Chapter 34

Isaac’s attention was instantly captured by the glittering fragments—each about the size of a fingernail—shimmering with silver, white, and iridescent light. The witch blood in his veins, which could never resist anything bright and beautiful, stirred with longing. Yet, he did not reach for the jewels in a trance, held back by the human blood that constituted half his nature and the dawning realization of what lay before him.

“Pick it out.”

Isaac cast a brief glance at the prince, then returned his focus to the pile. An ominous energy radiated from the stones. It felt repulsive and wretched, a presence he loathed to even brush against. He could sense the cats above the ceiling bristling in distress, and his own nerves flared with a sharp, stinging sensation.

Isaac slowly raked his palm through the pile. The sensation was horrific; his stomach churned. He soon realized why: the witch blood within him was reacting to something vile. Something witches detested was mixed into this collection.

“…”

This is it.

Isaac knew the instant his fingertip grazed one of the stones. So that was what it was. It was a crystal of holy silver, blessed by priests for generations. This was his first time encountering one directly, but he recognized it by instinct. He had read of such things in books—sacred relics aged over a hundred years, believed to repel all manner of wicked things. He had never truly believed such a precious, divine object could exist, let alone manifest in this world. It certainly repelled the wickedness within him.

Gooseflesh rose across his skin, as if he had touched an insect. He could endure the contact only because his blood was half human. Otherwise, he would have recoiled in terror, scrambling backward.

The prince watched him wordlessly. Isaac stirred the pile once more, gingerly selecting four or five similar-looking fragments—including the repulsive one—from among the dazzling, clinking stones. When Isaac offered the pieces to the prince, the man looked down at them and asked, “Among these?”

“…I do not know.”

Isaac lowered his head, whispering the confession. He could not be wrong about the feeling, but he dared not be too precise. The prince accepted the pieces, silently rattling them in his palm as he stared at Isaac. The uncertainty of the prince’s thoughts was more frightening than a direct threat. The hand resting on the sword hilt moved with a slow, deliberate cadence. Will he cut me down, or not? Cold sweat soaked the back of Isaac’s neck.

The presences outside had arrived at the perimeter. He could hear those who had converged below the building hammering against the door. The entrance was barred for now, but they would soon breach it and surge inside.

“Which unit are you?”

The prince’s voice cut through the air. Isaac found his head lifting of its own accord, but the moment he locked eyes with those piercing blue irises, he ducked his gaze, reflexively averting his eyes. He was alive.

A wave of relief washed over him, immediately followed by the agonizing frustration of having to provide an answer he desperately wished to withhold. Yet, he had no choice. Silence was not an option.

Isaac mumbled the words as awkwardly as he could manage. “…Third Squad.”

The prince offered a curt, singular nod before turning his attention away. As if Isaac had ceased to exist, the prince scanned the room, snatched up the crossbow discarded on the floor, and tested the weight of the bow with a few fluid, practiced shakes. Without a second thought, he launched himself straight out the window.

Isaac could not even muster the breath to warn him that they were on the top floor. The prince simply caught the awning and vaulted onto the roof with effortless, predatory grace.

“…”

Who am I even worrying about? And why am I the one agonizing over this?

Isaac curled into a tight crouch where he stood.

He then pressed his face against his knees and released a long, shuddering sigh.

It felt as though he had perished and been granted a second life—a sensation he had grown far too accustomed to lately. He felt as if he had aged a century in a single heartbeat; surely, his hair would be turning white by the morning. Exhaustion is gnawing at my body and mind, yet there is no luxury of rest, he thought. From the floor below, a thunderous crash signaled that the barricade had finally buckled, followed by the heavy, rhythmic thud of men storming into the building.

Isaac forced his leaden limbs to move and retreated to the window. Outside, a crossbow bolt was embedded deep into the wall of a neighboring building, with a thick rope lashed securely to the end of the shaft. So, he intends to leave by the very route I had mapped out for myself.

“But at that distance, with a rope that thick, it is bound to snap under his weight,” Isaac muttered to himself. Yet, strangely, he felt no prickle of anxiety.

The prince glided down the rope with predictable precision. When the line inevitably snapped halfway across, he caught the trailing end and executed a flawless landing against the neighboring facade. Dropping from the second-story height without hesitation, he touched down unharmed, neutralized five or six unlucky gang members in a single flurry of steel, and vanished into the shadows of a side alley.

Cries of fury erupted as the swarm of men gave chase, but Isaac remained unbothered. He offered a silent, cynical condolence to the pursuers before rolling his shoulders to loosen the tension. While the mob had surged in that direction, other presences were closing in from the lower floors, soon to burst through his door. He needed to make his exit as well. He would seize this chaos to slip into the vacant building opposite.

My thanks, Your Highness.

Isaac glanced one final time toward the rafters, confirmed that the three cats had vanished into the ether, and crawled out the window.

The afternoon training grounds, bathed in the harsh glare of the sun, were disturbingly peaceful. Regardless of the savage bellows of men, the rhythmic collision of weapons, and the grunts of physical exertion, it was tranquil. Even with blunted steel whipping inches from his nose, it felt like an oasis of calm.

Languid as an old man dozing in the spring warmth, Isaac parried the wooden swords flying at his head, chest, and limbs. Occasionally, when the effort of dodging seemed excessive, he simply allowed the blows to strike his thigh or shoulder. How utterly serene. These are not blades capable of severing a head with a passing graze. They do not move with lethal, lightning-fast speed. Even if I take a direct hit, my life is not in jeopardy. At worst, I might suffer a bruised bone.

“Hey, what has gotten into you today?”

Olsen, who had been tilting his head in confusion while swinging his training sword, finally broke his silence.

“Hm? What about me?”

“You are sparring with the serene smile of a monk who has reached enlightenment. Did you find inner peace while you were locked up at home?”

Even as his partner regarded him with a bizarre, squinting expression, Isaac maintained a warm, indulgent smile.

“Mm… let us just say I have come to appreciate the beauty of reality when I am not fearing for my life with every waking second.”

“??? What is wrong with him?”

Olsen turned his attention to the pair sparring beside them, his expression growing increasingly unsettled. Lauder, who had been swinging his wooden sword with enough ferocity to fell a mountain, answered without turning his head.

“Leave him be. If a man crawls back from the brink of death, he is bound to gain some perspective. He had plenty of time to meditate on his life during his confinement.”

“Right, right. If I had survived being in the same room as a magician, a magical beast, and Lord Kaiyan—all of whom wanted me dead—I would be living every moment with profound gratitude as well.”

Brick, Lauder’s partner, nodded in vigorous agreement. Is that truly how it looks…? Olsen tilted his head, still doubtful, but he seemed largely convinced and let his frown dissipate.

“But did you train alone while you were confined? You do not seem rusty in the slightest.”

Brick, who had clearly been observing, called out to Isaac, who continued to weave through attacks by razor-thin margins. “Indeed, for someone who spent over a fortnight trapped indoors, you are moving with unnatural speed. You secretly snuck out to play, did you not?” Lauder added with a smirk.

“…I was far too busy trying to keep myself alive.”

Isaac answered with a momentary, gloomy flare, but he quickly smoothed his expression into a neutral mask. The past was behind him. He would not dwell on the future, either. He intended to savor this fleeting peace.

Just then, Simon, the squad leader, roared from across the yard, “Brief break!” The soldiers ceased their drills, mopping the sweat from their brows as they drifted toward the water taps or the shade of the trees. Isaac retrieved his waterskin and slumped beneath the shade of a massive oak. Predictably, several men reeking of sweat and heat crowded under the same canopy, offering little relief from the humidity.

“Anyway, I am glad. I was genuinely worried you might quit for good.”

Brick flopped down beside Isaac as he spoke.

“As if I would quit over something so trivial.”

“Plenty of people were worried, not just me. These boys here, and my brother included.”

Brick jerked his chin toward the soldiers lounging nearby. Seeing his comrades nod and murmur, “That is the truth,” Isaac let out a faint, genuine laugh. Though the hunting tournament scandal had died down, Isaac’s future remained a treacherous minefield. He had thoroughly earned the enmity of the powerful Magicians’ Guild, and neither the civil authorities nor the grand duke’s inner circle viewed him with any favor. His trajectory in the royal guard was, if not entirely ruined, destined to be a slog through a hostile environment.

“Anyway, tell us if you need help. I will assist in any way I can.”

“Yes, count me in.”

As Brick spoke, Olsen joined in. The others around them offered nods of solidarity. “You warmhearted bastards,” Isaac murmured, patting their shoulders. He delivered the words with a playful lilt, but his heart softened. They might bicker and trade barbs, but these were comrades forged in friction and shared hardship. They were genuinely welcoming him back, even if they lacked the grace to voice it sentimentally.

In truth, he had toyed with the idea of quitting, but he doubted he could find a unit like this anywhere else. Besides, after the gauntlet of horrors he had endured lately, a little professional disfavor felt manageable. And if he truly desired to distinguish himself and earn a commendation from His Majesty, remaining at the palace was likely his best—

“…”

Forget it. In any case, Roverni is finished. Isaac had resolved not to even glance in that direction again. Damn it. What kind of achievement was he supposed to pursue, then?

“Still, you know, people who see the magicians as a blight might actually look favorably upon you, Isaac. You did play your part in taking those bastards down a peg.”

It is useless when those very people refuse to unlock the treasure vault for me.

Isaac shook his head internally, though he acknowledged that Lauder’s logic held water. While the magical elite viewed him as a stain, the commoners who loathed the guild had begun offering him nods of respect despite having never met him.

The prince was hardly the only one with disdain for the mages. The Magicians’ Guild wielded such influence that few dared to speak against them openly, but the resentment simmered just beneath the surface. High-ranking magicians contracted to the throne often held their heads high, looking down their noses at nobles and generals alike, fueling the rumors and resentment that followed them everywhere.

“Come to think of it… they say the guildmaster is mixed with witch blood.”

The idle chatter of the men abruptly pierced Isaac’s distraction. He flinched reflexively, the hair on his neck prickling, and turned to look at them with a confused, “U-u-u-uh?”

“Huh? What? Who?” Isaac blinked.

Olsen, who had been leaning into the circle, answered eagerly, “The head of the Magicians’ Guild. Have you not heard the gossip? They say the guildmaster is actually of mixed descent—part magician, part witch.”