Chapter 51

A Highly Likely Future

Isaac’s ultra-long-range magic had succeeded.
Most likely, the ice shard had pierced through Varis’s left eye and reached his brain.
From this distance, it was impossible to confirm, but news of Varis’s fate would arrive soon enough.
Even if he somehow survived, he wouldn’t be able to function as a proper human being—and it would serve as a sufficient warning to those who coveted another’s city.

Isaac staggered to his feet.
There wasn’t a trace of strength left in his body.
As he descended the spiral staircase of the bell tower, he nearly missed his footing and tumbled several times.
If he fell down those railing-less stairs, he might end up following Varis in death.
Barely managing to steady himself against the wall, Isaac continued downward.
Each step felt as if he were about to fall.

“Whew.”

At last, reaching the ground, Isaac paused and let out a sigh of relief.

Then he headed toward the chapel.

On one of the pews, Bill was fast asleep, still in the exact same position as before Isaac had climbed the tower.

“Hey. Hey.”

Isaac nudged the drowsing Bill with his foot.

“Huh—uh… yes? What is it?”

Bill jerked awake, wiping the dried drool from around his mouth.

“Let’s go.”

“...What? Varis… the as—”

Bill quickly lowered his voice, afraid someone might overhear.

“The assassination?”

“It’s done.”

Leaving those words behind, Isaac calmly walked out of the church.

“W-What do you mean, it’s done?”
“You’ll find out soon enough.”

Panting as he hurried after Isaac, Bill noticed something strange about the atmosphere in the streets.

Even as the dawn rooster crowed, the city guards were moving about in a flurry.

“No way…”

While Isaac, hood pulled low, walked ahead in the distance, Bill grabbed a guard he recognized.
It was one he had often bribed generously whenever he saw him on bridge duty.

“Jerome.”

“Bill? You’re alive? I thought those Weissman bastards had killed you.”
“Do I look that easy to kill? Why’s everyone so busy this early?”
“Later.”

The guard tried to push Bill away and rejoin the formation.
But Bill grabbed him again and slipped him three copper coins.

“Ah… I’m not supposed to talk about it…”

The guard glanced around nervously.

Bill added two more coins.

The guard then pulled Bill into a nearby alley.
He checked several times to make sure no one was around.

“You’re going to die of curiosity at this rate. What, you planning to tell your great-grandkids? Just spit it out already.”

Bill grew impatient at his excessive caution.

“The mayor’s dead. His left eye was completely pierced through. It went straight into his brain. He died instantly. There were several guards rotating shifts nearby, and servants coming and going—yet it still happened.”

Bill’s mouth slowly fell open.

“The funny thing is, nobody knows what killed him. A huge amount of blood and brain matter came out of the hole, but the only foreign object found was… a single strand of straw. We’re jokingly calling it the ‘straw murder case’…”

Eager to make the five coins worth it, the guard spilled everything he knew.
But at some point, Bill stopped hearing his voice.

His body went cold, as if doused in icy water.

There was no doubt Isaac had done it.
But how he had done it was beyond imagination.

Had a god truly answered Isaac’s prayer?

Lost in wild speculation, Bill left the alley and hurried after Isaac.

***

Early dawn.

Carlson packed his belongings in the guest room.

He had stayed longer than expected.

He had come partly to carry out Isaac’s orders, and partly to look after Randolph’s bereaved family.
But in truth, it felt as though he had enjoyed several days of proper rest.

That was likely thanks to Mrs. Randolph’s upright and kind nature.
The children took after her as well.
Perhaps people really did gather with those like themselves.
Randolph had been that kind of man too.

Mrs. Randolph had sold part of the land granted by the count and opened an inn in Bernsi.
Though newly established—and more expensive than others—it quickly gained popularity.

Most inns crammed straw beds across entire floors to accommodate as many guests as possible.
But here, private rooms were provided.

The bedding was clean as well.
To Carlson, who had only ever stayed in flea-infested inns, these beds were excessively pristine.
There was no foul odor of mixed bodily fluids and old fabric, and the blankets and pillows carried the scent of wildflowers.

The food was excellent too.
Instead of the usual perpetual stew made by tossing in leftover scraps, proper meals were made from fresh ingredients.

All of it was made possible by sufficient funds and the lady’s diligence.
Though it was still dim outside, signs of busy movement could already be heard from the first floor.

As always, the lady and her servants were hard at work—cleaning floors, wiping tables and chairs, gathering used bedding to wash at the stream, and preparing simple meals.
Even the children, who woke earlier than Carlson, were helping.
Randolph’s children were likely more diligent than the soldiers of the Vinfelt garrison.

“You’re awake?”

“Yes.”

Carlson answered briefly.

“Where are you going?”

Wolfgang, Randolph’s eldest, spoke as he saw Carlson preparing his scabbard and gear.

“I’ve stayed longer than expected. Time to head back.”

Today might become a turning point in Carlson’s life.

Isaac had said he would assassinate Mayor Varis before sunset.
Not merely kill him—but kill him without the victim ever realizing Isaac’s presence.

Was such a thing possible?

Carlson knew Isaac was hiding his magical abilities—and that they far surpassed those of mediocre noble mages.
But he didn’t know to what extent.
He could only vaguely infer from the incident where Isaac had turned a bishop to ashes.

Whether Isaac succeeded or failed wasn’t what mattered to Carlson.
What mattered was which path would best serve his revenge if Isaac failed.

That thought had kept him awake most of the night.

“You’re leaving already, mister?”

The second son, Hermann, looked visibly disappointed.

Wolfgang, ten. Hermann, nine.

“You didn’t even properly teach us swordsmanship.”

“As I said—you still have choices.”

Carlson placed his hands on their shoulders.

Randolph had often described himself as a man bound by obligations.
When drunk, he would imagine a life where he had never sworn loyalty to the count.

A life of crossing continents freely, walking along the seas.
He once said that if he were reborn, he would become a merchant.
When he had boarded a galley ship to escort a diplomat, he had realized for the first time how small the kingdom was—and how vast the world truly was.
He didn’t want his children to live bound as he had.

A man who hardly seemed like a company commander—or even a knight.

“I want to protect Count Goethe like Father did.”

“Wolfgang, Hermann. Stop bothering him and come help.”

Their mother called out.

“Yes!”

Hermann ran off immediately, but Wolfgang remained, looking at Carlson.

“I know… it sounds ridiculous. Someone like me can’t become like Father. I don’t have the talent.”

During his stay, Carlson had taught the boys the basics of swordsmanship.

Unfortunately, neither showed much talent.
Even with grueling effort, reaching Randolph’s level would be difficult.

Yet Wolfgang, only ten, understood his own limitations.

“But I still want to live honorably, like Father.”

His eyes resembled Randolph’s.

Carlson suddenly had a thought—
If Isaac’s assassination failed and revenge became uncertain, perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad to stay here, work at the inn, and teach the children swordsmanship.
And if one of them became a merchant, maybe he could follow along as a mercenary, traveling the world.
Perhaps dying that way would at least allow him to face Randolph without shame.

It was, of course, a meaningless hypothetical.

Carlson spoke.

“Wolfgang. Your father wanted Hermann to see a wider world. Count Goethe is a man worth following, and becoming his knight would be honorable. But your father longed for freedom his entire time in Winterband.”

“Father did?”

“Whatever you choose, I know you’ll succeed. But walking the path your father couldn’t—the one he wished for—isn’t that honorable too?”

Wolfgang’s eyes wavered.

“Wolfgang! What are you doing?”

His mother called again.

“Thank you, sir.”

Nodding as if he had made a decision, Wolfgang ran toward the kitchen.

Carlson did not leave the inn immediately.
His path was not yet decided.

He sat in a corner of the first floor, drinking honeyed water.

He was waiting.

If, by sunset, no news of Varis’s death arrived…
Or if Varis died but Isaac was named as the assassin—

Carlson would leave at once for Vinfelt.
He would gather the rest of his belongings, cross the Black Forest, and head to the port city of Oton.
There, he would gather information on his enemy, Viscount Botmer, before heading to his domain.

Carlson pondered what Isaac would do if the assassination failed.

No matter how he thought about it, the odds of success were low.
No matter how talented Isaac was—even if he was a genius—he was still only twelve.
He had not been raised as an assassin, nor did he possess any innate gift for it.

His talent existed only within the realm of magic.
Magic could certainly be used as a means of assassination—but magical talent could not be converted into the talent of an assassin.

That was why Carlson felt it far more productive to plan for Isaac’s failure than to consider what to do if he succeeded.

“Is your hangover bad? Shall I get you another cup of honeyed water?”

Mrs. Randolph asked, having mistaken Carlson’s deep thoughts for a headache from drinking.

“No, I’m fine. Just a glass of water, please.”
“Of course. Please wait a moment—oh, welcome! Ah, did your deal go well?”

She greeted a group of foreign merchants entering the inn.
They were traders scheduled to leave Bernsi that day, having visited their clients early in the morning.
But their expressions were far from cheerful.

“The deal fell through.”
“Didn’t you find a fur merchant you liked?”

At her question, their faces darkened further.

“Furs weren’t our main trade this time. We only intended to try supplying them since we heard the quality here was good. We didn’t have enough capital, so we asked a wealthy man here to act as our guarantor. His fees were high, but he was influential and reputable enough to back a large sum.”

“Did he refuse?”

“No. We secured the guarantee document from him yesterday. But as of this morning… it’s useless.”

“What? Why?”

“Because the guarantor is dead.”

“What?”

Mrs. Randolph’s voice rose in shock.

“It’s absurd. How does the mayor of a city this large—guarded by so many soldiers—end up dead in his own residence?”

Crrrk—!

At those words, Carlson unconsciously pushed back his chair and stood up.

“Carlson?”

Mrs. Randolph looked at him, puzzled.

“Have they discovered why he was killed—or who did it?”

Carlson asked urgently.

“No… unfortunately not. They say his eye was pierced, but no one knows what caused it.”

“…I see.”

“Did you also ask the mayor to act as your guarantor?”
“…Something like that.”

Carlson let out a hollow laugh.

In truth, the mayor’s death itself had become a kind of guarantee—
a guarantee that following Isaac would not be a mistake.

“I should get going.”

He hurried out of the inn.

“Carlson, what about breakfast?”

Mrs. Randolph called after him.

“I’m fine.”

“Wait just a moment.”

Outside, the streets were in turmoil.
Word of the mayor’s death had already spread, and passersby were talking about it everywhere—
divine punishment, financial losses, what would happen to the merchants’ council—endless speculation.

“I packed some bread and cheese for you.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“Please, think of it as our way of saying thanks. Because of you, the children seem to have found some closure regarding Randolph. Thank you for telling us about him… for remembering him kindly… as a man of integrity…”

“There’s no need to thank me. That’s simply the kind of man Randolph was.”

Carlson avoided her reddened eyes.

Randolph could have lived.
If Carlson had fought with everything he had.
If he hadn’t made a strategic choice for the sake of revenge.
If he hadn’t considered the risk of the enemy escaping and exposing his abilities.

If not for those things, Randolph’s family would still be living peacefully in their domain.

“The children must have bothered you, didn’t they? Boys that age need someone to look up to. Randolph himself chose to serve in Winterband because he admired the count when he was young.”

At her words, Carlson suddenly recalled something—
what Günter had once asked of him in Vinfelt.

That the tribal children needed someone to guide them.
Was that supposed to be him?
Could he really be that person?

At least for the tribal children of Vinfelt, he didn’t need to be.
He owed them nothing.

But the mercenary code Carlson had learned from his father applied to children as well.
And because of that, he had a responsibility to be that guiding figure—for Randolph’s children.

“Here.”

Carlson untied the scabbard from his waist and handed it to Mrs. Randolph.
The sword inside had rusted and chipped since his battle with the Wolf King.
He had originally intended to sell it cheaply at a smithy and buy a new one.
To him, it held no value.
But to the children, it might mean something.

“Why are you giving this…?”
“Whether it’s Wolfgang or Hermann… if either of them chooses this path, tell them to take this sword and…”

Carlson hesitated for a moment.

By the time those children grew up—
would he have achieved his revenge?

Would he even still be alive?

And if both were true, where would he be?
Would he return to Winterband?

Would he be guarding Count Goethe’s lands?

At that moment, Carlson envisioned the most likely future.

“Tell them to come find me in the village of Vinfelt.”

“Vinfelt…? Isn’t that just a barren wasteland?”

“By the time they’re grown, there’ll be a village there. A rather good place to live.”

Without a trace of doubt, Carlson answered and began walking.

He now had something he needed to do.