Chapter 56
The Old Boy
The leather sack Bill brought contained various tools—scrapers, knives, a nail-studded hammer, saws, and other implements that continued spilling out one after another.
With each item revealed, the swordsman’s face grew paler, the blood draining from it.
Bill was one of the gang leaders who had been attacked by Weissman.
Half of Bill’s Neers gang had been killed by the swordsman.
The hatred he carried—and how it would be expressed through torture—was something the swordsman didn’t even want to imagine.
“Hmm~ hmm~”
Bill hummed softly.
To the swordsman, it sounded like the humming of a demon.
“I—I’ll talk!”
In the end, the swordsman began confessing everything he knew.
He no longer had any reason to endure torture.
The assassin had already revealed everything important.
Even the strongest man in Weissman’s organization had broken under interrogation.
The swordsman had no confidence in himself.
He knew Weissman’s leader, Violet, well.
She was decisive when necessary, but ultimately a weak-hearted woman.
She would not be the type to punish even a daughter for her mistakes.
“So the Republic’s revolutionary faction split into several branches, and Weissman is the remnants of the moderate faction?”
“That’s right.”
“And this woman, Violet, wants to create an environment where fellow moderates can live in Bern City?”
Isaac summarized the swordsman’s testimony.
“A saint, huh.”
Carlson muttered in disbelief.
“It’s not just about giving them a place to stay in Bern City. They’re trying to gather funds and manpower here to build strength against the radicals.”
“I see.”
Isaac nodded.
At last, his unanswered questions were beginning to make sense.
Weissman’s main forces were soldiers who had once belonged to the moderate faction of the Republic.
They were few in number—so few they could be counted on one hand.
But to them, veterans of countless wars, the sewer gangs were nothing more than children.
On top of that, Mayor Baris had supported them by mobilizing the city guards, and the Marquis had supplied funding.
In Bern City, at least, they were virtually invincible.
“That’s all I know. So… are you going to kill me now?”
The swordsman’s face was deathly pale.
All ten fingernails were gone, and he had been locked in a freezing cell all day.
Drenched in cold water, he looked like a drowned rat.
The dress he wore only made him look more miserable—a loose, ragged garment with a torn chest and back that was more like scraps than clothing.
“I wonder.”
“Shit, you promised!”
“The only promise I made was that I’d torture you until you talked. I didn’t expect it to be this boring.”
Isaac shrugged.
He had already gotten what he needed about Weissman.
But Carlson didn’t seem finished.
“What happened to the prostitute?”
“What prostitute?”
“The clothes you’re wearing. You said they belonged to a woman you killed.”
“This is…”
The swordsman avoided Carlson’s gaze.
“This is my mother’s clothing.”
“?”
“Sometimes… when I miss my mother, I put it on…”
“LIES!”
Carlson suddenly drove a dagger into the swordsman’s thigh.
“I told you to be honest.”
“It’s true, damn it! In that filthy slum, I had to act insane just to make the other bastards follow me! That’s why I said it!”
“You were acting?”
“Yeah! My mother died giving birth to me, so I guess I did kill her! Happy now?! And yes, it’s a prostitute’s dress! My mother was a whore! So what?!”
The sudden outburst filled the cell with heavy silence.
Carlson glanced at Isaac.
Isaac glanced back at Carlson.
“…Doesn’t sound like a lie.”
Isaac said, slightly awkward.
Carlson looked taken aback.
“Ahem.”
Bill coughed and slowly began packing the tools back into the sack.
“Hey, you bastard, speak properly first!”
* * *
A carriage waited at the entrance of the Goethe estate.
“Are you really letting me go like this?”
Palichi asked Isaac repeatedly.
“What? You planning to live here forever?”
“Not that, but…”
He had just participated in an assassination attempt inside the manor.
He had drawn an aura blade against the First Son of the Count’s house.
And yet, he was being released unharmed.
Even Gerald, who had been captured, was being returned.
“Grrr… shit… grrr…”
Gerald didn’t look in good condition, but he was still alive.
“You’re not my enemy yet. No reason to kill you.”
“Not yet… so we might become enemies?”
Palichi asked.
“That depends on her choice.”
“Ah… right.”
“She” referred to Violet, Weissman’s leader.
Palichi let out a bitter laugh.
The Marquis had underestimated the Goethes.
The rumor that the eldest son was a useless fool was something only ignorant fools believed.
Weissman had completely lost the information war against Isaac.
The cunning First Son of the Count had turned Palichi’s own words against him and extracted everything from Gerald.
“Shit… shit… shit…”
Gerald, having lost ten fingernails and been slashed in the thigh, kept muttering curses.
His body and mind were both broken.
Normally, Violet would have to kill him to silence him—losing a valuable asset in the process.
What would she say when he returned?
Palichi already felt uneasy.
“It’s not necessarily bad for you either.”
“There’s no way.”
Palichi narrowed his eyes.
How could this possibly not be bad?
“This is an opportunity. Think carefully about which side you’ll stand with.”
“Are you seriously calling yourself a proper option?”
“If you had a brain, you’d decide that yourself.”
“Ha.”
Isaac tapped his temple with a finger.
Palichi gave a bitter smile.
“Let me tell you something more interesting.”
Isaac beckoned him closer.
Palichi leaned in.
“You’re looking for the one who killed Baris, aren’t you?”
“The Marquis certainly is. It’s a method of assassination we’ve never seen before.”
“That was me.”
“…Is this some kind of joke?”
Palichi frowned.
“Do I sound like I’m joking?”
Isaac asked.
A brief silence hung between them.
“If that’s true… you may meet the Commissioner sooner than expected.”
“Commissioner?”
“Violet. We all call her that. She used to be a commissioner of the moderate faction.”
“I look forward to meeting her.”
Isaac smiled at Palichi’s cracked expression.
The swordsman and the assassin.
Gerald and Palichi boarded the carriage one after another.
“You—Gerald, was it?”
Carlson leaned into the carriage window.
Gerald, completely exhausted, did not respond.
His hands were wrapped in cloth, and blood-stained bandages covered his thighs.
Carlson had carried out Isaac’s orders—but to Gerald, Carlson was now more hateful than Isaac himself.
“I meant no malice.”
“…Bullshit.”
“And I am also the son of a prostitute.”
Gerald suddenly looked at Carlson.
Then frowned.
“You bastard… I let my guard down before. Next time, I won’t.”
“As you wish.”
Carlson stepped away as the driver cracked the reins.
Watching the carriage disappear down the road, Carlson asked Isaac:
“Is this really fine? If we let them go, the Marquis will learn our identity.”
“That depends on whether Weissman sides with him.”
“And if they do?”
“Then we deal with it then. No need to make an enemy out of someone who might be useful.”
“You’re awfully calm.”
Carlson’s expression hardened.
“What, nervous? You can wipe Weissman out yourself if you want.”
“I prefer not to take unnecessary risks.”
“By the way… how did you do it?”
“Do what?”
“The assassination of Mayor Baris. Even the Marquis didn’t suspect you at all.”
To Carlson, Isaac was a noble born with talent.
Not yet fully matured, but already comparable to nobles he had seen and served under.
His thinking, his way of dealing with people, and even his still-hidden magical abilities.
He already knew Isaac was exceptional.
But the assassination of Baris exceeded even his understanding.
“What did I do?”
“Magic?”
“Then what else?”
“What kind of magic leaves no trace?”
“Secret.”
At that, Carlson narrowed his eyes.
“I’m tired. I’m going to drink and sleep. Want a drink?”
“No, thank you.”
Isaac nodded as expected and headed toward the manor.
Carlson watched him leave.
For a moment, Isaac’s walking looked like an old man with little time left to live.
But when he blinked—it was unmistakably the back of a boy.
Isaac took a bottle of wine from the manor’s cellar.
He had never particularly enjoyed alcohol in his past life either.
After the Wolf King’s rune stone fused with his body, he could no longer get drunk.
And yet, now… he needed it.
At least inside the manor.
Whether a fool or a madman, one needed time to grow into an ill-fitting role.
No need for excessive cruelty or chaos.
Just enough to make others imagine and infer.
What kind of person Isaac von Goethe—the First Son—was becoming.
Wine was a good starting point.
He opened the wax seal and took a sip.
A berry aroma spread through his mouth.
Goethe was too cold a region for quality grapes, so wines were made from cranberries, lingonberries, and yuca berries.
The taste was slightly astringent compared to normal wine—but pleasant in its own way.
Bottle in hand, Isaac walked through the manor openly.
“Master, aren’t you going to the training yard today?”
“Do I have an obligation to?”
He glanced at the guard captain.
“W-well, no…”
“Then don’t waste my time.”
The captain stepped back.
Whispers filled the manor.
“I heard screams all night again.”
“I saw him go to the dungeon yesterday.”
“They say he tortured someone.”
“No, they said he killed him…”
Isaac laughed softly.
No need to worry about reputation anymore.
A little effort would be enough to earn the kind of infamy he needed.
But not everyone in the manor followed that narrative.
“You saw it yourself?”
“What?”
“Don’t repeat rumors you didn’t witness.”
“That’s right! And what about the rumor that young master Isaac fought wolves in Vinfelt?”
“That was clearly fake!”
The three maids—Ennet, Clara, and Hilde—spoke up in his defense.
Grateful, but unnecessary noise.
Isaac sighed and kept drinking as he walked.
Eventually, he stopped in front of the reception room.
A familiar piano melody drifted out.
Tratis Draco—“The Crying Dragon.”
His mother’s favorite piece.
And Jonas’s favorite to play.
Inside, as expected, Jonas sat at the piano.
His short legs struggled to reach the pedals, but his small fingers danced gracefully across the keys.
Isaac smiled faintly.
Back when he was in the Vinfelt military camp, this sound had been something he longed for through the cracks of the tents.
Soft flowing notes.
He didn’t want to interrupt it.
He didn’t want it to end.
So he sat outside the door and listened quietly.
For a moment, he thought of Jonas’s final day.
That old, tired voice speaking from beyond the dungeon vault door—describing decades of life, strangely full of vitality despite death looming.
Isaac closed his eyes.
Assassination, torture, ambition, admiration, exhaustion—all of it faded.
Only existence remained.
The old boy slowly began to doze off.
