Chapter 32

Preparation (1)

As always, the soldiers of the camp began their dawn with physical training.
It had been some time since the training routine was implemented, and the soldiers seemed to have adapted to it to some extent.
But today, for some reason, the formation kept breaking.

“One, one, one! Stay in formation, stay in formation!”

No matter how loudly Carlson shouted, it was useless.

The reason was Isaac.

The soldiers, trying to protect their own lives, subtly edged farther away from him.
It looked ridiculous—grown soldiers keeping their distance from a mere twelve-year-old boy—but no one pointed it out.
Pride wasn’t more important than survival.

When news of what happened in the Baitur village spread through Günter,
no one believed it at first.
They assumed he was exaggerating.

But once the soldiers began visiting Besimer one by one to confirm the truth, the camp was thrown into chaos.
Rumors were pieced together, twisted, and exaggerated.

Now, among the soldiers, Isaac was being called the “Frost Demon.”

“My lord, perhaps you should run a little farther away.”
“Very well.”

Isaac replied in a dry tone and moved about twenty paces away from the formation.

“Haah… haah… Young master… you’ve, ngh… come…”

As always, Hans was running far behind the main group.
It had been some time—he should have built some stamina by now.
But he was still struggling.

“I’m fine… ngh… of course… who do you think I am—urk—”

Hans promptly vomited bitter fluid.

“You’ll die at this rate.”
“I’m… fine… blegh…”
“Why don’t you head back to the estate?”
“Absolutely not. I’m not going back.”

Despite Isaac’s cold tone, Hans responded with firm resolve.

Only after the sun had fully risen did the first training session end.

“One hour break. Then we move to combat training. Dismiss!”

Carlson’s voice rang out powerfully.
Despite running alongside the soldiers, he showed no sign of fatigue.

The soldiers shook their heads or muttered curses as they dispersed to their tents.
Even an hour of rest or sleep was necessary to endure the next session.
Complaints were not permitted.

Those who defied orders were beaten and confined behind bars.

“Will you be training with us again today?”
“Of course.”
“Aren’t you overdoing it?”
“I have to. Why? Because everything falls apart when I join?”
“That’s part of it. But honestly, the intensity is too much for you. Didn’t you injure your wrist yesterday?”
“Are you worried about me?”
“I’m worried about myself. You need to be in good shape so you can help me when it matters.”
“I’m trying to get better right now. I’ll rest in the tent, so go call Besimer.”
“He won’t come. You killed too many of his people. He’s barely suppressing his killing intent—why would he want to see you?”
“Tell him I’ll explain how to kill the Wolf King. Then he’ll come. Company commander—this is the commander’s order. Military orders must be followed, right?”

Isaac tapped Carlson’s arm a few times and headed toward his tent.

“At least wash up! You smell worse than Besimer!”

Isaac waved his hand dismissively at Carlson’s shout from behind.

“Ugh…”

As soon as he entered the tent, Isaac collapsed face-down onto the blanket.
His clothes, soaked and dried repeatedly with sweat, gave off a sour stench.

“This is lasting longer than expected. If I’d known, I would’ve broken it more moderately.”

At the moment he was surrounded by the Baitur and the wolves,
Isaac had been curious.

If he pushed himself to the limit—without completely breaking his vessel—
how much power could he produce?

But he had pushed too far.
Now it was taking a long time for his vessel to recover.

In the meantime, mana continuously leaked through the cracks,
and the onset of a mage’s depression had been delayed.

He hadn’t been conscious to confirm it himself,
but Hans and Günter’s testimony was enough.

A frost hell had descended across the entire Baitur village.

Besimer had counted over thirty frozen tribespeople.
And more than a dozen hell wolves.

Nearly fifty had died, frozen in an instant.

Because of that, Isaac couldn’t use magic at all for now.
To endure the mage’s depression, he forced himself to join the soldiers’ training.
Moving his body at least made him feel grounded in reality.

But the depression did not fade easily.

Powerlessness.
Emptiness.
Void.

Even after killing dozens, he felt no weight, no guilt.

Niers. Bishop Levonius.
Those he had killed—
was he any different from them?

Weren’t they all the same kind of monster?

Such hollow thoughts tormented Isaac day and night.

Above all, the whisper of fate—that he would continue to witness such deaths—unsettled him deeply.
It felt as though something human inside him was slowly eroding.

“Damn it.”

Isaac shook his head and forced himself up.

He drew his sword from its scabbard lying on the ground and began sharpening it with a whetstone.
Simple, repetitive tasks were good for clearing the mind.

Shrrk, shrrk.

He sharpened the blade.

Inhale.
Exhale.
Inhale.
Exhale.

The noise in his head gradually quieted.

With each breath, he could feel the flow of mana resonating within his vessel.

‘Still the same…’

He sensed frost mana circulating through his mana circuits.

During the explosion, the frost mana core had already shattered into pieces.
And yet, the density of frost mana within his vessel remained unchanged.

It was strange.

Was his vessel generating frost mana on its own?

That thought led to a hypothesis.

Perhaps, by using his unique condition—mana rampage—
he could bind the properties of special mana stones to his vessel in the future.

If that were possible,
Isaac could absorb rare mana stones and drastically accelerate the manifestation of various types of magic.

‘If only I could get through this damned depression…’

A mage’s depression was essentially a defensive mechanism.
If a mage forced themselves to use magic while mentally unstable, their mind could collapse entirely.
To prevent that, the “well” acted as a safeguard.

A kind of warning signal born from a mage’s survival instinct.

Until that signal ended,
all he could do was endure the impatience and discomfort.

“Did you call for me?”

Besimer’s voice came from outside the tent.

‘That one’s pretty deep in depression too.’

Contrary to his first impression—when he had burst into mad laughter while slaughtering the hell wolves—Besimer’s voice was low and subdued.

“Yeah, come in.”

Isaac spoke while continuing to move his hand, still gripping the whetstone.

“You’re quite skilled at sharpening a blade.”
“I’ve gotten used to it since coming here.”
“I heard you know how to kill the Wolf King.”
“I do.”
“Then speak.”
“Sit down first. You’re making me uncomfortable.”

Besimer was so tall that even the tent ceiling was low for him.
He stood with his head slightly bowed.

“It’s fine. It’s not a long story that needs sitting.”
“It is. Sit.”

“… ”

With an unwilling expression, Besimer finally sat down.

“Keep it brief. I don’t have much patience to spare for you.”
“We’re going to lure the Wolf King to the camp.”
“And how exactly do you plan to lure him?”
“You’re here, aren’t you?”
“…?”

“You any good at acting?”

***

“Your arm’s wide open.”
“Your head’s wide open.”
“Agh!”

Hans could do nothing but scream as Isaac’s wooden sword struck again and again.
If he blocked here, it came from there.
If he defended there, it came from the other side.

It seemed like Isaac would strike one way—only to strike another.

As always, Hans was the punching bag.

“Take it easy, young master. If not Hans, you don’t have anyone suitable to spar with.”

During combat training, no one wanted to spar with Isaac.
So for the entire session, Hans remained his only opponent.

After training hours, Carlson sometimes sparred with Isaac,
but during training, he was too busy instructing the other soldiers.

“You learn by getting hit. Hans, get up.”
“Ugh… yes, young master…”

The gap between Isaac and Hans was overwhelming.

Even though Isaac was only twelve,
the nearly ten years he had spent underground learning swordsmanship from Lucas had not gone anywhere.

In terms of build and strength, Hans had the advantage—
but it wasn’t enough to overcome the difference in skill.

“Block—”

“Agh!”
“Ugh!”

Hans’s screams echoed throughout the entire sparring session.

***

“So, will Besimer do it?”

After combat training ended, Carlson asked.

“He said he’ll think about it—but he’ll do it.”
“That’s basically tricking his own father into death.”
“Exactly. That’s why he needs to end that cursed tie this time.”

The fragments of Vinfeltro’s history Isaac had pieced together with Carlson, along with Besimer’s testimony—
once assembled, they revealed what had happened thirteen years ago, when the Baitur took center stage.

At the time, the Goethe family had been fully focused on repelling invasions from tribes beyond the frontier.
Then, the previous Count Goethe died of an endemic disease and sepsis.

It seemed like a major crisis for Goethe,
but the tribes weren’t in a good position either.

Exhausted from long conflict, more tribes began to desire peace.
At the forefront was the Granak tribe—the largest and strongest among them.

Coincidentally, after the previous Count’s death, the Granak chieftain was also mortally wounded fighting magical beasts.
Fearing for his tribe’s future, he proposed marriage between his daughter and the new Count Goethe.

The new count, lacking better options, accepted.
Many tribes followed suit and made peace with Goethe.

However, some warlike minority tribes opposed the peace.
Among them, the most vehement were the Baitur.

They refused to forget the blood their kin had shed at Goethe’s hands.

But the tide had already turned.
The minority tribes alone were not enough to defeat Goethe.

Cornered and facing their final battle,
the Baitur made a desperate choice.

They used a forbidden ritual—beastification—
to transform their warriors into wolves.

The stronger the warrior, the stronger the wolf.

For a time, they achieved victory after victory.

But forbidden magic always comes with a price.

Those transformed could never return to human form.
Their reason was gradually consumed by their rising instincts—they became demonic beasts.

However, the Baitur chieftain—
possessing an exceptionally strong soul—retained his reason.

That was the silver wolf.

The Wolf King.

He was the only control over the hell wolves.
By the laws of the wild, he suppressed them through sheer strength.

Conversely—
if he disappeared, the hell wolves would become nothing more than ordinary beasts.

***

“But will the Wolf King really act as you expect?”
“According to Besimer, the Wolf King had dozens of chances to kill him—but let him live every time. If he still recognizes his son, he’ll move as expected.”
“Then it’s worth trying. But we’ll lose quite a few soldiers.”
“…That’s your job—to minimize those losses. Better than getting wiped out by a legion of hell wolves.”

Besimer had already tried chasing the Wolf King for over a decade.
Every attempt ended in failure, with heavy casualties.

But they couldn’t just keep preparing forever.
As time passed, the number of hell wolves would only grow.
The Baitur prophet would see to that.

Isaac wiped the sweat from his chin and looked up at the sky.
The weather had been gloomy since yesterday.

It weighed on his mind.
But what must happen will happen.
And what must be done must be done.

“So it all comes down to Besimer’s decision.”
“That’s right.”

At that moment, from one corner of the training ground, a large man approached Isaac.

In one hand, he held a double-edged axe.
Its pitch-black blade and the amber gem embedded in the butt looked valuable at a glance.

His imposing presence alone made the soldiers instinctively step back.
Even Carlson moved slightly in front of Isaac, placing a hand on his sword hilt.

The man stopped right in front of Isaac.

“I’ll do it.”

Besimer said.