Chapter 22

Bigger Fire (2)

Isaac, strangely enough, felt drowsy.

Clang!

Clang!

In the interrogation room, where the only light came from torches and a pale darkness settled in every corner—
a single misstep could have driven a stake into his forehead, yet Isaac felt no tension at all.

“It was like that back then too.”

Isaac did not know war.
But he knew fragments of it.

In the final year of his previous life,
two soldiers who had deserted from the army of the Grand Prince—the Second Prince—fled into the ruins of Goethezer.
They were on the verge of starvation, their fingers and toes rotting from frostbite.
Isaac gave them shelter.

He shared what little food he had left.
But once they regained their strength, they repaid his kindness with hostility.
To monopolize the remaining crumbs of bread, they tried to kill Isaac.
It seemed they believed he had hidden food somewhere.

The two deserters argued.

“Let’s kill the old man.”
“No, don’t. Don’t give up being human.”

In the end, the deserter who insisted on killing Isaac killed the other.
But he could not kill Isaac.

—“What would you gain from killing an old man like me? I’m nothing but bones. There’s no flesh left to eat.”
—“If you’d just handed over the food you hid, none of this would’ve happened!”
—“I’ve told you countless times, there is no hidden food. What you saw is all there is. Still going to kill me? If you don’t believe me, then go ahead.”

Isaac stared at the deserter with empty eyes.
The man’s hands, already stained with his companion’s blood, trembled.
He hesitated.

But Isaac did not.

He thrust the fire poker into the deserter’s throat.

The reason an old man past seventy could kill a young man was simple.

For the deserter, even if he survived today, there was only the bleak uncertainty of surviving tomorrow.
But for the old man, who had nothing left but regret, there was a task to complete.

He had to escape his abnormal constitution.
He had to break free from the curse he had been born with.
That alone had been his reason for living.

That was why he could kill.

A wretched old man, driven only by obsession, murdered a young man desperately struggling to live.

As he watched the youth’s fading eyes,
Isaac felt drowsiness creeping over him.

At that moment, he faintly realized something.

He did not know what war truly was,
but at the very least, it was not something sustained by compassion or understanding.

It neither sought mercy nor granted it—
it was the exertion of the utmost violence one could muster.

That was what a fight to the death was.

Something so exhausting, so burdensome, so agonizing—
and yet humanity had continued it since the dawn of history.

And would be doomed to continue it still.

And so—

Isaac felt fatigue washing over him.
He felt sleepy.
He wanted to sleep.

So that he would no longer be bound by such a cycle.

He wanted to fall into eternal sleep.

Knowing he could not,
he desired it all the more intensely, more desperately—

eternal rest…

Even now, it was the same.

In that fleeting instant—
he knocked aside the incoming stake with an ice crystal,
sent another crystal flying,
altered its trajectory,
and, replacing the shattered one, gathered Priest Silvio’s blood to form a new ice crystal.

Moment by moment, his life teetered on the brink, sending chills down his spine—

but what Isaac felt was neither tension nor danger.

It was fatigue.

And yet, regardless of that—

Isaac was deflecting projectiles too fast for the naked eye to follow,
with perfect precision using ice crystals.

How was it possible?
Even Isaac himself wondered.

—“Young Master’s greatest strength is his imagination.”

‘Of all times, why does that guy’s voice come to mind now…’

The voice that surfaced in his mind answered his question.

Lucas.

After years of learning swordsmanship from him,
Isaac’s body could never keep up with Lucas’s strikes.

But at some point, Isaac began to predict Lucas’s movements.
Even if his body couldn’t follow,
he assumed the correct defensive stance before the strike even came.

It was the result of enduring day after day in confinement underground.

Cut off from seeing or hearing the outside world,
what grew clearer instead were the landscapes and sensations created in his mind.

Through them, Isaac sparred with Lucas dozens, hundreds of times a day.
He imagined himself casting magic he couldn’t even use—thousands of times over.
He befriended and conversed with great figures and sages from books.

He gained insight and wisdom,
and envisioned a future that seemed impossible.

Yes—

to kindle a tiny spark,
to escape the curse,
to ignite a spark of hope—

for that final day, someday.

And then—

before the graves of his family,
Isaac had finally kindled that spark.

‘Lucas… you really were a great teacher. You were right.’

The imagined world, constructed through precise logic and reasoning,
was nearly indistinguishable from real experience.

Those countless experiences in that unseen yet visible world
had shaped the Isaac of today.

“…Remarkable. So you were hiding your abilities.”

The bishop lowered his hand to the pouch at his waist.
There were no stakes left.

“Now it’s your turn to show your skills, Bishop.”

Isaac’s expression and tone were the same as when he had first met him.

“Have you… sold your soul to the devil?”

The bishop could not help but be unsettled by Isaac’s composure.
His indifferent attitude made it seem as though he did not perceive this situation as a threat at all.
He did not look like a child whose life hung by a thread.

“If we’re going by that expression, wouldn’t you and I both have sold our souls? The only difference is where we sold them.”
“That sounds like blasphemy.”
“Is there any holiness left to blaspheme?”
“…How dare you.”

The flesh beneath the bishop’s chin quivered.

“This isn’t the end, is it? For a bishop of the Old Church, relying on a grimoire just to throw stakes around doesn’t exactly seem very… divine.”
“… ”

The bishop knew there was nothing to gain from engaging with such words.
But his pride would not allow silence.

“…Very well. I refrained from using my own power to avoid leaving a unique trace, but now I have no other choice. You know too much. And that talent and cleverness of yours… they seem a bit dangerous. I’ll have to cut you down here.”

Depending on the school—
whether one is a mage or a cleric—
the way magic is learned and used differs.

Thus, a certain framework for handling mana is formed,
and through it, a “unique pattern” emerges.

It appears in the body of a practitioner who has trained in the same magic for a lifetime,
but more often, it remains on the one who has been affected by the magic.

Through this, experts can identify the caster.

The bishop had decided it was worth dealing with such troublesome aftermath just to eliminate Isaac.

“Go ahead and try. If you can.”

Whoosh—

An ice crystal made of blood tore through the air.

Fwoosh!
Ssssss—

In an instant, flames burst from the bishop’s fingertips.
The ice crystal oxidized the moment it touched the fire.
The evaporated blood gave off a foul metallic stench.

“Behold. This is the power granted to me—Holy Fire.”

The flames the bishop produced were unlike those of a torch.

It was a blazing sphere of vivid blue fire.
To some, it might have inspired awe—
but Isaac didn’t even blink.

“That’s Holy Fire?”

“Yes. A purifying flame that ordinary mages cannot even imitate.”

The bishop spoke with a voice full of confidence.

“With this, your ice crystals will be helpless—instantly reduced to nothing.”

“I see. That does sound likely.”

Isaac nodded.

“I didn’t want to burn a child I personally baptized… but this too must be His will.”

Fwoosh—!

“This?”

“…!?”

From Isaac’s hand, a blue sphere of flame—identical to the bishop’s—formed.
Ignition, followed by compression, then compressed once more.
It was the same magic he had used when dealing with the Winter Spider Queen in the abandoned mine.

If there was a difference,
it was that the flames writhing around Isaac’s sphere were far more ferocious.

“H-how…?”

“Your reaction is rather honest. It’s simple—just compress the process twice.”

“What nonsense! Are you mocking me? Divine power doesn’t work like that. It requires a sequence of steps. It can’t possibly be that simple—!”

“So that’s how the Old Church’s power works. But I suppose I’m a heretic. My magic operates in parallel processes. That’s why this is possible.”

Isaac compressed it once more.

Now, the once-blue flame burned violet.
It didn’t harm Isaac, its caster, but the heat was overwhelming.
The hem of Deacon Silvio’s nearby robes began to smoke and char.

‘Maintaining this level for long… is still too much.’

Isaac felt as if something sharp was tearing through the inside of his chest.
His mana circuits were running wild.

To compress an already condensed flame again required mana equal to his entire capacity.
And he had repeated that process three times.

The already violent flow of mana, barely contained within him, accelerated even further.

“This is impossible. How—how can a filthy barbarian brat like you wield such power…!”

“It seems you’ve been neglecting your training. Or perhaps… God simply favors me more.”

“How dare you spout such nonsense! I’ve trained this power for decades!”

Whooom—!

The blue sphere at the bishop’s fingertips swelled larger.
Drawing in mana to its limit, veins bulged across his head and hands.
His heart pounded frantically to sustain his overworked brain.

“Decades… you say.”

Isaac spoke quietly.

“For me… it’s been a lifetime.”

Whoooong—!

The violet fireball left Isaac’s hand and surged toward the bishop.

The bishop tried to counter it with his own flame—
but Isaac’s mana density far surpassed his.

The bishop’s magic scattered like stardust and vanished.

“Ghk—!”

The bishop gasped.
In his widened eyes reflected a violet sphere—like the gaze of a demon.

“Aaaargh!”

With a horrific scream, the bishop was engulfed in violet flames.

If hell had a form, it might look like this.

The bishop rolled across the floor, writhing—
but the flames did not extinguish until there was nothing left to burn.

The screaming didn’t last long.

What had once been the bishop was now ash—
unrecognizable in every way.

Isaac stared at the smoldering remains.

Did the bishop go to heaven?
Or to hell?
Or perhaps somewhere in between—purgatory?

Isaac wondered.

Perhaps because he had consumed too much mana,
a wave of weakness overtook him, and he collapsed to the ground.

“At the very least… if there is an afterlife, we won’t be meeting in heaven, Bishop.”

Before him lay the bishop’s remains.
Behind him lay the corpse of Deacon Silvio.

Scenes like this would continue to repeat themselves.
The future was still far off—
but war was steadily approaching.

That was why Isaac could not sleep.

Even if drowsiness crashed over him like waves,
even if exhaustion weighed on him like a crushing boulder,

—the cries of Jonas, wracked with grief,
—the screams of those sacrificed in mana explosions,
—his father’s sighs filled with worry and regret,
—his mother’s weary struggles as she searched for a cure for her son—

Until those debts etched into his heart were repaid,
until true silence finally arrived—

Isaac could not sleep.

No—
he would not sleep.

From the corridor on the second basement level,
he sensed movement.

“Young Master.”

Carlson, covered in blood, was supporting a limp Randolph.

“The paladins?”

“…How did you know?”

“I heard it from the bishop. Though… as you can see, things turned out like this.”

Carlson followed Isaac’s gaze to the pile of ashes.

“What happened…?”

“There was a conflict between the deacon and the bishop. As you can see… they destroyed each other.”

“…I see.”

Doubt flickered across Carlson’s face—
but he soon nodded.

“We’ve dealt with all the paladins.”

From what the bishop had said, they must have been a formidable force—
too much for just two knights to handle.

Yet Isaac simply nodded, just like Carlson.
For now, he chose to leave the details buried.

Both of them still had things they needed to hide from each other.

“And Randolph?”

At Isaac’s question, Carlson’s eyes dimmed.

There was no need to ask further.

The Randolph being dragged along, relying on Carlson—
was no longer the same man.

“He asked me… to take care of his family.”

At the word family, Isaac paused for a moment.

“…Alright.”

Despite the exhaustion,
despite a life that felt unbearably long—

this was why Isaac kept the spark alive.

“For now… let’s go back.”

Home.