Chapter 45
Home (2)
The air of Goethe remained as cold as ever.
Yet the season had already begun to shift into early summer.
For the people of the north, this kind of weather felt as warm as a mother’s embrace.
Warmth gave birth to life—made it stir, made it thrive.
But sometimes… that movement went too far.
“C-Count… p-please spare us! W-we only needed food…”
The Count, together with his soldiers, disarmed the three bandits and dragged them beside a broad, flat rock.
Bound tightly with rope, the bandits had no options left—
other than begging for their lives.
Especially in front of the Count, who held the executioner’s blade, Valerich.
“You needed food, is that it?” the Count asked coldly.
“So you didn’t just steal—you slaughtered, raped, and desecrated corpses?”
“T-that… was to set an example, to avoid unnecessary resistance! Please… show mercy! The blood we shed at Winterband hasn’t even dried yet!”
“I will remember your ‘devotion.’ And I will show mercy.”
At his signal, two soldiers dragged one bandit forward.
Schiller stepped on the man’s back, forcing him down.
“P-please… Count…”
The bandit’s forehead pressed against the rock.
“I acknowledge your effort and grant you mercy. If you wish to go without pain… don’t struggle.”
Whoosh—!
The greatsword cut through the air with weight and finality.
Slice—
Thud—
Valerich embedded itself into the stone.
The severed head rolled across the ground.
The Count personally executed all three bandits.
He did not hand the bloodied sword to a soldier—
instead, he cleaned and oiled it himself.
The pool of blood on the rock slowly cooled.
Flies gathered, drawn to its scent.
“Cut them up. Feed them to the beasts.”
The soldiers moved to carry out the bodies.
“Since the day my father bestowed Valerich upon me… I’ve wielded this blade,” the Count said, wiping it with oil.
“And no matter how much I grow, it never becomes lighter.”
“The weight of the family head,” Schiller replied.
“…Perhaps.”
“The Red Orchard Village?”
“Secured.”
“And Black Goose?”
“Unharmed. It’s inland and close to the estate.”
“…Good.”
Schiller handed him a clean handkerchief.
Blood had splattered onto the Count’s cheek.
“Thank you.”
The Count wiped his face, sheathed Valerich, and mounted his horse.
The blade was not meant for mere slaughter.
It was a weapon that could only be used—
in accordance with Goethe’s will.
“Where is Isaac?” the Count asked.
“We sent a messenger pigeon. He should arrive today or tomorrow at the latest.”
The Count nodded silently and began to ride.
There were still many villages left to inspect.
At this time of year, merchants gathered in Bern.
Farmers cultivated hardy crops.
Shepherds timed breeding seasons.
Everyone prepared for prosperity.
And where there was prosperity—
there were always those who sought to steal it.
Bandits became especially active during this season.
Goethe, located near the border, was a haven for drifters and deserters.
Especially from Winterband.
“Schiller. Any news from other territories about the royal inspector?”
“Nothing unusual. As always—tax records, loyalty checks… and requests for prostitutes and small gifts.”
“And the corrupt bishop? The cult he was tied to?”
“No reports.”
“…I see.”
The Count’s expression darkened.
“The Papacy will bury that incident,” Schiller said.
“The Empire is already divided between imperial and religious authority. They won’t expose something that weakens themselves.”
“But what if the royal inspector brings it up?”
“…Inspector Dietrich is a cunning man. He’ll likely demand something in exchange for silence.”
If the bishop’s death in Goethe became public—
the Church would be forced to investigate.
Court factions would intervene.
And in the worst case—
Goethe could be accused of heresy or murder of clergy.
That would mean confiscation of land…
or even complete annihilation of the family.
“And what have you learned about him?”
“He indulges in both women and men. Lost half his fortune to gambling. Enjoys torturing slaves and tribespeople. He’s also associated with the Second Prince.”
“…Nothing decisive.”
“My apologies. Our informants are working at full capacity.”
“See that they’re not too late.”
The Count had hoped for leverage.
But none had been found.
In the end—
he would rely on his own words, and the weight behind them.
“Tell me about Isaac.”
“What would you like to know?”
“His actions during the battle with the hell wolves.”
“Your Excellency… I’ve told that story eight times already.”
“I drank too much last night. The memory’s gone.”
“…How unfortunate.”
“We’ve got a long road to Oak Hill. Plenty of time to remind me.”
“…Very well. I’ll recount everything in detail.”
The Count gestured for him to begin.
Schiller spoke—
of moonlight like blades,
of soldiers frozen in fear,
of what Isaac had done.
A faint smile appeared on the Count’s lips.
* * *
“…Interesting.”
Isaac lay in a bath prepared by servants, examining the mind of a hell wolf.
Through his connection, he sensed something unexpected—
The hell wolf, walking beside Jonas in the garden,
felt… calm.
Comfortable.
Even familiar.
“…Friend? Brother?”
Isaac tried to interpret the emotion.
When Jonas first saw the hell wolf—
he showed no fear.
None.
Instead, he was curious.
He asked questions endlessly—
about its name, its habits, what it ate, whether it was always this large.
Even Isaac found it difficult to answer.
Jonas even touched its face without hesitation.
Children of Binfelt had cried when they first saw them.
It took days before they dared approach.
But Jonas skipped all of that.
“…Affinity.”
Isaac remembered.
In his past life, Jonas had possessed extraordinary talent—
especially in spirit affinity.
Everything had a soul.
Spirits. Beasts. Even the dead.
And to them—
Jonas was… appealing.
That was why, when Jonas became head of the family—
they helped him.
Again and again.
“…Well. If hell wolves count as spirits, then that makes sense.”
Because of that—
Isaac could finally relax in the bath.
But his thoughts never stopped.
The state of surrounding nations.
The kingdom.
Goethe’s future.
Binfelt’s development.
Jonas’s potential.
Carlson’s revenge.
Even the maid, Enette, and her magical talent.
Everything moved together—
like pieces on a board.
“My lord, it’s Hans.”
A knock came from the door.
“I’ve brought Bill.”
“Send him in.”
Isaac leaned back, only his face above the water.
“My lord—…who?”
“You seem well.”
Bill entered.
Once a petty underling—
now the leader of Niers’s former gang.
He had changed.
Stronger.
Scarred.
Bruised.
“…Are you really the young master?”
“Why? Do I not look like him?”
Isaac rested his arm on the tub.
His body was lean—
but clearly trained.
“…You really are… the young master?”
“And you… you’ve changed too. You used to be all talk.”
“…Position shapes a man.”
Isaac’s eyes turned faintly yellow.
Bill instinctively stepped back.
It felt like standing before a beast.
Something overwhelming.
“Yes… it’s you,” Bill muttered.
“The young master I knew… has become something else entirely.”
“…Where are the reports I asked for?” Isaac asked coldly.
“I didn’t receive a single letter. I assumed you were dead.”
Bill froze.
Then—
suddenly dropped to his knees.
“…Please kill me, my lord.”
