**Chapter 10**
—
“Dale!”
That night, it wasn’t particularly surprising that his mother, Elena, came to his room.
“Mother.”
Dale greeted her calmly, bowing his head without a hint of alarm.
“Is it true that you’re joining your father in the campaign to subjugate the orc horde?”
“Yes.”
No matter how brilliant Dale’s talents might be, to his mother Elena, he was still only a nine-year-old boy.
“I’ll speak to your father again.”
And a mother’s heart, it seemed, was no different in any world.
“There’s no need to worry.”
As Elena spoke, unable to hide the anxiety in her voice, Dale quietly shook his head.
“Someday, I will bear the weight of this ducal house.”
He lowered his gaze briefly, then spoke again, his voice filled with quiet resolve.
“For you, for Father, and for my little sister—Lize—I must become stronger.”
Dale was no longer the wretched, hollow avenger with nothing to lose. Now, he had people to protect—things worth defending. And that realization did not dull his blade; it honed it.
The more he remembered what he must protect, the sharper his edge became.
“Besides, Father and Sir Helmut will be with me.”
“Even so…”
“Please don’t worry too much, Mother.”
Dale gently embraced her.
“Please allow me… to be the one who protects you this time.”
At those words, Elena drew in a quiet breath—and then, with a faint smile, she exhaled.
—
—
Two hundred knights from the vassal territories granted to the Duke of Saxen.
Fifty household knights permanently stationed within the ducal castle.
A total of two hundred and fifty cavalrymen—joined by the elite ranger unit stationed in the White Mountains, the *Winter Watchers*.
Swift and precise—what the Duke had gathered for this operation was a force built for rapid strikes and mobile warfare.
That night, in the ducal conference room of Saxen Castle—
“The orc tribes have entrenched themselves along the upper reaches of the Saxen River.”
“What’s the estimated number of their forces?”
“Just under a thousand, give or take.”
At the report delivered by the ranger messenger from the *Winter Watchers*, the Duke of Saxen nodded quietly.
As always, his loyal retainers were assembled before him, with Sir Helmut Blackbear at their head.
The harsh environment beyond the White Mountains—within the Demon King’s domain—spared not even monsters. Raids and plundering incursions into the duchy were, unfortunately, a common occurrence born of hunger and desperation.
“Judging by their dwindling supplies, it’s only a matter of time before they attempt to cross the river.”
Helmut spoke as he analyzed the gathered information.
“Indeed.”
The Duke did not deny it, simply nodding in agreement.
“Shall we set an ambush and strike them as they begin their crossing?”
“No.”
At Helmut’s suggestion, the Duke shook his head.
“Before they have a chance to cross, *we* will make the first move.”
“How do you mean, Your Grace?”
“We’ll send our cavalry across the lower reaches of the river first, join forces with the rangers, and launch a surprise attack.”
The Duke’s words left Helmut briefly puzzled.
“But, Your Grace, there’s no ford downstream capable of supporting cavalry…”
“You needn’t worry about that.”
The one who interrupted Helmut’s concern was the elven magus, Sephia—the Archmage of the Blue Tower, a Sixth Circle mage.
“For this battle, we have the special assistance of Elder Sephia of the Blue Tower,” the Duke continued.
“With my magic, I will create a bridge of ice strong enough to let the entire cavalry cross the lower river.”
A sharp intake of breath rippled through the room.
A bridge of ice capable of bearing hundreds of fully armored knights and their warhorses—each weighing several hundred kilograms. Such a feat was beyond the reach of ordinary magi. But the Sixth Circle water-element elf was no ordinary mage.
“Of course, this is the extent of the assistance I can offer.”
The doctrine of the Blue Tower was harmony and nonviolence. Yet Sephia had chosen to help in a military campaign—a decision that would surely stir controversy. And there was only one reason for that.
Her gaze drifted quietly to the Duke’s side.
There sat a nine-year-old boy, listening intently to the council.
“Thank you, Teacher Sephia.”
Dale, who had been silent until then, smiled faintly as he spoke.
—
—
Before dawn broke, under the veil of darkness, the army began its march.
Despite Elena’s fears, this could hardly be called a “battle.”
The Saxen Duchy was constantly threatened by monsters—and just as constantly, they had been repelled. With the Duke himself and Sir Helmut leading the troops, what orc could possibly harm Dale?
‘Even so, I suppose a mother’s heart can’t help but worry.’
Thinking that, Dale gave a small, bittersweet smile, then turned to look ahead.
Two hundred and fifty knights stood ready—gray surcoats over black armor, each embroidered with the Saxen family crest: a black raven.
At their belts hung arming swords and stilettos crossed diagonally, heavy shields strapped to their backs like packs, and lances gripped firmly in hand.
Their warhorses were clad in dark barding, fully armored for war.
It was the pride of House Saxen—the *Black Cavalry*—assembled and awaiting orders.
“Your Grace, the men await your command to march!”
Sir Helmut Blackbear, encased in full plate, raised his voice.
“Dale.”
The Duke turned his head toward his son.
“Yes, Father.”
“This cavalry—our house’s pride—will one day be the force that you command.”
The Black Cavalry—one of the three most feared knightly forces in the Empire.
“In other words, these are *your* knights.”
Dale’s knights.
‘…My knights.’
In his previous life, such a force had been a luxury forever beyond reach.
“In my stead, you shall give the order to march.”
At those words, Dale quietly drew in a breath. Then, with solemn resolve, he nodded.
“Proud blades of House Saxen,”
his voice carried a weight and dignity far beyond his years,
“the time of departure is upon us.”
At Dale’s command, the knights raised their lances in unison.
“We obey the young lord’s command!”
“For the young lord!”
“For House Saxen!”
The swallowtail pennons fluttered from the lance tips, rippling in the cold morning wind.
—
—
A chill wind swept across the river.
As frost spread swiftly, the river’s surface froze over—solid and crystalline—stretching to the distant bank at the edge of the horizon.
‘As expected of my teacher.’
It wasn’t as simple as freezing water. The bridge had to bear the weight of hundreds of fully armored cavalrymen and their steeds—and even the friction under their hooves had been precisely adjusted so they wouldn’t slip.
An impeccable feat of scale and precision—water-elemental magic of the highest order.
Far beyond anything Dale could yet hope to imitate.
“I am ever indebted to you, Lady Sephia.”
The Duke bowed slightly, gazing down at the frozen river.
“Thank you, Teacher.”
Beside him, Dale smiled—a bright, innocent smile that belonged to a child.
‘A bright smile…’
Could such a smile belong to a boy marching into battle?
Sephia’s feelings, watching him, were painfully conflicted.
“As a magus of the Blue Tower, this is all I can do.”
With that, she lowered her head. The frozen river gleamed like glass beneath the dim pre-dawn light, and the cavalry began their crossing.
When they were gone, Sephia stood alone, whispering words she could not bring herself to say before him.
“Dale… please, come back safely.”
She knew logically that with the greatest necromancer and one of the Seven Blades guarding him, it was unthinkable for Dale to come to harm.
But reason had little to do with a teacher’s heart—it was, after all, not so different from a mother’s.
—
—
A flare of light tore through the darkened dawn sky—the signal of a night assault.
Flaming arrows rained down, their glow spreading like fireflies across the heavens.
From their concealed positions, the *Winter Watchers* loosed volley after volley, and the blazing arrows plunged into the orc encampment below.
*Fwoosh!*
“Grrraaaagh!”
Caught off guard, the orcs roared in fury—the bestial cries splitting the cold air.
“First, Second, and Third Squadrons—form wedge and charge!”
Sir Helmut’s commanding voice rang out, echoing over the plains.
Three squadrons, fifty knights each—one hundred and fifty armored riders—lowered their lances and surged forward as one.
*Couched Lances.*
The charging heavy cavalry struck like a thunderbolt into the panicked, unformed ranks of the orcs.
Each knight and mount weighed nearly eight hundred kilograms combined, and at full gallop, that mass turned their lances into instruments of absolute destruction.
It was not a *battle*—it was annihilation.
No matter how savage the orcs were, before the impact of the Black Cavalry, they were like paper before iron.
The unstoppable march of steel crushed all before it.
As the onslaught reached its peak, Helmut, observing from a ridge, shouted again.
“Signal the Fourth and Fifth Squadrons—order them to charge!”
“Yes, sir!”
A messenger raised a launcher and fired.
*Pop!*
A blue magical flare burst in the sky, scattering sparks over the battlefield.
“Charge!”
From the flank, the reserve cavalry—lying in ambush—thundered forward.
Steel storms swept in from every direction.
“Watch closely,” said the Duke, standing beside Dale atop the ridge.
“This is the power of our cavalry—the pride of House Saxen.”
Even as charge after charge crossed the field, the knights maintained perfect formation.
Their true strength was not in their personal martial skill or aura blades, but in the disciplined precision of their collective strike.
‘Incredible… utterly overwhelming.’
Dale exhaled softly, unable to hide his awe.
“It’s one-sided.”
“Don’t let your guard down yet, young master,” said Helmut gravely.
‘Of course,’ Dale thought.
For even as the orc lines were crushed beneath successive charges, bestial roars once more split the air.
The orcs still outnumbered them four to one—and they were a warrior race, born and bred for combat.
No cavalry charge, however mighty, could continue indefinitely.
As the momentum of the knights began to wane, the surviving orcs rallied.
They formed dense pike formations—tight walls of spears—and when the next charge came, its force faltered.
“The ambush was effective, but not decisive,” Helmut observed coolly.
“We’ll pull back, reform, and break their formation with staggered charges.”
Almost immediately, a signal flare arced into the sky—this time red.
The cavalry began to withdraw swiftly, turning their mounts and pulling back in perfect order.
They would regroup and strike again. The outcome, in principle, was no longer in doubt.
And then—
“Graaaagh!”
*Whssst!*
Spears—hurled with all the orcs’ strength—whistled through the air toward the retreating cavalry.
Most glanced harmlessly off heavy armor, but one or two found weak points in the horses’ barding.
*Neighhh!*
One mount screamed as a spear pierced its vitals, collapsing mid-gallop. Its rider fell with it, thrown hard to the ground.
Out of two hundred and fifty knights, only one fell.
Unlucky—but inevitable.
Several orc swordsmen began to close in on the fallen knight—who could barely move after the crash.
“Casualty—one.”
Even so, neither the Duke nor Sir Helmut showed any visible reaction. Their calm did not waver.
As if the loss of a single knight was simply… part of war.
‘A casualty…’
Dale knew well enough that this was the battlefield.
Victory without loss was a fantasy.
And yet—
“Why are we just standing here?”
His voice cut through the air, low and sharp.
“The proud blade of House Saxen lies helpless before the enemy—how can we simply watch?”
He wasn’t asking for an answer.
Before anyone could respond, Dale yanked his reins and spurred his horse forward.
There was no time for words.
And at that moment—
“Ice Bolt—『Barrett M98B』, 『8.58x70mm』.”
For most bolt-type spells—those built for speed—spoken incantations were unnecessary.
Even novice apprentices at the Tower learned *silent casting* for such spells.
But the modifiers that followed—were in a language none of this world could understand.
*Barrett M98B.*
*8.58x70mm—.338 Lapua Magnum.*
A bolt-action sniper rifle—and its ammunition—designed for long-range precision shots.
To everyone else, the words would sound like meaningless gibberish.
So when the Duke heard Dale’s strange “incantation,” he merely assumed it was childish whimsy—
the naive habit of young mages who believed spells worked by saying “whatever words felt right.”
No matter how powerful one’s imagination, a spell needed *shared* symbols—meanings bound to the culture and world—to function.
Without that, it could not become a true incantation, nor channel mana into form.
That’s how it *should* have been.
──*Bang!*
The Ice Bolt fired from Dale’s fingertips ripped through the air—and struck dead center through the skull of an orc swordsman, impossibly far away.
‘Ice Bolt? No… that’s not right.’
The Duke froze, breath catching in his throat.
For what Dale had just released—
was no longer a “bolt.”
It was the distilled essence of death itself.
