Chapter 52
Longing and Envy
Carlson headed first to the Merchant Council building.
The front of the building was crowded with merchants.
Their mood was no different from that at Madam Randolph’s inn.
The mayor’s death had caused considerable losses, and every face looked gloomy.
Some argued heatedly about countermeasures and who should be held responsible, but since none of them knew the assassin’s identity, all they could do was talk.
“…Just what have you done?”
Carlson muttered as he walked through the noisy crowd.
Not only the merchants, but even the citizens showed signs of anxiety and fear.
An old priest was preaching about evil in the streets, urging faith.
Street vendors sold cheap daggers, claiming people needed to protect themselves.
Even off-duty guards had been mobilized—far more soldiers than usual were patrolling.
They were investigating around the mayor’s mansion next to the council building.
Carlson asked around and found out where the inspector from the capital was staying.
Just knowing it was a luxury inn near the council building made it easy to locate—the area was swarming with soldiers due to the mayor’s death.
“I’ve come to see the Marquis.”
“Get lost if you don’t want to be stabbed.”
A soldier looked Carlson up and down and growled.
As expected, the inn was completely blocked off by guards.
There was no need for Carlson to personally deliver the parchment Isaac had given him.
“Then at least deliver this. It’s a message from Mayor Baris to the Marquis.”
“What kind of nonsense is that?”
“If it becomes known you didn’t deliver it, it won’t be good for you. You might miss a clue to catching the assassin.”
“…Give it here!”
The soldier took the parchment.
He unfolded it but couldn’t read, staring at it upside down before looking back at Carlson.
“Who should I say sent it?”
“It should be written there.”
“Don’t do that—come inside and explain it properly.”
“Unfortunately, I don’t have time for that.”
“Seize him!”
Suspicious soldiers rushed at Carlson.
But they couldn’t catch him.
“…What the hell is that guy?”
Carlson calmly broke through their encirclement, climbed the wall, and disappeared over the rooftop.
“If we catch you, you’re dead!”
A furious soldier shouted, but Carlson was already gone.
The soldiers tried to follow, grabbing window frames and ledges, but quickly slipped and fell.
“Idiots.”
Still, thanks to Carlson’s suspicious behavior, the parchment was reported up the chain of command—eventually reaching the Marquis.
The Marquis, troubled by Baris’s gruesome death, had been drinking wine in the arms of a high-class courtesan since morning.
Replacing the mayor wasn’t the problem.
Finding someone as shrewd and influential as Baris was.
More troubling was the assassin.
Even the Marquis, well-versed in court intrigue and assassination groups, had never seen such a method.
Killing someone surrounded by so many guards…
If such an assassin targeted him, he wouldn’t be safe either.
A chill ran down his spine.
“A suspicious man left this message.”
The Marquis took the note and read it several times.
The elegant handwriting suggested a noble, but he couldn’t immediately understand the meaning.
“This city is not your purse…? What does that even mean?”
He didn’t even consider the name written below—Isaac von Goethe.
A sickly child couldn’t possibly have done something this bold, nor understand business or city politics.
Instead, he focused on the message—and the intention behind using that name.
“…Call Weissman. I need to find out who’s trying to screw us over.”
After easily shaking off pursuit, Carlson bought a sword and chain from a blacksmith.
Then he headed to a brothel in the slums.
In the foul-smelling alley, he sat and ate the bread and cheese Madam Randolph had given him.
Hungry beggars gathered around him.
Each time, Carlson drew his sword.
But the beggars didn’t retreat—instead, they pulled out their own weapons.
Carlson cut them all down.
He didn’t kill them.
He left them bleeding and fleeing.
“You demon bastard…”
One cursed him, but Carlson ignored it, calmly finishing his food.
He entered the brothel and drank a cup of sour wine.
It was spoiled—unfit to sell—but kept for customers’ vanity.
He tossed coins to the prostitutes and joked around, passing time.
It reminded him of old memories—
Growing up among prostitutes.
Masking the smell of death during his mercenary days with cheap perfume.
To him, such brothels felt like home.
But today wasn’t for nostalgia.
“Well, well. Weissman’s sixth swordsman finally arrives.”
The swordsman appeared in an unsettling outfit—a revealing dress clearly meant for a prostitute, worn by a burly man.
With heavy makeup and a sword at his waist.
“Quite a taste you’ve got.”
“This? I wondered what it felt like to be a woman. It belonged to one I killed. A kind of memorial… or game.”
“….”
Carlson showed no reaction.
“I don’t know… you feel different today. Like you came to kill someone. Not me, right?”
The man already knew the answer.
“You.”
Carlson drew his sword.
“You freak.”
Clang!
Their blades collided.
Do you know the difference between longing and envy?
Isaac recalled a book he had read long ago—recommended by Lucas.
Longing is pure. It is respect and aspiration born from the heart.
But envy burns with desire. It is jealousy toward what others have—and the urge to take it.
Lucas once said:
“Those who dream of becoming knights say they admire them. But in truth, they envy them. Many tragedies come from confusing the two.”
At the time, Isaac didn’t understand.
Now he did.
Kings who admired past rulers often failed—not because of admiration, but envy.
They sought wealth, land, and power—but ignored the wisdom behind them.
Isaac had once trained in swordsmanship for ten years—but never once landed a blow on Lucas.
He realized he lacked talent and lost interest.
“You envy my swordsmanship, not admire it. What you truly admire is something else.”
What Isaac truly longed for wasn’t swordsmanship.
It was overcoming his weak body.
Becoming the pillar of his family.
Bringing peace to his house.
That hadn’t changed.
Recognition, respect, admiration from others—
Those were things to envy, not to long for.
His longing was simple:
A peaceful family.
Smiling faces without worry.
Lucas… I’ll pursue true longing. But… I’m tired.
Isaac pressed his brow.
Before him, a prisoner screamed in agony.
One of Weissman’s swordsmen.
“Answer me. Who is Weissman’s leader? Where is he hiding?”
“Aaaaagh!”
Carlson tore out another fingernail.
Isaac felt no guilt.
He had killed the mayor that very morning.
What he felt instead was exhilaration—
Not from killing, but from achieving a spell beyond known limits.
He had expanded the boundaries of magic.
But the result was still death.
Magic’s progress would always be tied to war and killing.
Even so… this is my path.
“Go to hell, you bastards!”
“Pull another one. It doesn’t have to be clean.”
“Aaaaagh!”
In the underground prison, screams echoed.
Guards looked disgusted.
Isaac oversaw the torture.
“My lord… perhaps you should stop. This is without the Count’s permission—”
“Do you ask mercy for a parasite feeding on Goethe?”
“…No, but this feels wrong. And you smell of alcohol.”
“You think I’m acting foolish because I’m drunk?”
“….”
“Then stop me.”
“Carlson, another.”
“Yes.”
“Aaaagh!”
The guards’ faces turned pale.
This would spread as rumor.
Isaac’s reputation would grow darker.
Servants would fear him more.
But it was necessary.
He chose longing—not envy.
So the blood in the shadows would be borne by him and those he chose.
His people.
Not his family.
“What is the meaning of this?”
A cold voice echoed.
Everyone froze.
The Count had returned.
Covered in blood, mud, and remnants of battle—his presence alone suffocating.
“Welcome back, Father.”
Only Isaac greeted him calmly.
