Chapter 77

The Place Where the Demon Passed (2)

“Bill~ Bill~ stupid Bill~ cowardly Bill~ pathetic Bill~!”
“Ah… of all people, that bastard…”

At the off-key singing coming from outside, Bill frowned.

“You know him?”
“The right-hand man of Red Fang—the one your lot killed. Guess he’s the boss now.”
“Doesn’t sound like you were on good terms.”
“I fucking hate that bastard. After this was over, I was planning to slit his throat myself.”
“What did he do?”
“He spread rumors that the ale in my inn tastes like pig piss. That guy’s a real piece of shit.”
“…Right.”

Pallich looked at him, dumbfounded.

“With nothing to sell~ he tricks people into drinking pig piss as ale~!”
“Perfect, just perfect! I’ll roast you all whole and use you as snacks! And fat Bill’s got plenty to chew on!”

Boos and loud laughter echoed from outside as they traded insults.

“Come out, Bill! Using your underlings as meat shields—aren’t you ashamed!? If your dead men knew you sided with those butchers, they’d claw their way out of their graves!”
“And you? You sided with those penny-pinching bastards who look down on us!? Go lick old men’s assholes for the rest of your life!”

Bill shouted back without backing down.

“Form teams of five. Eight windows across the first and second floors. On my signal, move out simultaneously through your assigned windows and begin the attack. Check the second-floor windows, the roof, and blind spots. Archers are the priority targets.”

Meanwhile, Pallich, still holding Bill back, issued his orders.

“God is with us.”
“God is with us.”

As if they had never been drunk, the Weissmans repeated the phrase in unison, their discipline instantly restored.

“What the hell are these guys…?”

The sudden shift in atmosphere overwhelmed Bill.
The anger and agitation that had filled him moments ago settled instantly.
A cold, razor-sharp tension took over.
The Weissmans moved with perfect coordination.

“You’re coming with me.”
“Why the hell would I—”

Bill wanted to object to Pallich’s commanding tone, but trailed off, realizing this wasn’t the time.

“Where?”
“The front entrance.”
“With those crippled limbs? Are you insane? There’ll obviously be archers lined up out there.”

Bill sneered at Pallich.
And he wasn’t wrong.
Pallich held a sword in one hand, while relying on a crutch with the other.

“My limbs might be crippled, but my aura is just fine.”

Suddenly, Pallich set his crutch against the wall and stood on both feet.

“Damn it, what is that aura anyway? Some kind of cheat? Why don’t you teach me?”
“You’d have to become my disciple first.”
“On second thought, I’ve lived just fine without it.”
“I’ll blow the whistle. We move at the same time.”

With a faint smirk, Pallich pulled out the whistle tucked inside his collar and put it to his lips.

Piiiiii—!

At the sound, the Weissmans hurled themselves out through the windows.
Pallich hadn’t said it outright, but the plan assumed casualties.
The moment they were forced out of the burning inn, a barrage of bolts would be waiting.
They split into teams to minimize a total wipeout—
but sacrifices were inevitable.

Someone had to take the hits.

And yet—

“…What is this?”
“Who did this?”

As Bill and Pallich stepped out the front entrance, they were struck speechless by the scene outside.

“This side is completely wiped out!”
“All enemies here are dead!”

Shouts reporting total annihilation came from every direction.

“Ghk—kgh—kgh—!”

There were a few enemies not fully dead yet.
But the blood pouring endlessly from their throats and their ragged breathing didn’t last long.

“Hey.”

Pallich addressed one of the fallen enemies, sprawled on the ground with a look of utter confusion.
But before he could utter a single word, he died.

“This is like hell itself. Got any idea what happened?”

Bill asked.

“No. None at all. It’s as if a demon really passed through here. You don’t know anything about this?”
“Hell if I do. I’m just a gang leader—how would I know someone capable of this?”

Bill grumbled.

Silence fell between them.
And it wasn’t just because they were trying to guess the culprit behind this unbelievable massacre.
It was because they were reminded of someone they both knew—
and fear crept in.

In truth, each of them had someone in mind.

Pallich was certain this was Violet’s doing.
Striking only vital points simultaneously, slicing with wind—only a spirit could achieve that.
Wind created by magic or aura had its limits.
It couldn’t be controlled with such precision.
Yet the other wounds remained a mystery to him.
Bodies pierced cleanly through the forehead, temples, neck, or heart—
it looked less like magic and more like divine punishment.
In that brief moment, dozens had been pierced through their vital points.

On the other hand, Bill was certain it was Isaac’s doing.
The bodies bore fatal wounds without any trace of projectiles.
Varis had died that way.
So had Niers, when he was killed in a single strike before.
But Bill couldn’t explain the clean, precise cuts to vital points.
What level of swordsmanship could cut down dozens at once with such accuracy?
It was beyond imagination.

“You really don’t know anything?”
“I told you, I don’t. What about you? You look like you know something.”
“I don’t.”

Pallich and Bill glanced at each other, then let out shallow sighs.
Rather than feeling relief at surviving without casualties,
they felt an unsettling unease.

“…We won’t even finish cleaning up all these bodies by morning.”

Bill scratched his head.
Suddenly, he found himself craving the good ale he had once tasted at Randolph Inn.

***

On the rooftop.

“…It really turned out just as the young master said.”

Violet spoke, a cigarette between her lips.
Her long hair and face were soaked in sweat.
The fingers holding the cigarette trembled faintly.

The backlash from borrowing a spirit’s power.

“Why would a spirit master of that level join hands with a Marquis?”
“The Count of Goethe is one of the finest mages in the kingdom. Then why did he rely on the royal shield tax and give up the independence of his territory?”

Instead of answering, Violet responded with a question.
There were always things that even her abilities as an intelligence agent could not control—
history, politics, money, or any complicated web of circumstances.

“…I see.”

It was deep night, a crescent moon hanging in the sky.
The chaos from earlier—the crowd of over a hundred people gathered in the square—had vanished as if it had never existed.
The torches, the armed private soldiers of the great families, and the gangs that had seemed ready to shake the entire city…
were now nothing more than cooling lumps of flesh.

Torches carried by soldiers rushing through the streets to handle the aftermath flickered restlessly in all directions.

“Are you alright?”

Isaac asked, watching Violet tremble.

“I haven’t calmed down yet… let’s rest like this for a moment.”
“That kind of backlash… you must’ve made a contract with a pretty powerful spirit.”
“It was a contract beyond my means. Because of it, I have to rely on drugs every time I borrow its power.”
“So it was drugs.”
“Yes. They dull the pain and relax my overly heightened body. One good thing about working under the Marquis was that these were easy to obtain.”

Sitting on the edge of the slate roof, Violet hugged her knees.

“…And you? Are you really unaffected?”
“You mean killing people?”
“No. I’ve killed more people than I can count.”
“Then?”
“You used that level of magic.”

“…Ah, that.”

Isaac understood her meaning a beat late.
She was asking how he could remain so calm after using magic that had taken dozens of lives.

“That question’s a bit strange.”
“…Huu—what’s strange about it?”

Violet exhaled smoke like a sigh.
Her face, illuminated by the moonlight, looked even paler.

“You make it sound like the lethality of magic determines its level.”
“Isn’t that the case?”
“It’s not that flashy. Killing people and the level of magic aren’t related.”
“…That’s the strangest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Is it?”
“The reason people fear knights, fear mages… fear nobles and royalty—
isn’t it because they hold the power over life and death? That’s what power is.
And becoming a mage is one of the paths to obtaining that power.”

Violet shivered slightly.
The cigarette eased pain and tension, but it did nothing for the chills.

“At least the magic I know is different. Very different.”

At that moment, a layer of warmth settled over the robe she was wearing.
Isaac had taken off his wool coat and draped it over her.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

Violet spoke, clearly uncomfortable with his kindness.
Their relationship was, after all, nothing more than a strategic alliance.

“It makes me uncomfortable to watch. The night breeze is nice anyway.”
“The more I see you, the stranger you seem.”
“I hear that often.”

When he was young, Isaac had often heard the same thing whenever he showed kindness to servants.
Instead of simply accepting his goodwill, they would look at him strangely,
say he was too young to know better, or worry that such softness would never allow him to become the Shield of the North.
Some even whispered that he must have ulterior motives.

Of course, what Violet meant was slightly different.

Giving other gangs a chance at reform through Bill,
drawing the great families into gathering their forces and allying with gangs,
and even leading them to gather their remaining strength to swallow Bern City once more—
all of it had been orchestrated by Isaac.

Before they could scatter like vermin throughout the city,
he had planned to exploit their greed, gather them in one place, and wipe them out in a single stroke.

Even gathering the Weissmans in one location had been part of the plan—
to use them as bait.
The remnants of the great families and the gangs believed all of this was Weissman’s scheme.
They thought that if they eliminated Weissman, all obstacles would disappear.

And so, once they had all gathered in one place,
Isaac, together with Violet, wiped them out.
Without a moment’s hesitation,
at preplanned positions and in a preplanned manner,
they turned nearly a hundred people into corpses—
without even needing to search for them.

Right now, Violet was afraid of Isaac.

It wasn’t his genius-level magic—rare even across the continent—that frightened her.
It was the ruthless and cold judgment he displayed beneath the guise of a boy.
In that regard, he was no less than Marquis Dietrich.

For such a young noble to then casually offer a small kindness—like giving her his coat—
felt profoundly out of place to Violet.

“Have you ever killed this many people before?”
“No. This is the first time.”
“Then how can you stay so calm?”
“If they lived, my people would die. Unlike you or the Weissmans, I don’t have ideals or beliefs. If there’s a single standard I follow, it’s Goethe—and that alone.”
“…You really are a strange person.”

Violet murmured.

She had seen many children called geniuses or prodigies.
None of them came close to Isaac.
Though still young, it must have taken countless realizations for him to wield magic of that level.
Yet his words now made it sound as though nothing mattered except his own family.
Almost like the old clergy who rejected magic entirely.

But she wasn’t given time to dwell on those thoughts.

“Now, tell me.”
“…What?”
“You upheld your end of the contract. That was everything you and Weissman had to do. Now it’s your turn. The item you said you wanted back from the Marquis—what is it?”

Violet took a long drag from the cigarette, now barely half a finger in length.
Exhaling slowly, she spoke in a troubled voice.

“A spirit stone. It’s something my parents left behind as an inheritance… but it’s not with the Marquis.”

“A spirit stone… then don’t tell me.”

For a moment, Isaac recalled the family Violet had introduced herself as belonging to.

Violet de la Fleur.

Fleur… right. There was such a family.

Isaac remembered a passage from a book titled History of Spirits.
The Fleur family—one of the most renowned spirit lineages in the Republic.
If it was a spirit stone worthy of being left as their legacy, there was only one possibility.