**Chapter 12**
—
Stories of Dale spread from one gossiping tongue to another, swelling and swelling like a balloon about to burst, until they raced across the entire Empire.
The eldest son of House Saxen, who stood before an army of thousands of orcs to save a single knight.
For the man himself, it was an unbearably embarrassing tale of valor—but throughout the northern duchy, it stirred a new wind of spirit.
—
—
From the break of dawn, Dale trained in swordsmanship with the knights of the ducal household.
“You’ve arrived, Young Lord Dale!”
“Welcome, my lord!”
“We humbly greet the young master of House Saxen!”
The knights, catching sight of Dale emerging into the chill dawn air, all dropped to one knee in unison.
*Shing!*
Their blades were driven upright into the earth as they saluted.
Though Dale, led by Sir Helmut, usually trained shoulder to shoulder with his vassal knights without ceremony, the trust he shared with them already surpassed that which normally separated a noble heir and his retainers.
But after that day’s events, the respect directed toward him was beyond all comparison.
It was not merely because of his talent, nor simply because he was heir to the ducal house.
He was the duke’s son who had willingly spurred his horse toward the enemy to save a single knight.
That did not mean they denied the Duke of Saxen’s ruthless judgment in letting a knight die. On the contrary—the Black Duke was famed for his care toward his men, and the knights knew better than anyone the realities of noble duty.
In this world, noble rank bore a meaning far heavier than Dale—who had come from another world—could yet imagine.
And that was precisely why his actions shone all the more.
*“Our House of Saxen never abandons the sword that serves us loyally.”*
Even if the story had grown inflated beyond all reason by the gossipers’ tongues, the awe felt by those who had *witnessed* it with their own eyes could not be matched by words.
“Ah, everyone, come on. You’re embarrassing me.”
Dale could only scratch his head awkwardly.
“Hold your head high, my lord!”
Sir Helmut roared with laughter, delighted by the young man’s bashfulness. Then, in an instant, his laughter vanished, replaced by the fierce presence of a lion gripping his sword once more.
“Well then! What are you all standing around for?”
He raised his voice like a commander at war.
“For the sake of our future lord, let us hone our blades even sharper!”
“We obey your command!”
The knights beat their breastplates and lifted their swords toward the rising sun. As if to prove that Dale’s compassion had not dulled their edge—just as the Duke had feared—it had instead steeled them with fiercer resolve.
The fiery spirit of the men burned against the cold dawn air.
*‘They’re really fired up this morning…’*
Dale could only sigh inwardly, unsure how to respond.
—
—
Under Sir Helmut, one of the Seven Swords of the Continent, Dale honed his combat senses through live sparring. He trained tirelessly to master the artifact *Shadow Cloak*; studied water magic under Sephia; and even learned dark-element magic from the Black Duke himself.
He was now on the verge of completing his second mana circle—his progress was nothing short of astonishing.
Swordsmanship and magic aside, there were countless other things to learn as heir to the ducal house.
Dale’s daily schedule was grueling enough to be called the curriculum of kingship itself.
At least—on every day except this one.
“Young Lord, it’s almost time to meet our guests.”
After finishing his early training with the knights, a young maid named *Eve* came to fetch him.
“His Grace asks that you come to the Great Hall with Sir Helmut.”
“Ah, right. Thank you.”
“So, it’s that time already.”
Sir Helmut, too, sheathed his blade and ended practice.
Today, a very special guest was visiting the Saxen Duchy.
A fallen noblewoman from the Teutonia Knightly Kingdom—the young widow of the late *Sir Badel*, the Divine Sword—and her nine-year-old daughter.
—
—
The name *Badel Orhart*, the knight who fell to the Hero, was known far and wide.
The Divine Sword.
One of the Continent’s Seven Swords, and the one hailed as *the greatest* among them. The last loyal knight of Teutonia, slain by the Hero from another world.
After the fall of the Teutonia Knightly Realm and its annexation into the Empire, the once-proud martial house of Orhart had descended into ruin.
By contrast, the Saxen Dukes remained one of the Empire’s mightiest houses—an ancient lineage of sorcerers devoted to the black arts.
It was only Sir Helmut, himself one of the Seven Swords, who had tied a thread between those two seemingly disparate houses.
“I must thank you again for granting such an unreasonable request.”
“You said she was the widow of your benefactor—the one who guided you onto the path of the sword.”
The Duke of Saxen nodded slowly to Helmut, who bowed deeply.
“And Lady Orhart sent you a letter, asking for help?”
Seated beside her husband on the left throne, Duchess *Elena* asked gently, holding baby *Lize*, peacefully asleep in her arms.
“That is correct, Your Grace,” Helmut replied, bowing once more. “Even if it happened long ago, one cannot ignore the plight of those who once lent us their aid.”
Elena smiled softly. “That’s very like you, Sir Helmut.”
But for Dale, listening to their exchange, emotions tangled darkly within.
*‘To think we’d cross paths again like this…’*
The Divine Sword, Sir Badel, no longer existed in this world.
It was Dale—no one else—who had slit the man’s throat in his past life, when he’d been the Empire’s Hound.
And the fate of House Orhart, stripped of its pillar and swallowed by the Empire, could easily be imagined.
That they had managed to survive nine long years before reaching out for help was, in itself, astonishing.
“The guests from House Orhart have arrived.”
At that moment, the ducal butler entered the Great Hall.
“See that they are received with due courtesy.”
“At once, Your Grace.”
The butler bowed and withdrew—then soon returned, leading in two figures.
A woman clad head to toe in black, her face veiled in mourning silk. Beside her, a golden-haired girl, about Dale’s age, followed silently.
Both mother and daughter wore rapiers at their waists—an image that instantly caught Dale’s attention.
*‘Even as fallen nobles, to come all the way here without attendants…’*
No doubt that was why they bore arms—no escort, no servants, only themselves.
“Vanessa Orhart humbly greets the Duke of Saxen.”
“Welcome,” the Duke replied evenly.
But beside her, the blonde girl’s voice rang out sharp and defiant.
“Mother! Why do you bow your head to *these* people?!”
“Sha—Charlotte!”
Vanessa gasped, her face paling. The girl’s shrill voice startled baby Lize awake in Elena’s arms, and the infant began to cry.
“You must have had a rough journey,” the Duke said calmly, unperturbed.
“Elena, take Lize to her room—she’s frightened.”
“Yes, dear.”
“And Dale.”
“Yes, Father.”
“Show Lady Charlotte around the manor. Perhaps a change of scenery will ease the tension.”
The Duke’s intent was clear—to diffuse the situation before it grew any worse. Elena and Dale quickly rose from their seats.
Even the young Charlotte was included in that dismissal.
“It is the duty of a noble to escort a lady, after all.”
“I understand.”
*‘This is about to get complicated…’* Dale thought.
But Charlotte only glared, shaking her head firmly.
“As if I’d obey the words of some Imperial noble!”
“Charlotte!”
Vanessa’s face hardened, her daughter’s rebellion cutting deep. Only then did tears begin to well in the girl’s jade-colored eyes.
She bit her lip, trembling, trying to hold them back—but the sob escaped all the same.
*‘No matter how bold she acts, she’s still just a frightened child…’* Dale thought.
A girl who’d never met her father, born into ruin, forced to bear the weight of a fallen house.
He remembered that day—the night snow and sleet drifted through the dark as her father fell. Her mother had been pregnant then, just as Dale’s mother had once been.
A nameless guilt clenched around his heart.
“…Lady Charlotte.”
Unable to bear the silence any longer, Dale rose.
“This way, please.”
And so he led her from the hall.
—
—
The cold outside struck like needles against the skin.
“…That hurts,” she muttered suddenly.
Only then did Dale realize he’d been gripping her wrist too tightly.
Pale against the winter night, her small wrist looked fragile enough to snap.
And in that moment, he remembered—this was the daughter of the man he had slain.
A wrist that did not resist. A hand that had never known violence.
“…Dale of Saxen.”
He released her quickly. Charlotte lifted her chin, her golden hair gleaming in the dim light.
“They say you’re a genius—one the Empire holds second to none in sword or magic.”
Then, she repeated the rumor whispered across noble circles—the same tale that had spread of Dale’s “heroic” stand.
“They say you faced hundreds of orcs alone to save your knight.”
“…That’s been exaggerated.”
“But you’re still stronger than most knights, aren’t you?”
She pressed on, as though daring him to admit it.
“Otherwise, how could you have saved anyone from hundreds of orcs?”
“Well, it wasn’t *hundreds*, exactly—”
But before Dale could correct her—
*Shing.*
Charlotte’s hand lifted to the hilt of her rapier.
“Fight me.”
Her words cut through the cold air.
“May I ask… why?”
Dale’s voice was calm. Charlotte bit her lip again, saying nothing for a moment.
“…Because I’ll prove that my sword surpasses the Duke’s so-called genius.”
Finally, she whispered.
“Because I am the daughter of the Divine Sword.”
Her voice trembled faintly.
“I’ll prove to my mother that I can protect House Orhart—from *that man*.”
“That man?” Dale asked.
Charlotte nodded.
“Count Brandenburg, the Holy Sword.”
“…!”
The name struck him like lightning.
The man who had once plunged a sacred blade into his back—the betrayer who had executed him like a disposable pawn.
A name Dale could never forget.
—
—
“He… tried to violate my daughter.”
Vanessa Orhart’s quiet voice shattered the tense silence that had fallen over the hall.
“He only stopped when I begged him—when I told him her first bleeding hadn’t even come yet.”
Sir Helmut’s expression twisted in rage, but the Duke remained composed, listening with grim patience.
“He said my daughter bore the blood of the Divine Sword, and that he would… plant his seed in her, to—”
“…You need say no more,” the Duke cut in quietly, frowning at last.
The desire for “noble blood” was something all houses understood, but this—this was depravity.
To defile a nine-year-old child in order to claim her inherited power—such an act was not human. It was bestial.
And yet, the bloodline of the Divine Sword carried such weight that even beasts were willing to abandon all shame for it.
“But with our homeland fallen, there is no one left to turn to,” Vanessa said, voice quivering. “No one else who would help us.”
“You’ve endured much,” the Duke replied softly, bowing his head.
“I beg forgiveness for my daughter’s rudeness.”
“It’s understandable,” the Duke said. “After what she’s suffered, her behavior is no fault of hers.”
Then Vanessa, trembling, gathered the last of her courage.
“I will not ask for much, Your Grace.”
Her eyes glistened with desperation.
“Please—do not let that man, Count Brandenburg, lay his filthy hands upon my child…”
And then, with a trembling voice heavy with a mother’s love and despair—
“Please… take my daughter into House Saxen. As your handmaiden.”
