Chapter 112

Violet Flames (1)

“How did you figure it out?”

Inquisitor Raphael asked.

“The escort knight tried to kill not only his master Rutger, but also Bishop Alquin. It was likely an attempt to silence them and, at the same time, escalate the scale of the war.”

Isaac calmly explained the cause of the conflict and the plan he had deduced.

Viscount Botmer had intended to seize Vinfelt through his second son, Rutger, and use it as a forward base to strike at Goethe.
However, Rutger had not only lost the battle, but had also violated the code of dueling.
If this became known, Botmer’s honor would be tarnished, and he would lose credibility among the nobility.
Other collateral branches might withdraw their support, and even the Church would find it difficult to defend him.

To prevent that, Botmer had made his move.

He intended to eliminate the witnesses—Rutger and Bishop Alquin—and pin the blame on Isaac.

“It would sound far more plausible that a reckless fool like me lost his temper and killed both Rutger and the bishop… rather than that Viscount Botmer ordered an assassination.”

“But it failed.”
“Half-successful. Rutger is dead, after all.”
“And to finish things, he sent Clerk Gaspard?”
“Yes.”

“…If I had only heard your words, I would never have believed them.”

Raphael looked at the bound Gaspard with a heavy expression.
The old clerk had already confessed everything.

One of his fingernails had been torn out.
He was not someone accustomed to pain.
Compared to the depth of his hatred, his body was fragile.

It had taken the removal of just a single nail for him to reveal everything.

Viscount Botmer had given the order after Chevalier failed to return and word came that the Holy See was sending investigators to Vinfelt.

Gaspard’s mission had been simple:
If Rutger or Bishop Alquin were alive, poison them—and destroy their testimonies and correspondence.

“You were blinded by vengeance.”

Raphael’s gaze sank coldly.

Gaspard had once cherished a young deacon—
a boy he had personally taught ancient languages, theology, and law.

That young deacon had been sent to a remote village on the empire’s frontier to manage a small church.
The local noble ruled with brutal tyranny.

Unable to tolerate the injustice, the deacon resisted—
and was killed by the noble’s sons.

They had driven him into the forest like an animal and hunted him for sport.

Gaspard had appealed to the Holy See, seeking justice.
But his plea was ignored.

The boy’s death was recorded as having been killed by wild beasts in the mountains.
No attempt was made to uncover the truth.
Behind it loomed the shadow of high-ranking clergy aligned with local nobles.

As Gaspard despaired, Viscount Botmer had extended a hand—
promising to enact revenge if Gaspard carried out his request.

“Was that all your faith amounted to? So fragile that it could be corrupted by evil so easily?”

…

Gaspard avoided Raphael’s gaze.
He offered no rebuttal.
No excuse.

He simply stared at the ground in silence.

“Then why didn’t you suspect me?”
“I had a feeling. You didn’t seem like the kind of man who would bow to someone like Botmer.”
“A feeling?”

Wrinkles deepened on Raphael’s face.

“If you were the type to bow your head to some noble of the kingdom, you wouldn’t have risen to the position of special inquisitor.”
“I did not rise to it. I was merely given a use.”
“My apologies if I offended you.”

Isaac apologized easily.
There was no sincerity in it.

An unreadable brat.

Raphael studied Isaac’s eyes.

The boy gave off a strange impression—
somewhat insolent, even unruly, yet not someone to be taken lightly.

Raphael had no interest in the politics of the northern kingdom and had heard no rumors about Isaac.
He had devoted his life to eliminating heretics under the orders of the Holy See.

To him, Isaac was nothing like the “reckless delinquent” he claimed to be.
It was said the war had started because Isaac had killed one of Botmer’s attendants—but even that felt suspicious.

There was a cunning in Isaac reminiscent of the clergy who schemed within the Holy See itself.

“So what now? The bishop appears to be poisoned.”
“As the clerk said, if it’s poison extracted from foxglove, we can slow its spread, but complete detoxification will be difficult.”
“So you can buy time?”
“Yes. I can ease the symptoms with herbs here, but such poisons are often mixed with other extracts to control their effect. We’ll need a proper apothecary in the capital.”
“That’s at least three days away, even at the fastest pace.”
“Then we must move now.”

Raphael didn’t hesitate long.

“Prepare the medicine. We head for the capital.”

“Is it really necessary for me to come along?”
“My life depends on whether Bishop Alquin lives or dies. I’d feel more at ease if I go with you.”

***

A carriage and a supply wagon set off together.

Carlson drove the carriage.
Inside sat Isaac, Enette, Raphael, and the tightly bound Gaspard.

Behind them, the supply wagon carried the two paladins and Bishop Alquin, who was too weakened by poison to sit upright.
One of the paladins had been instructed to administer Isaac’s medicine and care for him.

The atmosphere inside the carriage was heavy.

“Have you forgotten how to speak, Gaspard? Not even a word?”

Even at Raphael’s question, Gaspard only stared at the floor.
He seemed to have completely lost his will.

“It’s like he’s been gagged.”

Raphael turned his gaze.

Enette clutched the hem of her clothes, her eyes darting nervously.

For her, Raphael was someone she should never have met—
a special inquisitor.

A terrifying figure who tortured and burned heretics.

Raphael wore a black coat, a heavy iron cross hanging from his neck.
Each time his sharp gaze swept across her, Enette involuntarily shrank back.
In truth, Raphael was only looking around absentmindedly.

“Do not be afraid. I do not judge the innocent.”
“…A-and if someone has committed a sin?”

“Then they are judged according to the severity of that sin.”

…She swallowed hard.

Enette bit her lip.
It had been a pointless question.

“So you do have sins. Have you received baptism?”
“I—I did… when I was little… I followed the head maid…”
“If you confess, I will grant you a chance to seek mercy.”

“If you refuse to confess, I will interrogate you. According to Bishop Alquin, you burned the escort knight—who had turned into a monster—with violet flames. Is that true?”
“…Y-yes.”

Enette answered in a trembling voice.

“Are you a mage? If so, did you ignite those flames with your own power? Or did you rely on some otherworldly force? Speak without a single lie.”

Raphael stared at her as if to pierce through her.

“U-um… that is… young master…”

Enette turned to Isaac with tearful eyes, silently asking what she should say.

“Why are you looking at me? That’s enough, isn’t it?”

Isaac spoke casually.

“Are you interfering with an interrogation?”
“She’s just a maid I brought from my estate. She hasn’t done anything worth interrogating.”
“The bishop seemed terrified. Was it really this girl who produced the violet flames?”

Raphael kept his gaze fixed on Enette.

In truth, his questioning had been little more than idle curiosity from the start.

Enette looked nothing like a mage.

Every mage Raphael had encountered—whether they concealed it or not—carried some degree of madness.
It showed in their eyes, their expressions, their actions.
They were twisted in some way.

Those who wielded power too great for a human to bear.
Clergy called it divine power and leaned on faith,
but mages had nothing to lean on.

No—
they chose not to.

Instead of absolute values, they clung to human desires:
curiosity, ambition, recognition, glory.

Those who lived chasing such illusions could never remain sane.
Whether greatly or slightly, they were all mad—
merely hiding it.

But Enette showed none of that.

She was far too innocent to be a mage.
There was no sign of craving or ambition.
Just an immature girl.

To Raphael, she looked like nothing more than a child.

And yet—

That such a girl could produce the same violet flames as Cardinal Vincenzio…
and burn a mutated knight to death—

It was difficult to believe.

If anything, the one who seems closer to a mage is…

Raphael turned his gaze toward Isaac.

Isaac had claimed he possessed a peculiar constitution that prevented him from using magic,
but Raphael did not fully believe it.
He simply hadn’t pressed the matter because it didn’t seem important at the time.

“It’s true that Enette protected me,” Isaac said.

“Can you show it?”
“H-here?”

Enette asked with a distressed expression.

“That would be difficult. My personal mage is not in a condition to use fire magic right now.”

Isaac lifted Enette’s wrist.

It was heavily bandaged—burned.

“However, if you grant me one request, I may be able to show it to you.”
“A request?”
“As I understand it, the current head of the Inquisition is His Eminence Cardinal Vincenzio. Is that correct?”

Isaac asked while gazing out the carriage window.

Outside, darkness stretched endlessly.
Traveling by day would have been safer, but Bishop Alquin’s poisoning left them no time.
If he died, there would be no one left to testify to Botmer’s crimes.

The lantern hanging outside the carriage swayed restlessly.

“You’re well informed.”

Raphael narrowed his eyes.
The identity of the Inquisition’s head was not exactly a secret,
yet neither was it common knowledge.
It required deliberate effort to learn.

“Would it be possible for me and my mage to meet His Eminence?”
“For what purpose?”
“Tell him that Baron Vinfelt has something to say regarding violet flames.”

…

Raphael frowned.

Isaac’s manner of speaking had been bothering him for some time—
his calm composure,
and the sense that he was reading a game Raphael himself did not fully see.

“What is it you know?”
“I’m simply trying to survive. As I said, I’ve been cast out from the main house, so I need backing. If it’s before His Eminence, I’ll gladly demonstrate violet flames.”

Isaac spoke lightly.

“You have quite the nerve to say that in front of me.”
“I imagine His Eminence would welcome such a conversation.”
“So that was your purpose in following me.”
“Partly. The bishop matters—but it would be troublesome if you died as well, Inquisitor.”
“What do you mean?”

“I’m sorry… Inquisitor.”

Suddenly, the silent clerk muttered under his breath.

“What—”

“Hold on tight, Carlson!”

At that moment, the carriage surged forward.

From both sides, the sound of multiple horses galloping could be heard.
It was too dark to tell how many.

Whoosh—

From the darkness, a fireball arced through the air—
and exploded beside the carriage.