Chapter 18

Chronicles of a Villain (3) 

The story was arranged.

All the blame was placed on Fikel.

Only one truth was told as it was—
that it had begun as an effort to replenish supplies for the company.

But every other arrow pointed toward Fikel.

He was the one who controlled the Niers organization.
He was the one who conducted the slave trade.
Eventually, greed consumed him, and he even laid hands on the maids of the estate.
When that failed, he attempted to sell Isaac to a foreign nation.

And the one who stopped him—
was the honorable and loyal knight, Randolph.

***

“….”

The Count alternated his gaze between Fikel’s severed head on the desk
and the two standing before him—Isaac and Randolph.

“It is true. I was abducted by Fikel, and Randolph saved my life.”

Isaac answered calmly.

“Carlson discovered the truth and tried to stop Fikel. A fistfight broke out in the barracks, and soon they even drew their swords on each other. I had to intervene. Fikel stopped, but Carlson refused to lower his blade, demanding the captives be freed.”

In reality, it had been neither Fikel nor Carlson who kept their blade raised—

but Randolph.

Unlike the others, Randolph had a family.
If the truth of the slave trade came to light, the Count’s wrath would not stop at him—it would extend to his family.

Randolph had only intended to injure Carlson enough to silence him.

All he had ever learned… was how to speak with a sword.

But Carlson’s skill far surpassed his own.

Carlson could have taken both Randolph’s and Fikel’s heads and escaped—
yet instead, he cut only Randolph’s ear, as if to “make him listen,” and allowed himself to be captured.

Randolph had adjusted that story suitably.

***

“Why tell me this now?”

After hearing everything, the Count showed no immediate reaction.
He focused only on understanding the situation.

“I did not expect Fikel to go this far.”
“It sounds as though you would have buried this matter… had he not tried to kill my son.”

“…I did not know what the right decision was. It is true that Fikel began this for the sake of the infantry. It is also true that casualties decreased because of it. And it is true that dissatisfaction was reduced.”

Randolph met the Count’s gaze as he spoke.

These were thoughts long held—yet never spoken aloud.

Everyone in Winterband knew:

That the Count did his utmost for the territory.
That he was upright, unlike other nobles.
That he indulged neither in luxury nor pleasure.

But—

reality demanded more than that.

“Is that your excuse… for abandoning your duty?”

The Count’s voice remained steady.

Even as Randolph—who would never have risen to even minor nobility without him—
pointed out his shortcomings, the Count showed no emotional disturbance.

At this moment, he stood solely as the commander of Winterband.

“I will accept any punishment. I only ask that you understand the circumstances we faced.”

“…Very well. We will discuss punishment tomorrow. You may leave… and thank you for saving Isaac.”

“I am unworthy of such words.”

Randolph bowed his head, picked up Fikel’s head from the desk, and turned.

“Have his head displayed in Bern City’s square.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Isaac. Stay.”

The Count stopped Isaac as he tried to follow.

Clank— clank—

Carlson, the condemned man—
whose real name was Kyle—looked confused.

The guards removed his shackles.

“Follow.”

Kyle staggered as he walked out of the underground prison.

“…Tch.”

Outside, it was daytime.
The sunlight was unusually bright.

Kyle frowned.

“Nice weather, isn’t it? Seems like spring is coming.”

Isaac sat calmly in the courtyard beside the estate garden, drinking tea.

Kyle stared blankly at him.

“What are you staring at? Sit.”

“….”

“Hans, pour him some tea.”
“Yes, sir.”

Hans placed a teacup in front of Kyle with practiced ease and poured.

Steam rose gently from the warm tea,
and a faint fragrance drifted to Kyle’s nose.

“Thank you, Hans. That’ll be all. Let me know if anyone comes near.”

Hans bowed and stepped away.

Kyle sniffed the tea—his eyebrow twitched.

“Familiar scent, isn’t it? From where you used to live.”
“I have no nationality.”

Kyle replied bluntly.

Schneeflück—
a tea whose name meant “snowflake” in the common tongue,
popular in the Republic.

It had also been his sister’s favorite.

***

Kyle looked at Isaac.

A twelve-year-old face—
but nothing about him matched that age.

He knew Kyle’s secret identity.
He had even used it to threaten him.

His intentions were unreadable.
His desires unclear.

Are all noble children like this?

No.
At least not the ones Kyle had encountered.

This one—Isaac—was different.

***

“Sir Randolph told me everything.”
“….”

Kyle couldn’t hide his surprise, but quickly closed his mouth.

He had countless questions—
but he did not ask.

Experience had taught him that much.

“Half truth. Half lie.”

“…What do you mean?”

But Isaac’s next words forced a response.

“Fikel died by Randolph’s hand.”

Isaac recounted everything—
what had happened,
and the lies told to the Count.

Kyle tried to maintain composure,
but as the story continued,
his expression gradually broke.

“….”

Randolph, for stopping Fikel and saving Isaac,
was allowed to keep his estate and his rank as a quasi-baron.

However, he was stripped of his position as company commander of Winterband.

Carlson—Kyle—
was spared execution for attempting to stop his superior’s wrongdoing,
but still guilty of insubordination,
and thus dismissed from his platoon leader position.

***

“I didn’t know you were a platoon leader.”

Isaac spoke as casually as if commenting on lunch.

“…Why didn’t you report it?”

“What?”
“That my name isn’t Carlson.”

“That’s something to save for later. If I reveal it now, I can’t use you.”

“….”

“You said something to Randolph, didn’t you? A sword that can cut anything without breaking is a masterpiece—but if it gains its own will, it becomes a cursed blade. What about you?”

Kyle’s expression darkened.

This boy knew far too much—
and his intentions remained impossible to read.

Everyone Kyle had met before had clear goals, clear interests.
They used him accordingly—
whether mercenaries, knights, or nobles.

From them, Kyle had learned one thing:

Those whose true intentions cannot be read—
are dangerous.

And now—

that kind of person
was not some cunning old fox—

but a child raised like a flower in a greenhouse.

Is he possessed by a demon?

***

“Instead of trying to figure me out, focus on your own goal. Spending all my time reading books in my room taught me one thing—people are complicated. That’s why I prefer those who have clear desires. Like you.”

Isaac smiled brightly.

His face showed no hint of schemes.

“…You know my goal?”

“You want to kill him, don’t you? The greedy old man who slaughtered the family you barely managed to build.”

Isaac leaned forward slightly.

“Shall I even say his name?”

Kyle didn’t answer.
Instead, he stared straight at Isaac—

as if daring him to continue.

“Viscount Botmer. Klaus von Botmer. The wealthiest family in the North.”

Kyle’s gaze wavered.

He hadn’t expected Isaac to know even that.

“…He is a noble of the Kingdom.”
“So?”
“I’m a foreigner. And yet you’re saying you’ll help me kill him? You’d join hands with an outsider?”
“I need a cursed blade. A masterpiece with its own will. That’s all.”

Isaac took a sip of his now-cold tea, eyes fixed on the distant snow-covered mountains.

***

“I heard from Randolph—you devoted yourself entirely to training, as if you’d only rest in death. Did it bear fruit? Enough to cut down three hundred elite soldiers and eleven knights, and take the viscount’s head alone?”

“….”

“Viscount Botmer doesn’t have much time left. He’s contracted syphilis. At his age, no less. He’ll struggle to survive, but not for long. Your blade won’t reach him in time on its own. Help me—and I’ll help you.”

Kyle couldn’t tell whether Isaac’s words were entirely true.

But one thing was certain—

Isaac had remained silent about the infantry involved in the slave trade.
He had spared Randolph.

That meant he had spared Kyle’s comrades as well.

Kyle recalled something his father, Kayen, once told him:

A merchant places goods on a scale. A mercenary places his life and his comrades’ lives on it. That is a deal. A deal that must always be honored. A mercenary who breaks a deal loses the value of his life on that scale.

The sun slipped behind the clouds, then returned.

During that time, neither spoke.

At last, Kyle opened his mouth.

“…May I ask one thing?”
“Go ahead.”
“What is all of this for?”

“…If I had to answer—for myself. I have debts to settle.”

Isaac replied without thinking.

It was the most honest answer—one that slipped out unconsciously.

In truth, it was for the sake of protecting his family.

But deeper than that—

there was another reason.

Buried deep within his heart lay an old, worn ledger.
And in that ledger—

were countless debts he owed.

They were not debts of money.

They were debts of the heart.

***

“What do you think?”
“…It’s astonishing.”
“Did all of this really come from Isaac’s mind?”

At the Count’s question, Schiller answered:

“After the mana explosion, he did take on a different tutor, didn’t he?”

***

The Count had dismissed Randolph and kept Isaac behind
because, as a father, he was worried.

Humans were fragile.

When faced with threats to survival,
the body—or the mind—would quickly break.

The Count himself had killed a tribesman beyond the frontier at eleven.

But he never wanted Isaac or Jonas to experience death so closely, so early.

Because he knew better than anyone—

how horrific it was.

Yet Isaac, who had nearly been killed by Fikel,
remained astonishingly calm.

No—more than calm.

He had identified the root cause of everything.

It was something even the Count had failed to do—
a bold, unconventional way of thinking that broke past established boundaries.

“…Let go of the hand we hold with the Old Church…”

***

Year after year—

the royal subsidy, the shield tax, had been decreasing.

It was compensation for guarding the frontier in place of the royal family.

As it dwindled, it became harder and harder to feed and equip soldiers.

Yet Goethe could neither complain
nor attempt to build wealth.

Because of the sins of their ancestor—

Zik von Goethe,
a 10th-class mage who burned the capital a century ago.

The crime of treason still clung to the Goethe family like a brand.

If they tried to accumulate wealth,
the royal court might interpret it as ambition.

They could lose even the shield tax—
or worse, face suppression.

Thus, maintaining the current system with limited resources
was considered safer than risking the family’s survival.

That had been the Count’s belief—
and the stance of generations before him.

Isaac called that assumption premature.

The royal treasury is worsening year by year. The shield tax will continue to shrink. In such a situation, if Goethe declares independence and refuses the tax, will the crown truly be wary—or relieved? That’s worth discussing.

Then he struck the core:

In truth, isn’t it simply that we haven’t found a way to generate income worth risking the loss of the shield tax? The land is barren, and we’re surrounded by enemies. So we’ve been relying solely on the tax while watching the crown’s mood.

Isaac’s words were sharp.

It was a problem overlooked—
or deliberately ignored—
through generations of inertia.

At first, the Count dismissed it as childish talk.

But the more he listened,
the more reasonable it sounded.

Still—

for it to truly matter,
Isaac needed to propose a concrete solution.

And when pressed for one—

Isaac answered:

The first step is to let go of our alliance with the Old Church.

***

The Count moved toward the window of his study.

From the third floor of the main building,
he could see the courtyard below.

Isaac and Carlson—no, Kyle—were talking.

What were they discussing?

He was curious.

For the first time—

his son felt unfamiliar.

***

Watching the Count, Schiller thought:

His mood isn’t bad at all.

Because the Count’s hand tapped endlessly against the chair.

Though Isaac bore a condition akin to a curse,
he was brilliant.

And now—

that brilliant son had, in some way, surpassed him.

How could a father not feel pride?

Schiller smiled faintly.