Chapter 47
The Heir of the Goethe Family
Isaac was running.
Whether the estate soldiers wanted to train with him or not,
he never neglected his physical conditioning after returning to the estate.
Part of it was to conceal his magical talent while presenting his swordsmanship to the outside world.
But that wasn’t the only reason.
It was also to preserve his identity as a mage.
***
Magic is infinite.
The more one explores it, the more familiar concepts become strange,
and one is constantly driven to surpass their limits to reach the next stage.
The realm a mage desires always lies far away—
a distant, faintly glowing blue point.
An endlessly blue point.
And it is always out of reach.
***
That is why the end of most mages who devote their lives to magic is rarely a good one.
They lose their grasp on reality, fall into despair, or take their own lives.
Compared to the infinite world of magic,
a human mage is weak, finite, and insignificant.
Novice mages may act like enlightened sages,
but the more one understands magic, the more they are consumed by emptiness.
***
And so—
Isaac ran.
To avoid madness.
To keep from falling into nihilism.
To stay grounded in reality.
In the end, it all came down to physical strength.
Build the body, and the mind will follow.
***
Clank—
Clank—
From the basket on his back came the constant sound of metal colliding—iron chunks and steel swords.
It wasn’t just filled with stones anymore.
It was packed entirely with metal.
Even so, Isaac ran at the very front,
the distance between him and the estate soldiers growing wider with every step.
***
To be honest, beyond all those reasons, Isaac simply enjoyed running.
The sense of freedom and liberation granted by his powerful body was overwhelming for someone who had spent his entire previous life confined underground.
Even carrying such heavy iron weights, he did not tire.
The air filling his lungs was no longer the stale underground air,
but the fresh air of early summer.
Beyond the trail, he saw not the ruined Goethe estate—but one that still stood strong.
The groans of the soldiers trailing behind echoed here and there,
but Isaac didn’t hear them.
***
“…That lunatic…”
The soldiers nearly cursed the young master aloud.
In truth, they were already hurling every insult they could think of in their minds.
Isaac, running wildly at his own pace without regard for the others, was only draining their motivation.
At first, when they still had strength, they could curse and push themselves forward out of stubbornness.
But only for a while.
Soon their breath caught in their throats, their hearts pounded as if they would burst, and their vision blurred.
At that point, they could think of nothing at all—
except for the hope that this hellish training would end soon.
***
Meanwhile, Isaac himself gave no thought to the soldiers.
He couldn’t.
As he immersed himself in the new life he had been given—something unimaginable in his previous life—
memories of that past began to surface.
And alongside them, visions of what was to come.
Before he knew it, his mind was filled with Bern.
***
The fragmented history Jonas had told him,
and the records of past generations his father had once given him in his previous life—
He had read those records in search of a way to overcome his peculiar condition,
to understand Zik von Goethe.
The book detailed the family’s history from the time Goethe had been driven to the frontier.
Isaac had read it over and over.
It had been a gift from his father, who foresaw the family’s downfall and his son’s death.
A father who pitied his son’s life of confinement, and yet chose to respect the path his son had chosen.
***
According to those records,
this year would bring great change to the city of Bern.
A century ago, after Zik von Goethe burned the royal capital, two restrictions were imposed on the Goethe family:
- A ban on commercial activity
- A ban on military expansion
Because of this, Goethe could neither collect taxes from merchants nor increase its forces.
The only funds it received came from royal stipends.
***
Ironically, this led to an unexpected result.
Merchants flocked to the region,
as profits from trade increased without taxation.
A city began to form.
Refugees and vagrants gathered as well.
There was no shortage of work—whether labor or prostitution.
A massive city rose in the barren north,
and with it, an equally massive underground economy.
A black market was born.
***
Marquis Dietrich, appointed as the northern inspector with the backing of the Second Prince,
used the black market—its weapons, drugs, slaves, and counterfeit currency—as leverage to threaten the Count.
The Count himself had neither participated in nor profited from the market.
On the contrary, he had tried to suppress it.
But that didn’t matter to Dietrich.
Weapons and counterfeit money could be framed as treason.
Slave trade could be framed as inciting conflict with tribal peoples.
The Count could not ignore the threat.
In the end, Bern was granted autonomy according to Dietrich’s demands.
***
The Marquis joined hands with the city’s mayor, a powerful merchant named Varis,
and opened a massive free market.
Magic stones, magical items, weapons, drugs, slaves, counterfeit money—
anything could be bought and sold, regardless of whether one was a commoner, noble, royal, or rebel.
Their goal was clear:
To create the greatest free trade city in the kingdom—
to become the continent’s vault, wielding wealth that none could ignore.
The Second Prince supported them,
the mayor controlled the black market,
and a rising faction known as Weissman provided military power.
***
Even the Niers organization, now led by Bill, had been pushed aside by Weissman.
It was said they had more than five mana-wielding swordsmen—
far beyond ordinary gangs or mercenaries.
Thus, Bern entered a golden age.
Its annual revenue surpassed Goethe’s decade-long budget.
But it didn’t last.
***
Powerful figures began eyeing Bern.
The Second Prince’s influence weakened.
The nobility saw the uncontrolled city as a thorn in their side.
As profits grew, conflict between the Marquis and the mayor intensified.
Eventually—
Civil war broke out.
Merchants fled,
mercenaries bled endlessly in the streets,
and Bern was consumed by flames.
It never regained its former glory.
Just like Goethe.
***
‘To break this chain of disaster… where should I begin?’
Having returned to the training grounds first, Isaac crouched on the dirt, drawing diagrams with a stick, lost in thought about how to save Bern.
The triangle he needed to break was clear:
- Marquis Dietrich, backed by the Second Prince
- Varis, who controlled the merchants
- Weissman, who commanded overwhelming force
Facing all three at once was impossible for Goethe.
So—he would have to create cracks between them.
Were they truly united?
Or merely opportunists bound together by convenience?
***
“Young master…”
While Isaac was deep in thought,
the captain of the guard approached him with a stiff expression.
“Hmm?”
“If it’s alright… could we request another sparring session today?”
It wasn’t dissatisfaction—it was tension.
The captain watched Isaac carefully.
“I’d only get in your way.”
“No. Though it was only one day, we learned a great deal. Training only among ourselves… we were like fish in a pond. If possible, we would like to learn from you while you remain here.”
“…You’re serious?”
Isaac looked at the captain, then at the soldiers behind him.
There was no malice in their expressions.
“P-please!”
“Please, young master!”
“…Hmm.”
Isaac brushed away the diagram he had drawn in the dirt with his boot.
It wasn’t a bad idea.
Compared to Lucas or Carlson from his previous life, their swordsmanship was nothing extraordinary.
But they were still useful—for keeping his skills sharp, and for turning experience into real combat sense.
“Alright.”
“Thank you!”
The soldiers’ faces lit up.
They’re that happy…?
Isaac smirked slightly.
This truly was Goethe.
Though renowned as a family of mages,
its true nature was not that of scholars—but warriors.
Part of it was due to their blood mingling with frontier tribes.
But even from the earliest generations, the heads of the house had been the same.
Even his father, Helmut von Goethe,
spent more time in Winterband defending the territory than pursuing magical research.
Patrols. Training. Battle.
That was the nature of the Goethe family.
***
“Come at me.”
Isaac stepped into the center of the training ground, wooden sword in hand.
The soldiers’ heated gazes gathered on him.
The atmosphere was completely different from yesterday.
Yesterday, they had thought the young master—barely able to handle himself—was simply putting on airs after returning from Vinfelt.
But after more than a dozen soldiers had been defeated one after another, they had no choice but to acknowledge it.
Within the body of this young master—who had returned grown—flowed the blood of Goethe.
Even if his mage’s heart was broken, his warrior’s heart was alive and beating.
***
“I’ll go first.”
A soldier stepped forward.
It was the same veteran who had lost his grip on his wooden sword after having his wrist twisted the day before.
Dark circles hung beneath his eyes, as if he hadn’t slept.
Yet his gaze burned brightly.
“I let my guard down yesterday. It won’t be so easy today.”
“I’m looking forward to it. Come.”
“Haah!”
With a shout, the soldier thrust his wooden sword forward.
A clean, flawless strike.
Tak—
Isaac deflected the blade aimed at his neck.
The soldier stepped back to regain balance, then thrust again.
Tak—
Deflected once more, he shifted diagonally and aimed for Isaac’s arm with a slash.
Isaac caught it, gripping both ends of his wooden sword to block.
***
‘Not bad.’
Isaac was quietly impressed.
Unlike yesterday—when he had easily given up distance and been caught in sword wrestling—
today the soldier maintained distance and waited for an opening.
He had no intention of being grabbed or engaging in a contest of strength.
But… you’re too focused on one thing.
It was good that he focused on Isaac’s hands to maintain distance.
But in doing so, he failed to notice Isaac’s footwork.
***
Tap—tap!
This time, Isaac swung his sword twice—horizontally and vertically—closing the distance.
The soldier retreated, deflecting the strikes.
Then—
Isaac stepped in half a beat faster and struck the soldier’s front leg with the top of his foot.
Focused solely on distance, the soldier lost his balance and collapsed.
He hadn’t even thought to react.
In the blink of an eye, Isaac’s wooden sword was at his throat.
***
“That was clever. Though you ended up falling into your own trap.”
Isaac extended a hand.
The soldier laughed bitterly, took it, and stood up.
“It won’t be easy tomorrow.”
“Good.”
***
“I’m next!”
Before the first challenger had even stepped back, the next soldier shouted.
His eyes, too, shone with determination.
“…I lost.”
“Not bad. Strengthen your lower body a bit more.”
***
It was a strange sight.
On the battlefield, there was no order—only the stronger survived.
Yet here, veteran soldiers were being instructed by a twelve-year-old boy.
It defied common sense.
But precisely because they were veterans, they could immediately grasp Isaac’s level.
They could see how much they could learn from sparring with him—
how refined his movements and techniques were.
These soldiers had seen the world.
They knew how often the unexpected occurred.
They understood that there existed realms beyond their own knowledge.
That was why they set aside their pride and age—
and chose to respect Isaac’s strength and learn from it.
***
“Haha… those movements are unbelievable.”
The final challenger was the captain of the guard.
Having observed yesterday’s sparring, he had clearly prepared countermeasures.
Instead of just a wooden sword, he carried both a wooden sword and a wooden shield,
focusing more on counterattacks than offense.
To someone obsessed with chivalry, it might have looked cowardly.
But the eyes peering over the edge of his shield were enough to send a chill down Isaac’s spine.
He treated this not as sparring—but as real combat.
Because of that, he lasted longer than anyone else.
True to his position, he approached the duel with utmost seriousness.
But the result was the same.
In focusing too much on finding opportunities to counter,
he paid too much attention to Isaac’s movements.
Fixated on Isaac’s rhythmic attacks,
he fell for a single irregular variation.
***
“Was that feint intentional from the start?”
“The shield was troublesome. I just thought about how to make you lower it yourself.”
“…Impressive.”
The captain spoke sincerely.
How could someone so young—
someone who had never properly learned swordsmanship, let alone fought real battles—
fight while thinking?
Even among the estate soldiers, most became consumed by the sensations of combat:
The sting of impact when blades clashed.
The chill when an opening was exploited.
The pain of being struck.
The exhilaration of landing a hit.
Overwhelmed by those sensations, they stopped thinking.
That was why they trained daily—
to make their bodies move without thought.
Because the moment one is overwhelmed by combat, thinking ceases.
***
And yet—
Isaac, who was at a disadvantage in both physique and experience,
fought while thinking.
Yesterday, they had been shocked by his strength and tribal-like combat style.
Today, they were astonished by how he approached battle itself.
***
“What’s so impressive? To me, magic and swordsmanship are the same in a fight.
Dodge, block, attack, deceive.
That’s how you win.”
“Haha… is that so?”
The captain let out a small laugh.
But it soon turned into a genuine smile.
***
“I believe I misjudged you, young master.”
“How so?”
“I thought you were nothing like His Lordship… but in truth, you resemble him more than anyone.”
“…Do I?”
“Yes. Without a doubt. You were born with the blood of Goethe.”
“…Jonas suits that better than I do.”
Isaac shook his head.
***
“No. It was we who failed to see it.
You are indeed the rightful heir of Goethe.”
“That’s right!”
The soldiers, still burning with the heat of battle, spoke in unison.
Their faces were filled with expectation for Isaac’s future.
But Isaac did not share their expression.
Instead—
A dark shadow passed over his face.