Chapter 52

Admiration and Envy

Carlson headed first to the Merchants’ Council building.

The area in front was crowded with merchants.
Their mood was no different from that at Mrs. Randolph’s inn.
The mayor’s death seemed to have caused considerable losses, and every face was filled with gloom.
Some argued heatedly about countermeasures and responsibility, but with no idea who the assassin was, there was little they could do beyond shouting.

“What exactly have you done…”

Carlson muttered as he walked through the noisy crowd.

It wasn’t just the merchants—unease and fear were visible among the citizens as well.
An old priest took advantage of the situation, preaching about evil and urging faith.
Street peddlers sold cheap daggers, insisting people must protect themselves.
Even off-duty guards had been mobilized; far more of them roamed the streets than usual.
They were questioning people near the mayor’s residence beside the council building.

Carlson asked around and found out where the inspector from the capital was staying.

Just knowing it was a high-class inn near the council building made it easy to locate.
Soldiers were swarming the area due to Mayor Varis’s death.

“I’ve come to see the marquis.”

“If you don’t want a blade in your gut, get lost.”

The soldier looked Carlson up and down and growled.

As expected, the inn blocked off by soldiers was impossible to enter.
But there was no need to personally deliver the parchment Isaac had given him.

“Then at least deliver this. It’s a message from Mayor Varis to the marquis.”
“What kind of nonsense is that?”
“If it becomes known that you didn’t deliver it, it won’t end well for you. You might miss a clue to the assassin.”
“…Give it here!”

The soldier snatched the parchment.
He unfolded it, but unable to read, he merely stared at it upside down before glancing back at Carlson.

“Who do I say it’s from?”
“It should be written there.”
“Stop that nonsense and come inside to explain it properly.”

“Grab him!”

The soldiers surrounding the inn rushed Carlson.
But they could neither catch nor pursue him.

“What the hell…!”

Carlson had already slipped through their encirclement and climbed the building wall, reaching the roof.

“You bastard! If we catch you, you’re dead!”

One enraged soldier shouted, but Carlson had already vanished beyond the rooftop.
A few soldiers tried to follow by climbing the window frames and ledges, but quickly slipped and fell, landing on their backsides.

“Idiots.”

In any case, Carlson’s suspicious behavior led the soldier to report the parchment to his superior.
From there, it passed to the marquis’s attendant—and finally, to the marquis himself.

***

The marquis, his mind tangled from Varis’s gruesome death, had been drinking wine in the arms of a high-class courtesan since morning.

The mayor’s position could always be filled by someone new.
But finding someone as sharp and influential as Varis would not be easy.

Even if such a person existed, building a relationship from scratch would take time and money.
More troubling, however, was the assassin.

The marquis was well-versed in the workings of assassination guilds within court politics, but he had never seen—or even heard of—such a method.
To be killed while surrounded by so many guards…
If such an assassin targeted him, he wouldn’t be safe either.

The thought sent a chill down his spine.

“A suspicious man left this note.”

Receiving the parchment from his attendant, the marquis read the elegant script written in the common tongue several times through his drunken haze.
From the refined handwriting, he assumed it was written by a noble—but he could not immediately grasp its meaning.

“This city is not your purse…? What is this supposed to mean?”

He paid no attention to the name written below—Isaac von Goethe.
He could not imagine that a frail child with a peculiar condition would dare such a thing, nor that such a child would understand the complexities of city affairs or commerce.

What mattered was the content of the note—
and the intention of whoever had dared to use the name of Count Goethe’s heir.

Still mulling over it, the marquis summoned his attendant again.

“Tell Weissman to meet me. I need to find out who’s trying to screw us over.”

***

After easily shaking off the pursuing soldiers, Carlson stopped by a smithy and bought a suitable sword and chain.
Then he headed to a brothel in the slums, as directed by a swordsman.

In a foul-smelling alley, he settled down and ate the bread and cheese Mrs. Randolph had given him.

Hungry beggars gathered around him, but each time, Carlson drew his sword.

Yet the beggars, already at rock bottom, did not retreat.
Instead, they pulled out their own blades.

Carlson cut them all down.

He didn’t kill them.
He left them wounded, bleeding from their limbs, to crawl away.

“You… devil…”

One injured beggar cursed him, but Carlson paid no mind.
With blood-stained hands, he calmly stuffed the remaining bread and cheese into his mouth.

Feeling thirsty, he entered the brothel.
He asked the prostitutes who swarmed him for a drink and downed a cup of sour wine.

It had gone bad—worthless as a product—but it was still served to satisfy customers’ vanity.

Carlson tossed each of the prostitutes a coin, laughing and idly passing the time.

It stirred old memories.

Growing up among prostitutes.
As a mercenary, masking the stench of death and blood beneath cheap perfume and powder.

To Carlson, such shabby brothels always felt like home.

Of course, he hadn’t come here for nostalgia.

“Well, well. The sixth blade of Bison finally graces us with his presence.”

The swordsman appeared, dressed in a way Carlson found deeply unpleasant.

The outfit—revealing the chest, shoulders, and back—was unmistakably a courtesan’s dress.
Yet it was worn by a burly, hairy man.

On top of that, he had thick makeup and powdered face.
Even so, a belt was strapped around his waist, with a sword hanging at his side.

“You’ve got quite the taste.”
“This? I wondered what it felt like to be a woman, so I tried it. It’s actually the clothes of a woman I killed. Makes it meaningful, you know? Like a ritual to remember her. Always is.”

Carlson showed no reaction.
Whether as a mercenary or in Winterband, he had seen countless madmen.

“But you… something’s different today.”

“Is that so?”
“Yeah. You look like someone who’s come to kill. Don’t tell me… it’s me?”

The swordsman stared straight at Carlson, already seeming to know the answer.

Concealing killing intent completely was still beyond Carlson.
Especially against someone like this.

“It is you, you freak.”

Carlson drew his sword and charged.

The swordsman drew his own in response.

Clang—!

Sparks flew.

***

[Do you know the difference between admiration and envy? Admiration is a pure emotion. It is respect and aspiration—an intense feeling that rises from deep within.]

[…But envy is filled with desire. It is the jealousy one feels when someone else possesses what they lack. It is the urge to take what another has.]

Isaac recalled a book he had read long ago.

It had been recommended by Lucas.

—Those who dream of becoming knights often say they admire knights. But in truth, they envy them. They covet what knights possess. More tragedies than you’d think arise from confusing admiration with envy.

Back then, Isaac hadn’t understood those words.
He hadn’t even tried to.

But now, he thought he did.

—Historically, kings who admired the achievements of their predecessors often made that mistake. They were dazzled by conquered lands, wealthy domains, and powerful armies—yet ignored the virtues and wisdom they should have learned. What they felt was envy.

—What’s the difference?

—For a time, the kingdom may grow stronger. That’s what they pursued, after all. But they never achieve the same stable rule or the people’s respect as the great kings before them. More often than not, it ends in rebellion… or a disgraceful death.

It was something Lucas had told him about ten years into his swordsmanship training in his previous life.
Even after nearly a decade of training, Isaac had never once gained the upper hand against Lucas.
His wooden sword had never even touched Lucas’s body.

Isaac realized he lacked talent—and gradually lost interest in training altogether.

—Young master, do not confuse admiration with envy. What you feel toward my swordsmanship is envy, not admiration. What you truly admire lies elsewhere, does it not?

What Isaac had admired back then—
was not swordsmanship.

He had never admired knights themselves.

What he admired was overcoming his unusual constitution through training—
tempering both mind and body—
becoming a pillar of his family,
and bringing peace to it.

That was no different from what he admired now.

The goodwill, recognition, respect, and affection of servants, soldiers, and those around him—
those might be objects of envy, but never of admiration.

His admiration lay in the peace of his family.
In the carefree smiles of those under his care.

Lucas, I think I’ll try to pursue true admiration this time. Though… I’m a bit tired.

Isaac pressed his index finger against his brow, then released it.

Reflected in his blue eyes was the face of a prisoner screaming in agony.
One of Weissman’s five swordsmen.

When the man had first been dragged in by Carlson, his bizarre outfit and missing front teeth had stood out.
Now, none of that mattered.

“Answer me. Who is Weissman’s leader? Where is he hiding?”
“Ghh—Aaaagh!”

Carlson tore out another of the prisoner’s fingernails.

Isaac felt no guilt.

After all, just this morning, he had killed Bernsi’s mayor, Varis.

And in that moment—he had trembled.

The sensation of mana coursing through his body had never been so vivid.
It didn’t feel like mana flowing—it felt like fire running through his blood, heating every vein.

It was not the thrill of killing.

It was the joy of achieving something unprecedented—
casting an ultra-long-range spell that did not exist even in the future he knew.

It was the exhilaration of pushing the narrow boundaries of human magic just a little further.

But the aftertaste was not sweet.

Because the proof of that magic’s success was someone’s death.

And so it would be in the future as well.
As human magic advanced rapidly, it would owe much to war and death.

Even so… this is still my path.

From the moment he returned to the past, it was a burden he had chosen to bear.
There was nothing new about it.

Whatever the price of this miracle was—if it was merely this weight on his conscience, it was trivial.

“F*** you, you bastards! Looks like this place is full of sick freaks worse than me!”
“One more. No need to be so clean about it.”
“Aaagh!”

In the underground prison of the estate,
the prisoner’s screams echoed beyond the walls, while disgust showed plainly on the guards’ faces.

Isaac presided over the torture.

“Young master, he won’t talk no matter what we do. Perhaps we should stop here… Acting like this without His Excellency’s permission—”
“Are you asking for mercy for a worm that feeds on the Goethes?”

A guard stepped forward, unable to watch any longer—but Isaac ignored him.

“That’s not it… This just feels wrong. And besides, you reek of alcohol.”
“You think I’m doing something foolish because I’m drunk?”

“…Then try to stop me. Carlson, pull another one.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Aaagh!”

One guard’s expression turned cold.
Another lost all color in his face.

This incident would spread as yet another rumor.
And once tied to Isaac’s public image, his infamy would snowball.

The servants of the estate would fear him even more.

That was necessary.

He had chosen not to confuse admiration with envy.
He had chosen admiration—and discarded envy.

Therefore, it was enough for Isaac and those he had chosen to stain themselves with blood in the shadows.

The soldiers of Vinfelt. Hans. Bill. Carlson. Besimer.

They were the ones who would build the foundation of the future Isaac desired for the House of Goethe—
the ones who would bleed alongside him.

That was why he had saved those who were meant to die.
Why he had pulled them from a doomed future.

They were his people.

But the people here—the people of the estate—were different.

They were his father’s people. His mother’s people. Jonas’s people.

They were meant to work for the prosperity of House Goethe.
They had no need to shed blood in the shadows.

And so Isaac needed to gain infamy—
to sever unnecessary bonds with them.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

A cold, low voice suddenly echoed through the underground prison.

All eyes turned toward it—
and faces immediately went pale.

A man stood there.

His blond hair tangled with an unkempt beard, his coat tattered,
his armor stained with blood, mud, flesh, and even the remnants of the dead.

The count.

His mere presence, filled with quiet fury, seemed to press down on the air itself.

“Welcome back, Father.”

Only Isaac greeted him calmly.