Chapter 3

Spring Rain

Lucas died.
The vessel shattered.
There was an explosion.

After that, Isaac ordered that no one—no one at all—was to enter his room anymore.
Clothes, towels, emptying the chamber pot, even food—everything was delivered through a slot in the door.

That was the only thing he could do.

An empty heart that could not be filled,
and the scattered memories of those he loved.

Lethargy and self-loathing.
Guilt and self-reproach.

They were always with him.

Time passed with him skipping meals,
not even lifting a finger.

Memories of the decades he had spent with Lucas surfaced in fragments.
Snippets of their conversations.

Beyond them, memories of Hans, the wet nurse, and the maids followed.

Isaac slowly revisited each memory.

At times, he smiled.
At times, he cried.

But when he emerged from those memories,
there was only the mold-covered wall.

He should have kept his distance.
He should not have grown attached.
He should have treated them coldly.

If he had—
they would all be living ordinary lives now.

But such regrets were far too late.

All that remained was pain.

Years passed like that.

Eventually, even the once vivid memories
lost anything worth revisiting.

Then, one day, Isaac realized something.

The period of mourning had ended.

All that remained was pain.

And that pain told him—
that he was not a monster, but a human being.
That he was still alive.
Why he was still alive.

And so—
he had to look forward, not back.

“…Start with the body again.”

The young man had become middle-aged.
Though middle-aged, he already looked like an old man.

And still—
he did not give up.

If he fell, he would rise again.
That was Isaac.
The blood of the Goethe family.

Lucas had reminded him of that.

The tally marks carved into the wall had long exceeded forty.
It meant Isaac himself was now over forty years old.

Though not like before,
his physical condition had improved significantly.

He ate regularly.
He trained steadily, just as he had when Lucas was there.

He compiled, organized, and reviewed everything he had learned over the years.

Rumored texts,
Mage Tower papers from different eras,
the Goethe family’s secret magic,
magical engineering, alchemy—

On paper, there was nothing left for Isaac to learn.

What remained was solving the problem
through instinct and inspiration.

Five more years passed.

The food delivered to him noticeably decreased.
The towels and clothes he received were worn and stained.

Had the family fallen into decline?

Isaac dismissed the thought.

He focused only on what mattered.

And then, one day—

An elderly man, clearly ill, opened the door.

He carried Valerich, the family’s treasured sword passed down through generations,
and a small bundle.

After staring for a long moment,
Isaac recognized him by the worn coat he wore.

Count Goethe—
his father.

He had aged far more than when he had come to deliver news of Lucas’s death.

The dignity that once defined him was gone.
In its place were age spots marking his cheeks.

“…Isaac?”
“It’s been a while.”

The count stood frozen, silently taking in his son’s appearance.

“You’ve grown old.”
“You should be asking yourself that, Father.”
“There are no mirrors here.”

The count glanced around the room,
then pulled out a mirror from his bundle.

“Look.”

As he said,
the Isaac reflected in the mirror looked older than the count himself.

Completely white hair.
Deep wrinkles.
Sparse teeth and thinning hair.
Pale skin, like that of a corpse.

He had thought his body had recovered somewhat—
but his appearance was nothing more than that of a pitiful old man.

“…Heh.”

Isaac laughed.

“You find that amusing?”
“What else can I do? I might as well laugh.”

“Sit.”
“…What?”

“Sit.”

Snip, snip.

The count seated Isaac and began cutting his hair.

Strands of thin, uneven white hair fell away,
drifting down like snowflakes.

Isaac thought—

When was the last time he had seen real snow?

He couldn’t even remember.

“If you wish… it will be painless.”

The count spoke suddenly.

Isaac immediately understood.

The sword Valerich.
Its blade, layered through repeated forging, shimmered with wave-like patterns.

A blade granted to enforcers who carried out any task for the sake of the family.

Today,
the count had come to end his son’s life.

So that he would no longer have to endure such a miserable existence.
To grant him rest.
To show mercy.

That was why he had come.

Even cutting his hair—
was a father’s wish for his son to leave this world in a dignified state.

And in other words,
it meant the count’s own life was nearing its end.

Sensing his death approaching,
he could not close his eyes peacefully while leaving his son behind.

Isaac understood.

His father’s feelings.
His father’s failing condition.
The state of the family.

And yet—

Isaac shook his head.

“…Is that your will?”
“Yes.”

“…I see.”

The count nodded slowly.

He did not ask why.
He did not try to persuade him.

He simply continued cutting his hair in silence.

“…Today will be the last time I see you.”

The count brushed the white strands from Isaac’s shoulders,
then kissed his son’s forehead.

“Achieve what you must.”

“….”

Isaac could not say a single word.

Though he had read countless books,
not a single word came to mind.

“I hope this will help.”

The count took out a fragile, crumbling book from his bundle.

“What is this?”
“Records from generations before mine. You’ll need it more than Jonas.”

The count firmly grasped Isaac’s hand holding the book.

“I will go ahead and wait. When you come to me… leave all your regrets here.”

Isaac stared blankly at his father.

The count did not look back even once as he left the room.

The sound of Valerich scraping against the floor echoed faintly.

His retreating figure staggered—
as if one leg moved forward while the other dragged behind.

Each step—
felt unbearably heavy,
as though pressing down on Isaac’s heart.

Isaac remained still,
listening to his father’s fading presence.

…

Years passed.

A letter arrived for Isaac.

It was from his mother.

It said that his father had passed away peacefully.
And that she, while subjugating monsters in the White Serpent Mountain Range, had contracted a severe endemic disease.
Priests and physicians had done all they could, but there was no hope.

The final line of the letter read:

“May your long night one day come to an end.
May you find peace.”

Isaac wanted to see his mother.
So very much.
To the point it ached.

Years passed.

Isaac was now over fifty.

The records of his ancestors, given by his father, had proven helpful.

In history, there had been only one person
who possessed the same unusual constitution as Isaac.

His great-great-grandfather—Zik von Goethe.

He had suffered from something called mana rampage,
and had once burned the royal capital to the ground.

It was said that the king himself had bowed his head before the emperor of the empire to seek aid.

Some authorities even claimed that Zik von Goethe had reached the transcendent level of the 10th Class.

According to the records,
Zik had collected rare relics from across the continent—
and always carried many of them on his body.

From that, Isaac found a clue.

If a narrow waterway carries more water than it can handle,
the current will inevitably become violent and overflow.

Then there are only two solutions:
either widen the waterway,
or split it into dozens of smaller channels to distribute the burden.

The many relics Zik carried must have served that purpose.

But relics from over a hundred years ago could not simply be gathered.

Then—he would have to create them.

Fortunately, due to countless wars,
magical engineering had advanced rapidly.

And Isaac, though publishing under Jonas’s name,
had already been acknowledged as one of the foremost authorities in magical engineering.

What he needed now—
was time.

—

As Isaac approached sixty—

After filling over thirty pages of fiber paper with dense equations and proofs,
he finally drew a single pattern.

In his mind, all knowledge and logical systems sparked and aligned into one unified formula and design.

A shiver ran through his entire body.

What remained
was to bring this abstract theory into reality.

To create rune stones capable of suppressing mana explosions
through mana crystals and tools—

and to prove the theory through endless experimentation.

—

Several more years passed.

The bread delivered through the slot one day was moldy.
No new clothes or towels came anymore.

Something had clearly gone wrong with the family.

Fortunately,
materials for his research were still being supplied.

Time, indifferent as ever, continued to pass.

Isaac’s body now matched his age—
old and frail.

His worn-out body refused to cooperate, crying out in pain every day.

Though his precision in carving rune patterns into mana stones had improved,
his trembling hands caused frequent mistakes.

It almost worked—
but not quite.

The old man grew frustrated.

Isaac was now nearing seventy.

If the tally marks carved on the wall were correct—

Then one day—

“Brother, it’s me. Jonas.”

Jonas called out to Isaac.

At first, Isaac thought it was a hallucination.

But the voice continued from beyond the door.

“Brother? It’s Jonas. Are you asleep?”

It was real.

Isaac felt fear.

He was the one who had taken his brother’s right hand in childhood.

Had Jonas come now to express resentment?

Or was this just another kind of nightmare?

“Brother.”
“…Jonas.”

For a long time, Jonas knocked on the door.

The knocking was cautious—
weak, almost devoid of strength.

At last, Isaac answered softly.

“…What brings you here?”

His voice trembled faintly.

“May I come in?”

Isaac glanced at the old mirror his father had left behind.

The reflection was that of a corpse.
It was almost a miracle he was still alive.

Some things,
were not meant to be seen.

“Speak from there.”

He heard Jonas lean against the door.

Isaac, too, leaned his back against it from the inside.

He wanted, even just a little,
to hear his brother’s voice more closely.

But the two brothers found it difficult to speak.

“…How have you been?”
“That’s… a long story.”

Jonas let out a sigh like a groan.

“Do you know? Today is Father’s death anniversary. I don’t even remember how many years it’s been.”

“…How did Father die?”
“That’s a long story too. Do you want to hear it?”
“If you’re willing.”

“…Alright.”

Jonas took a deep breath.

His voice carried deep exhaustion.

As he said,
the story was long.

It began thirty years ago.

The succession war between the First Prince and the Second Prince.
The Second Prince’s betrayal.
The Empire’s invasion.
The massacre during the coronation ceremony.
The fall of the kingdom.
The witch hunts by the Empire’s state religion, the Old Faith.
Mages, priests of the New Faith, royalists, defeated rebels, refugees—
all seeking refuge in Goethe territory.

Goethe declaring itself a city-state with the support of neighboring nations and the New Faith.
The former lands of the kingdom in utter chaos.
Endless wars.
Corpses and plagues.
Forests disappearing…

“…A great deal has happened.”

Isaac was left speechless.

Hearing decades of history condensed into a single telling—
he realized just how ignorant he had been of the world.

“Let’s stop with the gloomy talk here. Did you know? A lot of the meals you’ve eaten were made by Mother.”

Jonas suddenly changed the subject, his tone lifting.

“…Mother? Cooking? I can’t imagine it.”
“She was terrible at first, but she improved. You should know—you’ve eaten it. Her beef stew was excellent.”

Jonas spoke of the family’s affairs over the half-century Isaac had been gone.

Not the grand tragedies—
but the smaller, human stories.

Jonas’s political marriage.
The commoner woman he had loved.
The children they had.
The children who died.
The grandchildren born to those who survived.
The foolish mistakes of Schiller’s successor as head steward.
Waller’s death.
The various people who came to the now city-state Goethe.
The journeys and humiliations Jonas endured to secure alliances…

Decades of events flowed like water in just a few hours.

More vivid than any book Isaac had ever read.

More alive.

Even as his mouth dried and hunger drained his strength,
Jonas’s story did not stop.

“…I’ll admit this much. You have a talent for storytelling.”

At his age,
what did it even matter?

Isaac thought so.

And yet—
he wanted to say something.

Something small, perhaps—
but still kind.

“Haha, me?”
“You’ve got quite a way with words.”
“If I’d known, I might’ve wandered the world as a poet instead of becoming the heir. Though… using only one hand might’ve made it difficult.”
“…I’m sorry.”
“Did you know? Father, Mother, and I… we resented you a great deal.”
“….”

It felt as though something sharp dug into Isaac’s chest.

He was surprised such feelings still remained within him.
A bitter smile formed.

“And yet… we missed you just as much.”

…Had he misheard?

Isaac doubted his ears.

“We truly… loved you very much.”

For a moment, Isaac went blank.
It felt like he had been struck in the back of the head.

“Brother?”
“…I’m listening.”
“Haha. Now that I’ve let it all out, I feel much better.”
“…I do too.”
“Will you really not open the door? The brother I remember is the boy you were—handsome, and kind to match.”
“My memory is… a little different.”
“The wooden doll you carved for me… I still have it. Most of it burned, though.”
“….”

“That’s a shame. Ah… I wanted to see your face one last time.”
“…One last time?”
“While the war was happening… the gates… opened.”

Jonas’s voice grew quieter. Slower.

“Gates?”
“…Monsters… from another world… the radical faction of the New Faith… their doing… cough—cough—”

Suddenly, Jonas coughed violently.

“Jonas! Are you alright?! What’s wrong?”
“Now… Goethe… is no more… now… at least you… brother… should… live the rest… in peace…”
“Jonas? Jonas—!!”

The floor was damp and cold.

Only then did Isaac notice the blood seeping in beneath the door.
It had been flowing for some time—already cold and drying.

Creaaak—

The door opened.

Leaning against it, Jonas’s body collapsed onto the cold ground.

An old man—so much like their father in his final years.
A sword was embedded in his abdomen.
It seemed he had left it there to slow the bleeding.

“…You held on… for a long time… to tell me all that.”

Was it regret for leaving the world?
Or was there still more he wanted to say?

Jonas stared into empty space, his eyes unable to close.

“Ah… if only… a little… earlier…”

“…Rest now… my brother.”

Isaac gently closed Jonas’s eyes.

He sat there blankly for a long time.

The last person he could atone to—
was gone.

“…Come. We can’t stay lying here forever.”

After wiping his face, Isaac lifted Jonas’s body and began climbing the stairs, one step at a time.

His own body was already past seventy—
his muscles wasted, barely able to support himself.

And yet, even for him,
Jonas’s body felt light.

“…How long have you been starving?”

There was no answer.

Isaac’s eyes reddened.

Step.
 Step.

Footsteps echoed.

“…Is it winter…?”

The higher he climbed,
the colder the air became.

…

At last—
the ground above.

After more than half a century,
Isaac stepped onto the surface again.

But there was no time for sentiment.

Corpses greeted him.

Grotesque monsters he had never seen before.
Bodies—none intact.

From their armor and emblems,
he could tell:

Goethe’s mages and knights,
imperial soldiers,
the Second Prince’s forces…

The estate lay in ruin.
Furniture shattered everywhere.
Windows completely broken.
The great hall—once magnificent—had collapsed beyond recognition.

“…Do you remember, Jonas? When sunlight passed through the stained glass here… it was beautiful.”

He murmured hoarsely.

“…It’s snowing.”

A desolate ruin without even a roof.
Snow fell quietly over it.

Each breath came out in white vapor.
The cold pierced his bones.

“Huff… huff…”

Isaac tried to dig into the frozen ground with his bare hands,
but it was impossible.

That winter—
was colder than any he had ever endured.

The old man survived, scraping together even rotten crumbs of bread,
waiting for spring.

—

Another year passed.

Spring came.
The ground thawed.

Isaac was finally able to bury Jonas in the family graveyard.

And now—
he, too, could rest.

Fwoosh—

A tiny flame appeared in his hand.

Faint. Fragile.
As if it might go out at any moment.

“…Do you see, Jonas? At last… at last, I’ve reached it.”

The old man reached out, touching the soil—
where his brother lay.

“…Now… I can rest too, can’t I? Now… now… I…”

His voice broke.

“…Will I be forgiven… even a little?”

Drip.

Spring rain began to fall.

It tapped gently against the old man’s back—
like someone patting him softly.

You’ve done well. You’ve endured enough.

As if comforting him.

Clink.

The rune stone that had allowed him to overcome his condition
shattered, its purpose fulfilled.

The faint flame still flickered at his fingertips.

The old man smiled faintly.

At last—

He could end his life without regret.

A quiet joy filled his face.

Shhhhhh—

But it did not last.

The heavy rain washed away his smile.
The flame flickered out.

Frozen corpses thawed and began to rot.
Flies gathered.
Crows cried from all around, seeking shelter from the rain.

No one remained to bury him beside his family.

No one at all.

He was alone.

He would die alone.

Beasts and monsters, drawn by the scent of decay, would come.
They would ravage this place.
And he too—like the corpses around him—
would become rotting carrion.

“…Ah.”

His fading gaze drifted upward.

A butterfly fluttered aimlessly,
searching for shelter from the spring shower.

Its wings trembled.

At last, it settled upon the pommel of the sword Valerich,
planted in the grave.

Its wings were getting wet.

And suddenly—

Like a bolt of lightning—

Reality struck him.

Goethe no longer existed.
His family was gone.
There was nothing left.

He was alone.

He would die alone.

“…How fleeting.”

The old man thought—

If only he had been faster.
If only he hadn’t spent so long in despair.

Would this landscape of blood and ash
have been different?

He shook his head.

It was too late.

The rain soon stopped.

Golden sunlight poured over the gray ruins.

Spring light.

Drowsiness overcame him.

He dreamed.

“…Did you have a bad dream?”

In the dream, Hans asked with a worried expression.
His leg was splinted, leaning on a crutch.

It was the past.

A very distant past.

A day he longed for.