Chapter 111

The Place Where Demons Live (2)

That day—

Beltran was in high spirits.
Before all of Goethe’s vassals, he had demonstrated the supreme ice spell, Glacier, and even the head of the Royal Academy had acknowledged him.
It was an achievement he had earned himself, despite receiving less support than the eldest son.

“Welcome back, young master.”

As soon as he returned to the Büchtner estate, the head steward Valdek greeted him.

“Valdek, where is Father?”
“He is in the reception room. His Excellency must have been very pleased to hear your news.”
“The news already reached here?”

Beltran found it strange.
The competition had just ended, and he had returned straight to the estate.
How had word arrived so quickly?

But the doubt was fleeting.

He simply wanted praise.
As expected of my son.
I knew you would succeed.
I’m proud of you.

He wanted to hear those words.

However, what awaited him when he opened the reception room door was nothing like he expected.

“Father?”

Baron Büchtner sat slumped in his chair, head hanging low.
A metallic smell—like licking rusted iron—stung his nose.

Blood.

A red stain spread across the floor.

“Father!”

He tried to rush forward, but a hand pressed down on his shoulder.

“It is unfortunate we could not deliver the news to you sooner.”

Beltran turned.
Valdek stood there—his eyes completely different from before.

“I hear you received a recommendation from the head of the Royal Academy at the competition. A remarkable achievement. However, the direction this house must take has changed.”
“W-why, Valdek… why are you acting like this?”
“I regret having to say this. If His Excellency had been just a little wiser… if I had no family to take responsibility for… this might never have happened.”

Beltran stepped back.

“You must make a choice now.”
“…What?”
“Inherit the barony. Then swear loyalty to Viscount Botmer. If you do that, nothing will happen.”
“Are you insane? My father—my father is—!”
“You may refuse. Out of past affection, I have no intention of killing you as well. However, you will bear the crime of patricide and spend your life on the run.”

Beltran had no real choice.

A forged will had already been prepared.
And Bishop Alquin, who oversaw Botmer’s diocese, would guarantee its legitimacy.
Even without Count Goethe’s approval, it was a path to being recognized as the de facto head of the house.

Otherwise, what remained was the life of a fugitive—
a second son who murdered his own father.

Or death.

Botmer had already calculated everything.

Büchtner’s eldest son was the recognized heir and maintained decent relations with Goethe.
He was not someone who could be swayed or threatened.

Beltran, on the other hand, had always lived in his brother’s shadow, received little support, and had weak ties with Goethe.
He was the perfect puppet.

***

Baron Büchtner’s funeral was conducted swiftly.
Cause of death: sudden death.
There was no autopsy.

The funeral rites were officiated by a priest dispatched from Botmer.

Beltran’s elder brother, who had been in the capital, only learned of it after everything was over.
Enraged, he gathered the loyalists of the house and sought Count Goethe’s aid.

Since then, no further news had reached Beltran.

“Do not worry too much, Your Excellency. Their strength amounts to little. Count Goethe is already struggling just to hold onto his fortress.”

Valdek, still acting as head steward, spoke gently.

“More importantly… why would the viscount summon me?”
“He likely has a task to entrust to you.”
“A task?”
“There is nothing to fear. Viscount Botmer is a man who always pays what is due.”

***

The grand reception hall of the Botmer estate—

When Beltran entered, he nearly stopped breathing.

“W-why…?”

Goethe had five vassals.
Three of them were present: the heads of Ripe, Hauzen, and Mark.

“That brat used a scheme?”
“I heard there’s a druid! They say he controlled beasts!”
“Don’t be ridiculous. The count must have intervened!”
“No, if that were the case, the viscount would have already prepared a counterattack.”

They were loudly discussing the battle that had taken place at Vinfelt.
Their agitation was unmistakable.

“Now do you understand that you made the wise choice?”

Valdek spoke with a faint smile.

***

“Witch… she’s a witch!”

Gaspard, who had been recording Bishop Alquin’s testimony on parchment, paused.

“I am certain. That girl is a witch!”
“…Ahem.”

Raphael cleared his throat.

“Shall I write it down?”
“Hold on.”

Gaspard dipped his quill into the ink.

“Bishop Alquin. What you have just said will be recorded and delivered to the Holy See. You would do well to choose your words carefully. Otherwise, innocent blood may be spilled.”

Raphael warned in a firm voice.

He had spent his life fighting countless heretics and taking lives.
In recognition of his service, the Holy See had granted him the position of special inquisitor, with authority comparable to that of an archbishop.

It was a holy path—
a path of glory.

But as he aged, his certainty and faith had begun to waver.

Had there been innocents among those he judged?
Had there been mistakes?

Memories of the past would surface unexpectedly, troubling him.

“Let us Sort out  this.”

Raphael picked up the parchment Gaspard had written.

“A knight named Chevalier killed Rutger, the second son of Botmer. Then he suddenly transformed into something monstrous and attempted to kill you, Bishop. Is that correct?”
“Y-yes.”

“Several of Vinfelt’s soldiers were killed trying to stop him, and the one who ultimately put an end to Chevalier’s rampage was a girl serving Baron Vinfelt. Is that correct?”
“She is undoubtedly a heretic. An evil sorceress. The flames were purple.”

Bishop Alquin’s voice trembled.

“Inquisitor, have you ever seen purple flames?”
“I’ve heard that high-ranking mages can produce flames of such color.”
“No. No, that is not it. Those are the flames of demons. ‘Behold, the violet tower shall fall!’—it is written in the scriptures. Violet is the symbol of corruption and decay!”

Raphael fell into thought.

Alquin was not in a normal state.
Dark circles shadowed his eyes, and the whites were bloodshot—
he looked more like a madman than a bishop.

“Y-yes… perhaps I exaggerated. But aren’t all mages heretics? If you cannot eliminate her, then take me with you. Please, remove me from this den of evil.”

The bishop spoke desperately.
His claims and reasoning were twisted somewhere along the line.

Raphael had been dispatched here because of the war between Vinfelt and Botmer.
The key questions were simple:

Did Rutger, Botmer’s second son, violate the code of dueling and order an advance?
And was his death not at the hands of Baron Vinfelt, but by his escort knight?

Those were the crucial points.

The bishop admitted both without resistance—
yet fixated on something entirely different.

What had he seen to make him like this?

By doctrine, blue flames were considered sacred fire in the old Church.
Holy flames—
only bishops who had trained their divine power for decades could manifest them.

As for flames of other colors, the Church knew little.
Such things belonged to the dubious realm of magic, studied by those intoxicated by heretical power.

Yet Raphael had seen it.

He had witnessed Cardinal Vincenzio conjure violet flames—
a blaze fierce enough to devour everything around it.
And in that fire, there was neither evil nor holiness.
It was simply… overwhelmingly hot.

— Magic, divine power… it all depends on what you call it, Raphael. With this flame, I doubted God—and within that doubt, I found Him. That is why I show you this. Blind faith can make even a stone into a god. But the moment we doubt God, we finally begin to seek Him.

At the time, Raphael had not understood those words.
Even now, he wasn’t sure he fully did.

But watching the bishop now, he felt as though he was beginning to grasp them—just a little.

Still, curiosity outweighed everything else.

That flame… something even the Cardinal could wield—
and a mere girl ignited it?

“Let us take a short break. I will verify whether the bishop’s words are true by meeting this girl myself. Gaspard, step outside and clear your head.”

***

Raphael and Gaspard wandered just outside the tent.

Kingdom subjects, tribal people, monsters, and the snow that had turned into sleet—
everything blended into a gray, uncertain landscape.

Only one thing was certain:

The cold.

“What do you think?”

Raphael asked, his breath visible with every word.

“If the bishop speaks with such conviction, it’s unlikely to be a lie.”
“Purple flames… do you truly believe they are evil?”
“I am a clerk. I record, not judge. Judgment belongs to Him.”
“Him…”

Gaspard’s answer was unsatisfying.
Raphael stared up at the gray sky.

Even if He existed, did He not ultimately act through the Pope?

Raphael stopped himself from thinking further.
He had some idea why Cardinal Vincenzio had shown him those flames—
but the doubt they sparked was too great for him to bear.

It had been easier when he could simply label all heretics as enemies and focus on destroying evil.

“That girl—you said she serves the baron?”

“I will find her. You—”
“I will try to calm the bishop.”
“Very well.”

Raphael strode away.

Gaspard absentmindedly touched the small vial hidden in his sleeve.

This is the only chance.

“Could I trouble you for some warm tea? The bishop is unable to calm himself.”

With a gentle expression, the clerk spoke to the guard outside the tent.

***

“Bishop.”

Gaspard entered the tent carrying two cups of tea scented with wildflowers.
One of them contained poison extracted from foxglove.
At present, there was no way to detect it.

“It’s cold. You should regain your strength with some warm tea.”

Alquin did not suspect a thing.
He lifted the cup carefully to his lips.

One sip.
Then another.

Gaspard narrowed his eyes as he watched.

The poison would not act immediately.
Slowly, gradually, the heartbeat would weaken… until death.

“I feel… sleepy.”

The bishop spoke in a calmer tone.

“It might be best to rest before the inquisitor returns.”

Gaspard stood.

Alquin’s eyes had already grown unfocused.

Now… to erase the evidence.

Gaspard picked up the parchment on the table—
the document recording the bishop’s testimony.

If this record reached the Holy See, unforeseen complications could arise even after the bishop’s death.

Botmer said they would handle the inquisitor.

Slowly, Gaspard brought the parchment to the candle flame.
As it touched, the parchment began to burn.
Blackened ash drifted away.
The written words disappeared one by one.

Then—

“Stop, Gaspard.”

As if he had been waiting, Inquisitor Raphael opened the tent door and stepped inside.

Behind him stood Baron Vinfelt—
his face far too cold to belong to a boy.

“…Just as the baron said.”

Bishop Alquin, who had seemed to be succumbing to the poison, spoke in a resigned voice.