**Chapter 11**
—
After hurling the *Ice Bolt*, Dale urged his horse down the ridge without hesitation.
“L-Lord Dale!”
Sir Helmut, startled, tried to rein in his horse, but the Duke of Saxen raised a hand to stop him.
“We’ll observe him a bit longer.”
“Your Grace!”
Ignoring Helmut’s alarmed protest, the Duke turned his gaze toward his son’s distant figure.
At first, he had dismissed it as childish recklessness.
But that *Ice Bolt* Dale had fired—
It was more than just an attack. It was proof, and a message to his father: *Trust me.*
Could something with that kind of range and destructive power even still be called a “bolt”?
And those strange incantations Dale had appended to the spell—
*“Barrett M98B.” “8.58x70mm.”*
To the Duke, who had lived his entire life in this world, such sounds were beyond comprehension. Words from another world.
Thus, the only rational conclusion he could draw was—
*“Could it be… he’s already developed his own Original Formula?”*
For novice mages, adding personal phrases to their spells rarely yields any real effect.
But a high-ranking mage—one who has spent years refining his *inner world* and engraving its imagery into his psyche—can create something different.
An art of drawing out a unique image from that world:
**The Original Formula.**
*“Could a mere first-circle mage possibly possess such a complete mental construct?”*
Before even considering circles, Dale was only nine years old.
Calling him a prodigy or a genius would be an understatement.
Yet, to be precise, what Dale had invoked was not a true Original Formula.
Because in his case, those terms he muttered did not describe an imagined construct—they referred to things that truly *existed* somewhere.
Steel-clad bombers soaring across the sky to unleash their payloads.
Endless volleys of gunfire and the roar of artillery.
Weapons no one in this world could ever conceive of—yet real, tangible instruments of war from another realm.
*“Just what are you, child…”*
Unaware of that truth, the Duke could only watch.
No—he could hardly contain his anticipation, his heart beating fast to see what his son would do next.
Like any foolish father, impatient to see his child’s brilliance.
And besides, even from a distance, the Duke of Saxen was the greatest dark mage on the continent.
No matter how far apart they were, protecting Dale, should it come to that, would be effortless.
—
—
Cutting through the retreating cavalry, Dale now raced across the slope.
Ahead, he could see a stranded knight surrounded by orc swordsmen—and beyond them, a phalanx of orcs still maintaining formation.
The distance closed quickly, and Dale’s mind was calm—colder than the frost his spell conjured.
*“The formula’s too cumbersome in close range.”*
Perfect for sniping, but far too inefficient to chant with enemies right before him.
Yet the images of Earth’s weaponry were too weak to manifest without some verbal reinforcement.
He needed something more efficient—
A substitute term that could achieve at least seventy percent of the desired image.
A *lightened formula.*
Then—
Dale suddenly chuckled.
He felt foolish for agonizing over something so trivial.
“Ice Bolt.”
That was the name mages of this world used for an ice projectile spell.
Basing himself on that, Dale had simply appended the imagery of a sniper rifle into the incantation.
It was absurd. He’d never needed to overthink it from the start.
“Grrraaaah!”
The first *sniper-type Ice Bolt* he’d fired had instantly killed an orc swordsman.
The rest began to tense and reposition.
From atop his horse, Dale raised his hand again, pointing straight at them.
“Ice Bullet.”
**Bang!**
Whether or not the pen was mightier than the sword, at least a gun was stronger than any bow or crossbow.
There was little difference between an arrow and a bullet in principle—but the latter hit incomparably harder.
An ice projectile pierced an orc’s skull, tearing through the eye socket and bursting out the back of its head.
“L-Lord Dale!”
A knight, sprawled on the ground and moments from death, turned in disbelief.
“What are you doing here?! You must—”
“You don’t need to worry.”
Dale dismounted, smiling softly.
“The House of Saxen never abandons a sword that serves it faithfully.”
His words carried a weight far too heavy for a boy of nine.
“My lord…”
That knight, one of the Saxen retainers who had watched Dale’s training many times, felt a lump rise in his throat.
The world was cruel and unfair—and this boy was its living proof.
Each time he saw Dale grow stronger by the day, he couldn’t help but feel both admiration and bitterness toward fate’s imbalance.
Yet now that same boy was standing before him, facing an army of orcs for his sake.
Dale turned his gaze toward the surviving orc swordsmen.
The dawn air was crisp and still, yet his black cloak began to ripple violently as if caught in a storm.
“Grrraaah!”
The orcs charged.
From beneath Dale’s feet, shadows erupted upward like spears.
Artifact *“Shadow Cloak” — First Form: Shadow Blade.*
**Clang!**
The shadow blades parried the orcs’ swords—
And then—
*Devour them.*
The shadows slithered like living tentacles, winding around the orcs’ weapons and creeping toward their hands.
**Shraaack!**
Black serpents formed from blades of shadow coiled around their wrists, sliced through flesh, and surged up toward their torsos.
From wrist to shoulder, from shoulder to neck—
Heads flew.
Green blood sprayed into the cold morning air.
The carnage Dale unleashed was beyond all reason.
One could hardly believe this was the same boy who once trained with a wooden sword in the courtyard.
This was not the swordsmanship of a knight.
It was the killing art of an assassin—
Driven by an unshakable will to take life, no matter the means.
“Ice Bullet.”
After slaughtering the remaining orcs with his shadow cloak, Dale raised his finger once more.
**Bang!**
The last orc fell.
All around him lay the corpses of those who had hunted a single stranded knight.
Dale turned toward the distance, where the orc phalanx still held formation against the charging cavalry.
Some of the front-line orcs began tightening their grips on their spears, bracing to throw.
But none were hurled.
Instead, they simply froze—regripping their weapons in confusion and fear.
Dale immediately understood, and smiled faintly.
His part in this battle was done.
“──All cavalry units, *charge!*”
Helmut’s roar split the air behind him.
The thunder of hooves followed—
The *Black Cavalry* of House Saxen surged forward once more, their charge unstoppable.
And their morale blazed higher than ever before.
For their young lord—the Duke’s own son—had ridden into danger alone to save one of their own.
It was an act that transcended words like “noble duty.”
It was the birth of a legend.
Dale’s deed poured fuel onto the burning loyalty within their hearts.
“For House Saxen!”
“For Lord Dale!”
“Crush the orcs!”
“Charge!”
A storm of steel tore across the battlefield—
A final, decisive blow that shattered the orc lines.
—
—
The morning sun rose over the eastern ridge.
“Why did you charge into enemy lines alone?”
That was his father’s first question after the battle was over.
Yet there was no reproach in his tone—only inquiry. A test.
“You once told me, Father,” Dale replied calmly,
“That the knights of House Saxen are the ones I will one day lead.”
“…”
“And that noble birth comes with noble duty.”
He continued quietly,
“I merely fulfilled that duty as one who will lead them in the future.”
“That was reckless.”
“If it had truly been reckless,” Dale said without flinching, “it wouldn’t have been difficult for you to stop me, Father.”
A bold reply—almost insolent.
“After all, to you, wiping out that horde of orcs would’ve been nothing at all.”
“Oh?”
The Duke chuckled, amused. Dale was right, of course.
For the Black Duke, annihilating a thousand orcs would take no more than a gesture.
And yet, he hadn’t done it.
“If I had truly wished to, I could have erased them with a flick of my hand,” the Duke said.
“Then why did you watch your men die?” Dale asked in turn.
“Did you expect me to intervene whenever my soldiers were in peril?”
“I hoped you would at least save the knight who served you.”
“They do not take up their swords expecting rescue,” the Duke replied, voice cold as steel.
“Is it your idea of noble duty—to rush forth and overturn the tide every time your subordinates are endangered?”
“Yes.”
At that, the Duke laughed bitterly, forgetting for a moment he was speaking to a nine-year-old boy.
“Our domain faces threats countless beyond measure each year.”
The face he wore now was that of a great noble—hard, pragmatic, merciless.
“If I were to expend my power every time, using it to preserve peace through force alone—then what will happen next?”
He stepped closer, eyes narrowing.
“When the day comes that you inherit this duchy, will *your* strength alone protect it?”
“And after that—what purpose would there be in raising knights who swear loyalty to House Saxen?”
“…That’s—”
“When their blades grow dull, when they forget the sting of the battlefield—how will you answer for that?”
Confronted with such cold logic, Dale fell silent.
“Our knights hone their swords ceaselessly, ever sharpening themselves against the threats that face our land,” the Duke said.
“When they face an enemy they cannot withstand—then, and only then, will I intervene.”
That was the creed of a true Duke of the Empire’s highest house.
“That,” he said quietly, “is the noble duty borne by the people of House Saxen.”
“…”
It was something Dale had never considered.
Too true, too precise—it struck him to the core.
Even in his previous life, as Commander of the Imperial Expeditionary Corps, had he not done the same?
*“Then why… did I rush to save that knight?”*
The question lingered in his mind, unanswered.
Was it truly for loyalty’s sake? To inspire future devotion?
Then—
“──Even so.”
The Duke’s voice softened suddenly, his stern expression melting away.
“You followed your own conviction. You upheld the noble duty you believed in to the very end.”
Dale’s breath caught.
“When the day comes that you inherit this house and look back upon the meaning of ‘noble duty’ as the Duke of Saxen—”
That day seemed far beyond his grasp now.
“—You will come to understand whose belief was right.”
“Father…”
“Let us return to the castle.”
Everyone has their own path.
With that unspoken sentiment, the Duke turned his back.
And waiting behind him—
Were two hundred and fifty knights of House Saxen, unable to contain the fervent loyalty surging in their hearts.
Each one swore anew, ready to offer their very lives for their lord—
For **Dale of Saxen.**
