As far as Isaac could remember, the owner of Porter's Antiquarian Bookshop was always sitting at the counter in the back of the store, quietly writing. But unusually, today the counter was empty.
The door wasn't locked, so he must not be away.
As Isaac approached the back of the store and called out "Porter," the door behind the counter opened, and the owner, Porter, poked his head out.
Porter was usually a man with ink stains on his hands or clothes, but today he was dressed more neatly, as if ready to travel. He wasn't wearing his glasses.
"Pardon me, were you about to go out?"
Porter put on the glasses he had left on the counter and put on the hat he was holding.
"I just finished the manuscript and was about to take it in for publication. I was planning to use the royalties to go on a buying trip."
"It seems I've arrived at a miraculous time, then."
Porter, who was known to be away for years at a time, would likely have been gone for a while if Isaac had arrived a day later.
At Isaac's joking remark, Porter tilted the brim of his hat slightly and gave a wry smile.
"…Miraculous, you say. Ah, a terribly clichéd turn of phrase, but you must have the power to summon miracles and fate. You are extraordinary, the protagonist of a story…whether that is a blessing or a curse, I cannot say."
He then sat down in the chair. It seemed he was willing to engage in conversation.
Somehow, Isaac felt that Porter had guessed why he had come to the shop. So he decided to get straight to the point.
"I'd like to ask you about a person named Benedict Rayne."
That was the name Monica had mentioned a week ago.
"…No matter what I choose from here on, or what future I end up in…please, remember this name. Never, ever forget it."
Isaac had never heard the name Benedict Rayne before, but he had seen it. A few months ago, when he had visited the bookshop with Monica, she had been looking for a book by that author.
Isaac had only glanced at the book, so Monica probably didn't think he had remembered the author's name.
When Monica wanted that book again, Porter mentioned that the author was a friend of his, so Isaac was a little curious and looked at the author's name.
Porter leaned his cheek on his hand at the counter and let out a sigh. His breath made the candlestick's flame flicker, and the silhouette of a man wearing a hat also wavered.
"Benedict Rayne. He was one of my few friends, a scholar. What kind of scholar, you ask? That's a difficult question to answer. Benedict had outstanding knowledge in fields like medicine, mathematics, physics, biology, and even magic… He was a rare, true genius, designing everything from coffee pots to medical instruments to magic tools."
Porter rested his chin on his interlocked fingers, looking up at Isaac.
"You said you've read my novels under the name Dustin Gunter, right?"
"I think I've read all of them."
"Then you'll understand this. Benedict Rayne was trying to create a magical artifact similar to the Black Grail."
The Black Grail was an important item that proved the legitimacy of the royal bloodline.
A bad premonition began to stir and churn in the depths of Isaac's chest.
Watching Isaac's unconscious gesture of pressing his chest, Porter fixed him with a dark gaze.
"In his later years, Benedict was researching genetics. I don't fully understand the technical details, but apparently, his magic tools could analyze blood, skin, and other samples to detect genetic diseases early on and identify blood relatives."
If such an artifact truly existed, the one most threatened would be…
The Duke of Crockford, who was protecting the false prince.
"Ultimately, Benedict died before his artifact was completed."
"Was it due to illness or something?"
"He was executed for using forbidden magic. The inquisitors conducted hardly any investigation, didn't even hear his defense, and carried out the execution by burning at the stake with unnatural haste."
"…And where was he executed?"
"In the town of Rosemaria."
Rosemaria was not in the Duke of Crockford's territory, but the local lord was one of Crockford's loyal vassals.
The conditions were alarmingly aligned with the hypothesis forming in Isaac's mind.
Porter watched Isaac's tense expression with an impassive, observant gaze, not missing even the slightest change.
"Benedict had lost his wife early on, but he had a daughter."
"He even brought one of my novels as a souvenir, but the strange girl was only interested in math books, showing no interest at all."
Ah, yes. Long ago, at the tea party, the poisoned Monica had been muttering in her delirium, "Don't burn it, don't burn it."
"…What happened to that daughter?"
"After her father's death, she was taken in by relatives. I don't know what became of her after that."
If Isaac's suspicion was correct——no, he was now almost certain of it.
Benedict Rayne, Monica's father, had been murdered by the Duke of Crockford to prevent the true identity of the Second Prince from being exposed.
For the sake of Isaac Walker's objective, Monica's father had died.
The one who had once burned the body of a dear person with his own hands was not averse to dirtying those hands for the sake of his purpose.
Just as he had threatened Emanuel's weakness, or maintained the name of Felix Ark Ridill, he could do anything.
But now, for the first time, Isaac's mind was creaking, and he felt the urge to abandon his thoughts.
Was it my fault that Monica's father died? Did Monica know that? Is that why she mentioned his name that time?
——To have a wish granted, sometimes you have to sacrifice something…
——I always thought I could do that easily. But when I realized someone's father died for my wish…I didn't know what to do.
What was Monica's wish? It was obvious——to prove her father's innocence and absolve his unjust death.
And what did she have to sacrifice for that wish?
That day, to the troubled Monica, he had said "Perhaps you can rely on me" with that thin, commonplace kindness.
What a jester I am…the cause of her father's death being "rely on me."
Before he knew it, a cold sweat was seeping into his palms, and his mouth was dry as a bone. His head throbbing.
To the silently dumbstruck Isaac, Porter declared.
"Earlier I said you are extraordinary, a major character in the story."
Porter stood up, his chair scraping loudly, casting an unusually large shadow.
"But your story will never be told. It will be buried in the darkness of history."
The youth obsessed only with leaving his master's name behind, having lost his own face and name, asked in a dry voice,
"…Is that a prophecy?" Official source ıs noveⅼfire.net
"Hardly. Just the ramblings of a novelist. Not even good enough for material in a new work."
Porter shrugged nonchalantly, in a manner unclear how serious he was being.
Watching him, Isaac convinced himself.
Ah, you're right Porter. My story is unnecessary in history.
The story that needs to be told is not Isaac Walker's.
The story that will be told in history is that of Felix Ark Ridill.
And yet, the fact that one girl had lost her father for that weighed heavily on his chest now.