Chapter 53
An Awkward Conversation
“…And so, I captured that man and was in the process of encouraging a sincere conversation.”
Isaac’s explanation went on at length.
He claimed that after getting used to drinking in Binfelt, he went to an inn in Bern City and got into trouble.
The reason? A drunken mercenary had been spreading rumors that “the eldest son of the Goethe family is crippled due to a strange illness.”
So Isaac had Carlson capture the man and torture him to find out who was spreading such rumors.
“…And you expect me to believe that?”
The Count removed the pipe from his mouth and exhaled smoke like a sigh.
The thick smoke masked the foul odor coming from him.
He hadn’t washed for days—sleeping outdoors while leading a subjugation campaign.
Yet because of Isaac’s actions, he had come straight to his private study without rest.
He was the type who wouldn’t eat, sleep, or rest until matters were settled.
“There’s nothing to believe or not. It’s the truth.”
“The truth, is it…”
Though his voice was filled with anger, the Count’s face revealed nothing—at least, to Isaac.
The Count Isaac knew was straightforward and simple.
He acted according to his beliefs and didn’t easily withdraw trust once given.
Yet he was also a principled noble, strict about the standards he set.
Isaac’s path, however, was completely different.
It would be better if I remained nothing more than a reckless or lacking son in his eyes, Isaac thought.
That way, Father will naturally support Jonas, and the succession issue will remain stable.
“You commit mistakes tirelessly. Binfelt is your land, so I don’t care what you do there. But this is my territory. In this estate, you are not to leave without my permission. You must not go to crowded cities, nor cause disturbances there. You of all people should know why.”
“Ah, right. I got carried away enjoying freedom in Binfelt. I forgot—I have that condition people fear.”
Even as he was being reprimanded, Isaac’s attitude was insolent.
“I also heard from Schiller that more than half of Binfelt’s forces were lost fighting monsters. I was told you provoked the hell wolves into battle. Is that true?”
“Not entirely wrong.”
Isaac shrugged.
“If you had asked for support, more soldiers could have lived. Yet you sacrificed them to maintain your independence as a lord.”
“Sacrifice? They died because they were weak. It’s the price for neglecting training. Calling it ‘sacrifice’ is too grand.”
Bang!
The Count slammed the desk.
“Dozens of men died! In a place with limited reinforcements and budget! Do you even understand what those deaths mean?”
“What choice did I have? I’m the lord of Binfelt—I had to protect my land with what I had. And those soldiers? They were given to me by you. So before belonging to Goethe, they were mine.”
The Count shook his head slowly and took a deep drag from his pipe.
Smoke filled the room as he turned to the window.
Outside, the night sky shimmered with stars.
“…What should I do with you now?”
Isaac lifted his head.
“Should I grab you by the collar and throw you out the window? Slap you? Or say something that wounds you and cast you out?”
“I don’t understand what you mean.”
Isaac tilted his head.
“…Do you still not know your fault?”
“Well… doing things that go against your wishes—”
“No. Your fault is not being honest with me. How long will you keep up this clumsy act in front of me?”
“…!”
Isaac’s eyes widened.
“You take me for a fool. I know you stopped the bishop’s scheme. You didn’t request support in Binfelt because you wanted the soldiers to develop attachment and unity with the land. Am I wrong?”
“….”
“You raised morale, defeated the hell wolves, even killed the Wolf King. And yet you expect me to believe you came here, drank for days, and started torturing people like a mad dog?”
The Count’s blue eyes bore into Isaac’s.
Isaac opened his mouth—but no words came out.
This was not something he had anticipated.
“You couldn’t deceive me. So tell me—why are you acting like a lunatic?”
Silence fell.
You’re simple and steadfast, Isaac thought.
Once convinced, you don’t change without reason.
He needed to adjust his plan.
“…Because I have to.”
Isaac spoke.
He didn’t need to tell everything—only enough for the Count to accept.
The political burden left by Zeke von Goethe.
The royal spies watching their territory.
The inevitable conflicts among vassals if Isaac were recognized as heir.
That was enough.
“…So you intend to hide your true self and live as a madman?”
“Yes.”
“Do you understand what that means?”
“The one suited to be Goethe’s heir is Jonas, not me. You know that better than anyone.”
“….”
The Count fell silent.
He knew it well.
The legacy of Zeke von Goethe…
A burden Isaac had inherited unwillingly.
“…Who is that man being tortured?”
“…As I said, someone spreading rumors about me—”
“Isaac.”
The Count frowned.
“…One of Weissman’s swordsmen.”
“Weissman—the gang that recently appeared in Bern?”
“Yes.”
“Why him?”
Just as Isaac expected—the Count didn’t know the connection between the Marquis, the mayor, and Weissman.
Better he doesn’t know.
If the Count intervened, the Marquis could accuse him of violating royal restrictions.
That could drag Goethe into greater political danger.
Everything had to end at Isaac’s level if something went wrong.
“I plan to commit crimes. To show that I’m unfit as an heir—to do something that removes the Goethe name from me.”
“….”
“Don’t worry. I won’t harm innocents. Just conflicts among petty criminals. At the right time, you can strip me of the family name.”
“…You truly intend to bear that burden?”
“I won’t be a good son. But I am the eldest son of Goethe. That won’t change.”
The tobacco in the pipe burned away.
The Count felt suffocated.
“…Do you remember what I said after Randolph’s funeral? That you could remain a child a little longer?”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t listen at all.”
“…I’m sorry.”
“I need to rest. We’ll talk again later.”
Isaac bowed and walked toward the door.
“…How is your condition?”
Isaac paused.
“It’s the same. But now I can predict when mana explosions will occur. There won’t be innocent victims anymore.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
But the Count didn’t clarify.
“…I see. If you need anything, ask.”
“Thank you.”
“…Nothing else to say?”
“…What do you mean?”
Silence.
“…If not, you may leave.”
“Yes.”
The door closed.
The Count had things he wanted to say—but they never formed into words.
“…You’ve grown a lot.”
Only after Isaac left did the thoughts come.
How proud he was.
How much he missed him.
Whether he was hurt.
Whether he needed anything.
Even about magic—Schiller had reported Isaac using it.
Could it be a clue to overcoming mana instability?
But he didn’t ask.
Isaac had chosen to carry a burden.
“…Sigh.”
The Count bit down on his pipe.
Isaac’s acting had been clumsy.
But so was his own.
He thought of his wife, Adele.
She would have done better.
