Chapter 93

A Wish for a Song

A chilling wind swept through the city’s alleys.
The southern slums of Bern City.

“Until recently, this place was crawling with slave traders dragging children around and people dealing drugs. Any passerby who wandered carelessly would be beaten, stabbed, and robbed of everything they had.”

Venders walked through the filthy alley with his hands clasped behind his back.
Isaac listened as he followed beside him.

It hadn’t even been a month since the great houses were purged and their remnants eliminated.
Much hadn’t changed—but it wasn’t true that nothing had changed either.

Guards were now patrolling key intersections, and among them were some Isaac recognized.

“Weissmans?”

“Yes. The ones we passed earlier were Weissmans. We’ve recruited them as guards. They understand the situation here deeply while still holding onto the ideals of the Republic. Thanks to that, they’re not easily corrupted. They’re excellent for maintaining order.”

Venders continued explaining the city’s situation.

“After the massacre of the 113, no one opposes the city reforms—or more precisely, me—anymore.”

“The massacre of the 113?”

“It was that incident involving you and Vivi… well, a rather suspicious one. One night, 113 corpses were found scattered across the streets. They were all remnants of the great houses and gang members, except for the Weissmans.”

“So that’s why they call it the Massacre of the 113.”

“It has many names. Some call it the ‘Attack of the Wraiths’ or the ‘Night of Demons.’ All the bodies had fatal puncture wounds or stab wounds, yet no weapons or projectiles were found anywhere. Quite strange, isn’t it? You could call it the work of demons and not be wrong.”

Venders shot Isaac a sideways glance.
Cleaning up the aftermath had left him sleepless and barely eating for half a month, dealing with petitions from bereaved families and pressure from the city council.

“Sounds like a lot of people were afraid.”

“They had every reason to be. It was something no one could understand through common sense. Unless I had hired some extremely sinister high-level mage.”

Isaac felt, somehow, that the title “demon” was growing closer to him.
He had already been called the Frost Demon in Vinfelt, and here in Bern City as well, the word followed him like a shadow.

Of course, it was a seed he himself had planted.

“Aren’t you afraid?”

“If fear can do my work for me, then I’ll gladly be afraid.”

“Looks like I chose the right person.”

Isaac curled the corner of his lips upward.

“Then, were the results of that ‘demon’s work’ also wicked?”

“Not at all. After that, no one dared to trade prohibited goods, collect protection fees, or exploit others—at least not within my sight. Merchants are no longer suffering under monopolies of the great houses. Those houses no longer exist.”

Isaac and Venders left the slums and entered the commercial district.

A cobbler hammered leather in his workshop.
At the blacksmith’s forge, flames roared as heated iron glowed, smoke rising beyond the walls.
Carpenters busily sawed and planed wood to prepare shutters for winter, while masons shaped stone and weavers hung dyed cloth to dry.

Vendors in the marketplace shouted to attract customers, negotiating and haggling loudly.

Yet despite all that, there weren’t many actual passersby.

“With the black market gone, proper craftsmen are starting to appear one by one. Before, no decent artisan would even come near this place—it simply wasn’t a place where business could survive. But now, it’s different.”

“Seems like things are running decently.”

Isaac remarked.

“On the surface, yes.”

“So the reality is different?”

“Bern City right now is no different from a cripple.”

Venders rubbed his tired eyes.

“The disappearance of the great houses and the eradication of the gangs are certainly positive changes. But the void they left behind is enormous. This city ran on the black market for a long time. Now that it’s gone, nobles and merchants from distant lands have no reason to come here anymore. What they wanted were goods forbidden in Goethe’s territory.”

The old dwarf let out a deep sigh.

“Smuggling, slave trading, and illegal commerce were the pillars supporting this city. Now those pillars have completely collapsed. With fewer people coming in, merchants can’t do business, and the flow of money has stopped. We might hold out for now, but if this continues, the city will begin to rot again.”

Venders turned south again after passing through the commercial district.

“We need capital. We need people. We need proper merchants. Otherwise, the city will return to what it was—or become even worse.”

After walking a while longer, Venders stopped.

It was a dead-end, reeking of foul odor—
the floodgate of an abandoned sewer.

“This is where the black market began. It started from the arrogance of the great houses, who tried to build a sewer system rivaling the imperial capital. But the construction stopped due to lack of funds, and parasites began to breed in the abandoned waterways. That’s where the contamination began.”

“What are you trying to say?”

“I’ve lived here since you were a newborn—no, even before that. I don’t intend to waste this opportunity. I plan to rebuild the sewer system and turn Bern City into a proper city. This is my home. But if this opportunity is nothing more than a passing whim of those in power, then everything will collapse like a sandcastle—along with all the hardship I’ve endured.”

The massive iron gate of the floodgate was rusted red.
The stone structure was cracked in many places, and the water had turned into a black, foul-smelling swamp.

Debris floated on the surface, and the dark water churned ominously, its depth impossible to gauge.

“So I ask you, young master—how far ahead are you looking for this city? Is Bern City nothing more than a small boat drifting in a tide too great for me to see?”

Venders knew well enough.
The true authority over this city was not Isaac, but the Count who ruled Goethe’s territory.

And yet, the one he wanted to ask was Isaac.

Because it was Isaac who had brought change to this city.

Even amidst the unstable state of the kingdom, it was Isaac—not the Count—who would pay attention to Bern City.

That was what Venders’ instincts told him.

So he asked Isaac—
how far he envisioned Bern City’s future,
and whether it was worth dedicating himself to.

“I didn’t know you were thinking that far ahead.”

Isaac let out a small chuckle at Venders’ resolute attitude.

“I am being serious right now—”

Venders bristled at Isaac’s light tone, but Isaac cut him off.

“Mayor Venders. Just keep doing what you’re doing. This city won’t run aground. I’ll make sure of it.”

Those words were anything but light.

***

Randolph Tavern was noisy and lively.

On heavy wooden tables sat freshly baked bread, salted meat, cured cheese, and strongly spiced soup.

Barrels of alcohol were left open, spilling over, while rough hands grabbed food from all sides.

At the center sat Violet and Pallich, surrounded by the Weissmans.
Already quite drunk, their flushed faces glowed as they raised their voices.

“Wow! I never thought I’d see a day like this before I die!”

“A toast to our comrade, Lady Fleur!”

“To the Republic!”

“To freedom! May we never kneel beneath a lord again!”

“To free citizens! May we never forget the night we broke our chains!”

“To our fallen comrades!”

Cups clashed together, spilling alcohol onto the floor.
Madam Randolph shook her head but continued to bring out more food and drinks.

“We’re starting over here. Look at this—just look at this!”

A large man waved his citizenship certificate in the air, one foot planted on a chair.

“This isn’t just paper! It proves we’re not fugitives anymore—it proves we won’t be driven out of this land! We don’t have to live like beggars anymore! We don’t have to bleed just to clean up after merchants pretending to be nobles! We can buy and sell land, start merchant groups or guilds—we finally have a choice!”

The Weissmans fell silent for a moment.

They remembered the time they had endured in Bern City.
And they contemplated the possibilities ahead.

“Why so serious? Raise your glasses!”

Pallich suddenly stood up and downed his ale in one gulp.

“Woooo, Pallich!”

“Pallich! Pallich! Pallich!”

Drinks overflowed once more.
Wooden cups broke, chairs and tables toppled—yet no one cared.

They laughed.
They cried.
They were drunk on newfound hope.

Violet quietly rose from her seat.

Then she approached Madam Randolph, who looked troubled, and held out a pouch of silver coins.

“Please understand, ma’am. I’ll make sure you’re well compensated.”

“You really don’t have to go this far. I’m only serving you at the young master’s request.”

Madam Randolph let out a sigh.

“Even so… today is a day worth commemorating for us. Please accept it.”

Violet firmly placed the pouch of silver coins into Madam Randolph’s hands despite her refusal, then went up to the second floor.
She knocked on the door of the innermost room.

“Young master.”

“Come in.”

Isaac sat quietly by the window, drinking ale as he gazed outside.
Under faint moonlight leaking through the clouds, sleet drifted through the air.

As the door closed, the noise from the lively hall on the first floor grew more distant.
The loud voices of the Weissmans could still be heard faintly.

Even so, Violet felt as though this room belonged to an entirely different world.
It was likely because of Isaac’s presence by the window.

Watching him slowly fill and empty his glass, he seemed far too old for a twelve-year-old boy.
Perhaps it was the alcohol—but for a moment, his back looked like that of an old man.

“I think… I’m starting to understand what people mean by the taste of alcohol.”

Isaac murmured.

“I don’t know how to express my gratitude.”

“You’ve only received what you were meant to. Want a drink?”

“I prefer something better than alcohol.”

Violet took out a hand-rolled cigarette and placed it between her lips.

Fwoosh.

A small flame rose from her fingertips, lighting the tip of the cigarette.

“That cigarette… didn’t you say it contains some kind of drug?”

“It has a small amount of powder mixed in.”

The powder was a narcotic made from mana stones.
It was the same substance the mage posing as a head nun at the House of Mercy had once been addicted to.
It used to be easily obtainable in the black market of the old sewer—but not anymore.

“Let me try it.”

“I wouldn’t recommend it.”

“It’s fine.”

After hesitating, Violet handed the cigarette to Isaac.

“Cough—cough.”

Isaac took a puff and immediately coughed.
In truth, neither alcohol nor tobacco suited him.

He simply needed them right now.

From the first floor came the loud laughter of the Weissmans—along with singing.

“The day of glory has dawned—stain the tyrant’s crest with blood!”

The Weissmans sang together in unison.

“Seems like everyone knows that song?”

Isaac, clearing his throat, handed the cigarette back to Violet.

“It’s the national anthem.”

“The national anthem?”

“It emphasizes that the king is not the nation—the people are the nation. It was written by a captain during the revolution, and now it represents the Republic.”

“The people?”

“If ‘subjects’ are the ruled class, then ‘the people’ are members of the nation itself.”

“That’s an interesting concept.”

“Considering the blood that was shed, it’s not that interesting.”

Violet exhaled a stream of smoke.
Her gaze lost focus, drifting somewhere into the past.

“So… what will you do now?”

“For now, I’ll help Uncle and make Bern City a place worth living in. I’ll establish a guild under the Weissman name and start building wealth.”

“And then?”

“When the time comes, I’ll go back. I’ll pour everything into reclaiming what was taken.”

“Yeah… I hope it works out.”

“And you, young master?”

“Hmm?”

“What will you do?”

“…Me? I’m not sure.”

Isaac paused mid-drink.

When it came time to answer, nothing suitable came to mind.

Violet hadn’t expected an answer anyway.
It was just a routine question.

The old boy drank.
The woman smoked.

After a long silence, Isaac spoke again.

“I sometimes have a dream.”

Rolling the glass between his fingers, he continued.

“It’s always an evening during a heavy snowfall. Inside a house built of sturdy bricks, the people I cherish are preparing dinner. Outside, it’s a harsh and unbearable winter—but inside, it’s neither cold nor warm. It’s… comfortable, like death. An eternal resting place.”

“They’re all so cheerful. I’m the only one who looks miserable. Every time, I try to ruin the dinner. I scatter ashes into the food, flip the table, break or open every door and window. And I try desperately to drive those I cherish out into the freezing cold.”

He filled his wooden cup with ale again.

“But I always fail. Every time.”

“That sounds like a nightmare.”

“After I wake up, I always feel conflicted. Is it right to drive them out into the cold? To delay their rest and force them to endure the harsh seasons? Can I… change the natural flow of those seasons?”

“My role… is to make sure I never have to dream such things again. To make sure I never have to think about it again. Just like tonight for you Weissmans… I wish for joyful songs to echo in Goethe as well—and for them to continue forever.”

Violet couldn’t find the right words.

She realized what state Isaac was in.

A mage’s melancholy.

A condition that comes from using excessive mana, from overwhelming expansion of thought, or from realizing one’s own insignificance within an infinite world.

But the reason she couldn’t speak wasn’t because she was being careful.

It was because she was overwhelmed by the mana Isaac unconsciously released while immersed in his melancholy.

It was dense… and utterly hollow.

Not the kind of mana a twelve-year-old boy should possess.
Not even something fitting for the son of a great magical family.

It was alien.
Endlessly deep.
Completely void.

The spirit contracted with Violet whispered to her—

That boy does not belong to this world.