Chapter 24

To Vinfeltro

“You both did well.”

The count commended Isaac and Carlson.

Goethe had freed itself from the influence of the Old Church.
In exchange for turning a blind eye to the bishop’s atrocities, the Holy See agreed neither to collect tithes nor to dispatch a new bishop.

How long that agreement would hold was uncertain—
but at least for now, Goethe could breathe.

“Carlson, is there anything you want?”

“I wish to continue serving the Young Master.”

“If you return to Winterband, you could be promoted to company commander.”

“I would rather find a place that suits my purpose.”

The count’s fingers, tapping the desk, slowed for a moment before resuming their original rhythm.

“Very well. If that’s what you say. Isaac.”

“If Carlson were to guard me, I would feel at ease.”

“Understood. Carlson will be assigned as Isaac’s guard, along with a reward of 200 denarii.”

“Thank you.”

Carlson bowed his head.
The count’s gaze shifted to Isaac.

“Isaac.”

“Before that—what do you intend to do going forward? Have you received the royal court’s approval?”

“…Carlson. Would you step outside for a moment?”

Once Carlson left, the count filled his pipe and lit it with magic.

“I thought I made myself clear enough on the way back from Sir Randolph’s funeral. You’ve done more than enough. But from here on, this is beyond your concern.”

“Father.”

“Thanks to you, the savings from the tithe alone are enough to resolve the fortress’s supply issues. It’s commendable that you think of the family, but for now, focus on curing your abnormal constitution.”

“….”

The count’s expression and tone were firm.
There was no room for further argument.

Isaac still had much he wanted—needed—to say, but he held his tongue.

This was not a matter of persuasion.
It was a matter of trust.

Saving ten percent of the family’s revenue was not enough to earn full confidence.
He had expected this.

“Now, tell me what you want.”

“In that case… grant me the estate of Fikel.”

Isaac spoke the request he had already prepared.

***

“Here you are.”

Carlson approached Isaac, who stood silently before the drawing room door.
But Isaac didn’t acknowledge him, only stared blankly out the corridor window.

“Are you really going to Vinfeltro?”

“Shh. Quiet.”

Isaac raised a finger to his lips.

From inside the drawing room, the sound of a piano drifted out.
It was Jonas playing.

The piece was Tristis Draco—
“Crying Dragon” in the common tongue.

It was Isaac’s mother’s favorite composition.
A piece without specific notation—only melody—
changing entirely depending on the performer’s emotions.

“…Strange.”

Isaac murmured.

When he killed the deserter.
When he killed Niers.
When he killed the bishop—

each time, a sleepiness like death had come over him.

Yet as he listened to Jonas’s music,
that fading, distant sensation seemed to awaken again.

The fatigue that had shadowed him his entire life peeled away,
and his mind grew clear—like waking from a deep haze.

In other words…
he felt alive.

Was it because he could hear Jonas’s playing again—
something he had once believed he’d never hear?

Did Jonas’s music hold some kind of power?

He didn’t know.

But one thing was certain—
he wanted to ensure Jonas would never let go of music again.

“Carlson. Spar with me.”

Isaac spoke, emerging from his thoughts.

“You’ve learned swordsmanship before?”

Carlson asked, looking down at Isaac, who was now sitting on the ground, catching his breath.

“Haa… I’ve seen soldiers training in the drill yard.”

“Don’t joke with me.”

“Do I look like I’m joking?”

Carlson stared silently at Isaac, who was drenched in sweat.
He couldn’t tell if he was serious.

It was strange.

Isaac’s swordsmanship was fluid—
not sharp enough to exploit openings,
not strong enough to be overwhelming,
not fast enough to be practical in real combat.

And yet—

he clearly understood which stances allowed for attack and defense.
His movements were minimal,
but attack, defense, and counter flowed seamlessly.

For someone his age,
he would have needed to hold a sword since at least five or six years old to achieve that level.

And yet—
his physical stamina was far too weak for that to be the case.

“What’s the purpose of this sparring?”

“To take hold of Vinfeltro.”

Leaning on his wooden sword, Isaac stood again
and assumed his stance.

Clack—

Their wooden swords collided.
The poorly fastened crossguards trembled under the force.

“What do you intend to do with Vinfeltro?”

“That’s not something you need to know. Just understand that it will help with your revenge.”

“With this level of skill, you won’t stand a chance in Vinfeltro.”

Carlson twisted his blade, deflecting Isaac’s strike,
then kicked him away.

“Cough—”

A bitter taste rose in Isaac’s mouth.
But he didn’t complain.

“That’s why I’m asking you to teach me.”

“This isn’t something you can learn in a short time.”

“I’ll handle that.”

Isaac staggered back to his feet.
Carlson narrowed his eyes.

“You can use magic, can’t you?”

“….”

Carlson spoke in a low voice.

“The deacon didn’t have the ability to defeat the bishop.”

“How would you know that?”

“Whether it’s magic or aura—once you reach a certain level, you can gauge an opponent’s strength.”

“And you’re saying you’ve reached that level so easily? Weren’t you trying to hide your abilities?”

“You already knew when I wiped out the paladins, didn’t you?”

“…Fair enough.”

There were no ears to overhear them in the garden courtyard.

Isaac steadied his breathing.
His arms, legs, and ribs—struck repeatedly—ached all over.

“If you use magic, you wouldn’t need swordsmanship at all…”

“It might be easier for a while. But Goethe would become politically isolated. My constitution is the same as Siegfried von Goethe’s.”

“…You, of all people—being a mercenary’s son—should understand that.”

“What kind of joke is that?”

The relics said to have been used by Siegfried von Goethe were highly sought after.

The first and only 10th-class mage in history.
Overwhelming magical power.

Some sought them out of greed,
others out of curiosity,
others for power itself.

They were treasures worth astronomical sums.

Any mercenary would dream of obtaining them—
yet many had died chasing mere rumors.

“The royal family and other nobles leave Goethe alone because I cannot overcome this constitution. But if it becomes known that I’ve controlled it without relics…”

“…That’s no joke, then.”

Carlson immediately grasped the implication.

If Isaac could use magic,
it meant he had overcome his abnormal constitution.

And that would make Goethe a target—

not just of other lords,
but of the royal family itself.

Some would attempt to assassinate Isaac.
Others would try to exploit him politically.

And above all—

those in the royal court, who had suffered the most when the capital burned a century ago,
would likely try to erase Goethe entirely.

“Do you regret it? Joining Goethe, of all families?”

“I do regret it. But I’m not someone who looks back. Raise your sword again. You’ll be the one to regret it, Young Master.”

“…Hm?”

“You asked me to spar.”

Clack.

Their wooden swords collided once more.

***

A month passed.

“Are you really going to leave like this?”

Spring had arrived, yet the wind cutting through the carriage remained sharp.
Waller, who had boarded the carriage to see Isaac off, wore a troubled expression.

“We’re already on the way, and you’re asking that now?”

“You didn’t even mention leaving to Hans or Gisela.”

“They’ll find out soon enough.”

“They’ll be hurt.”

“That doesn’t sound like you. You’re not the type to care about such things.”

“You are, Young Master.”

“….”

At Waller’s words, Isaac turned his gaze toward the window.

At some point,
the road toward Vinfeltro had become nothing but withered grass and dead trees—
a desolate plain stretching endlessly, dotted with reeds.

Frozen ground,
hills still patched with unmelted snow—

a bleak, lifeless landscape.

“Better for them to feel hurt than to die.”

“They’re prepared to endure even your mana explosion. That’s how much they care for you.”

“You’re talking too much. I shouldn’t have let you come along.”

“Young Master.”

“Just because Hans and the nurse are prepared to endure my mana explosion… doesn’t mean I’m prepared to accept their sacrifice.”

Watching Randolph’s funeral,
Isaac had inevitably thought of Hans and the nurse’s end.

He had never once attended the funerals of those who cared for him.
He had no face to show.
No courage to stand there.

If he couldn’t even protect those beside him,
what meaning was there in resolving to protect his family—or this land?

But now was not the time.

He still could not fully control his mana rampage.

When he ignited the violet flames to face the bishop,
he had felt it clearly—
his body could not endure beyond that point.

“I don’t want to leave even the slightest chance.”

“…Young Master…”

Waller opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again.
Only a faint groan escaped the old steward.

It was a long while before he spoke again.
By then, the scenery outside had grown even more barren.

“Vinfeltro, once the estate of Fikel… is a land tainted by the blood of magical beasts. Nothing grows there. It’s also the first place to face enemies who bypass Winterband. Fikel didn’t gain anything from that land—he only received it to obtain minor nobility.”

Caw— caw—

“Is this Vinfeltro from here on?”

“Yes.”

Waller replied with a displeased expression.

Now bones lay scattered across the wasteland—
some clearly human, others beastly.

In places where flesh still clung,
wild dogs and crows lingered around the remains.

It looks like the estate I saw at the end.

Isaac forced away the image that kept resurfacing.

He had come here to change.
Reflecting on past mistakes was necessary—
but constantly looking back was not.

He steeled his resolve.

“Young Master.”

“That’s enough. Father permitted this.”

“That’s only because you insisted to the very end. His Excellency wants you to realize reality through this.”

The count had granted Isaac Vinfeltro.

But it wasn’t purely a reward.

He wanted to ensure Isaac didn’t grow arrogant after driving out the Old Church.
He wanted him to understand how cold reality was—
and what Goethe’s reality truly looked like.

“The only people living here are soldiers stationed to fend off magical beasts, and a few scattered tribes.”

“I know.”

“Young Master, I see the camp.”

Carlson, riding alongside the carriage, spoke through the window.

“No one here will welcome you. You’ll be treated even worse than at the estate.”

“I know that too.”

“If you know even that… what exactly do you plan to do here?”

Waller asked, clearly frustrated.

“Change.”

“…Pardon?”

“From here on, many things in Goethe will change.”

Isaac replied quietly.

Boooo—

At that moment, the distant sound of a horn echoed.

“Magical beasts.”

Carlson warned.

Dark creatures were swarming toward the encampment surrounded by wooden palisades.
Some of them broke off, charging toward the supply convoy where Isaac’s carriage was.

“Battle positions!”

A shout rang out from the front of the convoy.

“Young Master! Young Master Isaac!”

Then, from the rear of the convoy, a frantic voice called out.

A soldier in gambeson, holding a spear—
a familiar face to Isaac.

“Hans? What are you doing here?”

Isaac looked toward Waller.

“Ahem. He’s been pestering this old man every single day—how could I possibly refuse?”

Waller coughed awkwardly, avoiding Isaac’s gaze.

“What kind of master abandons his servant? I’ll protect you. Stay close to me.”

Hans declared with a determined expression.

But his legs, and even the arm holding his spear, trembled uncontrollably.

“…Haa.”

Isaac pressed his hand to his forehead and sighed.

Meanwhile,
the growls of the magical beasts were drawing closer.