Chapter 65

Sleet

The group fell asleep at the Randolph Inn and only woke past noon.
They ate on the first floor and exchanged light conversation.

It was mostly Pallich who did the talking.
The first time he used an aura sword, stories about his master, the first magical beast he hunted, his first kill, the conflict between the Old Church and the New Church, the time the common people stormed a prison and reclaimed weapons, even the execution of a king.

He seemed like a natural storyteller.
Or perhaps someone incapable of enduring silence.

Even without much response from others, his words flowed endlessly, one story leading into another.

“You know what’s funny? The leather pouch that held the king’s blood and the executioner’s sword from that day were put up at the biggest auction house in the country. Young lord, what do you think the final bid was?”
“Hard to say. Considering its historical value… maybe a few gold bars?”

Isaac answered vaguely while drinking ale.
Violet and Carlson remained silent, simply sitting in place.

“Right? I thought it would at least go for gold bars too. But it didn’t sell.”
“Didn’t sell?”
“The starting bid was three gold coins. It didn’t even reach five silver coins.”
“That’s surprising.”
“Well, there was some pressure from the radical faction of the Revolutionary Party. They warned that anyone clinging to outdated and superstitious values during the transition from kingdom to republic would be sent to the revolutionary tribunal for counterrevolutionary behavior.”
“And once you stand trial there, it’s hard to avoid execution.”
“Oh? You seem to know a bit about the republic’s history, young lord.”

Isaac had only answered casually, but the more he did, the more intrigued Pallich looked.

“I just happened to hear about it. So, your Vice Man group fled here to avoid that tribunal?”
“Heh. Calling us a ‘group’ is a bit grand, but yes, young lord. We came here to escape the radicals’ reign of terror. They’re cowards—terrified of losing the sovereignty they fought so hard to gain. So they kill anyone who might take it from them.”

Pallich admired Isaac’s guess before scoffing at the radicals.

“And as I admitted before, we joined hands with the marquis to provide a place for those of our people who nearly became victims of them.”

“I see.”

“Ahh, this ale is good. Innkeeper, another!”

Pallich wiped the foam from his beard and raised his empty mug.

The trivial conversation continued.

Even though Pallich did most of the talking, Isaac, Carlson, and Violet stayed.
Foreign merchants came and went, renting rooms, eating, drinking.
Through it all, the group kept emptying their mugs.

None showed it outwardly, but what they had seen at the House of Mercy had shaken them deeply.

Isaac was no different.

Before his regression, he had believed that with age came numbness to pain and suffering.
That he would transcend life’s burdens, become detached, reach some form of maturity.

But time did not equal growth.
Wisdom did not come with age.

Even now, Isaac’s heart pounded.
The fine ale did nothing to calm it.

‘Am I really shaken by something like this?’

The stench, the dampness, the stifled groans in the underground of the House of Mercy remained vivid.
The preserved corpses of boys frozen in possibility refused to leave his mind.

In truth, it was an opportunity—
a means to pressure the marquis.

But the anger rising inside him—what was it?

He had seen worse.
People torn apart, slaughtered, even eaten.

Isaac stared blankly ahead, tracing the origin of his emotions.

And then he understood—
at the root of his anger was fear.

The fear of loss.

The moment he saw those glass spheres, a thought had struck him—
and buried itself deep in his mind.

The floating head inside one of them overlapped with the image of Jonas.

Even after meeting Jonas as an old man in his previous life,
no matter how much he aged—
to Isaac, Jonas was still Jonas.

The younger brother he had to protect.

And all the boys sacrificed there were about Jonas’s age.

‘If Jonas had just been a little less fortunate…’

Isaac shook his head, forcing the thought away.

That would never happen.
It hadn’t happened in his previous life.

But the mere possibility—that such a thing could happen—
that it was happening in this territory—

That was what made him angry.

The idea that something precious could be destroyed sharpened his nerves.

This was an era of prostitution, murder, drugs, and abduction.
Worse things were likely happening elsewhere.

Perhaps his anger was nothing more than cheap sentimentality.

But that didn’t make it go away.

‘Couldn’t I have realized sooner… stopped it sooner…?’

The sharpened anger turned inward—toward himself.

Tap… tap…

The sound of sleet echoed.

Mrs. Randolph busily stoked the fireplace, keeping the inn warm and dry.

Isaac stared blankly out the window.

What struck the walls and glass was neither snow nor rain—
something in between.

That ambiguity felt strangely familiar.

He let out a hollow laugh.

***

By the time the group departed, the Randolph siblings were still asleep.

“When they wake up, please tell them they endured bravely. That they did well.”
“I will. I promise.”

Mrs. Randolph smiled at Carlson’s words.
In just one night, life had returned to her face—and with it, to the inn.

As evening fell, merchants and travelers filled the first floor, and the upstairs rooms were fully occupied.

“It’s not much, but please take this. You only drank and didn’t eat anything—you’ll ruin your stomach.”

She handed them a basket filled with bread, cheese, and dried meat.
The leather waterskin full of ale was exactly as Isaac had requested.

“Thanks. You must be busy.”

Isaac passed the basket to Carlson and happily took the waterskin.

“If not for you, that food would’ve rotted away forever. I don’t know how to repay you.”
“For that, Randolph has already done enough. For Goethe.”
“Then… may I ask one more small favor?”
“What, did you have a third child hidden away who disappeared?”
“No.”

Mrs. Randolph chuckled.

“Carlson said that one day a village might be built in Vinfelt. That it would be quite a nice place.”

Isaac glanced at Carlson.

“I’ll put this in the carriage.”

Carlson quietly avoided his gaze, even taking Isaac’s waterskin before stepping outside.

“A village might be built. But I can’t promise it’ll be a good place. Not yet.”
“Then… when it is, please let our family come.”

“…What about the land Randolph was granted by my father?”
“I’ll speak to the count about that.”
“Vinfelt is right next to the Black Forest. Magical beasts live there.”
“At least there won’t be a madwoman who kidnaps children, cuts off their heads, and calls it beauty.”

Mrs. Randolph lowered her voice.

“So you heard.”
“Only that part… I’m sorry. I have sharp ears.”
“Listening is fine. Just pretend you didn’t hear. It’s dangerous.”
“Yes.”

“And if a village is built in Vinfelt, your family will always be welcome. You won’t get good ale there, though.”
“Is that a promise?”
“It is.”

“The children will be happy.”

Mrs. Randolph smiled brightly—
the first time Isaac had seen her like that.

“Oh, and when Bill returns, please read this to him. He can’t read.”
“I will.”

Isaac handed her a note and left the inn.

Three carriages had been prepared for them—by Violet.
One for people, two for cargo.

The cargo wagons were filled with evidence taken from the House of Mercy.

“You want to meet my father?”

As if she had made up her mind, Violet answered:

“I understand it may be unpleasant, but I want to make my decision after meeting the count as well. For me, this isn’t just about right or wrong—people on my side have their lives at stake.”

“…Hmm. It’s not that it’s unpleasant. I’m just not sure if it’ll be alright.”

Isaac was actually more concerned about Violet.
Her strange, unfamiliar mana… and the fact that she was aligned with the marquis—he couldn’t predict how the count would react.

Especially after what had happened at the House of Mercy—
would the count really just accept it without issue?

The count rarely showed his emotions, which made it even harder for Isaac to anticipate his father’s response.

“…What?”
“No, it’s nothing. Let’s go.”

Isaac climbed into the carriage.
Violet, Carlson, and Pallich followed after him.

With all four inside, the carriage was full.

“Please come again.”

“We will.”

With Mrs. Randolph seeing them off, the three carriages set off.

***

Meanwhile, Bill—who had wandered the sewer all night without learning anything—arrived at the inn late.

“E-excuse me… is this the Randolph Inn?”

He asked passersby desperately, but people avoided him as he wandered, reeking of rot.

Unlike the southern slums, the northern district housed relatively well-off residents and traveling merchants.
And so—

By the time Isaac had long since departed,
Bill was left alone in the city, forced to swallow his frustration.

***

“Your breathing has become uneven, my lord.”

“Pay it no mind. More importantly… they’re late.”

The sleet had stopped, but dark clouds still covered the sky.
Even the moonlight was hidden.

Yet neither the count nor his steward had dulled in the slightest.

The movements of the two seasoned warriors, sparring with real blades, were sharp and unwavering.

“You mean young master Isaac?”
“…Yes.”

At Waller’s question, the count lowered the sword he had been about to swing.

From late evening into the night,
he had been practicing for two hours straight—yet the unease within him would not fade.

He considered going hunting,
but Marquis Dietrich could arrive at any moment under the authority of an inspector.

It had already been over a week since the originally scheduled date.
The marquis merely sent repeated letters saying circumstances had changed.

Whatever his intentions were, it would not benefit Goethe.

“…Hah.”

The old steward, Schiller, wiped the beads of sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief.
In contrast, the count only steadied his breathing—not a single drop of sweat on him.

“In the past, I could match blades with you from dawn till nightfall. Now it’s becoming difficult.”
“My apologies. I’m putting you through needless trouble.”
“Not at all. It’s still an honor to cross swords with you.”
“That’s enough flattery. We’ll stop here.”

The count sheathed his sword.

“When the time comes, young master Isaac will tell you everything.”
“…Perhaps. But I don’t know. Is there a reason he hasn’t told me—or does he simply not trust me?”

The count knew Isaac could use magic.
Waller had reported everything he had seen and heard in Vinfelt.

He also knew about Isaac interrogating a swordsman, capturing an assassin,
and then releasing them both.

He even knew about Mrs. Randolph’s sudden visit to the estate—and Isaac leaving with her.

And yet, Isaac had not told his father a single word.

The count didn’t know whether to scold him… or encourage him.

That decision should have been made when Isaac declared he would step down as heir.

—

“I intend to prove that I am unfit to be the heir—and do something that will remove the name ‘Goethe’ from me.”

“You can think of it as a small struggle among petty evildoers. At the right time, you can simply strip me of the family name.”

—

At that time, the count had neither rebuked nor opposed him.
It was silent consent.

Isaac’s reasoning had been logical and rational—so the count had not questioned it.

But he should have.

There are things in this world that cannot be judged by practicality alone.

Isaac was his son.
His family.

And yet, when that son declared he would abandon his position as heir and erase his family name,
the count had simply accepted it.

He shouldn’t have.

But what could he have said?

Isaac’s will had been firm, and the count had no justifiable reason to stop him.

“In just a few months… young master Isaac has become a completely different person.”

As if reading his thoughts, Schiller spoke.

The old steward, who had served him since before he became head of the family, often filled in the gaps in the count’s judgment.

“The young master is considering things even I cannot fully grasp. Compared to other noble youths his age, he is far too precocious.”

Waller spoke as he put away both his own sword and the count’s.

“But, my lord… he is still the young master. He is still your son. And he is still only twelve years old. Think back to when you were twelve—what did you wish for from your father?”

“…Mm.”

The count tried to recall his own childhood.

He couldn’t remember much.
But one thing was clear—

He had wanted his father’s recognition.

“The young master is no different. The clouds are heavy tonight. My knees ache—it will likely sleet again tomorrow. Shall we go inside?”

“…Let’s.”

The count began walking.

Then suddenly, he spoke:

“They’re here.”

Waller and the count, who had been heading inside through the garden, stopped.

Three carriages had arrived at the entrance of the estate.

From the first carriage, the driver opened the door while holding a lantern.

A boy, a woman, and two men stepped out one after another.