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Chapter 03
Lucas died.
The vessel was shattered.
There was an explosion.
Isaac ordered that from now on, no one, not even attendants, be allowed into the room.
New clothes, new towels, the emptying of the chamber pot, and food — all of it was delivered through the slot in the door.
That was the only best he could do.
An empty, unfillable heart and the occasional resurfacing of loved ones.
Lethargy and self-loathing.
Guilt and depression.
Those things were always by Isaac’s side.
Time passed as he skipped meals and didn’t lift a finger.
Memories of the decades he spent with Lucas.
The conversations they shared came to him in fragments.
Beyond those, memories of Hans, the nanny, and the maids also surfaced.
Isaac dwelled on each one.
Sometimes he laughed, sometimes he cried.
But once he came out of the memories, all that was left was a mold-covered wall.
He should have kept his distance.
He shouldn’t have grown attached.
He should have treated them coldly.
If he had, they might be living normal lives by now.
Such regrets were already too late.
Only pain remained.
Thus, more years passed.
Now, there was nothing left among those vivid memories worth dwelling on.
Isaac suddenly realized.
The mourning period was over.
Only pain remained.
And the pain spoke.
It told him that he was not a monster, but a person.
That he was still alive.
That there was a reason he still lived.
Therefore now—
He must look forward, not back.
“Start again, with the body.”
The young man had become middle-aged.
He was middle-aged, but he looked like an old man.
Even so, he did not give up.
If he fell, he would rise again.
That was who Isaac was.
It was a trait inherited from Goethe’s bloodline.
Lucas had awakened it in him.
The marks on the wall had surpassed forty.
It meant he was now over forty years old.
Not as strong as before, but his condition had greatly improved.
He ate every meal, and trained steadily like he used to when Lucas was alive.
He compiled, organized, and reviewed everything he had learned over the years.
Books circulating in the world, seasonal research papers from the magic tower, Goethe’s secret magic, magitech, alchemy, and more.
On paper, there was nothing left for Isaac to learn.
What remained was solving problems through instinct and inspiration.
Five more years passed.
The amount of food coming in noticeably decreased.
New towels and clothes were stained or frayed.
Had the household fallen into ruin?
Isaac brushed the thought away.
He focused only on what he needed to.
And one day—
An elderly man, his sickness obvious, opened the door.
He carried the family’s ancestral sword, Valeriche, and a bundle.
After staring for a while, it was only when he saw the man’s worn coat that Isaac realized.
Count Goethe.
Isaac’s father.
He looked clearly older than when Lucas’s death was announced.
His dignity had flown away along with his sunken cheeks.
What now remained on his cheeks were age spots.
“……Isaac?”
“It’s been a while.”
The Count stood frozen, silently observing his son.
“You’ve aged.”
“And you, Father—have you been unwell?”
“There are no mirrors here, are there?”
The Count looked around the room and pulled a mirror from the bundle.
“Look.”
It was as the Count said.
Isaac in the mirror looked older than the Count.
Snow-white hair.
Deep, wrinkled lines.
Sparse teeth and hair.
Pale skin like that of a corpse.
He thought his body had recovered somewhat.
But outwardly, he was nothing more than a pitiful old man.
Snort.
Isaac chuckled.
“You find it funny?”
“What can I do? Might as well laugh.”
“Sit down.”
“Pardon?”
“Sit.”
Snip, snip.
The Count sat Isaac in a chair and began to cut his hair.
The sparse strands fell away.
White hair fluttered down.
They looked just like falling snowflakes.
Isaac thought—
When was the last time I saw real snow?
He couldn’t even remember.
“If you wish, there will be no more pain.”
Suddenly, the Count spoke.
Isaac quickly understood what he meant.
The famed sword Valeriche.
Its blade shimmered with waves, as if forged many times over.
It was a sword bestowed upon the executor who would do anything for the family.
Today, the Count had come to cut the thread of his son’s life.
So that he no longer had to endure a miserable existence.
To grant him peace.
To offer him mercy.
He had come personally.
Even the sudden haircut was part of it.
It was a father’s wish for his son to leave the world looking dignified.
In other words, it also meant that the Count’s own life was nearing its end.
Sensing death, he couldn’t rest peacefully with his son on his mind.
Isaac could sense it.
His father’s feelings.
His father’s failing health.
The family’s situation.
But Isaac shook his head.
“……Is that your will?”
“Yes.”
“I understand.”
The Count slowly nodded.
He asked no questions, offered no persuasion.
He simply continued trimming in silence.
“Today will be the last day I see you.”
The Count brushed off the white hairs on Isaac’s shoulder.
Then he kissed his son’s forehead.
“Achieve what you wish for.”
“………”
Isaac couldn’t say a single word.
Despite having read so many books.
No words came to mind worthy of being spoken aloud.
“I hope this helps you.”
The Count took out a book from his bundle that looked like it could crumble at any moment.
“What is this?”
“A record from a generation older than me. It’ll be more useful to you than to Jonas.”
The Count firmly grasped Isaac’s hand holding the book.
“I’ll go ahead and wait. When you come to me, leave all your regrets behind.”
Isaac blankly stared at his father.
The Count never looked back even once as he left the room.
The sound of Valeriche scraping the floor followed him.
His figure staggered as he walked away.
One leg stepped forward while the other dragged behind, like it was being pulled.
Each step felt as heavy as if it were pressing down on Isaac’s heart.
Isaac quietly listened to the fading traces of his father.
A few years passed.
A letter arrived for Isaac.
It was from his mother.
She wrote that his father had passed peacefully.
And that she had contracted a terrible endemic disease while subjugating the monsters in the White Serpent Mountain Range.
The priests and doctors had tried everything, but there was no hope.
The last line of the letter read:
[May your long night end one day. May you find peace.]
Isaac missed his mother deeply.
So much.
To the point of aching.
More years passed.
Isaac was now over fifty.
The ancestral records his father gave him had helped.
Only once in history—
There was someone with the same peculiar constitution as Isaac.
His great-grandfather, Zeke von Goethe.
He suffered from a condition called Mana Rampage, and once burned the royal capital to the ground.
It was so severe that the king had to bow his head and ask the emperor of the empire for help.
According to several authorities, Zeke von Goethe had reached the superhuman realm of 10th Class.
Records said that Zeke von Goethe had bought rare artifacts from all over the continent.
And that he always wore them, trailing behind him.
Isaac found a clue there.
If a waterway is narrow and much more water flows through it—
The current becomes not only swift but inevitably floods.
Then there are two options.
Either widen the waterway or split it into dozens of smaller channels to divide the burden.
The many artifacts that Zeke von Goethe wore likely served that very purpose.
But it was impossible to track down relics over a hundred years old.
Then they must be made.
Fortunately, due to countless wars, magitech had rapidly advanced.
And although he had borrowed Jonas’s name, Isaac had been recognized for his contributions and was now one of the leading magitech authorities.
Now, all he needed was time.
By the time Isaac neared sixty—
After filling over thirty pages of fiber sheets with dense proof structures—
He finally managed to draw a single rune.
All the knowledge and logical systems in his mind sparked and aligned into one formula and rune.
A shiver ran through his entire body.
All that remained was to bring the abstract theory into reality.
He needed to create rune stones capable of suppressing mana explosions using magic stones and tools, and prove the theory through relentless experiments.
Several more years passed after that.
The bread delivered through the slot yesterday had mold on it.
No new clothes or towels were coming in anymore.
Something had definitely gone wrong with the family.
Fortunately, the materials needed for research were still being supplied regularly.
Time, indifferent as always, continued to pass.
Before long, Isaac had reached an age that matched his frail body.
His aged body no longer obeyed him well.
Worn out too early, it screamed in agony every day, claiming it had reached its limit.
The precision of inscribing rune patterns onto magic stones improved, but his trembling hands caused frequent mistakes.
Almost—but not quite.
An old man gets frustrated.
Isaac was now approaching seventy.
If the tally marks on the wall weren’t wrong—
He was right around seventy-one when—
“Brother, it’s Jonas.”
Jonas spoke to Isaac.
Isaac thought it was a hallucination.
But Jonas’s voice continued from beyond the door.
“Brother? It’s Jonas. Are you asleep?”
It was real.
Isaac was afraid.
He was the one who had taken his younger brother’s right hand in their childhood.
Was Jonas here now to lay blame?
Or was this another kind of nightmare?
“Brother.”
“……Jonas.”
Jonas knocked on the door for a long time.
The knocking was gentle, yet weak, as if drained of strength.
Softly, Isaac responded.
“What brings you here?”
His voice trembled faintly.
“May I come in?”
Isaac checked the old mirror his father had left behind.
He looked like a corpse.
It was a wonder he was even alive.
There are things in life one need not face.
“Speak from there.”
He heard the sound of Jonas leaning against the door.
Isaac, too, leaned his back against the door from inside.
He wanted to hear his brother’s voice just a bit closer.
But for brothers, it was strangely hard to speak.
“How have you been?”
“To explain… it’s a long story.”
Jonas let out a sigh that sounded like a groan.
“Do you know? Today is Father’s death anniversary. I can’t even remember how many years it’s been.”
“How did Father die?”
“That’s a long story. Would you like to hear it?”
“If you’re okay with it.”
“Sigh.”
Jonas took a deep breath.
It was the sound of someone steeped in weariness.
Just as he said, the story was long.
It began over thirty years ago.
The succession war between the First and Second Princes.
The betrayal of the Second Prince.
The Empire’s invasion.
The massacre during the succession ceremony.
The fall of the kingdom.
The witch hunts of the old religion, the Empire’s national faith.
Goethe became a refuge for wizards, priests of the new religion, royalists, defeated rebels, and refugees.
With support from neighboring countries and the new religion, Goethe declared itself a city-state.
The former lands of the kingdom became a hellscape.
Numerous wars, big and small.
Corpses and plagues.
Vanishing forests……
“A lot of things… happened.”
Jonas summarized the past few decades of history.
He was left speechless.
Isaac had been too ignorant of the world.
“Shall we stop with the gloomy talk now? Did you know? Much of the food you ate over the years was made by Mother.”
Suddenly, Jonas changed the topic with a lighter tone.
“Mother? She cooked? I can’t even imagine it.”
“Yes. It was awful at first, but she improved steadily. You’d know, too, since you’ve tasted it. Her beef stew was truly excellent.”
Jonas spoke of all the family matters that happened over the fifty years Isaac was absent.
Leaving out the major tragedies, he told stories of ordinary life.
Things that smelled of people.
Jonas’s arranged marriage.
The commoner woman he loved.
The children they had.
The ones who died among them.
The grandchildren born from the ones who lived.
The ridiculous mistakes made by the steward who succeeded Schiller.
Schiller’s death.
The various people who visited Goethe, now a city-state.
The journeys and humiliations Jonas endured to gain support from neighboring countries……
Decades of events flowed like a stream in just a few hours.
It was more fascinating than any book Isaac had ever read.
It was enjoyable.
Even when his mouth dried up and hunger sapped his strength to speak.
Jonas’s stories did not stop.
“I have to admit one thing. You do have a talent for storytelling.”
What meaning did that have for an old man like him?
That’s what Isaac thought.
Still, he wanted to say something.
Something small, but kind.
“Ha ha, me?”
“You’ve got quite the gift of gab.”
“If I had known, I should’ve wandered as a poet before becoming heir. Though it might’ve been tough with only one hand.”
“……I’m sorry.”
“Do you know something? Father, Mother, and I—we all hated you so much.”
Isaac felt a sharp pain in his chest, like a dagger.
He was surprised that he still had such feelings left inside.
A bitter laugh escaped him.
“And… we missed you a lot.”
“?”
..?
Was it a hallucination?
He doubted his ears.
“We really loved you.”
“……”
At that moment, Isaac went blank.
It felt like he’d been struck in the back of the head.
“Brother?”
“……I’m listening.”
“Ha ha. Letting it all out like this feels… really refreshing.”
“I’m glad.”
“Truly, do you still not plan to open the door? The only brother I remember is the boy you were. Handsome, and kind-hearted.”
“My memory’s a little different.”
“The wooden puppet you carved for me back then… I still have it. Most of it was burned, though.”
“That’s a shame. Ah, I did want to see your face one last time.”
“One last time?”
“While the war raged… the door opened.”
Jonas’s voice grew quieter and slower.
“The door?”
“Creatures from another world… I’ve never seen before… The radical sect of the new religion… Their atrocities… cough cough…”
Suddenly, Jonas began coughing violently.
“Jonas, are you alright?! What’s wrong?”
“Now… Goethe… no longer… exists… now… at least you, Brother… may the rest of your days… be at peace… ah… I should’ve come… just a little… sooner…”
“Jonas? Jonas—!!!”
The floor was damp and cold.
Only then did Isaac notice the blood that had seeped in beneath the door.
It must have been flowing for quite some time, as it had gone cold and started to dry.
Creeeak—
The door was already open.
The body, which had been leaning against the door, slumped down onto the cold floor.
A sword was lodged in the belly of the elderly man who resembled their father in his final days.
It seemed he hadn’t pulled it out in order to stop the bleeding.
“You really managed… to tell such a long story…”
Perhaps he had been reluctant to die.
Perhaps he still had things left to say.
Jonas was staring into the void, unable to close his eyes.
“Now… rest, my brother.”
Isaac gently closed Jonas’s eyes.
He sat there blankly, unmoving for a long while.
The last person to whom he owed atonement had now left him.
“Let’s go. You can’t just lie here forever, can you?”
Isaac splashed water on his face and supported Jonas’s body, stepping forward one stair at a time.
His body had already passed seventy, and his muscles had withered so much that even supporting himself was a struggle.
And yet, even he found Jonas’s body astonishingly light.
“How long were you starving for…”
Jonas gave no answer.
Isaac’s eyes were red.
Step—
Step—
The sound of his footsteps echoed.
“Is it winter…”
The higher he climbed toward the surface, the colder the air became.
The surface floor.
After more than half a century, he stood on solid ground again.
But Isaac had no time for sentimentality.
Corpses rolling on the floor welcomed him and Jonas.
Grotesque monsters he had never seen before.
Not a single body among them was whole.
Judging by the insignias on shields, armor, and robes, he could tell they belonged to Goethe’s mages and knights, the Empire’s soldiers, and the Second Prince’s men.
The inside of the mansion had clearly gone untended for a long time, with broken furniture scattered everywhere.
Not a single windowpane remained intact, and the once-grand Great Hall had collapsed entirely, leaving no trace.
“Do you remember, Jonas? When the sunlight came through that stained glass… it was beautiful.”
He murmured in a hoarse voice.
“It’s snowing…”
A hopeless scene in a ruin without even a ceiling.
Over it, large flakes of snow fell silently.
Each breath created visible puffs of vapor.
It was cold enough to make his bones ache.
“Haa… haa…”
Isaac tried to dig into the frozen ground with his bare, cracked hands, but it was impossible.
That winter was colder than any of the seventy-one he had experienced before.
The old man survived until spring by scraping up even moldy crumbs of bread.
And then, in his seventy-second year—
Spring came, and the ground thawed.
Isaac was finally able to bury Jonas in the family cemetery.
And now, he too could rest.
Fwoosh—
A tiny flame.
So small it looked like it might go out at any moment.
A faint spark flared to life in the old man’s hand.
“Do you see this, Jonas? At last… at long last, I’ve reached it.”
The old man fumbled in the soil.
It was the spot where his brother lay.
“Now I can rest too, can’t I? Now… now… I can… finally…”
The old man began to sob.
“Maybe… I can be forgiven a little?”
Drip—
Drop—
Spring rain began to fall.
The rain tapped gently against the old man’s skin, which was little more than hide stretched over bone.
It felt like someone’s gentle patting.
You’ve done well.
You’ve endured.
It felt like he was being comforted.
Clink.
The rune stone that had helped him overcome his unique condition had served its purpose and shattered.
The faint flame still flickered at his fingertips.
The old man smiled faintly.
Finally.
He could end his life without regret.
A quiet joy spread across his face.
Whoosh—
But the joy didn’t last long.
His smile was washed away by the downpour.
The flame he had kindled soon went out.
The frozen corpses began to thaw and rot.
Flies swarmed.
The cawing of crows seeking shelter from the rain echoed from all directions.
There would be no one to bury the old man beside his family.
No one.
He was alone.
He would die alone.
The scent of death would draw beasts and monsters.
They would tear this place apart.
The old man would become rotting food, just like the corpses scattered nearby.
“Ah.”
The old man’s dimming eyes gazed into the void.
A butterfly flitted about, searching for shelter from the spring rain.
Its wings fluttered unsteadily.
Exhausted, it landed on the pommel of the famed sword Valeriche, which was planted atop the grave.
Its wings were getting wet.
Suddenly.
Like a bolt of lightning.
Reality struck the old man.
Goethe no longer existed.
His family no longer existed.
There was nothing.
He was alone.
He would die alone.
“How fleeting.”
The old man thought.
If only—if only he had moved a little faster.
If only he hadn’t given so much of his time to despair.
Would this landscape, filled with blood and ash, have turned out differently?
He shook his head.
It was far too late.
The rain soon stopped.
Golden sunlight poured down over the gray scenery.
It was spring sunlight.
The old man felt drowsy.
He began to dream.
“Did you have a bad dream?”
In the dream, Hans asked with a worried expression.
A splint was strapped to one leg, and he leaned on a crutch.
It was the past.
A long, long time ago.
A day he had longed for.
