The Margrave's 10th-Class Ne'er-do-well

༺ 𓆩  Chapter 3 — Spring Rain  𓆪 ༻

「Translator — Creator」

᠃ ⚘᠂ ⚘ ˚ ⚘ ᠂ ⚘ ᠃

Lucas was dead.
The vessel was shattered.
There had been an explosion.

Isaac had ordered that no one be allowed into his room, not even the servants. Fresh clothes, clean towels, the emptying of the chamber pot, food, all of it was delivered through the slot in the door.

That had been Isaac’s only way of managing.

An emptiness that could not be filled, and fleeting visions of the ones he had loved; listlessness and self-loathing.
Guilt and a creeping melancholy.
These things had always lingered by Isaac’s side.
Days slipped by when he skipped meals and barely moved a finger.

Memories of the decades spent with Lucas surfaced in fragments.

Conversations they'd shared drifted up from the depths.

Beyond those came memories of Hans, the nanny, the maids.

Isaac savored each memory, one by one.

Sometimes he laughed. Sometimes he wept.

But once he surfaced from those memories, only the mold-stained walls remained.

He should have kept his distance.

He should never have grown attached.

He should have been colder, harsher.

Had he done so, they might now be living an ordinary life.

But such regrets came far too late.

All that remained was pain.

And so, more years passed.

By then, none of the memories that rose so vividly were worth chewing over.

Isaac realized it all at once:
his time of mourning had ended.
What was left was only pain.
And the pain spoke to him.

It told him that he was not a monster, but a man.

That he was still alive.

That there was still a reason for him to live.

Therefore now—
he had to stop looking back, and look ahead instead.

“Again, the body first.”

"Again. Start with the body."

The young man had become middle-aged. Middle-aged, yet his appearance was already that of an old man.

Yet he did not give up.
If he fell, he stood back up.

That was Isaac.

It was what the Goethe bloodline had passed down to him.

It was what Lucas had awakened in him.

The tally marks carved into the wall had passed forty.
That meant his age had passed forty as well.

His physical condition had recovered considerably, though not to what it once was.

He ate every meal now and, as he had done when Lucas was alive, trained steadily.

He gathered, organized, and revisited everything he had learned over the years:
rumored books, research papers from the Mage Tower at different times, the Goethe family’s secret magic, magitech, alchemy.

On paper, there was nothing left for Isaac to study.
All that remained was solving problems through intuition and inspiration.

Another five years passed.
The food brought in had noticeably diminished.
The towels and clothes that arrived were now stained or frayed.
Had the household fallen into decline?
Isaac brushed the thought aside.
He kept his eyes only on what he needed to focus on.

And then, one day—
an elderly man, visibly ill and in his twilight years, opened the door.

He carried Valerich, the famed sword passed down through the Goethe family, and a small bundle.
Isaac stared at him for a long while, only realizing who it was when he saw the worn-out coat the man was wearing.

Margrave Goethe.
He was Isaac’s father.
He looked far older than he had when he first brought the news of Lucas’s death.
The dignity that had once clung to him had fled, leaving only hollowed cheeks.
In its place, dark age spots had claimed his skin.

“…Isaac?”

“It has been a long time.”

The Margrave stared at his son, unmoving, as though frozen.

“You’ve aged.”

“Are you unwell, Father?”

“There’s no mirror here, is there?”

The Margrave looked around the room and then drew a mirror from his bundle.

“Look.”

The Margrave had spoken the truth.

The Isaac reflected in the glass appeared older than the Margrave himself.

Snow-white hair streaked with age.
A face lined with deep creases; sparse teeth and thinning hair and a skin pale as a corpse’s.
He had thought his body had recovered somewhat.
But his appearance was no more than that of a wretched old man.

A dry laugh escaped him.

“You find that amusing?”

“What else can I do? One must laugh.”

“Sit.”

“Pardon?”

“Sit.”

Snip—!!! Snip—!!!

The Margrave sat Isaac in a chair and began cutting with scissors. The sparse strands of hair fell away. White hair scattered in all directions, drifting down like snowflakes. Isaac thought to himself - when had he last seen real snow? He couldn't even remember.

“If you wish it, there will be no pain.”

The Margrave’s voice broke the silence.
Isaac understood at once what he meant.

Valerich—the family’s famed blade.
Its steel rippled as though waves ran through it, as if it had been forged again and again.

It was the sword given only to the family’s enforcer, the one who would do anything for the House’s sake.
The Margrave had come today to sever his son’s life.
To spare him from enduring a wretched existence any longer.
To grant him rest.
To offer mercy.
He had walked here himself to do so.

The sudden haircut was the same.
It was a father’s wish that his son leave this world looking clean and proper.
And it also meant that the Margrave himself did not have long left to live.
Sensing his own death, he could not close his eyes without first tending to his son.

Isaac could sense it all.
His father’s heart.
His father’s failing body, so near to death.
The state of their household.
But Isaac shook his head.

“…That is your will?”

“Yes.”

“I understand.”

The Margrave murmured slowly.
He did not ask for reasons, nor did he try to persuade him.
He simply continued snipping away at the thin white hair.

“Today will be the last day I see you.”

The Margrave brushed the white hairs from Isaac’s shoulders.
Then he pressed his lips to his son’s forehead.

“Fulfill what you desire.”

“.............”

Isaac could not speak a single word.
For all the books he had read,
not one word came to his lips.

“I hope this will help you.”

The Margrave pulled from his bundle a book that looked as though it might crumble at the touch.

“What is this?”

“It belongs to a generation older than mine. The records of our forebears. You’ll need it more than Jonas will.”

The Margrave clasped Isaac’s hand — the one holding the book.

“I’ll go on ahead and wait. When you come to me, leave all your regrets behind.”

Isaac could only stare blankly at his father.

The Margrave never once looked back as he stepped outside; the sound of Valerich scraping across the floor lingered in the air. His figure staggered as he walked, one leg dragging behind the other as if it could barely follow the first.

Each step pressed against Isaac’s heart with a weight that was almost suffocating.

Isaac stood still, listening to the vanishing echo of his father’s footsteps.

Several years passed.
And a letter arrived for Isaac.

It was from his mother.
She wrote that his father had passed away peacefully.
And that she, while subjugating the monsters of the White Serpent Mountain Range, had contracted a terrible endemic disease.
The priests and physicians had tried everything, but there was no hope.

The letter ended with these words:

[May your long night someday come to an end.
May you find peace.]

Isaac missed his mother.
So much so that it hurt.
A longing so deep it carved at his bones.

More years passed.
Isaac was now over fifty.

The ancestral records his father had given him had proven invaluable.

In all of recorded history, there was only one other person known to have had a constitution like his.

His great-great-grandfather — Zeke von Goethe.

He had suffered from a condition known as Mana Rampage, and had once incinerated the royal capital entirely. It had been so catastrophic that the King had humbled himself before the Emperor of the Empire, begging for aid.

According to several leading scholars, Zeke von Goethe had reached the realm of the transcendent — the fabled 10th Class; the records said Zeke had scoured the continent for rare artifacts, acquiring and wearing them constantly.

From that, Isaac gleaned a clue.

If a narrow channel is forced to carry far more water than it can handle,
the current won’t just speed up — it will eventually overflow.
So then, the solution must be one of two:
Either widen the channel,
or divide the flow into dozens of smaller channels to spread the burden.

The countless relics Zeke von Goethe had adorned himself with, no doubt, they served exactly that purpose.
But more than a century had passed since those days.
Finding each of those ancient relics was no longer realistic.

So then — he would have to make them.

Fortunately, the endless wars of recent years had driven magitech into a rapid state of advancement.
And while he had used Jonas’s name, it was Isaac who had done the work —
and was now acknowledged as one of the foremost authorities in the field.
All he needed now was time.

As Isaac neared the age of sixty,
he finally filled over thirty sheets of fibrous parchment with complex formulas.
And from that painstaking accumulation,
he gave form to a single sigil.

All the knowledge and logical frameworks in his mind sparked and aligned —
an equation and a symbol, synthesized as one.

A shudder passed through his entire body.

All that remained was to bring the abstract theory into the realm of reality.
Through mana stones and instruments, he needed to craft runestones capable of suppressing mana explosions and prove the theory’s precision through relentless experimentation.

And so, more years slipped by.

Yesterday, the bread that came through the delivery slot was moldy.

No new clothes arrived. No clean towels either.

Something had undoubtedly gone wrong with the family.

Fortunately, the materials needed for his research were still being supplied, at least for now.

Time moved on, indifferent.

Isaac was approaching the age his decrepit body had long reflected.
Aged and worn down, his body no longer obeyed him as it once had. It cried out in protest every day, as though it had reached its limits years ago.

Though his precision in inscribing rune symbols onto mana stones had improved, his hands trembled too much, mistakes were frequent. Success seemed within reach, yet always just out of grasp.

And the old man burned with frustration.

Isaac was now nearing seventy.
If the tally marks on his wall had not misled him,
then by now he must have been seventy-one.

“Brother, it’s me. Jonas.”

Jonas spoke to him.
At first, Isaac thought it was a hallucination.
But the voice continued from outside the door.

“Brother? It’s Jonas. Are you asleep?”

It was real.

Isaac felt fear stir in him.

He was the one who had taken his younger brother’s right hand when they were boys.

Was Jonas here now to finally voice the resentment he had held all these years?
Or was this simply a new kind of nightmare?

“Brother.”

“…Jonas.”

Jonas knocked on the door for a long while.
The knocks were gentle, yet weak, as though drained of strength.

Softly, Isaac responded.

“What brings you here?”

His voice trembled faintly.

“May I come in?”

Isaac glanced into the old mirror their father had left behind.
What stared back at him was the face of a corpse.
It was a wonder he was still alive at all.
Some things, perhaps, did not need to be faced.

“Speak from there.”

He heard the sound of Jonas leaning against the door.

Isaac did the same, resting his back against the door from the inside.

He wanted to hear his brother’s voice just a little closer.

But the silence between them stretched long.

Brothers, it seemed, found it hard to speak.

“How have you been?”

“It’s a long story, to be honest.”

Jonas exhaled, a sigh that sounded more like a groan.

“Do you know what day it is? It’s Father’s death anniversary. I can’t even remember which one anymore.”

“How… did he die?”

“That, too, is a long story. Do you want to hear it?”

“If you’re willing.”

“Hah…”

Jonas took a deep breath.
It was the kind of breath that carried years of exhaustion.
And as he said, it was indeed a long tale.

It began over thirty years ago.
The succession war between the First and Second Princes.
The Second Prince’s betrayal.
The Empire’s invasion.
The massacre that erupted during the coronation.
The fall of the kingdom.
The Old Faith of the Empire, declaring witch hunts.
The Goethe estate becoming a refuge for mages, clergy of the New Faith, royalists, defeated rebels, and wandering refugees.
With support from neighboring countries and the New Faith, Goethe declared itself a city-state.
The ruined lands of the former kingdom became a grotesque battlefield.
Large and small wars followed.
Corpses.
Plagues.
Forests disappearing…

“A great deal… has happened.”

The decades-long history Jonas had condensed into words—

Isaac found himself speechless.
He had been utterly ignorant of the world’s affairs.

“Let’s put aside the dreary stories for now. Did you know? A good number of the meals you ate were made by Mother herself.”

Suddenly, Jonas brightened his tone and shifted the subject.

“Mother… cooked? I can’t picture that.”

“She did. The beginning was awful, but she got better over time.
You’d know if you tasted it. Her beef stew, in particular, was excellent.”

Jonas began recounting all that had transpired within the family during the fifty years Isaac had been absent—
leaving out the larger tragedies,
and instead sharing the human moments.
The things that smelled of life.

Jonas’s political marriage.
The commoner woman he had once harbored feelings for.
The children they had.
The ones who died,
and the grandchildren born of those who survived.
The ridiculous blunders made by Schiller’s successor as head steward.
Schiller’s death.
The many people who had come to Goethe once it became a city-state.
The humiliations and journeys Jonas had endured to secure the support of neighboring nations…

Decades of stories unfolded over the course of mere hours, flowing smoothly like water.
More fascinating than any book Isaac had ever devoured. More enjoyable. Even after his mouth had gone dry and hunger had drained his energy, Jonas kept speaking without pause.

“I must admit, you’ve got a knack for storytelling.”

What meaning did praise have at his age

Isaac didn’t know.

Still, he wanted to say something.

Something kind, no matter how small.

“Haha, me?”

“You’ve got a silver tongue.”

“If I’d known this earlier, I might’ve lived as a wandering poet before becoming heir. Though it’d be hard to do with just one hand.”

“…I’m sorry.”

“You know… Father, Mother, and I, we all hated you a great deal.”

“..............”

It felt like a spike driving into Isaac’s heart.
That he could still feel this kind of pain surprised him.
A bitter smile tugged at his lips.

“And… we missed you dearly.”

“.............?”

Was it an illusion?
He doubted his ears.

“We loved you. Very, very much.”

“..............”

In that instant, Isaac went blank.
It was as if someone had struck the back of his head.

“Brother?”

“…I’m listening.”

“Haha… Now that I’ve said it all, I feel like a weight’s been lifted.”

“I’m glad to hear that.”

“Really, are you not going to open the door?
The brother I remember is still the one from our youth, handsome, and as kind as he was noble.”

“My memory’s… a bit different.”

“Do you remember the wooden doll you carved for me? I still have it.
Most of our belongings burned, but that one survived.”

“..............”

“What a shame. Ah, I wanted to see your face just once before the end."

"The end?"

“While the war was raging… the gate opened.”

Jonas's voice grew quieter and slower.

“Gate?”

“Monsters… from another world I’ve never seen before… atrocities committed by the radicals of the New Faith… khh-cough… cough…”

Suddenly Jonas doubled over, coughing violently.

“Jonas! Are you all right?! What’s wrong?!”

“Goethe is… no more… at least you… brother… live out… your remaining years… in peace… ah… if only… I’d come… sooner…”

“Jonas? Jonas—!!!”

The floor was damp and cold.
Only then did Isaac notice the blood seeping under the door.
It must have been flowing for quite some time; it had already cooled, drying dark and crusted.

Creaaaaak—!!!

The door was unlocked.

The body that had been leaning against it toppled onto the cold floor.

An old man, so like their father in his final years, lay with a knife embedded in his abdomen.
He must have left it there to staunch the bleeding.

“You managed… to tell me so much in the time you had…”

Was it because he wasn’t ready to leave the world?
Because there were still things left unsaid?
Jonas’s eyes stared at the empty air, unable to close.

“Rest now. My brother.”

Isaac gently closed Jonas’s eyes.
He sat there, blank and motionless for a long time.
The last person left for him to atone to was gone.

“…Come on. We can’t just lie here forever.”

Isaac splashed his face with a handful of cold water, then lifted Jonas’s body, carrying it one step at a time up the stairs.
He was over seventy now, his muscles shriveled and too weak even to bear his own weight.
Yet even in that state, Jonas’s body felt light, alarmingly light, in his arms.

“How long have you been starving, little brother…”

Jonas gave no reply.
And Isaac’s eyes burned red.

Step—!!!

Step—!!!

The sound of footsteps echoed.

“Is it winter…?”

The higher he climbed, the colder the air grew.

“............”

The ground floor.

After more than half a century, earth beneath his feet at last.

But Isaac couldn't indulge in sentiment.

Bodies littered the ground to greet him and Jonas.

Grotesque monsters he'd never heard of before.

 Corpses, none of them whole, strewn about like broken dolls.

By the markings on their shields, armor, and robes, he recognized who they had been—

Goethe’s mages and knights, Imperial soldiers, the men of the Second Prince.

The interior of the mansion was littered with broken furniture, as if untended for ages. Not a single windowpane remained whole, and the Great Hall that once boasted such grandeur had collapsed, leaving no trace behind.

“Do you remember, Jonas? How beautiful the stained glass was when the sunlight streamed through…”

His rasping voice echoed.

“It’s snowing.”

A ruin without even a ceiling.
Upon that desolation, great soft flakes of snow descended silently.
Each breath came out in a plume of mist.
The cold bit down into his bones.

“Hff… hff…”

Isaac tried to dig into the frozen earth with his bare, cracked hands, but it was impossible.
That winter had been colder than any of the seventy-one winters he had endured before.
The old man survived until spring by scraping up even the moldy crumbs of bread.

And so came the seventy-second year.
Spring arrived, the ground thawed.
Isaac was finally able to bury Jonas in the family grave.
And now, at last, he could rest.

Fwoosh—!!!

A very small flame flickered.
So frail it seemed it might vanish at once,
a dim ember blossomed in the old man’s hands.

“Do you see, Jonas? At last… at last, I’ve reached it.”

The old man groped at the earth; The spot where his brother lay buried.

“Now… I can rest too, can’t I? Now… now… even I… now…”

His voice began to break, trembling.

“Can I… be forgiven, even a little?”

Plip—!!!

Plip-plip—!!!

Spring rain began to fall.
The drops struck the old man’s back, now nothing but skin and bone.
It felt like someone’s gentle patting.
As if saying: you’ve suffered, you’ve done well.
A hand soothing him.

Clang—!!!

The runestone, the one that had allowed him to overcome his strange constitution, fulfilled its purpose and shattered.
The weak ember still flickered at his fingertips.
The old man smiled faintly.
At last.
He could sever himself from life without regret.
A quiet joy welled up in his face.

Hhhhhh—!!!

But the joy did not last.
The old man’s smile was washed away by the downpour.
The flame he had kindled quickly guttered out.
The frozen corpses around him thawed and began to rot.
Flies swarmed.
Crows cried from all sides, their voices echoing as they sought shelter from the rain.

There would be no one to bury the old man beside his family when he died.

No one.

He was alone.

He would die alone.

Beasts and monsters drawn by the stench of corpses would come; they would tear this place apart. And he, too, like the bodies strewn about, would rot and become their food.

“Ah.”

The dimming light in the old man’s eyes turned to the empty air.
A butterfly fluttered, searching for a place to escape the spring shower.
Its wings beat weakly.
As though exhausted, it landed on the pommel of Valerich, the famed blade thrust into the grave.
Its wings grew wet.

Suddenly.
Like a bolt of lightning.
Reality struck the old man.
Goethe no longer existed in this world.
His family no longer existed in this world.
Nothing existed.
He was alone.
He would die alone.

“How fleeting.”

The old man thought.
If only, if only he had hurried a little more.
If only he had given less of himself to despair.
Would this land of blood and ash look any different now?

He shook his head.
It was far too late.

The shower passed quickly.
Upon the ashen landscape, golden light poured down.
Spring sunlight.

The old man grew drowsy.
He dreamed.

“Did you have a bad dream?”

In the dream, Hans looked at him with a worried expression.
One of his legs was splinted, and he leaned on a crutch.

It was the past.
A very distant past.
One he had longed for.
A certain day…
… now lost to time.

END σϝ CHAPTER