Chapter 41
Growth
“The men of the village… Virphir lured them away and turned them into hellhounds.”
Günter relayed what he had heard from the elder.
Their families and kin, driven out into the wasteland of Binfelt.
The hunger they endured. The miserable lives they clung to.
The shaman of the Baitur, Virphir, had blamed everything on Goethe.
He planted vengeance in the hearts of the men—
and made them crave power.
Like moths to flame, they followed him.
Through forbidden rituals, they transformed into beasts.
Now, only the elderly, women, and children remained in the villages.
That was why they feared outsiders.
Why they kept their distance.
They had no strength.
They lived every day on thin ice—
caught between the hellhounds and the dark reputation of Goethe,
belonging nowhere, standing nowhere.
“…They wish to apologize.”
As soon as Günter finished translating,
about thirty elders and women bowed deeply.
The children, confused, simply mimicked the adults.
“They say… the heir of Goethe has brought them hope. That they can finally look forward to tomorrow. They want to help in any way they can. They wish to take part in the miracle unfolding in Binfelt.”
The villagers, already gathered around the camp, were entranced by the blue flowers blooming everywhere.
Even without understanding their words, their flushed faces said everything.
“…I see.”
Isaac scratched his cheek awkwardly.
It hadn’t been some grand act of kindness.
Everything he had done was for one purpose—
the revival of Goethe.
It was calculated.
The fact that the tribes benefited from it… was merely incidental.
Still… an extra pair of hands is always useful.
The camp was short on labor.
Rebuilding structures.
Preserving monster meat.
Fetching water.
Gathering firewood.
Caring for the wounded.
Maintaining equipment.
Even the smallest tasks piled up.
The baskets the villagers brought were filled with herbs and survival crops from the Black Forest—
scraped together from what little they had.
Their sincerity was unmistakable.
“What will you do?”
Bessemer approached quietly.
There was a hint of anxiety in his expression.
To him, these people were not strangers—
they were distant kin.
“What do you think I’ll do?”
“…Brother.”
Bessemer spoke firmly.
Isaac smirked.
“Günter, tell them this: I don’t allow freeloaders. Old, women, or children—it doesn’t matter. If they can earn their keep, they can stay.”
“Brother!”
Bessemer’s face lit up.
After accepting the villagers, the camp came alive.
For the first time since the hellhound battle—
there was vitality.
The elders offered wisdom.
The women tended to the wounded and handled daily chores.
The children trained under Günter, learning swordsmanship.
Little by little, the lingering echoes of death and screams faded from the soldiers’ minds.
Instead of clinging to loss—
they began to look toward the future.
“Waaah—!”
A child fell during sparring practice and burst into tears.
“Well, he’s really bawling.”
Some soldiers laughed and moved to help him up—
but Günter blocked their way.
“Let him stand on his own.”
“Suit yourself.”
The soldiers shrugged and left.
The child cried harder at first—
but when no one came, he stopped.
After glancing around, he pushed himself up.
Günter spoke in the tribal tongue:
“If you want to protect something, you must be able to stand on your own.”
“Next.”
Training resumed.
At night, Günter gathered the villagers and taught them the common language.
Day after day, work and training blended into a relentless rhythm.
“What’s got you so fired up?”
Carlson approached Günter, who was resting on a log.
“What do you mean?”
“Have you even looked at your face lately?”
“There’s no mirror here.”
“You look worse than the young lord.”
Günter chuckled faintly.
“Because I’m excited.”
“Excited?”
“My mother realized Virphir’s intentions early. Our tribe was already destroyed by another before the war with Goethe even began. Women and children… become spoils of war.”
Carlson listened silently.
“My mother had already lost everything. She didn’t want to lose me too. That’s how I ended up here.”
Günter took a deep breath.
“This place… is my new home. The lord made it that way. A home must be nurtured. Made into a place worth living in.”
“…I see.”
Carlson handed him a wooden cup.
“Want a drink?”
Günter took a sip—
and immediately started coughing.
“Cough—! What is this?!”
“Strong liquor. A little privilege of rank.”
“…I don’t see the appeal.”
Carlson drained the rest calmly.
“A life that understands this taste… isn’t one I’d recommend.”
After a pause, Günter asked,
“How did you come to follow the lord?”
“Follow?”
“He’s remarkable. At such a young age, he’s accomplishing things no one else even imagined.”
Carlson stared into his empty cup.
“I’m here because I have something to do.”
Not hope.
Not faith.
Just purpose.
His heart felt as empty as the cup in his hand.
“…I should sleep.”
He poured the remaining liquor onto the ground.
“Commander.”
“What?”
“…Could I ask you a favor?”
Günter hesitated.
“The children… need someone to look up to. Someone whose back they can follow.”
Carlson looked at him silently.
“…Forget I said anything.”
“Fine.”
He turned away.
“Was that… a yes?”
Günter called out.
Carlson waved a hand dismissively.
“…Something like that.”
Meanwhile—
Isaac remained locked in his tent.
The Wolf King’s mana stone sat before him.
It resonated with his mana—
yet revealed nothing.
He had carved it into a rune stone, infused it with beast blood, studied it endlessly.
Still—
no clear result.
But something had changed.
The mana within the stone had begun flowing through his circuits—
expanding, integrating.
A new pathway formed.
A sixth circulation route.
“…That’s the limit for now.”
Isaac stretched.
Further progress would require books—or experts.
Even so—
it wasn’t a wasted effort.
Buzz—buzz—
Flies filled the tent.
The stench was unbearable.
Isaac hadn’t eaten properly, hadn’t cleaned himself—
had barely stepped outside.
“…Time to move.”
He lifted the tent flap—
and paused.
Something felt off.
He didn’t need the stool anymore.
Just standing on his toes was enough.
“…Did I grow?”
He tilted his head.
Outside—
“…Wait. You’re not the lord. Who are you?”
“Ugh, that smell. A stowaway?”
The soldiers didn’t recognize him.
His face had sharpened.
His features matured.
And most noticeably—
his height.
He now stood nearly shoulder-high to them.
A twelve-year-old boy—
who looked fifteen.
“…My lord?!”
“Yes.”
Isaac looked down at himself.
So it’s true.
“…Strange. I didn’t sleep at all, yet I feel refreshed.”
Perhaps—
it was the influence of the Wolf King’s mana.
“Where’s Carlson?”
“At the training grounds. He’s demonstrating swordsmanship.”
“…He is?”
That alone was surprising.
Cheers echoed from the central clearing.
Carlson was putting on a show—
deflecting arrows, extinguishing flames with the wind of his blade.
Applause erupted.
“…Not bad.”
Isaac clapped.
Eyes turned toward him—
but the villagers didn’t recognize him.
Carlson approached.
“Finished your work? It’s been ten days.”
“…Ten?”
Time had slipped away unnoticed.
Isaac scanned the area.
“…Something’s missing.”
“Bessemer and Hans aren’t back yet.”
“They went on patrol, right?”
“Yes. It’s taking longer than expected.”
Isaac frowned.
“Don’t tell me Hans caused trouble…”
“…There’s something I didn’t report.”
Carlson glanced toward the camp entrance.
“What is it?”
“You’ll hear it from them.”
Hoofbeats echoed in the distance.
Closer.
Closer.
Five riders approached—
including Hans and Bessemer.
They stopped before Isaac.
“…Brother.”
Bessemer dismounted.
“…The hellhounds have appeared again.”
