Chapter 47
The Heir of the Goethe Family
Isaac was running.
Whether the estate soldiers wanted to train with him or not—
he kept running.
Even after returning to the estate, he never neglected physical training.
Partly, it was to conceal his magical talent while outwardly displaying his swordsmanship.
But that wasn’t the only reason.
It was also to preserve his identity as a mage.
Magic is infinite.
The more one studies it, the more familiar concepts become strange.
To advance further, one is always forced to surpass their limits.
The realm a mage seeks is always far away—
a distant, faint blue point.
An infinite point of blue.
And it is always out of reach.
That is why most mages who devote their lives to magic do not meet a good end.
Their memories falter.
They fall into despair.
Some even take their own lives.
Compared to the infinite world of magic—
humans are fragile, finite, and insignificant.
Novice mages may act like enlightened sages.
But those who truly understand magic—
are the ones most consumed by emptiness.
And so—
to avoid going mad,
to avoid falling into that void,
to remain grounded in reality—
Isaac ran.
In the end, it all comes down to the body.
Build the body—
and the mind will follow.
Clank—
Clank—
From the basket on his back came the constant sound of metal colliding.
Not just stones—
he had filled it with chunks of iron and even swords.
And yet—
Isaac ran at the very front.
The distance between him and the soldiers only kept increasing.
Truthfully—
even aside from everything else,
Isaac simply enjoyed running.
The sense of freedom granted by a strong body—
to someone who had spent his entire life confined underground—
was overwhelming.
Even carrying heavy metal—
he did not tire.
The air filling his lungs was no longer stale and suffocating—
but fresh, early-summer air.
Beyond the path, he saw not the ruined Goethe estate—
but one still standing.
Behind him, soldiers groaned in exhaustion.
Isaac didn’t hear them.
“…That crazy—”
The soldiers almost cursed the “little Goethe” out loud.
No—
in their heads, they already had.
Isaac ignored everyone’s pace and ran wildly on his own.
It only killed morale.
At first, they complained and tried to keep up—
but soon—
their breath shortened,
their hearts pounded,
their minds went blank.
Now—
they just wanted it to end.
Meanwhile—
Isaac had no thoughts about the soldiers.
Or rather—
he couldn’t afford to.
As he enjoyed the life he never had in his previous existence—
memories surfaced.
And so did the future.
His mind was filled with one place—
Bern.
The fragmented history Jonas had told him—
and the records his father had given him in his past life.
He had read those records countless times.
They were given to him when his father sensed approaching ruin—
a final act of respect toward his son’s chosen path.
According to those records—
this year would be a turning point for Bern.
A century ago—
after Sieg von Goethe burned the capital—
two restrictions were imposed on the family:
- No commerce
- No military expansion
Goethe could not tax merchants.
Nor could it increase its army.
Its only income was the royal stipend.
Ironically—
this attracted merchants.
With no taxes—
profits soared.
A city formed.
Refugees and drifters gathered.
Work was abundant—
labor, prostitution, anything.
A massive city rose—
unnatural for the harsh north.
And beneath it—
an equally massive underworld.
A black market.
Then came Marquis Dietrich—
appointed inspector of the north, backed by the Second Prince.
Using illegal trade—
weapons, drugs, slaves, counterfeit currency—
he blackmailed the Count.
The Count had not participated in the market.
He had even tried to suppress it.
But that didn’t matter.
Weapons = treason
Counterfeit money = treason
Slaves = unrest
The Count had no choice.
Bern was granted autonomy.
Dietrich and the city’s mayor opened a massive free market.
Anything could be sold—
magic stones, artifacts, weapons, drugs, slaves—
to anyone with money.
Their goal:
To make Bern the greatest free trade city on the continent.
A vault of wealth no one could ignore.
The Second Prince backed them.
The mayor controlled the market.
And a rising force—
Weissman—
provided military power.
Even Niers’ gang—
now led by Bill—
had been pushed aside by them.
Weissman had more than five mana users.
They weren’t ordinary gangs.
For a time—
Bern prospered.
Its yearly revenue exceeded ten years of Goethe’s budget.
But it didn’t last.
Powerful factions grew interested.
The Second Prince weakened.
Nobles saw Bern as uncontrollable.
Conflicts grew between Dietrich and the mayor.
Eventually—
civil war broke out.
Merchants fled.
Mercenaries filled the streets.
The city burned.
Bern never recovered.
Just like Goethe.
“…To break this chain of disaster…”
Isaac, having returned first to the training ground, drew lines in the dirt with a stick.
“…where should I start?”
Three pillars:
- Dietrich (power)
- Varis (money)
- Weissman (force)
Destroy the triangle.
But not head-on.
Impossible.
Create cracks.
“Are they truly united?”
“…or just temporary allies?”
“Young master…”
The captain of the guard approached carefully.
“Yes?”
“…Would you… spar with us again today?”
Not dissatisfaction—
tension.
“I’d only get in the way.”
“No. Even just one day—we learned a great deal. We’ve been… fish in a pond. Please, teach us while you’re here.”
“…Are you serious?”
Isaac looked at them.
No hostility.
Only sincerity.
“P-please!”
“Teach us, young master!”
“…Alright.”
He erased the diagram with his boot.
Not a bad idea.
Compared to Lucas or Carlson—
they were lacking.
But still useful.
“Come.”
Isaac stepped into the center with a wooden sword.
The soldiers’ gazes burned.
Yesterday—
they thought he was bluffing.
Today—
they knew better.
A boy who had returned from Binfelt—
with Goethe blood running strong.
“Let me go first.”
A veteran stepped forward.
The same one whose wrist had been broken yesterday.
“I won’t go easy this time.”
“Good. Come.”
“Ha!”
A clean thrust.
Clack—
Isaac deflected it.
Again—
thrust.
Deflected.
A diagonal strike—
aimed at the arm.
Blocked.
“…Impressive.”
Isaac murmured.
The soldier kept distance.
Avoided grappling.
Adapted.
But—
too focused.
On Isaac’s hands.
Not his feet.
Step—step—
Isaac closed the distance—
and kicked his leg.
“Gah—!”
The soldier collapsed.
A sword at his throat.
“Well done. But you trapped yourself.”
Isaac offered a hand.
“…Tomorrow, I’ll do better.”
“Good.”
“Next!”
One after another—
they stepped forward.
All defeated.
“…Not bad. Strengthen your lower body.”
It was a strange sight.
Veterans—
learning from a twelve-year-old boy.
But they understood.
They had seen the world.
They knew talent when they saw it.
And Isaac—
was far beyond them.
“Ha… unbelievable.”
The final opponent—
the guard captain.
Sword and shield.
Defensive.
Calculated.
He treated it like real combat.
For a moment—
even Isaac felt tension.
But—
he lost.
“…Was that feint intentional?”
“Of course. I needed you to lower your guard.”
“…Incredible.”
The captain exhaled.
How—
could a boy fight like this?
Others froze in battle.
Overwhelmed by sensation.
But Isaac—
thought.
Adapted.
Controlled.
“It’s simple,” Isaac said.
“To me, magic and swordsmanship are the same. Dodge, block, attack, deceive. That’s how you win.”
“…I see.”
The captain laughed.
“I misjudged you.”
“How so?”
“I thought you were nothing like the Count. But… you’re exactly like him.”
“…Am I?”
“Yes. Without a doubt. You carry Goethe’s blood.”
“…Jonas suits that better.”
Isaac shook his head.
“No. We simply failed to see it. You are the rightful heir of Goethe.”
“Exactly!”
The soldiers all agreed.
Their faces were filled with expectation.
But Isaac—
did not share their expression.
Instead—
a shadow fell across his face.
