Chapter 53

An Awkward Conversation

“…And so, I had him brought in to encourage a more… honest conversation.”

Isaac’s explanation was long and elaborate.

He claimed that after developing a taste for alcohol in Vinfelt, he had gone to an inn in Bernsi, where a drunken mercenary picked a fight.
The reason? The man had been loudly spreading rumors that “the heir of House Goethe had become a cripple due to some strange illness.”
So Isaac had ordered Carlson to capture the man and torture him to find out who had been spreading such rumors.

“…And you expect me to believe that?”

The count removed his pipe from his mouth and exhaled smoke with a sigh.
The thick scent masked the stench clinging to him.

He had spent days without washing, sleeping out in the open while leading a campaign.
And yet, because of Isaac’s actions, he had come straight to his private study.
He was not the kind of man who would eat, sleep, or rest before finishing what needed to be done.

“There’s nothing to believe or not believe. It’s the truth.”
“The truth, you say.”

Though his voice in the underground prison was filled with anger, his face revealed nothing—
at least, not to Isaac.

The father Isaac knew was a straightforward and steadfast man.
He acted according to his beliefs and did not easily withdraw his trust once given.
At the same time, he was a principled noble who strictly upheld his standards.

But the path Isaac had to walk was completely different from his father’s.

To you, it would be better if I remained nothing more than a reckless or deficient son, Isaac thought.
Then your attention and support will naturally shift to Jonas—and House Goethe will at least avoid conflict over succession.

“You persist in your mistakes. Vinfelt is your land, so what you do there is your concern. But this is my domain. Within this estate, you are not to leave without my permission. You are not to go to crowded cities, and certainly not to cause disturbances there. You, of all people, should know why.”

“Ah, right. I suppose I overlooked that after enjoying my freedom in Vinfelt. I do have that condition people fear so much.”

Despite the reprimand, Isaac’s attitude remained insolent.

“And I hear from Waller that more than half of Vinfelt’s forces were lost in battle with magical beasts. I’m told you provoked the hell wolves into attacking. Is that true?”
“…Doesn’t seem inaccurate.”

Isaac shrugged.

“If you had asked me for reinforcements, far more lives could have been saved. Instead, you sacrificed those men to maintain your independence as a lord.”
“Sacrificed? They died because they were weak. It’s the price of neglecting training. Calling it ‘sacrifice’ is too grand a term.”

Bang!

The count slammed his desk.
His voice rose sharply.

“Dozens of men are dead. In a place where both manpower and budget are limited. Do you even understand what those deaths mean before you speak so lightly?”

“What else could I do? I’m the lord of Vinfelt—I had to defend my land with what I was given. And that land, that position, was granted by you. So those soldiers were mine before they were House Goethe’s.”

Isaac replied with a crooked tone.

The count slowly shook his head.
He placed the pipe back in his mouth and inhaled deeply.
Thick smoke drifted from his lips as he turned his gaze toward the window.

Outside, the sky was dark—but the stars shone brightly.

“…What do you think I should do now?”

At those words, Isaac, who had been looking at the floor, raised his head.

“Should I grab you by the collar and throw you out the window? Slap you across the face? Or choose words that will wound you and then cast you out?”

“…I don’t understand what you mean.”

Isaac tilted his head slightly.

But the count had no intention of explaining.

“Do you still not understand what your wrongdoing is?”
“Well… I suppose it’s that I keep doing things that go against your will—”
“No. Your wrongdoing is that you are not honest with me. How long do you intend to keep up this clumsy act in front of me?”

“…!”

Isaac’s eyes widened.

“You take me for a fool. I know you thwarted the bishop’s scheme. You didn’t request reinforcements in Vinfelt because you wanted the soldiers there to develop attachment and cohesion with the land. Isn’t that right?”

“…You raised their morale, won the war against the hell wolves, and even dealt with the Wolf King. And yet, after coming here, you spend days drinking and torturing people—did you think I would see you as nothing more than a mad dog or a brute? Answer me, Isaac. Do I seem that foolish to you?”

The count turned from the window.
His blue eyes locked onto Isaac’s.

Isaac’s lips parted—but no words came out.

This was not something he had anticipated.

“You could not deceive me. So speak. Why are you acting like a madman?”

Silence fell over the study.

The count did not move, his gaze fixed on Isaac.

You are simple and steadfast.
Once convinced, you will not change your mind without reason.

Isaac realized he needed to adjust his plan—just slightly.

“…Because I must.”

He finally spoke.

There was no need to tell everything.
Only enough to convince the count.

After all, what the count knew was only a fragment.

The political situation House Goethe had endured for nearly a century because of Zik von Goethe.
The existence of royal spies watching the territory.
The conflicts that would erupt among vassals and collateral families the moment Isaac was acknowledged as heir.

That alone was enough.

“…So you intend to hide your true self and live as a madman?”
“Yes.”
“Do you understand what that means?”
“I am not suited to be Goethe’s heir. Jonas is. You know better than anyone that there is no other choice.”

“….”

The count fell silent.

He knew it better than anyone.
As head of the house, he had memorized all the records of his predecessors.

The legacy left by Zik von Goethe—
a legacy Isaac had unwillingly inherited.

Isaac’s judgment was correct.

“…Who is the one being tortured in the dungeon?”
“As I said, someone who spread slander about me—”
“Isaac.”

The count frowned.
Isaac let out a quiet breath.

“He’s one of Weissman’s swordsmen.”
“Weissman… the gang that recently formed in Bernsi?”
“Yes.”

“And why him?”

Just as Isaac expected, the count knew nothing of the connection between the marquis, the mayor, and Weissman.
Naturally, he wouldn’t know what schemes they were plotting either.

It’s better if Father doesn’t know.

The affairs of Bernsi were deeply tied to commerce.
Because of what Zik von Goethe had done—burning the capital—House Goethe had been forbidden from engaging in trade or military expansion.

If the count intervened in Bernsi, the marquis would seize on it.
He might accuse Goethe of violating royal restrictions and draw the attention of other nobles.
That would only place the house in greater political danger.

If something went wrong, it had to end with Isaac alone taking responsibility.

The count had to remain uninvolved.

“I intend to commit crimes. I’ll prove that I’m unfit to be the heir—and do something that warrants stripping the Goethe name from me.”

“….”

“Don’t worry. I won’t harm the innocent. Think of it as a struggle among minor villains. When the time is right, you can formally revoke my name from the family.”

“…Do you truly intend to carry that burden?”

“I won’t be a good son to you or Mother. But I am the eldest son of House Goethe. That will not change.”

The tobacco in the pipe burned down slowly.
The count felt suffocated.

He inhaled and exhaled the gray smoke repeatedly, but the tightness in his chest did not ease.

“Do you remember what I told you on the way back from Randolph’s funeral? I said you could remain a child a little longer.”

“Yes. You did.”

“…It seems you didn’t take those words to heart at all.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I need to rest. We’ll talk again later.”

The count tapped out the ashes as he spoke.

Isaac gave a slight bow and turned toward the study door.

The count opened his mouth several times without a sound before finally managing to speak.

“…How is your condition?”

“It’s the same. But at least now I can predict when a mana eruption will occur. So there won’t be any innocent casualties going forward.”

Isaac stopped and answered.

That wasn’t what the count had meant.
But he did not elaborate.

“…I see. If you need anything, tell me.”

“Thank you.”

“…Is there anything else you want to say?”

“…What do you mean?”

A brief silence followed.

Isaac waited, hoping the count would clarify.
But the count only waited for Isaac’s answer.

“…If there’s nothing, you may go.”

“Yes, Father.”

Creak—

Thud.

The door closed behind Isaac as he left the study.

The count had things he wanted to say—
feelings he wanted to express.

But they never took shape in words, fading away with the lingering smoke.

“…You’ve grown taller.”

The bitter taste of tobacco filled his mouth.

Only after Isaac had left did the words he truly wanted to say come to him.

How happy he had been when he heard of Isaac’s achievements from Waller.
How much he had wanted to see him.
How proud he was.
Whether he had been hurt.
Whether there were aftereffects from his first battle.
Whether he needed supplies.
What kind of celebration they should hold for his victory.

The words came too late.

Most of all, he had wanted to ask about magic.

According to Waller’s report, Isaac had used magic in Vinfelt.
It hadn’t been obvious, but there had clearly been movement of mana—and Isaac himself had acknowledged it.

That might have been a clue to overcoming his condition—his mana instability.

The count wanted to ask.

But Isaac was already carrying the burden of pretending to be a madman for the sake of the family.
He did not want to force answers from such a son.

There must be a reason.
He would wait until Isaac chose to speak.

“…Hah.”

The count bit down on the pipe stem.
All he could taste was the bitterness of burnt ash.

He had said Isaac’s acting was clumsy—
but his own was no better.

Suddenly, he thought of his wife, Adele.

If it were her, she would have treated Isaac far more warmly.
She would have scolded him, telling him to forget about titles and authority as head of the house.
“What kind of father are you?” she might have said.

Where was she wandering now?

The count refilled the chamber of his pipe with tobacco.