Chapter 153
Blue Blood (7)
Of course, a demonic sword was, in the end, merely the culmination of magi-engineering.
It was nothing more than a technology that produced aura.
It was not something generated by the user's own will.
It could not contain the user's mental image.
It did not construct a second body for the user.
Nor did it create a vessel within the heart.
Naturally, it could not grant a person newfound willpower or imagination, nor could it strengthen the body through aura.
At best, it was merely an imitation of a true aura user.
And yet—
There had always been those who transcended limitations.
Lichtenauer, the man who authored the modern system of aura, was one of them.
Renowned as a swordsmanship instructor for numerous noble families thanks to his profound knowledge of the sword, he had not originally been an aura user himself.
“Hold this sword.”
After untying Hans from the stake, Isaac handed him the weapon.
Hans still wore shackles around his ankles, and his eyes were empty.
Without questioning anything, he simply obeyed Isaac.
“Imagine putting something into that sword. Your emotions, a powerful memory, anything.”
“......”
Hans wanted to be alone.
No matter who it was—even Isaac.
No, especially because it was Isaac.
He did not want to talk to him.
He did not want his cherished master to see him in such a broken state.
Even now, the long-haired man continued approaching inside his mind.
Covered in blood and wearing bronze-colored armor, slaughtering mercenaries as he slowly walked toward Hans.
Because it was only an illusion, the long-haired man never actually reached him.
Yet the horrifying sensation that accompanied his approach—
Fear.
Powerlessness.
Self-loathing.
Disgust.
Nausea.
The feeling of having his skin slowly peeled away.
All of it continued endlessly.
It would not disappear.
And it kept coming back.
“Hans!”
“...Understood.”
Only after Isaac barked at him did Hans follow the instruction.
Even so, it was meaningless.
No matter what Isaac tried, Hans could not change.
He could never escape this swamp.
He had continued training.
Until he could barely breathe.
Sometimes until he collapsed unconscious.
Carlson had taught him swordsmanship.
He had sparred with Vinfelt's soldiers.
He kept going.
Never resting.
Yet he remained this weak.
It was an inborn limitation.
“Focus, Hans.”
“...?”
The emptiness in Hans’s eyes slowly faded.
For an instant, a spark appeared within them.
“H-how is this possible?”
For the briefest moment—
Hans forgot about the long-haired man.
Light blossomed from the sword in his hand.
“That’s enough. At least it means it’s worth trying.”
“Huh?”
“That man’s name is Falkenwald.”
“...Who?”
Hans blinked at the sudden mention of a name.
“The one who won’t leave your thoughts. The man responsible for wiping out the Black Eyes mercenary company.”
“...!”
“Within a week at most, Botmer’s army will pass through this area. I intend to stop them here.”
“Then...”
“Unless you decide to return to the estate. If you're lucky—or perhaps if you're unlucky—you'll see him again.”
Hans’s face turned pale.
His body trembled.
His teeth chattered.
The sword in his hands shook violently.
“The thing you're holding is called a demonic sword. It's a kind of magical tool, one of the spoils taken from enemy soldiers during this war.”
“A... demonic sword?”
“It’s a tool that artificially creates aura. When you channel the mana inside your body, the magi-engineering design within the sword generates a phenomenon similar to aura.”
“I don't really understand...”
“My intention is to awaken aura within you through that sword.”
“...What?”
Hans stared blankly.
“Not everyone can use a demonic sword. At the very least, you need to be able to control even a tiny amount of mana. You've already passed that stage.”
The invention and spread of demonic swords alone had not shaken the social order.
Nearly every noble, knight, and aura user refused to recognize the aura produced by demonic swords.
They considered it fake.
And they were right.
Strictly speaking, the aura generated by a demonic sword could not truly be called aura.
It was merely a phenomenon created through magi-engineering.
But Lichtenauer had seen potential in it.
He had used demonic swords as teaching tools.
After all, if there was a result, one could trace it back to its cause.
Rather than forming a vessel in the heart first and then manifesting aura,
one could reverse the process.
Begin with the manifestation of aura.
Then form the vessel within the heart afterward.
By dissecting the principles of the demonic sword, one could come to understand the true essence of aura.
In that regard, Lichtenauer had unquestionably been a genius.
The aura system he devised ultimately began shaking the very foundations of knighthood itself.
That development had only begun in the generation after Isaac’s previous life.
But Isaac remembered every detail of that knowledge.
“Then... can I beat him?”
“One-on-one?”
“No.”
“Not even ten-on-one. A hundred-on-one would still be difficult.”
Isaac answered immediately.
“If you're lucky, you'll die cleanly.”
“If you're unlucky, you'll return home crippled.”
“You'll spend the rest of your life being cared for by your wife.”
“......”
Isaac spoke the cold truth.
Of course, he had no intention of letting things end that way.
What mattered was understanding Hans’s will.
What mattered was reviving the soul of a man who was slowly dying inside.
“And as the commander, I’m going to place you on the front lines for violating military discipline.”
“......”
“But at the same time, as the eldest son of House Goethe, if you wish to return to the estate as my attendant, I’ll allow it. The choice is yours.”
Isaac spoke calmly and clearly.
Hans lowered his head and stared at the ground.
Night had fallen.
The sword light had vanished long ago.
Once again, the long-haired man was approaching him.
Spraying blood as he came.
“If I return to the estate... he’ll keep following me, won’t he...?”
“Probably.”
“When I’m playing with Peter, when I’m talking with my wife, when I’m eating, when I’m working in the fields... he’ll keep following me.”
“He will.”
“Peter likes you, Young Master. My wife likes you too. My family is proud of me... proud that I serve and support you.”
Hans swallowed.
“Other people may not know, but I know who you are, Young Master.”
“I told my family what I know.”
“But that’s not a reason to stake your life on this.”
“For me... this is living.”
Silence fell between them.
The noisy sounds of the camp drifted away on the cold wind.
“I’ll... try.”
Hans raised his head.
“Please teach me aura.”
“Once you choose, there’s no taking it back. You’ll be throwing away your chance to save yourself.”
“No.”
Hans shook his head.
“I’m doing this because I want to live.”
“I figured that would be your answer.”
Isaac grinned as though he had expected nothing else.
“Sig!”
He called for Sigbrand.
A man with a shaved head and one missing wrist approached with a small group behind him.
The Wraith Squad, which had once numbered thirteen, was now down to only four survivors.
They had looked like ghosts from the moment Isaac first met them, so it was difficult to tell what had changed even after the war.
Though the dried blood caked onto their faces, armor, and clothing certainly made them appear even more sinister.
“You called for me?”
“Yeah. You know Hans, right?”
“I know him as the Baron’s attendant.”
His voice still sounded like someone scraping metal.
“From now on, add Hans to your squad.”
“...?”
“Huh?”
Sigbrand looked confused.
Hans looked even more confused.
Isaac simply smiled.
“Take in a new recruit.”
***
Carlson watched them from a distance.
It was meaningless.
A futile struggle.
Isaac had only just awakened aura himself.
Breaking the accepted rule that mages could not use aura was certainly remarkable.
Carlson also knew better than anyone what a monster Isaac was as a mage.
But greatness and teaching were different things.
A genius could not teach the average.
And teaching the untalented was even harder.
Even when they spoke the same language and stood in the same place, it was as if they lived in different worlds and spoke different tongues.
At this rate, Isaac would only get Hans killed.
That frustrated Carlson.
Yet what frustrated him even more was that he did not understand why he felt frustrated in the first place.
This journey had always had a predetermined ending.
Kill Viscount Botmer.
Then it would be over.
That was what Carlson had believed from the beginning.
Several times he had entertained other thoughts, but the conclusion had never changed.
The faces of Randolph’s children, Wolfgang and Herman, briefly crossed his mind.
Nothing more.
The journey would end soon.
And then a crossroads would appear.
Carlson found neither relief nor anticipation in that fact.
It simply felt suffocatingly uncertain.
Perhaps—
Like Sigbrand’s Wraith Squad.
He, too, might end up living as a ghost.
The sword he had just finished maintaining reflected the bonfire’s light as though it had been freshly forged.
The oil had settled perfectly.
He sheathed the blade and quietly walked away.
Suddenly, his father’s voice echoed in his mind.
“Don’t look back. Keep moving forward!”
It had been a shout.
The final words carved into his heart.
Carlson—Kyle—removed his glove and looked down at his palm.
Am I moving forward?
There were no wounds on his hand.
Only dark, dried blood remained, staining it like a mark.
***
Midway up the Tooth Mountain Range.
With the aid of the Granak tribesmen, the Winterband soldiers had established a small defensive position.
“This is Wind Hollow.”
Asra guided Count Goethe and Johan into a gap between enormous boulders.
It was a natural depression near the center of the mountain.
The entrance was narrow and cramped, but the interior stretched deep and wide, like lungs formed by the mountain itself to breathe.
It was a perfect natural shelter from snow and wind.
“Thank you, Lady Asra.”
“It’s Mother-in-law, Helmut. I’ll give you two some privacy.”
Leaving Johan and the Count behind, Asra stepped back into the howling wind outside.
The ceiling was low.
Ancient dried moss covered the floor.
The cliff-like walls were webbed with cracks that resembled intricate patterns.
There was even a vent through which smoke could escape without leaking outside, a naturally formed fissure in the rock.
The sound of the winter wind passing through it resembled a distant whistle.
A campfire burned softly.
Its glow illuminated the faces of Johan and the Count.
Their shadows stretched large against the wall.
The Count spoke first.
“You have endured much hardship, Your Highness.”
“When I heard your voice in the royal palace, Count, I cannot describe how shocked I was.”
The First Prince, who had introduced himself as Johan, wore a faint smile.
“Reich tells me it was Isaac who solved the problems with the long-distance communication device.”
“Is that so?”
“You may be proud of him. He’s not merely a remarkable son—he’s the kind of child who could revive a family ten times over.”
“You flatter him. He’s still only a child.”
“If I ever have children, I’d hope they grow up like Isaac.”
“Like a troublemaker?”
“Even you make jokes now, Count.”
The First Prince chuckled at the Count’s deadpan response.
“I know we don’t have much time, but I’ll ask the thing I most want to know first.”
“I will answer.”
“Yesterday, Father—His Majesty—suffered another seizure. While his mind was clouded, he said something to me.”
“What was it?”
“A curious thing.”
The First Prince paused.
Then he continued.
“If circumstances become impossible to bear, rely on Goethe.
Even if the crown does not survive, that is acceptable.
The kingdom must survive.”
“......”
“Count. Does that mean anything to you?”
The First Prince’s eyes glimmered in the firelight.
The Count merely stared into the flickering flames.