Chapter 128

The Old Woman from the North

“Support me.”

The viscount’s pupils were clouded over with a pale film.
It seemed true that he had nearly lost his sight.
Even as he looked at Isaac, his gaze seemed unfocused, as if he were staring at something else entirely.
That made it all the harder to read his intentions.
It felt as though he was probing not the Isaac before him, but what lay beneath.

“I’m not sure I understand what you mean.”
“I mean exactly what I said.”

“You’re telling me to abandon my family and side with Botmer?”
“Half right, half wrong. I’m telling you to side with me to preserve your family. Baron of Vinfelt. You’re remarkably clever for your age. If you were my son, I wouldn’t hesitate to name you my heir.”
“You flatter me.”

“With your intelligence, you already know. Goethe’s defeat is inevitable. Not only in military strength, but in resources, diplomacy, and alliances—you cannot defeat me.”

“Well, I agree with that.”

Isaac nodded easily.
He slowly swirled the silver cup, breathing in the scent of the wine.
The aroma of lingonberries and elderberries was rich—fruits that could often be found in the forests of Goethe’s domain.

“You’ve interfered with my affairs up until now to protect your family, haven’t you? Including your act as a reckless troublemaker.”
“I can’t deny that.”

“Whether you know it or not, war in the north is inevitable. War is catastrophic. But its fruits are… exceptionally sweet. If you follow me, I will not only ensure Goethe’s survival—I will place it in your hands.”

Isaac carefully studied the viscount’s expression.

The viscount neither smiled cunningly nor threatened him.
He simply brought the silver cup to his lips and savored the wine in small sips.

“Is that how you brought Ripe, Mark, and Hauzen under your control as well?”
“No, no. They’re different. They weren’t people worth me personally seeking out—they came to me of their own accord, bowing their heads. They felt they could no longer survive under Goethe.”
“Goethe certainly had loyal vassals.”
“Don’t blame them in youthful arrogance. Loyalty is given only to those worthy of receiving it—like how a beautiful woman attracts the attention of many men.”

“You’re not quite as attractive as a beautiful woman, Viscount.”
“That’s true.”

The viscount chuckled.

“Still, I can offer far more than a beautiful woman ever could. Is there something more you want?”
“What use is inheriting a hollow shell of a family? Provide a way for Goethe to continue surviving.”
“Speak.”
“Guarantee autonomy. Goethe must be an autonomous noble territory equal to Botmer. We may cooperate in times of war, but we will not be treated as directly controlled forces.”
“Do as you wish.”
“Grant us tax autonomy and trade jurisdiction.”
“I am the wealthiest in the north. Why would I bother taxing something like Goethe?”
“Recognize our judicial and religious authority as well. Trials, disputes, punishments within Goethe will fall under my jurisdiction. That includes the right to appoint bishops and recommend priests.”

“So be it. Anything else?”
“Provide resources for technological and agricultural development. And lift the magical restrictions placed on Goethe.”
“If I’d known, I might have preferred being born a beautiful woman instead.”
“Is it possible or not?”
“It’s possible, though it will take time.”
“That’s enough.”

“If I accept all those conditions, will you support me?”

“Ah, one more thing.”

“What now?”

The viscount let out a sigh.

“Promise that you will not harm any member of the Goethe family or its retainers.”
“Even if they appear on the battlefield?”
“Yes. No one is to be harmed.”
“Hmm. That’s quite a demanding condition.”

The viscount took another sip of wine.

“You value people more than I expected.”
“Now that I think about it… I suppose I do.”

“Very well. I’ve conceded this much—will you now accept my offer?”
“I believe you already know my answer.”

A brief silence fell.

The viscount suddenly smiled.

“I’ve been thinking endlessly about how to kill you. You’re a man worth killing with care.”
“I’ve been thinking the same.”

“It seems we’ve reached the same conclusion.”
“Yes.”

Isaac nodded.

From the beginning, Isaac had never been a target for recruitment.
The viscount only wanted to determine whether he was an enemy worth worrying about.
They hadn’t been negotiating—they had been measuring each other.
And from that, deciding their future actions.

“I’ve never dealt with clergy or paladins this troublesome before. Baron, be grateful they accompanied you. Otherwise, you’d already be split in two by my knights’ blades.”
“Who knows? Perhaps they’re the ones who saved your life.”
“You speak as though you had a way to kill me.”
“Isn’t that possible?”
“How amusing.”

The smile on the viscount’s lips had long since faded.

“I should be going. It seems there’s some commotion outside.”
“Commotion?”

“It appears your knights and the paladins are sparring.”
“You’ve got good ears.”

“Thank you for the warm seat and hospitality.”
“And thank you for your time. This will likely be the last time we share a drink. Travel safely.”

With the viscount’s farewell, Isaac stepped out of Botmer’s carriage.

The temperature difference between inside and outside was stark.
The wind had calmed, but the snow still fell steadily.

“Next!”

A knight clad in Dimezitrium armor shouted boldly.

Red hair?

He had taken off his helmet, revealing striking red hair.
Though his voice was that of an adult, his face still carried traces of youth.
At most, he was around Carlson’s age—or even younger.

“No one else? For those who call themselves the Lord’s instruments, you’re rather unimpressive. Aren’t you just murderers who prey on the weak?”

The paladins glared at him as if they might kill him at any moment, but none stepped forward recklessly.
Three of them already seemed injured, their stances unsteady as they clutched their wrists or sides.

“One blade, yet a different hand wields it? If that’s the case, then it doesn’t seem to be your god at all… wouldn’t you say, Grand Inquisitor?”

“Or perhaps you too merely carry the name of God on your lips?”

“Do not vent personal vengeance on the innocent.”
“That burned away long ago. When hatred burns out, do you know what remains? Only evil.”

The red-haired knight glanced briefly at Isaac, then sheathed his sword.
With a mocking smile, he turned away.

“That’s enough! Clear the way! We’re returning to the Papal State!”

Another of Botmer’s knights shouted.

“What’s going on?”
“Nothing important. Are you finished talking?”
“Yes. Something like that.”

The procession of Botmer’s carriages moved aside, opening a path along the road.

“May I ask what you talked about?”

Back in the carriage, Raphael and Isaac discussed their encounter with Botmer.

“The viscount tried to recruit me.”
“Recruit you?”

“He said he’d spare Goethe if I supported him.”
“And your answer?”

“I refused.”
“I see.”

Raphael nodded, as if he had expected that answer.

“That red-haired one earlier—who is he? He seemed to know you.”
“He’s the child of a reformist who was accused of heresy and executed.”
“…What?”

“Nowadays, the reformist faith is gradually gaining recognition as a religion. But there was a time when simply reading a translated scripture in the common tongue would get you dragged before the Inquisition, tortured, and burned at the stake.”
“Then…”
“At that time, I was a paladin who served the holy war with absolute conviction. I hunted down hidden reformists and forced them to convert. Among them were Evervine’s parents.”
“He must harbor deep hatred toward the Papal See.”
“I’ve heard that recently, paladins have been going missing in the frontier, or turning up as corpses. There’s a strong chance knights like Evervine are behind it.”

Raphael’s expression was stiffer than usual.

Evervine… I’ve heard that name somewhere.

Isaac rubbed his brow.
Perhaps from his previous life as Jonas—or from some record.
It was a familiar name.
Since it didn’t immediately come to mind, it was unlikely to have a direct connection to Goethe.

“I’ve heard something similar happened in Goethe as well. In Bernsi, twelve paladins were suddenly found slaughtered.”

“The bishop overseeing that diocese, Levonius, committed such heinous acts that the Church tribunal chose to cover it up.”
“I see.”
“The baron likely wouldn’t know. It was handled very quietly.”
“Yes, it’s the first I’ve heard of it.”

Isaac scratched his head.
Levonius—the corrupt bishop in charge of Bernsi.
A man who had gone so far as to create grotesque cultists himself to strengthen the influence of the old faith.
He was also the first clergyman to burn in Isaac’s violet flames.

“In any case, Evervine uses the viscount’s backing to provoke paladins at every opportunity. He even seeks out renowned ones to confront and humiliate them. And he insists on being called Feuerhar.”

“Feuerhar?”

“Does that name sound familiar?”
“Do you mean… Evervine Feuerhar?”

Isaac was startled by the combination of the two names.

“If you insist on calling him that, yes. Why?”
“…No, it just sounded familiar.”

Evervine Feuerhar.
He was the sixth Swordmaster of the continent—
the very man who crushed Carlson’s chance for revenge and shattered his resolve, preventing him from ever reaching the level of a Swordmaster.

***

It was an afternoon with the winter sun hanging low.

Three carriages traveled together across the frozen road toward Vinfelt’s military camp.
Frost clung to the wheels, and the horses breathed heavily, exhausted from the long journey.

“A carriage from the Papal See!”

The camp entrance quickly grew noisy.
Carlson approached with several armed soldiers to receive them.

The coachman pulled the reins, and the following carriages came to a stop one after another.
Paladins began unloading the chests from the cargo wagons.

“That took longer than expected.”

As Isaac stepped down, Carlson gave a slight bow.
There was no particular expression on his face—
as if they had only parted yesterday and met again today.

“Something came up.”
“What’s all that?”

Carlson glanced at the sealed chests.

“Picked up a few things from the Papal See.”
“…What?”

“It’s a direct reward for the baron’s achievements. Ownership has been fully transferred here—to Vinfelt.”

Raphael, who had stepped down from the carriage, spoke.

Carlson broke the wax seals and opened a chest.
Inside were silver ingots, gold bars, gilded relics, and imperial coins—filled to the brim.

“…This?”
“Yes.”

Raphael nodded as if it were only natural.

“There must have been a price.”
“The baron deserves it.”

Carlson looked at Isaac.

“Don’t ask for details. Either way, it’s good for us. Anything happen while I was gone?”
“You mean aside from the two thousand troops Botmer brought?”
“Yeah. They just left, right?”
“Yes. They stormed off in a rage—thanks to someone.”
“Other than that, nothing?”
“There was one thing.”

“What is it?”
“Besimer got beaten up by an old woman from the north.”

“…What?”

For a moment, Isaac doubted his ears.

“Who got beaten by who?”
“In my opinion, whether warrior or knight, no one in Vinfelt could defeat that old woman.”
“Not even you?”

“Probably not.”

Carlson nodded, looking uneasy.

“Who is she?”
“I don’t know her identity. She said you would recognize her. She’s been using the command tent like it’s her own place for the past few days.”

“I’ll go see her. Take care of things here.”

Isaac turned and headed toward the command tent.