COTBC 30

Chapter 30

Underground.

A dark and musty room where not even light could seep in.

Isaac was alone.

He had always been, and would always be alone.

A prisoner’s life chosen by himself.

If only there had been another prisoner.

If only he could feel the presence of someone else.

If mana rampage were a common condition everyone experienced.

Isaac wouldn’t have read so many books.

Misery suffered alone is a hell incomparable to misery shared.

So Isaac sought out misery.

Tragedies, epics, novels, fairy tales, and more.

Among them, what Isaac read the most were history books.

In history, from the smallest families to entire nations, misfortune was densely packed.

He read and read until the books were tattered.

Until a corner of history vividly unfolded before his eyes.

Until he could consider the meaning and possibilities hidden in the omitted details.

Isaac read voraciously.

It was the only way to endure.

The sound of silence, like a scream.

The song of tragedy, like a clamor.

A quiet yearning, like a speechless corpse.

He managed not to drown in all the whispers that echoed in his ears and mind.

‘I didn’t think it would end up being this useful.’

Isaac let out a bitter smile.

[A new king of wolves appeared in the Black Forest. Hellhounds formed an army and ravaged the camps and villages of Binfelt. Nothing grew there anymore, and no one lived there. The count abandoned Binfelt. He lacked the blood and money to reclaim the wasteland.]

The final line of Binfelt, as recorded in history.

Since it wasn’t considered an important land, historians didn’t leave detailed accounts.

Therefore, Isaac had to eliminate each of the dozen or so possibilities he had imagined while experiencing Binfelt himself.

This inspection was to gather clues.

“They’re not buying it at all.”

Hans grumbled.

They had visited two villages of different tribes but were not welcomed in either.

The crudely built huts all had their shades drawn, refusing communication.

At one point, they almost saw blood from a flying spear.

“They all seemed to say the same thing. What did they say?”

“………They said to get lost.”

A soldier of tribal origin answered Carlson’s question.

“They all look starved. Only old people and women.”

“There’s nothing to eat around here. The land is cursed and yields nothing, and the Black Forest is teeming with magical beasts. Not a single young man who went out to hunt has returned from the Black Forest. Most of these tribal villages barely survive thanks to the goodwill of soldiers from their own tribes.”

The soldier explained after Isaac spoke.

There was resentment in the soldier’s voice.

“Sounds like you’re blaming Goethe.”

“Isn’t it their fault?”

The soldier shot back bluntly.

“Goethe asked for peace. But the people of Binfelt alone chose to fight. Now they’re paying the price.”

“They didn’t choose to fight. They were trying to protect their land.”

Isaac stared at him, but the soldier didn’t look away.

His eyes trembled, but his resolve to stand firm was clear.

“What’s your name, soldier?”

“Günter.”

The soldier lowered his gaze as he replied.

Only then did he realize Carlson’s hand was on his sword hilt.

Isaac was still staring at the soldier.

Goethe’s firstborn, who had even humbled Bessemer.

The cursed noble.

There were even rumors he was insane.

Günter regretted it.

Not just for himself—his rash comment might bring harm to his fellow tribesmen.

“P-please forgive me. I’m often told I have a nasty temper.”

Gulp.

Günter swallowed unconsciously.

Even if Isaac were to kill him right here and now, nothing would happen.

That was the fate of a tribe that had lost its land.

“Günter.”

“You might be right.”

“…Excuse me?”

“Aren’t you going to guide us?”

“Y-yes.”

Günter raised his eyes back to Isaac.

On the face of the twelve-year-old noble boy, there was neither anger nor discomfort.

Only the same chilling gaze he had when he first faced Bessemer.

Just the same.

There wasn’t a hint of childishness in him.

His true thoughts couldn’t be guessed.

The only relief was that he didn’t seem intent on harming Günter.

Carlson had taken his hand off his sword hilt, after all.

“Whew.”

Günter let out a sigh of relief.

The last village.

A village mainly composed of the Baitur tribe stood at the edge of the Black Forest.

“Um, young master.…”

Günter, who was quietly leading the horse ahead, spoke.

“It’s lord.”

“Ah—my apologies, my lord.”

Carlson corrected him, and Günter followed.

“What is it?”

“Do you absolutely have to visit the last village?”

“Why?”

“As you know, that village practically belongs to the Baitur tribe. They’re just as foul-tempered as Bessemer, and…”

“As foul-tempered as?”

“It’s presumptuous of me to say, but they are the tribe most resentful of Goethe. What’s more, the village lies within the Black Forest…”

‘We might encounter the hellhounds.’

“Exactly. There are beasts in the Black Forest even more dangerous than hellhounds.”

“That’s why we must go.”

“…Pardon?”

“If you’re afraid, you may return ahead.”

“I’m not afraid. I just meant to warn you…”

Günter felt his pride wounded and tried to explain, but by then the two horses had already entered the Black Forest along the path.

Günter glanced between the dark, thick forest path and the desolate plain behind.

“Damn it.”

He had no choice but to follow Isaac—and regretted it soon after.

“…We’re surrounded.”

“We’re surrounded.”

“Carlson, can you handle them without killing everyone?”

“Even killing them all would be difficult. If it were just me escaping, that would be easy.”

“That’s cowardly.”

Compared to Hans and Günter, who had gone pale, Isaac and Carlson exchanged words with disinterest.

Amid the thick tangle of grass, trees, and vines, arrowheads and axe blades glinted sharply.

But even more chilling were the tribal warriors’ eyes.

Like Bessemer, their faces were painted, marked with blood-red symbols.

It was clear to anyone—they were of the Baitur tribe.

And not just that—they were Baitur warriors fully armed for battle.

“Let’s see… two, four, six, eight burly men… there’s at least twenty.”

“Is this really the time to count heads? We’ll be sliced into meat if we make one wrong move!”

Hans snapped at Isaac, who was casually counting their numbers.

“Don’t you think this is strange?”

“Yes, it’s very strange. You, my lord, counting heads in a situation like this. Do you even realize what’s going on?”

“There weren’t men like that in the other villages. They were all old or women. And this is the Black Forest—yet they all look fine.”

“They’re said to be the strongest warrior tribe, right? But that doesn’t matter now. Do something—anything. You planned for this, didn’t you?”

Hans’s eyes darted around anxiously.

“Get the axe.”

“The axe? Oh, that one.”

Hans, hands trembling slightly, untied the bundle strapped to the saddle.

“The warrior who defeated Bessemer has come to see the prophet!”

Isaac raised Bessemer’s axe high into the air.

But the tribesmen only blinked.

“Think any of them understand you?”

“Shut up. The warrior who defeated Bessemer has come to see the prophet!”

Isaac repeated the same words several times, and murmurs among the hidden tribesmen grew louder.

Then, a large-built tribesman stepped forward.

He looked like a warrior of the Baitur tribe.

“Bessemer, even when sleep, or when with woman, keeps axe. Bessemer dead?”

“He’s alive. We fought by Baitur tradition.”

The whispers among the tribesmen grew louder, then stopped.

“Young, warrior. Only you, allowed.”

The Baitur warrior pointed to Isaac.

“I can’t let him go alone. Who knows what they’ll do?”

Despite Hans’s concern, Isaac was too busy trying to dismount.

Being small, he had trouble getting down from the tall horse by himself.

“Help me down, will you?”

“I can’t.”

“Since when do you decide what I can and can’t do? Carlson.”

“Yes, sir.”

Carlson stepped in for Hans and helped Isaac down.

“Are you really going alone?”

Hans asked nervously.

“I have to. There’s something I need to confirm. Hans, if something happens to me, run—”

“Don’t say stuff like that! Run? What do you mean, run?

If that happens, I’ll— I’ll use this sword—Ugh—I’ll cut them all down!”

Hans struggled with the sheath for a moment before finally pulling the blade free.

His face was serious, but it wasn’t exactly reassuring.

“Who told you to run? Don’t run—fight until you die.”

“…What?”

“You said you’d die with me if I died, right?”

“Well, yeah, I guess I did.”

Hans looked exasperated.

“And Carlson.”

“I haven’t even taught him swordsmanship yet.”

Carlson cut in as if he already knew what Isaac was going to say.

“Then at least teach him how to draw the sword while we wait. Otherwise, he’s going to slice his own fingers off.”

“Understood.”

Isaac followed the tribesmen with the light expression of someone going for a stroll.

It seemed there had been some interaction with outsiders—the forest path was firm and not overgrown.

So walking wasn’t difficult, but the hostility from the tribesmen made the journey rough.

‘Hostile bunch.’

The tribesmen bumped into Isaac on purpose or brushed sharp weapons “accidentally” against him.

After walking for some time—

“Welcome, young warrior.”

An elderly man, fluent in the common tongue, was waiting for Isaac.

Despite his hunched back, he was taller than Isaac.

In his youth, he must’ve been a warrior with a build to rival Bessemer’s.

The scars covering his face told the tale.

“Those necklaces—from hellhounds?”

The elder wore a headdress adorned with feathers and several necklaces made of fangs and claws.

“Yes.”

His eyes, clouded as if blind, turned toward Isaac.

They weren’t exactly warm.

“So you knew I was coming.”

“The goddess gave us a prophecy.”

“Then you must know why I’m here.”

“I do. It’s greed—to claim this land for yourself.”

“That part wasn’t in the prophecy?”

“It was not.”

“Well, that’s a relief. At least I haven’t lost my faith in that goddess yet.”

Isaac spoke casually as he surveyed the village.

From the structure of the huts to the totems and symbols scattered about, the clothing of the tribesmen, their weapons—

Everything was a clue.

‘They’re using items from other tribes as if they were their own…I’ve confirmed everything I needed.’

Isaac’s theory was solidifying.

Now there were only two remaining possibilities regarding the forgotten piece of Binfelt’s history.

‘Two hypotheses remain. Either way, the outcome is horrifying.’

“Let us speak plainly now. Young warrior, what brings you to this far-off place?”

The elder asked.

His clouded eyes seemed to pierce right through Isaac.

“If you won’t speak, then I shall.”

Shing—

As soon as the elder finished speaking, the sharp sound of metal echoed.

The tribesmen pointed their weapons at Isaac.

It was a tense atmosphere—they could stab or slash him at any moment.

“Little Goethe, spawn of the northern devil. Give me one reason not to kill you.”

The elder asked.

“There is one.”

Isaac smirked.

It was exactly what he expected.

“What is it?”

“Because I’m going to save you.”

“…The little Goethe must’ve gone mad.”

The elder spoke, and the tribesmen roared with laughter.

It was a wild, booming laughter—much like Bessemer’s.

But the laughter didn’t last long.

Though Binfelt was a cold region, spring was relatively mild compared to the rest of the north.

That was because the sea lay beyond the Black Forest.

But now, every breath and laugh they took was visible in white puffs.

Frost settled instantly on the lush green foliage.

‘Time to find the last clue.’

Isaac released cold mana from his fingertips using a frost rune stone.

Without a target, the mana dispersed, freezing the surrounding air.

Freeze.

Freeze.

Freeze.

Freeze.

And freeze again.

Five magic circuits rumbled.

The mana overflowed, spilling out of the circuits.

“A curse!”

Terror flooded the elder’s face.

And on the faces of the tribespeople—those who worshipped more gods than any other land—terror followed quickly.

Isaac wasn’t releasing all that mana to cause an explosion, or even to threaten the tribesmen.

Awoooo—

A deep wolf’s howl echoed nearby.

At the same time, a heavy rumble vibrated through the earth.

‘They’ve come.’

Monsters, drawn to Isaac’s mana, began to gather.

More specifically—hellhounds.

Whoosh—

A massive shadow swept over the tribesmen’s heads.

The beast that landed made almost no noise, despite its immense size.

“…Huh?”

Isaac looked slightly surprised.

Highly concentrated mana attracts monsters.

So Isaac had purposely stirred his mana to provoke the hellhounds.

All he needed was a face-to-face encounter between the hellhounds and the Baitur tribe to obtain the final clue.

But something much bigger than expected had shown up.

A wolf with a body larger than any tent in the camp, with a long scar slashing across one of its eyes.

Unlike other hellhounds, its fur wasn’t pitch black—but silver.

Compared to the other hellhounds that followed, the silver wolf was overwhelmingly massive.

There was no mistaking it.

The king of wolves had arrived.

This was the very monster that had destroyed Binfelt and turned it into a land of beasts.

‘I’ve found it. The final clue.’