Chapter 81

Will You Grant Permission?

“Welcome, Baron.”
“Viscount.”

Baron Büchtner nodded lightly as he stepped into Viscount Botmer’s office.

“Please, have a seat.”

The viscount gestured to a chair.
It was a lavish seat, upholstered with thick cushions and carved with floral and leaf patterns along the backrest.

Yet the baron who sat in it did not feel at ease.

Viscount Botmer was a branch noble of Goethe—and one of the wealthiest men in the North.
In contrast, Baron Büchtner was merely a vassal of Goethe.

Ordinarily, there would be no reason for a baron vassal to be close to a viscount.
However, because the viscount had long paid generously for the crops grown in Büchtner’s territory, the baron’s circumstances were better than those of other vassals.

Thanks to that, Büchtner collected more taxes than his peers—
enough to send his eldest son to the Royal Academy.

Because of that, he could not ignore the viscount’s summons.

“I’ve heard your eldest, Bruno, entered the Royal Academy as second in his class.”
“It’s all thanks to you, Viscount.”
“I merely paid a fair price for quality grain.”
“You’ve shown considerable favor to my estate.”
“That’s because your land produces fine crops.”

The viscount smiled warmly.
The baron, however, did not.

He was well aware of the Botmer family’s ambition—and their resentment toward the Goethe household.
There had even been fierce succession struggles among their ancestors.

“But you must have many concerns.”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“The tournament is approaching, is it not? Your eldest is doing well at the Academy, but what of your second son?”

“That is a matter for my house. I appreciate your concern, but I will handle it myself.”

“Ah, my apologies if I offended you. That was not my intention.
I simply wished to show a small token of goodwill—to strengthen our mutual trust.”

“Please don’t speak in circles. Get to the point.”
“It’s nothing significant.”

The viscount placed a small box, no larger than his palm, onto the table.

“What is this?”
“Open it.”

The baron glanced at him before opening the box.

Inside was a stone.
But not an ordinary one.

“This is…?”
“A mid-grade Spirit Stone.”

“A… Spirit Stone?”

The baron’s eyes widened.

It was a rare treasure.
A Spirit Stone was not something one could obtain with money alone.

They were passed down through spirit families as heirlooms—
their identity tied to the spirit itself.

Selling one would only happen if the family were destroyed.

Even if an ownerless Spirit Stone did appear in the world,
it would fetch an astronomical price at auction—
or even spark conflict or war over it.

It was something the baron could never obtain in his lifetime.

“…Why would you give something so valuable to me?”

His voice trembled slightly.
Greed and caution rose within him at the same time.

“I’m not giving it—I’m lending it. Baron Büchtner, I am a man who calculates carefully.”

The viscount adjusted his posture as he spoke.

“Your finances must already be strained by the tuition for the Royal Academy.
It was the best choice you could make.

But a father’s heart is not so simple.
You must be worried about your second son.”

The baron could not deny it.

In terms of magical talent, his second son, Beltran, far surpassed the eldest.
Yet the eldest had been sent to the Royal Academy to preserve the family’s order under the principle of primogeniture.

“I maintain close ties with a mercenary group called Akanlaufer.
In trade, protection is just as important as profit.

Through them, I heard about your second son.
I’m told he’s accomplished quite a bit.

Their captain even praised him as a gem hidden in the mud.”

The baron already knew Beltran had joined a magical mercenary group.
It was only natural—
any son other than the heir had to find his own path.

“You mean… my second son?”
“Your second son is Beltran, is he not?”
“…Yes.”

“This is both a gesture of goodwill toward you, Baron—
and an investment in a talented young man.”

“Why Beltran, and not your own children?”

“I know my children well. They have no future as mages.

Baron, I may be a noble, but my soul is that of a merchant.
I do not make losing investments—even if it concerns my own children.”

“…What do you want?”

Baron Büchtner swallowed hard.
There was no such thing as goodwill without a price.
And the price for something like this—how great would it be?

“I simply wish for young Büchtner to display his full potential at the tournament.”

“To display it fully… meaning?”

“To win, of course. That is all I ask.”

The viscount answered as if it were obvious.

“And what do you gain from that?”

“What I want… is independence for the vassals.”

“…Independence?”

The baron repeated the word as if hearing it for the first time.

“Goethe’s authority ultimately stems from the count’s magical standing.
What I intend is to put a crack in that authority.”

“But since the tournament began, not a single family has ever defeated Goethe.”

“This year is different.
The first son of Goethe is a fool, and the second has only just begun learning magic at the age of nine.

Beltran has more than enough chance.”

“Even if Beltran wins, there’s no guarantee the second son of Goethe won’t become a great mage in the future.”

“What matters is not the distant future.
What we need now is a cause—a motivation—for the vassals to unite.

You’ve received the marquis’s letter, haven’t you?”

The baron bit his dry lips.
He knew its contents well.

Due to the count’s forceful crackdown,
the black market was no longer accessible.

More than a hundred people—including members of great families and gangs—had been slaughtered.

“The black market was practically the vassals’ lifeline, wasn’t it?”

The viscount was right.

The only reason the vassals had managed to endure
was because they could discreetly sell regional specialties through the black market.

And now, even that had been cut off by the count.

“The count is too rigid, too resolute.
He does not consider those beneath him.”

“I’ve also received a letter from the count.
He intends to petition the royal court through an inspector—

to abolish the shield tax
and secure permission for trade and military expansion.”

“Do you truly believe that will succeed?
A restriction that has lasted over a century?”

“The count is not one to make empty promises.”

“That, Baron… is what it means to be domesticated.”

“….”

The baron furrowed his brow.
It was a rude remark—but he had no rebuttal.

“Beltran’s victory will serve as the spark that awakens the agency of those domesticated vassals.
It will be a challenge to Goethe’s authority—and a blow to its prestige.”

“And what use is that besides causing turmoil?”

“Courage. And unity.”

“…?”

“With Beltran’s victory, the vassals will realize that they are not so different from Goethe.
They will gain courage, and begin to raise their own voices.

They will unite for a shared purpose.
They will be able to petition the royal court together—

to sever the chains of sin that bind them under the name of Goethe.”

At the baron’s increasingly grave expression, the viscount smiled.

In truth, from Count Goethe’s perspective, this was no different from plotting rebellion.
And yet, the baron did not leave.

Because the viscount had struck precisely at what the baron desired.

“But earlier, you said the restrictions that have lasted over a century would not be lifted.”

“For Goethe, yes.
But what crime have you—the vassals—committed?

Withdraw your loyalty to the count and pledge it to the king instead.
Break free from the shadow cast by Goethe,
and pass on something better to your descendants.”

“Is that… truly possible?”

The viscount’s words sounded so sweet that they sent chills down the baron’s spine.

“I belong to the parliamentary faction.
The count belongs to the royalist faction.

If weakening the royalists becomes possible,
not only I, but all members of the parliamentary faction within the royal court
will use every means to pressure the king.”

“And all of that… begins with Beltran’s victory?”

“Indeed.
For Beltran, it is a chance for opportunity.
For your house, it is the opportunity you desperately need.”

The viscount nodded as he spoke.
It did not take long for the baron to be persuaded.

“…Very well. I will do it.”

“A wise decision, Baron.
The Spirit Stone will be lent to you on the day of the tournament.
It is too valuable to hand over in advance—you understand.”

“I understand.”

The baron remained seated for a long while, unable to take his eyes off the Spirit Stone,
before finally leaving the office.

As soon as he was gone, a masked and hooded man appeared—
like ink spreading through clear water.

The viscount, unsurprised, asked him:

“This is definitely a high-grade Spirit Stone, correct?”

“Yes. It is an heirloom passed down through the Fleur family.
Verification procedures have been completed.”

The man answered calmly.

“Shall we proceed with the awakening ritual?”

“Yes.
Ensure that even a trace amount of mana will awaken an enraged spirit.

But remember—do not complete the ritual.
Its completion must be done by Beltran.”

“I will keep that in mind.”

The man’s figure faded away like dispersing ink.

“…This will be an entertaining spectacle.”

The viscount’s smile deepened.

***

Some time had passed since Isaac declared his ambition
to turn Goethe into a sanctuary for mages.

At the time, the count realized—
Isaac was still a child.

A child who dreamed impossibilities,
and a child who did not believe in limits.

Seeing that childish side of him,
the count felt both pleased—and concerned.

Isaac was serious.

When he ignited the violet flames,
his expression had been filled with certainty.

It was an achievement even the count himself had not reached at twelve.
It was astonishing—
and at the same time, unsettling.

Since Isaac’s return from Vinfelt,
the blue flowers in the central courtyard had been blooming in full splendor day after day.

Isaac had not overcome his unusual constitution.
Casting magic without forming rings was nothing short of miraculous—

but no one knew when, how, or to what extent
it might trigger a mana explosion.

Even if no explosion had occurred in recent months,
such incidents gave no warning and followed no pattern.
They could happen at any moment.

Moreover, such achievements could breed arrogance—
and that arrogance could become poison.

And so, as both a count before a father,
and a father before a count,
he wrestled with his thoughts.

Should he clip his son’s wings before he crashed into the world’s walls?
Or let him soar freely—only to fall from even greater heights?

In the end, the count reached a single conclusion.

He would demand proof from Isaac.

If Enette could fully realize a complete spell within one month,
he would allow her to participate in the tournament as Isaac’s proxy.

If Isaac came to understand that the world did not bend to his will,
he would return to reality.

But if—

Fwoosh!

Enette quietly ignited a flame before the count.
Sweat dripped down her face from the intense concentration.

It was magic cast without incantation.

Isaac smiled.

“Now… will you grant permission?”

If Isaac continued to prove himself—

Then the count would no longer be able to stand in his son’s way.

And that would mean only one thing:
that his son was not someone who could be contained
within the walls he had built.