Chapter 72

Arrogant

“Hah.”

The marquis let out a hollow laugh.

It was time for execution.

The count would ask him: Do you have any reason to live?
The marquis would not be able to answer.
And then Valerich would sever his neck.

“Do you have any reason to be kept alive?”

As expected, the question came from the count’s mouth.

“You probably think everything is going according to your will.”

The marquis spoke, forcing himself to appear calm.
His legs trembled, but he held them firm.
His teeth rattled, but he focused on his pronunciation.

“But laying a hand on me is a different matter. There is someone behind me whom you cannot handle.”

The marquis had no choice but to play his final card.
However, the count had already anticipated it.

“The Second Prince?”

At the matter-of-fact question, the marquis failed to control his expression.

“No need to look so surprised. Anyone who knows anything already knows the Second Prince favors you.”
“And yet you dare commit such reckless acts!? If what you’re doing reaches His Highness’s ears, you won’t escape unscathed either! He does not forgive those who touch what is his!”

The marquis raised his voice.
The composure he had been barely maintaining collapsed.
In contrast, the count’s face remained as solid as stone.

“Marquis. I do not particularly care about the distinction between hereditary nobles and robe nobles. Nor do I consider discriminating between them wise. It does nothing to strengthen the unity of the kingdom. However… when I look at someone like you, I cannot help but feel the limitations of robe nobles.”

“W-what are you saying?”

“You seem to think that immature prince of yours is a reliable backing. I suggest you run the numbers again. A century ago, do you think the royal family spared the Goethe house out of the former king’s mercy? Do you believe Goethe bowed because it submitted to the royal family?”

“...Even if you say that, history already—”

“If you believe that, then you are gravely mistaken. And that mistake will cost you your life.”

“Ghk—!”

The marquis swallowed dryly.
The guards kicked the backs of his knees, forcing him to kneel.

His vision dropped closer to the ground.
And there, firmly planted on the floor, was Valerich’s blade.
Its wavy edge and gleaming sharpness looked especially merciless.

“W-wait. Count, perhaps you’ve forgotten—I am an inspector. If you execute a royal inspector with such a private judgment—”

“Did you not hear me properly? I will report all the filthy dealings you have carried out to His Majesty. And if even then His Majesty does not correct this, then I will no longer be his subject, his friend, nor the shield of this kingdom.”

“A-are you speaking of treason right now?”

“Treason requires a nation to exist. If even something like this cannot be set right, then it cannot be called a nation. It is nothing more than a pack of beasts drowned in madness.”

The count’s blue eyes did not waver in the slightest.

The massive sword lifted from the garden floor.

“R-reconsider!”

The marquis shouted desperately.

“You took the lives within my territory without my permission, and with cruelty. As the rightful lord of this land, I shall pass judgment.”

“C-count!”

“Death.”

The count raised Valerich.

Whooo—

It was but a fleeting moment.
The marquis shut his eyes tightly, believing this to be his end.

Clang!
Clang—

However, Valerich’s blade did not reach his neck.
A sharp metallic sound rang out.

“…What are you doing?”

The count spoke, his voice laced with anger.

“My apologies, my lord. It is the young master’s order.”

Carlson deflected Valerich and answered.

When the marquis opened his eyes and looked around, two guards had fallen, and the head servant was narrowing his eyes while rubbing his wrist. A sword lay at his feet.
In an instant, Carlson had subdued three men and blocked the count’s strike.

“Those Weisseman bastards, finally—ugh—blegh!”

Relief flooded over the marquis, and he vomited.
He had mistaken Carlson for a swordsman of Weisseman.
Bile poured from his mouth.

Only then did he realize how tense he had been under the count’s pressure and mana.
The boundary between life and death had flickered before him again and again.
His mind could no longer endure the strain—like a candle going out, his consciousness faded.

“Father. That’s enough.”

Isaac appeared at the entrance of the execution hall garden.

“Young master?”

The head servant looked puzzled.
He could not understand why the execution was being stopped.
The count felt the same.

“This is not a place for you to intervene.”

The count spoke coldly.
He was always indifferent, but this time was different.
The cold anger he had concealed while dealing with the marquis now burned clearly in his eyes.

“You must not kill the marquis.”

“I have already passed judgment before this blade. He deserves to die.”

“You know it as well. If you kill him, Goethe will face difficulties.”

“Goethe has the strength to overcome such matters.”

“Too much blood will be spilled.”

“Are you saying you will defy my will?”

“If necessary.”

“….”

Instead of speaking, the count drew up his mana.

Sensing the situation turning strange, Carlson and the head servant carried away the unconscious guards and the marquis, distancing them from the count.

“Young master—”

The head servant tried to advise Isaac not to resist any further, but Carlson blocked him and shook his head.

“This is not our place to interfere.”

“It is not a place for anyone.”

The head servant stared past Carlson at the standoff between the count and Isaac.
The wrinkles on his forehead deepened.
Carlson was right.

This was not a place for anyone to step in.
It was a matter between father and son of the Goethe family.

Isaac felt a chilling cold run through his body.
It was as if a blizzard had swept in with a biting wind.
The mana before him carried a violent intent—step forward, and it would bring death and freezing cold.

It was not only because of the dense magic filling the air.
The count’s expression, his eyes, his very presence—everything contributed.

Is this really the man I know?

Isaac thought.

What had made him this furious?

He had a vague idea.
Perhaps it was for the same reason as himself.

Isaac had never once feared his father.
Though cold, the count was always fair and rational.
Like a rock on a winter mountain—steadfast whether snow fell or rain poured.

But now—

For the first time, Isaac felt fear toward the count.

“Do you still intend to defy my will?”

“…Yes.”

Isaac forced out the answer.

His insides churned violently.
It felt as though he might vomit everything within him—the pain was that intense.

A pain surged through him, as if every inch of his skin—and every single strand of muscle inside his body—were being sliced apart.

Even so, Isaac remained standing.

“Do you not see what that man has done? He openly established an orphanage in the city and butchered children like cattle or pigs. He stuffed their heads and sold them to monsters who call such things ‘art.’ And you—of all people, the one who discovered this first—are saying we should spare the marquis for the sake of Goethe? Are you out of your mind!?”

“…You said it before. That I was right.”

Though he did not want to resort to this, Isaac activated his multi-circuit pathways to the maximum.
He pushed back, if only slightly, against the count’s overwhelming mana pressing down on him.

The fear and pain did not disappear.
But at least he could think. At least he could speak.

“You said we shouldn’t rely on the shield tax. If we’re going to change that, we need the marquis. We use him to deceive the royal family… and secure Goethe’s independence. Killing him here would only give our enemies an excuse.”

“You speak well, considering the situation.”

The count showed a hint of surprise.

Within several steps of him, no living being could breathe easily.
Even the beating of one’s heart and the flow of blood would feel like pain.

And yet, Isaac did not yield.

Impressive.
The count knew Isaac had gained the ability to use magic, but he had not expected this level.

Still, that was as far as it went.

“No matter what you say, the marquis must die. I have… left this territory unattended for too long. It was meant to protect it, but all it did was allow it to rot.”

A trace of bitterness lingered in the count’s voice.

There had only been one reason he had not opposed the royal family:
He did not want to see the blood of his family and retainers spilled.
He had witnessed, time and again, the downfall of noble houses plagued day and night by assassins.

But that choice, too, had only created different sacrifices.

“If order is not established, then even if the family prospers, something like this will happen again.”

“…Order is a word used by those who hold power.”

“Are you saying I have no power?”

“You may, Father. But the family does not.”

“….”

The count’s expression hardened.

It was a painful statement—one that seemed to deny all the effort he had made to protect his domain.
Yet he did not grow angry.

Because Isaac’s words were the bitter truth.

Goethe had been reduced to a tool of the royal family.
A tactical tool.
A political tool.
A shield against foreign powers—and, if necessary, a blade to fight for the crown.

Despite their status as electors, Goethe’s position was nothing more and nothing less than that.

“If we spare the marquis, he will once again rely on the Second Prince and commit such atrocities. Overlooking that is neither justice nor righteousness.”

“Do you remember Fikel?”

“Why bring that up now?”

“Why did he sell vagrants to slave traders to supply Winterband? Why did that corruption and injustice happen?”

“That is…”

“Do you think I say this because I don’t understand justice and righteousness from holy texts or chivalric tales?”

The count didn’t even have time to reprimand his son for interrupting.

“Then I’ll make it clear. To me, justice and righteousness mean doing what benefits this family. Any other justice or righteousness means nothing to me.”

“….”

“What justice can a powerless lord uphold? If you cannot establish justice in your own territory, does it make sense to worry about others?”

“….”

The count fell silent.

It was far from the virtues expected of a noble.

Yet it was the truth.
A simple, undeniable truth.

The count had been bound by moral ideals and failed because of it.
And hearing that truth from his twelve-year-old son struck him deeply.

It felt as though he had been hit on the back of the head with a hammer.

“Isaac.”

The count approached him.

Isaac’s lips had turned blue.
He had endured as long as he possibly could.

Isaac’s height only reached the count’s solar plexus.
But he would grow.
Perhaps even surpass his father one day.

The count’s hand rose above Isaac’s head.
For a moment, it seemed he was about to pat him—

Snap—

His finger flicked Isaac’s forehead.

“Ah—!”

Isaac cried out and fell back onto the ground.
It was the first time in his life his father had ever struck him.

“How insolent.”

The count muttered those words and slowly walked out of the execution hall garden.

Did I fail…?

Drained, Isaac sprawled out flat.
Even the mana within his vessel was nearly depleted.
Resisting the count’s mana had consumed far too much.

He had managed to endure somehow, but thinking the conversation had yielded nothing left him feeling hollow.

Then suddenly, the count’s voice reached his ears.

“The marquis will be spared for the time being.”