Chapter 97

Assassination (1)

“It concerns Goethe.”
“Ah, that backwater. I hear something interesting has been happening there lately.”

The Second Prince pulled over a chair and sat down, resting his chin on his hands atop the royal scepter.

“From what I see, it looks like you’ve been pushed back by the count. Am I mistaken?”

The prince’s narrowed brown eyes fixed on the marquis.
A chill ran down the marquis’s spine.

The Second Prince had always removed anyone he deemed unnecessary without hesitation.
Dietrich had risen from a mere merchant to the rank of marquis by constantly proving his usefulness to that very man.

That was why he knew—

Standing beside the Second Prince was like walking along the edge of a cliff.
One misstep, and his life would be gone.

“That cannot be the case. Everything is proceeding according to my plan.”

“According to plan? I hear major families have been purged, your mercenaries have either fled or been wiped out, the black market has been shut down, and the city’s economy is in disarray. Am I misinformed?”

Indeed, even if he was called a minor tyrant, the Second Prince was still the Second Prince.
His behavior might be depraved, but his influence and intelligence network were formidable.

“Everything Your Highness said is true.”
“You’re not telling me that was your plan?”
“I humbly report that using the count to reorganize the city was indeed my intention.”
“Reorganize the city?”
“Yes, Your Highness. Through the black market, the city has already grown as much as it can. Now it is time to make use of that city.”

“Yawn… go on.”

The Second Prince yawned lazily.

“Please grant Goethe autonomy. If the ban on commerce and military expansion is lifted, the city will stabilize, and the royal court can save the shield tax it currently pays to Goethe. This will benefit the royal treasury.”
“The shield tax?”

The prince twirled a lock of his red hair and scoffed.

“I’m not sitting here just to save a few coins. There must be something more interesting, yes?”

“Of course.”

The marquis nodded as if he had been waiting for that.

“Count Goethe is already dismantling the black market in Bern City and bringing the economy into the open. If autonomy is granted, the trade taxes and levies generated there will flow into the royal treasury—which will, in turn, go to Your Highness as the administrator of the North.”

The Second Prince was also the Duke of the North.

Yet the reason he had maintained restrictions on Goethe—rather than pursuing taxation—was purely political.

Goethe was royalist.
And the royalists supported the First Prince.

To counter the royalists, the parliamentary faction supported the Second Prince.
Thus, he had suppressed Goethe to prevent the royalist faction from growing stronger.

“So? That means I get more money, Goethe grows stronger, and the royalists gain power. Is that all?”

The prince frowned.

“No, Your Highness.”

The marquis quickly replied, lowering his voice further.

“The three branch families of Goethe are already moving. Led by Viscount Botmer, they will declare war on Count Goethe under the pretense of justification.”

“War? War!?”

The prince suddenly burst into laughter, clapping as if he had just heard a witty joke.

“But Goethe won’t be easy prey. They have five vassals, after all.”
“That is no longer the case. With the black market closed, the vassals have lost their primary source of income. The black market thrives on varied supply and demand. If one quarter of grain sells for ten silver coins in the market, rebels in the Republic would pay fifty for the same amount. The same applies to military supplies. In the barren North, where little grows, this was the vassals’ only lifeline.”
“And the count has cut off that lifeline.”
“Yes. At present, the vassals have no reason to follow him. Meanwhile, Viscount Botmer has promised to overlook black market dealings in exchange for their support—and even to grant them portions of territory.”

“…Hmm. And what do I gain from this?”

“It is believed that Goethe’s lands, though barren, contain undeveloped mineral veins. If the branch families seize control of the North, the profits from those mines and territories will belong to Your Highness. The branch families will acknowledge you as the true ruler of the North.”

The marquis bowed deeply.

Crash—

The Second Prince rose and knocked another glass sphere to the floor.

A preserved head tumbled out.

“As you wish, Marquis. Let’s see how it all unfolds!”

The prince grinned as he toyed with the last remaining glass sphere on the table—
as if suggesting that if things did not go as planned, the next head inside would be the marquis’s.

“And next time, I expect a better piece.”

Crash—

The final glass sphere shattered.

“…Yes. I will strive to improve.”

The marquis bowed even deeper.

***

“Young master, please wake up.”

Late in the morning, Isaac opened his eyes with a deep frown.

The air in the room was cold, the fireplace reduced to embers.
Hans set down food and water for washing, then rekindled the fire.

Isaac struggled to get out of bed.
His body felt heavy.

More precisely, his mind—his consciousness—felt weighed down.

The mage’s melancholy that had come over him this time was subtle, yet persistent.

“I heard you caused quite a scene at the closing ceremony. They say you turned the envoy who brought the declaration of war into a pulp.”

“Yeah. He barged in while I was receiving my title. It pissed me off.”

In truth, the moment Botmer’s attendant entered the Great Hall had been exactly when Isaac wanted it.

It was right after he had been recognized as an independent lord.
Had the man arrived even slightly earlier, Isaac would have had no grounds to accept the declaration of war on Goethe’s behalf.

“So… does that mean you’re really a baron now?”
“Yeah. I’m a baron now.”
“Congratulations.”

Hans’s voice remained flat.

“You’re not happy? Your master just received a title.”
“Nothing really changes, does it?”
“That’s true.”

“Then should I call you Baron now? Or ‘My Lord’?”
“Just call me what you always have. It’s not that impressive a title.”
“Understood. But… are you really not getting up?”
“Yeah… I just don’t feel like it.”

Isaac rolled around on the bed.

“That’s unusual. It feels like just yesterday you were running every dawn.”
“Now that you mention it, it has been a while.”

The end of a mage was rarely a good one.
If they didn’t continuously train their bodies, they would go mad—or disappear—or end their lives.

All because of this cursed melancholy.

That was why, after returning to the past, Isaac had worked tirelessly to stay grounded in reality—
running, training with the sword, anything that kept his body active.

But the mage’s melancholy came without warning.
There was no cure.

All he could do was wait for it to pass.

Fortunately, it wasn’t severe enough to stop him from doing what needed to be done—
but he never knew when it might flare up like a sudden seizure.

‘It was especially bad at Randolph Inn.’

The sight of Weissman and the others rejoicing had reminded him of Goethe’s future—
distant and uncertain.

“…Let’s not think about it.”

Isaac shook his head.

“The atmosphere in the estate isn’t great. I heard you received a declaration of war. Is it really okay for you to be like this?”
“Then what do you expect me to do?”

“You should prepare for war.”
“War… huh.”

Isaac stared at the ceiling.

Botmer was stronger than Goethe.
Compared to them, Vinfelt’s forces were barely anything.

Logically speaking, Vinfelt was facing annihilation.

But Isaac had never experienced war firsthand.
He didn’t truly understand what war was.

Perhaps that was why it didn’t feel real to him.

“Aren’t you worried?”

“Of course I’m worried. That’s why I’ve been training like hell every day with the guards here, haven’t I?”

Isaac lifted his head and glanced sideways at Hans.

Recently, Hans had noticeably grown more solidly built.
His shoulders had broadened, and the forearms revealed beneath his rolled-up sleeves were firm, veins standing out.

Whatever training he was doing, it clearly wasn’t half-hearted.

“The opponent is Botmer. The wealthiest house in the North. If they join forces with the branch families and hire mercenaries, they’ll have over two thousand men.”

“Ah, I don’t really know about all that. You’ll figure it out, young master.”

Hans spoke as if it were someone else’s problem while tidying Isaac’s room.
He wiped the ink-stained desk, cleared away leftover fruit and scraps of food, gathered scattered clothes into a laundry basket, and straightened the crooked furniture.

“You’re awfully carefree.”
“Guess I take after you, young master. Why have you used so much of this?”

Hans pointed to the sheets of cotton paper spread across the desk.
Every page was filled not with the common tongue, but with ancient script.

“There was someone who could decipher it… but I haven’t heard back yet.”
“Oh, that reminds me—two carrier pigeons arrived for you. Sir Paul said he’d bring them, but he looked busy, so I picked them up instead.”

“Give them to me.”

Hans rummaged through the leather pouch at his waist.

One message was from Merchant Venders.
The other was anonymous.

“Were you expecting news?”
“Probably.”

Isaac got up from the bed and began dressing.

“Hans. Get the carriage ready.”
“Where are you going?”
“Handelbrook.”
“That far?”

Isaac had already put on a fur coat and stepped out of the room.
Hans followed, still confused.

Handelbrook was a trade city within Count Adalbert’s territory, located along the route from Goethe to the capital.

***

Morning mist curled along the stone roads.

The clatter of carriage wheels mixed with the sound of horse hooves echoing through the streets.

Near an intersection, the rhythmic hammering of a blacksmith rang out.
Around the inn, merchants who had traveled long distances gathered in clusters.

Narrow alleys were filled with the mingled scents of spices, leather, and stables.

The bell of a round tower rang, marking prayer time at the monastery.

Gutrert, Botmer’s chief attendant, stood pacing in front of a carriage.

Soon, a carriage covered in thick, polished cowhide came to a stop.
A man stepped out—wearing a knee-length tunic and a beret.

His long, flowing hair suited him well, but his face was filled with irritation and worry.

“Marquis.”

“…What happened to your face?”

Marquis Dietrich frowned as he looked at Gutrert.

His nose was crooked, clearly broken, and one eye was swollen shut.
Even his posture was uneven, as if his waist had been injured.

“Let’s discuss the details inside.”

They rented a private room at a high-end inn, and the conversation dragged on.

Gutrert reported the failure of the Spirit King’s rampage—and Isaac von Goethe’s unexpected interference.

“That damned mad dog ruined everything. At this rate, we’ll be fighting not the count, but that lunatic instead.”

“What did the viscount say?”
“I’ve sent a letter, but haven’t received a reply yet.”
“Just how did you handle things…!?”

Crunch—

The marquis glared at Gutrert in anger.

But Gutrert paid no attention.

There was no reason for him to fear Dietrich anymore.
The marquis, once stripped of his position in Bern City, was now nothing more than an informant.

“Don’t worry. Since you’ve secured Goethe’s autonomy, gaining cooperation from the branch families should be easy. As for that brat—I’ll deal with him myself.”

“How? Planning to kill him?”
“That would be the most certain way, wouldn’t it?”
“If you assassinate him now, suspicion will fall on the viscount.”
“Our goal is war with Goethe anyway. If the count loses his judgment out of love for his son, Goethe might strike first. Wouldn’t that be even better?”

The marquis frowned.

“How exactly do you plan to kill him?”
“You’re better off not knowing.”

Gutrert smiled meaningfully.

“Goethe and Botmer will go to war. Let’s set that aside and discuss what comes after.”

The two carefully reviewed their plans.

Once Goethe and Botmer clashed—
how to draw in the parliamentary houses,
how to provoke key royalist figures,
how to secure the Empire’s cooperation.

“The Empire doesn’t want the Second Prince. They want someone who can rule the kingdom moderately while providing what the Empire needs.”
“How much does the Second Prince know about this war?”
“He’s cunning, but narrow-minded. Give him a few mines, and he’ll be satisfied.”

The discussion continued for hours.

Roles were assigned—what the marquis would do, what the viscount would handle.

All that remained was for Gutrert to report back.

“Let’s have a drink.”

After finishing, they ordered food and alcohol.

The marquis insisted on brandy and soon became intoxicated.

“Make sure you tell the viscount—don’t underestimate Goethe. If we lose this territorial war, it won’t end as a simple defeat.”

The marquis spoke while staring out the window.

Rain was falling.
Droplets slid down the carriage glass.

“Don’t worry. You know what we’ve prepared. This war will change a great many things in the kingdom.”

Crash!

Suddenly, the window shattered.

“Ghk—!”

Gutrert couldn’t finish his sentence.
Only a wet, choking sound escaped him.

The marquis turned in alarm—

Gutrert’s throat had been pierced.

He tried to say something, waving his hand weakly, clawing at his neck—
then his eyes widened, and his head twisted to the side.

His gaze fixed on empty air.

He died before even realizing it.

“Guards! Guards!”

The marquis shouted, taking cover behind the wall.