’s a baron now. He’s grown before I even realized it. By the time I came to my senses, he was already beyond my reach. You were right—children grow quickly.”

The count’s smile remained.

“Then is that true as well? That he tamed beasts to overcome the numerical disadvantage? Even if the messenger was drunk on victory, isn’t that a bit much?”
“I don’t know. According to Waller, when Isaac came to the mansion, he brought along a massive wolf.”
“Honestly, I don’t know whether to believe it or not. When you sent Sigbrand’s unit, I thought—well, obviously they’d be crushed and come crawling back here in tears.”
“It seems certain that it happened. Believe it or not, that’s up to you. Dawn is breaking.”

The first light was still faint.

“Berk. I’ll leave the fortress to you for a while.”
“Where are you going?”
“I’m going to see my mother.”
“…What?”

Berkheim tilted his head.
Both of the count’s parents were dead.
Which meant the only one he could call “mother” was his wife’s mother.

“…No way.”

“That very ‘no way.’”

And the mother of Count Goethe’s wife was the female chieftain of the great Granak tribe.

+

Early dawn.
Isaac walked across the plains with Sigbrand and Carlson.

Sigbrand’s missing wrist was wrapped in bandages—
a wound severed by Chevalier.
The cut had been cauterized with fire to stop the bleeding, but fluid still seeped through the bandages.
With his remaining hand, he gripped a sack slung over his shoulder—like one used to carry flour from a mill.

Inside the sack were the remains of five people.
Since the bodies had been gathered in pieces and burned together, it was impossible to distinguish whose bones were whose.
Unlike other soldiers who preferred burial for religious reasons, they insisted on cremation.

“Your squad hasn’t changed.”

Of the three walking in silence, Carlson spoke first.
He carried a smaller cloth pouch compared to Sigbrand’s.
Inside were Chevalier’s remains.

Even Carlson didn’t know why he had bothered to collect them.
Perhaps it was a trace of sympathy for someone in a similar situation.
Or perhaps a determination not to become like Botmer.
He wasn’t sure himself.

…

Sigbrand only glanced at Carlson, saying nothing.

“You know them?” Isaac asked.

“The Wraith Squad—there’s no one in Winterband who doesn’t know them.
They’re made up of the ones who’ve survived the longest there. Some people call them ghosts… those who’ve become numb to death.”

Even as Carlson spoke about him from right beside him, Sigbrand walked silently.
Nothing showed on his face—
no displeasure, no pride.
He simply gazed blankly at the distant hills and plains.

Isaac recalled the way they fought a few days ago.
No—rather than fighting, it had been closer to being living shields.
At a glance, it seemed like a meaningless death—
just being cut to pieces while blocking the path of the mutated Chevalier.

But in truth, they had made the best possible choice under orders.

Isaac had been beside the bishop, and Chevalier had been charging straight toward him.
It all happened in an instant.
Carlson had followed a few steps behind, but he couldn’t outrun the aura of Chevalier rushing in right before them.

Sigbrand’s squad followed the order: protect Isaac’s life.
They didn’t think about their own survival.
Instead, in that moment, they chose how to restrain Chevalier’s movements even slightly within the limits of their ability.

How was that even possible?

To completely suppress the fear of death…
to override the instinct to survive…
and step forward without hesitation—

Even Isaac found it hard to understand.

But they moved as if it were only natural.
Thanks to them, Isaac gained time—
and was able to burn Chevalier with flame magic.

“This should be enough.”

A voice, rough as if scraping the throat, suddenly rang out.
Sigbrand stopped atop a hill among the rolling mounds.

“Good enough.”

It was a relatively high hill, offering a clear, open view.
The wind blew especially hard there.

Sigbrand slipped the heavy sack from his shoulder and overturned it.
Charred, discolored bone fragments spilled out in a cascade.
He picked them up by the handful, crushing them with the strength of his grip, then scattered them carelessly into the air.

Even as he scattered the remains of his own squadmates, there was no trace of emotion on his face.

Carlson watched him blankly for a moment before scattering Chevalier’s remains as well.
Burned by Isaac’s flames, Chevalier’s remains were closer to dark ash—
not even bone fragments remained.

The ashes were swept away by the fierce wind.

It took about the same amount of time for Sigbrand to scatter the remains of five men as it did for Carlson to scatter Chevalier’s.

Isaac simply watched the scene.
He had originally come to pay respects to Sigbrand’s squad, yet in that moment, no particular emotion arose.

The wind is cold.

That was all.

***

It was on a snowy day that the Holy See sent investigators.
A carriage draped in white cloth suddenly arrived before the Vinfelt camp.
From it descended a clerk, an inquisitor, and two paladins.

The clerk appeared to be of similar advanced age to Bishop Alquin, while the inquisitor looked to be around forty.

“You’ve come a long way.”
“Are you Baron Vinfelt?”

The clerk asked.
Despite his age, he stood upright.
His white hair was neatly combed back, and his narrow eyes were so thin that the pupils were barely visible.
It was difficult to read what lay beneath his expression.

“Yes. I am Baron Vinfelt, Isaac von Vinfelt Goethe.”
“Gaspard Montero. Clerk.”
“I am Raphael de Verrier. You’re young, just as I heard, Baron.”

Unlike the polite clerk, the inquisitor regarded Isaac with open disdain.
He was younger than the clerk, but his skin was rough, and one ear was torn.
His face bore the marks of decades spent on the battlefield.

“As a special inquisitor of the Holy See, I will investigate this incident. Any objections?”
“Bishop Alquin should have detailed everything in his letter.”
“It is the Church’s duty to uncover the full truth. Whether the bishop’s letter is fact or not is for the Church to decide. Where is the bishop?”
“You’ve come a long way—please, at least have some warm tea first.”
“I decline unnecessary hospitality.”

Raphael spoke in a stern voice.

“That’s unfortunate, but it can’t be helped. Bishop Alquin should be in prayer. Carlson.”
“Yes. This way, please.”

Carlson led them into the camp.
The clerk and inquisitor followed, with the two paladins trailing behind.

“Inquisitor Raphael.”

The clerk suddenly spoke in a low voice.
He turned his head slightly and glanced back at Isaac.

“Hm?”
“…Nothing. It must be the cold playing tricks on me.”
“That’s unusual.”

The inquisitor was a fundamentalist.
Until certain, it was better to speak little.

The clerk pulled his coat tighter.
The chill seeped into his clothes.
The divine power granted to him reacted, for just a moment, to Isaac’s mana.

His power was insignificant—
but precisely because of that, he could sense mana with greater delicacy.

It was only for an instant… but it felt as though I were facing Cardinal Vincenzio.

Gaspard, the clerk, knew well of the Goethe family.
A magical house burdened by the sins of its predecessors.
It was said that Count Goethe had reached the verge of the 5th Class—one step away from a level akin to the superhuman.

In contrast, his children had shown little achievement.
Especially the heir, Baron Vinfelt, who was said to possess a peculiar constitution that prevented him from learning magic and had driven him into madness.

But what he had heard, what he saw, and what he felt were entirely different.

What he had heard described a fool.
What he saw was a young baron.
But what he felt—if only for a fleeting instant—was something that sent a shiver down his spine.

Raphael seemed unconcerned, but Gaspard instinctively sensed something amiss.
His thoughts grew complicated.
The hidden pocket sewn into his sleeve suddenly felt unbearably heavy.

Inside it was a small vial of poison.

***

The camp, enclosed by crude wooden palisades, was larger than expected.
There were no proper buildings—only tents covered with the hides of beasts and monsters.

At a glance, it seemed disorderly, yet guards stood at key positions, and among the soldiers flowed an atmosphere unlike that of an ordinary camp.

“Monsters!?”

The inquisitor reflexively placed a hand on the mace at his waist.
A massive wolf stood there, casually gazing up at the sky with its mouth open—
as if trying to eat the falling snow.

“It’s a hellwolf. It won’t attack. If you don’t want to cause unnecessary trouble, withdraw your hostility.”

Carlson warned.

In that instant, the surrounding soldiers moved in unison.
As if following a prearranged code, the flow of movement within the camp shifted swiftly and orderly.

They did not draw their weapons.
But they positioned themselves as though encircling the investigators.

The paladins placed their hands on their sword hilts.

Inquisitor Raphael narrowed his eyes.
The level of discipline in the camp far exceeded his expectations.
Even the slightest hint of tension had triggered an immediate response.

“So the rumor that Botmer’s second son was defeated despite having several times the numbers… wasn’t just nonsense.”

Raphael resumed walking, keeping a wary eye on the hellwolf—
a massive beast with black fur and red eyes.

Hellwolf…

He didn’t like the name at all.

Nearby, a barbarian child brushed snow off the beast’s back, playing with it as if it were nothing.

Raphael made the sign of the cross.
He prayed that, in this land so far removed from the teachings of God, he would not be tested.