Chapter 127

Encounter

In the end, the confession he had written over three days proved useless.
Raphael did not place the blame for Vincenzio’s death on Isaac.
Instead, Isaac had to recount in full, before the cardinals, everything he had witnessed during the great fire at the cathedral.

Of course, it had nothing to do with the truth.
The story was that Vincenzio had performed a miracle and, by burning the sanctuary—the remnant of corruption—had sought to atone for the sins that remained.

“...You don’t have to go this far.”
“His Excellency would have done the same.”
“Are you doing this because you feel sorry?”

Even after rising to the position of Grand Inquisitor, Raphael insisted on personally escorting Isaac all the way to Vinfelt.

“I don’t want the baron to die. No one would dare harm a guest of the Grand Inquisitor.”
“So it is because you feel sorry.”

Raphael fell silent.

After assuming the seat of Grand Inquisitor, he burned every piece of evidence that could tarnish Vincenzio’s name.
Especially the countless letters and bribes exchanged with nobles, royals, and even members of the imperial family.
The political implications hidden within them, the enormous treasures stockpiled in his estate in preparation for war—
if revealed, there would be no way Vincenzio could ever be elevated to sainthood.

The same applied to the relationship between Botmer and Vincenzio.
Viscount Botmer demanded, in exchange for covering up Vincenzio’s faults, that every charge placed upon him be shifted onto Chevalier.
The murder of his son Rutger, the attempted assassination of Bishop Alquin, even the attempt on Inquisitor Raphael’s life—
all of it, he claimed, had been prearranged under Chevalier’s arbitrary judgment.
As for himself, he admitted fault in failing to control his subordinates, and said he would atone by purchasing indulgences—
at an absurdly high price.

Raphael accepted Botmer’s proposal.
And he confessed the entirety of that deal to Isaac.
He said that war with Botmer was unavoidable, and that the viscount’s legitimacy could not be revoked.

“You don’t need to worry so much. I gained something from it as well.”

Behind Isaac’s carriage, two more followed.
Inside them were part of the treasures Vincenzio had amassed—
enough to build a castle in Vinfelt and still have plenty left over.

“Rather, I’d like to ask why you’re going this far. You know how the cathedral fire started, don’t you?”
“...At the moment the violet flames flared up, I saw him. He raised his hand to stop me—and smiled. I couldn’t hear his voice, but… it felt like he was saying, ‘It’s enough. This is enough. It’s enough.’”

“...?”

“The baron probably thought it was his own flame, but it was His flame. Perhaps a flame He had been waiting for a long time. He was someone who longed for peace more than anyone. The baron merely severed the beginning of it.”

Isaac couldn’t fully understand Raphael’s words, but he didn’t press further.
It was all in the past—something that could not be undone.

***

The snowfall grew heavier.
The wind seeping through the cracks of the carriage window carried biting cold.

“We’ve left the Papal State.”

As soon as they crossed its borders, the straight road turned winding.
On both sides, short fir trees bowed under a coat of frozen white.
Snow fell everywhere, yet under the cloudy sky it looked less pure white and more like a dull gray haze.

Fearing the frozen road might be slippery, the coachman drove carefully—
only slightly faster than walking speed.

Inside the carriage were only Raphael and Isaac.
From time to time, Raphael would speak, and Isaac would respond or ask questions.
Every topic that came up was about Vincenzio—
what kind of man he had been.

Raphael spoke exactly as he felt, almost as if lamenting.
Perhaps the only people who could speak and hear the truth of Vincenzio—now turned into a saint—without embellishment were the two of them here.

To Raphael, Vincenzio must have been his entire world.

Isaac toyed with the Light of Atonement.
When he had formed the seventh circuit, he had secretly hoped for something.
A new flow of mana born from the collision between the world of the fallen saint and his own—
perhaps even a faith he had never possessed might take root.

But mages are those who most keenly realize how insignificant they are.
That is why they both yearn for something absolute more than anyone—
and are also the first to deny it.

A mage does not believe in God.
More precisely, he calculates even the possibility of God’s existence.
What mana is, how mind and world are connected, how prayer alters the flow of mana—
they explore and hypothesize all of it.

What religion calls a miracle,
mages call a structure of principles not yet uncovered.
They believe it is only labeled a miracle out of ignorance.

In that sense, mages are arrogant—
and at the same time, exceedingly fragile beings.

Isaac, too, could not escape that framework.
Within the residual mana of the Light of Atonement, he could clearly feel the faith and will of the fallen saint—
but to him, it was nothing more than the obsession of a single human being.
He could not perceive anything sacred, nor anything divine.

“At that time, His Excellency washed my feet.
Filthy, wounded feet…”

“What does it feel like to believe in God?”

Isaac asked Raphael, who had been speaking at length about Vincenzio.

“That’s a strange question.”
“I’m curious.”
“If I had to put it into words… it’s certainty. The certainty that He knows me and is always by my side.”
“Hmm.”

...

It was a realm Isaac couldn’t easily understand.
It sounded no more than vague, intangible talk to him.

“You wouldn’t understand unless you felt it yourself.”

Raphael tried to elaborate further—
but the discussion of faith came to an abrupt halt.

“Someone is blocking the road.”

The coachman spoke.

Looking out the window, they saw a line of carriages occupying the road ahead.
At the very front stood a carriage with a black body trimmed in gold.
Four muscular warhorses exhaled steam, and beside them stood two knights in full armor, cloaked in black, standing guard.
Their armor was black, yet whenever it caught the pale sunlight, it shimmered green—
armor made of Dimezitrium.

They held a flag embroidered with a golden swan.

It was Botmer’s carriage.

“Good thing I followed.”

Raphael muttered.

“Stay here, Baron. I’ll go meet them.”

Raphael stepped out of the carriage.
The paladins escorting from behind followed him.

Isaac also stepped down, quietly observing the situation.

From Botmer’s carriage, a tall man revealed himself.
His silver-gray hair, nearly white, whipped in the snowstorm.
He had a high-bridged nose, a sharply defined jawline, and eyes the color of ice.
He didn’t look particularly healthy, yet arrogance seemed to seep from his very face.
Even seeing him for the first time, one could recognize him at a glance.

He was Viscount Botmer.

At the collar of his thick coat, fastened with golden buttons, hung a royal medal.
In his silk-gloved hand, he held a silver-tipped cane.

Knights in black armor stood at his side, facing off against Raphael and the paladins behind him.

Isaac hesitated for a moment.

If he could kill Viscount Botmer here, that would be the best option.
But he couldn’t act rashly.
He would have to deal with the knights guarding the viscount first—and then silence anyone who witnessed his magic.
There was no guarantee he could eliminate knights clad in Dimezitrium armor in a single strike.

I can’t gauge the knights’ level.

Normally, aura users emit a detectable amount of mana, just like mages.
But because they wore Dimezitrium armor, it was impossible to tell how much mana they possessed.

If each of them was as skilled as Chevalier, Isaac alone wouldn’t stand a chance.

Even if he dealt with the knights, what about the paladins who witnessed his magic?
Would claiming it as divine power really work?
The odds of success were low, and the aftermath would be even more complicated.

As Isaac gathered his thoughts, the viscount spoke.

“I’m pleased to finally meet you in person, Inquisitor, after only corresponding by letter.”

His voice was low and dry—
like the sound of an old blade scraping against its sheath.

“Are you on your way to the Papal See?”

Raphael gave a slight nod.
But he did not bow.

“Among other things. I intend to confess my sins and seek forgiveness—and to witness the traces left behind by the miracle of the violet flames. You could say it is something of a pilgrimage.”
“Then why are you blocking the road? Why not continue on your way?”
“Ah, the wheel broke on the snowy road. We were in the middle of making repairs.”
“I don’t see any repairmen.”
“We just finished, in fact. But more importantly, where are you headed, Inquisitor? The Inquisition can’t be so idle that you’d leave the Papal See.”

The viscount’s words carried many implications—
including matters concerning Vincenzio.

“…It is part of a routine pilgrimage. To eradicate heresy, one must not cling only to doctrine, but also understand the field.”
“The field? Surely you don’t mean the barbarian-infested northern frontier. For example… Vinfelt?”

…

Raphael narrowed his eyes.

The viscount had been waiting here knowingly.
His gaze was not on Raphael—but on Isaac standing behind him.

“Following His Excellency Vincenzio’s passing, I have assumed the position of Grand Inquisitor in accordance with the will of the Church.”

Raphael’s words carried a warning:
do not touch a guest under the protection of the Grand Inquisitor.

“Is that so? The Lord has raised you and entrusted you with the path of justice. My congratulations. Though, forgive me for not having the leisure to show proper courtesy. By coincidence, someone I’ve long wished to meet happens to be here.”

Ignoring Raphael’s warning entirely, the viscount’s gaze remained fixed on Isaac.

“I recognize you at a glance. Baron of Vinfelt, correct?”
“My apologies for the late introduction, Viscount. I am Isaac von Vinfelt Goethe.”
“Baron. This is not a place for—”
“It’s fine. It seems you weren’t waiting here to repair a wheel, Viscount.”

Though Raphael tried to stop him, Isaac stepped forward toward Botmer.

“I regret the death of Sir Rutger.”
“Thank you for your concern.”

Even at the mention of his son’s death, the viscount merely smiled generously.

“They say even ill-fated ties are still ties. What do you say? The weather is dreadful—why not share a drink before you go? The carriage is rather spacious, and I was just feeling lonely.”
“Baron—”

“Please wait in the carriage. I’ll be back shortly.”

Leaving the uneasy Raphael behind, Isaac followed the viscount into his carriage.

***

Inside, it was quiet and warm.
A bearskin rug covered the floor, and the interior walls were lined with deep navy velvet.

“Sit. It’s the kind of cold that seeps into your bones.”
“Living in the northern frontier, this level of cold is nothing.”

“Heh, that’s true.”

The viscount sat first, laying his silver-tipped cane across his lap.
He then took out a glass bottle and two small silver cups from a box.
A deep ruby liquid filled the cups.

Wine.

“Berry wine suits unpleasant weather like this quite well.”
“I’ll drink gratefully.”

Isaac accepted the cup.

“I heard that at the arena, when you cut down my attendant, you said something along the lines of wanting to teach a bitter lesson to a syphilitic old man who flits about like a bat between the Republic and the Empire.”
“I didn’t expect my voice to reach you, Viscount.”
“Don’t worry. I rather liked that spirit.”
“Since you brought it up, I’ll ask—you seem more composed than expected.”

Isaac’s words carried open mockery, yet the viscount only curled his lips into a faint smile.

“It’s true I have syphilis. I’ve had it for a long time. In fact, I can barely see anymore. Sometimes I even hear the voice of my dead wife. One thing is certain—I don’t have much time left. Still, I’ve gained something from it. Because I cannot see, I can see more. Because I cannot hear normally, I can hear beyond what ears alone perceive.”

“With all due respect, that sounds like madness.”
“It’s true I was once mad with lust. I bring this up to say—my move against Goethe isn’t driven by malice. I have my own position to consider. Surely you understand?”

“I don’t understand at all.”
“Heh.”

The viscount let out a soft chuckle.

“Now that I see you in person, I understand. Why Marquis Dietrich fell into his own trap, why the carefully planned schemes for the tournament all came to nothing, why Rutger had no choice but to lose, why that old dean Reich took interest in a mere troublemaker, and why even the First Prince showed interest. The eldest even marched with two thousand troops, only to return empty-handed. It was absurd.”

Isaac stiffened slightly.
He hadn’t expected the viscount to have grasped this much.

“What kind of wretch could interfere with everything I do? I simply couldn’t contain my curiosity.”

“…There’s no need to be so tense. I came to you personally to make you a good offer.”

The viscount’s tongue, loosened by wine, moved smoothly.