Chapter 84

It means you are not alone.

Night fell, and even the servants had finished work or returned to their quarters.
Isaac, who had been quietly gazing out the window, picked up a bottle and stepped into the garden, strolling slowly.

“Is autumn coming?”

The wind had grown noticeably colder.
Isaac murmured as he looked up at the moon.

In Goethe’s autumn, snow falls.
Sometimes rain pours, sometimes hail crashes down.
And sometimes, clear skies and warm sunlight spill across the land.

Isaac didn’t remember Goethe’s seasons very clearly.
It had all happened far too long ago.

But the wind of that season, its temperature, its humidity, its weather—
even if time changed, even if his body changed, those sensations were etched somewhere deep within him.

“Sss… haa…”

Isaac drew in the familiar yet unfamiliar air.

At the far end of the second floor of the main building, the lights were still on.
It was the count’s private study.
At the opposite end of the first floor, the lights were still on as well.
That was Waller’s office.

It was tranquil.
Somewhere, the sound of insects echoed, and the cool night breeze soothed Isaac’s heated forehead.

It has to go well.
It must not go wrong.

Isaac has a plan.
A plan made possible because he knows the future, knows history, and understands magic.

But that doesn’t make him omnipotent or omniscient.
In Vinfelt, in Bernsi—
there had been things he hadn’t foreseen.

The information Isaac possessed had limits. It had gaps.

And yet, at least up until now,
everything had gone according to his will.
Not perfectly satisfying, but not disastrously off course either.

He stopped the bishop who had created the cultists,
resolved the conflict in Vinfelt,
and protected Bernsi’s autonomy.

From now on… and going forward…

Even as season after season passes,
even as year after year slips by,
until the day this body meets its end once again—

Will he be able to protect Goethe?

The fear he had pushed aside, and the heavy weight of his sunken heart,
sometimes pressed down on him all at once.

Tonight was one of those nights.

“Haa…”

Isaac let out a deep breath.

“The night air is cold, young master.”

At the entrance of the main building, the silhouette of a slender man flickered.
His voice carried the weight of long years.

“Waller.”
“You’re not sleeping?”

The head steward stood as upright as ever.

“No. I guess I’ve gotten used to the hard ground in Vinfelt. I just can’t get used to a soft bed.”
“That’s because you haven’t been moving your body. I’ve heard you’ve only been going between your bedroom and the study lately.”
“So everyone avoids me, but still keeps track of what I’m doing?”
“If you weren’t here, half the servants would’ve died of boredom in this estate.”
“That’s… oddly comforting.”

At Isaac’s quiet chuckle, Schiller smiled as well.

“You seem to have a lot on your mind.”
“I always do.”
“What are you thinking about?”
“Just… this and that.”
“I suppose you don’t intend to tell me.”
“It’s nothing unusual.”

A brief silence followed.
It was Schiller who broke it.

“How about it? Would you like to cross swords with this old man?”
“With you?”

Isaac had never once crossed blades with Schiller.

“I heard from the captain of the guard that your swordsmanship improved remarkably after returning from Vinfelt. Apparently, none of the estate’s soldiers can match you.”
“…The captain said that?”

Isaac tilted his head at the unexpected remark.

After deciding to maintain the image of a delinquent, he had deliberately treated most people harshly except for a few close ones.
Especially the estate soldiers who admired him after sparring—
he humiliated them, ignored them, even insulted them.
He had even beaten a guard in front of the marquis.

He didn’t think the captain would have anything good to say about him.

“They say you were born with a natural talent for the sword. That man survived over ten years in Winterband. He rarely acknowledges anyone.”
“That’s strange.”
“What will you do? Will you humor this old man?”
“You’re younger than me now.”

Isaac muttered with a faint smile.

Schiller had entered his sixties.
An old age.
Compared to Isaac, who had lived past a hundred before dying, he was still young.

“…Pardon?”
“Nothing. Anyway, as you can see… I’ve been drinking.”

Isaac shook the bottle in his hand.
The remaining wine sloshed at the bottom.

“I know you’re not drunk.”
“You knew?”
“Other servants might be fooled. I’m not.”
“You’re the one who reported my magic to Father, aren’t you?”
“I serve His Excellency.”
“Wow, I’ve had a spy right beside me.”
“A reliable one, at least.”
“I know.”

“Now, stand up. When your head is full, you should move your body.”
“If we’re doing this, let’s use real swords.”
“If that is your wish.”

***

The training ground was unusually bright tonight.
The moon shone brilliantly.

The blades of the boy and the old man clashed.

Isaac and Schiller gradually drew out their true abilities, gauging each other’s level.

Clang!

“Ugh—”

Isaac tried to pull him into a sword wrestle, pressing in close,
but Waller easily shook him off and widened the distance.

Smooth. Clean.

“I hate to admit it, but I don’t think I can beat you in raw strength, young master.”
“I’m still growing.”
“So it seems.”

Schiller maintained perfect form without the slightest disruption.

Isaac was inwardly astonished.

He knew Waller was a veteran who had fought countless battles alongside the count.
But he hadn’t expected this level of skill.

‘On par with Carlson… or even above him.’

Isaac swung faster, harder—
but the more he did, the faster and stronger Waller’s blade became in response.

“He’s matching me.”

Self-control. Composure. Balance. Harmony. Awareness of one’s limits. Flexibility.
Every single aspect was flawless—
and at the same time, all of it was adjusted perfectly to match Isaac.

Control of distance, weight shifts, movements that were elegant yet complex—yet also clear.
He read Isaac’s movements and psychology, always acting half a beat ahead.

Carlson would one day become a Swordmaster.
But Carlson was still a swordsman in the process of growing.

Schiller, on the other hand, was complete.

One day Carlson might surpass him—
but for now, he could not defeat this old veteran.

Isaac, who had endured Carlson’s blade hundreds of times a day to defeat Bessemer, could tell.

‘Then why… despite having someone like you… did Goethe have no choice but to decline?’

Clang!

‘Why didn’t talents like Carlson remain in Goethe?’

Kiiing!

‘Why… did Goethe—who protected the kingdom for a hundred years from foreign powers and monsters—
end up with its brave soldiers and mages reduced to food for crows among ruins?’

Clash—

‘Can I change that history—’

With a sharp metallic clang, Isaac lost his center and staggered.
Before he knew it, a cold blade was hovering dangerously close to his neck.
It wasn’t sharp enough to cut.

“You’re thinking too much.”
“I told you. I’ve got a lot on my mind.”

Waller withdrew his sword.

“Young master. Have you ever learned swordsmanship from your mother?”
“Hm? From Mother?”

“Yes.”
“No. Unfortunately.”
“And yet… it’s very similar.”
“What is?”
“The sword your mother wields and the one you wield. It’s rough but sharp, full of irregularities, and your entire body becomes a weapon. If one focuses only on the blade, before they know it, a kick flies in, or they’re struck by your fist or elbow.”
“Is that so.”
“That’s how it is.”
“…Hmm?”
“You are not a solitary being, young master. You’ve inherited the blood of the Granak tribe from your mother, and the blood of the Goethe family. Within that blood are intertwined the swords and magic of your ancestors.”
“What…?”

Isaac looked at Schiller with a puzzled expression.

‘Sharp old man.’

Isaac thought.

A veteran who had guarded the estate until his very last moment.
In this life, he had hoped the man could live comfortably until the end.

“Enough with the sentimental talk. Let’s spar again.”
“Are you sure?”
“I don’t want to lose to an old man.”
“Then please consider the feelings of an old man who doesn’t want to lose to a youngster.”
“Fine. Do your best.”
“You as well, young master.”

Clang—!

Their blades collided once more.

“It means you are not alone. I don’t know what burdens you’re carrying, but… don’t try to bear them all by yourself. Someone is waiting for you to ask for help, someone is praying for you, and someone is even now wandering the entire continent for your sake.”
“……”

“In theory, it’s simple. Lesser spirits instinctively avoid higher-ranking spirits. Using that, we can locate the one carrying the spirit stone. When the bearer comes close, the lesser spirits will react.”
“And… how do you know that?”
“When I was young, I couldn’t go outside and just read books in the study.”
“But materials on spirit arts are all written in ancient languages.”
“I read them in the ancient language.”
“… ”

Violet was speechless.

As expected of a prestigious magic family.
It seemed they had abundant scholarly material on spirit arts as well.

But what truly left her dumbfounded was Isaac—
that he had read such things at an even younger age and grasped their essence.

And yet, he was only twelve now, speaking of his “childhood.”
She felt that the flow of time itself was fundamentally different for him.

“Ancient languages… even renowned scholars spend their entire lives mastering them.”
“Well, for me, it was like a lifetime. So I guess it’s about the same?”

Isaac shrugged.

After all, he couldn’t exactly say he had spent sixty years studying ancient languages.

“Perhaps the young master… is a genius who appears once in a century. And the second young master possesses spirit affinity that ranks among the best even in the Republic.”

Having grown tired of being amazed, Violet simply accepted the two Goethe brothers as they were.

“That’s a compliment, right? I’ll take it. So, are you going to follow the plan of this once-in-a-century genius again?”
“It’s a good method. Without understanding spirit arts, one wouldn’t even think of it.”
“Oh? Then—”
“However, there are a few problems.”
“Problems?”
“Spirit affinity is ultimately determined by the unique nature of one’s mana—its density, form, pattern, flow, speed, and even the will or values embedded within it. All these factors combine to attract spirits.”
“So, like charm in people?”
“Similar. Just as you might be drawn to or dislike someone based on their appearance, speech, behavior, or attitude, a spiritist’s mana determines their affinity with spirits.”

Violet nodded.

“However, that affinity isn’t constant. Just as a person’s charm can vary depending on their condition or mood, the nature of the second young master’s mana doesn’t always attract lesser spirits. He may not realize it, but when he plays, he imbues his music with mana.”
“Is that so.”

Isaac rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

Now he understood why Jonas’s piano playing sounded especially pleasant—
why it stirred emotions and memories more than other sounds.

When Jonas manifested fire magic through Jakob Lakan’s theory,
he had woven the image of two children and their mother playing the piano.

His music carried the sentiment of that time—
warm, gentle, yet faintly nostalgic.

The lesser spirits were likely drawn to that quality in his mana.

“The competition is being held in the estate’s great hall, correct?”
“That’s right.”
“There’s only one entrance for guests, and at least a hundred and fifty people will pass through it.”
“That sounds about right, counting participants and their attendants.”

Six families were participating in the competition.
Including retainers, attendants, and guards, each family would bring ten to twenty people.
Add to that scholars, high-ranking mages, and representatives from empires and republics seeking to gauge the kingdom’s magical level—

The number would easily exceed one hundred fifty.
They wouldn’t all arrive at once, but trickle in over time.

“Then at the very least, the second young master would have to stand guard at that entrance for about two hours, holding the lesser spirits in place.”
“…That’s true. That would be difficult, wouldn’t it?”
“It’s practically impossible. Maintaining that level of concentration and mana consumption for two hours… How long do you think he can last without even forming a proper ring? And even if he does endure, how would he compete afterward with a depleted reserve? Are you planning to forfeit?”
“What if Jonas uses a mana crystal?”
“Lesser spirits are like dandelion seeds or feathers. They react sensitively even to slight changes. If it’s not his own mana, he’ll lose his natural affinity.”
“Complicated.”
“Can’t we just inspect everyone’s belongings?”

Violet asked, pressing her lower lip with her finger—a habit when she was deep in thought.

“You know what nobles are like. If we do that, they’ll think Father doubts their loyalty. They’ll rage about their honor being insulted. It would only breed distrust and dissatisfaction. And they wouldn’t hand over everything honestly anyway.”
“…Haa.”

Violet sighed.

“Still, it’s not like there’s no way.”

Isaac thought of a single possibility.