**Chapter 14**
—
The Duke of Saxen’s office.
That day, when Charlotte Orhart was officially accepted as a maid serving the House of Saxen, the Duke himself had looked at the young girl with mild curiosity. He seemed puzzled as to how such a naïve child could possess such unwavering resolve.
“What exactly happened between you and that girl that day?”
“The daughter of the Divine Sword—Charlotte Orhart,” Dale answered, inclining his head slightly before continuing.
“I thought the same thing Father must have thought.”
“Oh?”
At that, the Duke of Saxen’s lips curved into a faint, amused smile.
No matter how kind a man he might appear, the Duke of Saxen was still one of the Empire’s highest-ranking nobles. His position was not one that could be maintained by virtue or good will alone.
He was not the sort of man to make decisions merely out of pity for a loyal subordinate’s plea or for the unfortunate circumstances of another noble house.
“You speak as though you know what I’m thinking.”
“I made a promise to Lady Charlotte,” Dale replied calmly.
“A promise?”
“A promise that the House of Saxen would protect her in its name.”
The Duke’s eyes sharpened. “Did you dare invoke our name out of pity for that child’s plight?”
“It wasn’t pity,” Dale said, shaking his head.
“She is the only daughter to carry the blood of the one known as the Divine Sword.”
He continued evenly, his tone steady.
“Even if Lady Charlotte herself despises that fact to the core, her ‘worth’ is beyond measure.”
The Duke’s expression twisted faintly. The blood of the Divine Sword… and the worth that a woman’s body would hold in such a lineage. He thought of the depraved lusts of the Holy Swordsman and frowned deeply.
“That is precisely why our House must protect her—from those who would act upon such evil intent.”
But the Duke knew well—no act of protection came without price.
“And what is it, then, that we seek to gain from this?”
“A Divine Sword,” Dale replied.
When the Holy Swordsman lusted for the ‘child of the Divine Sword’ through Charlotte, Dale’s desire was far simpler.
For before him stood someone closer to the Divine Sword than any other.
The young daughter of that legendary swordsman—stretching out a trembling hand, asking for help.
“One that will one day be wielded for the sake of our House.”
The Duke’s eyes glimmered with faint delight, and a low chuckle escaped his throat.
—
—
There are a few honors a knight may aspire to in life.
First, to make one’s name known through the sword alone.
Second, to serve a lord to whom one can truly pledge loyalty.
Third, to pass on one’s will and blade to a worthy successor.
By those measures, Sir Helmut Blackbear could be called a blessed knight indeed.
One of the Continent’s Seven Great Swords—known by the epithet “Mad Sword.” A knight who had sworn his lifelong fealty to House Saxen.
And now—
**Klang!**
The Stiletto in Dale Saxen’s hand spun once before reversing its grip. The next instant, his downward strike was met by Charlotte Orhart’s rapier, deflecting the blow with a precise angle.
No sooner had she parried than Dale’s blade curved back, like a snake coiling to strike again.
But Charlotte’s rapier refused to yield, weaving through the air with relentless precision, denying every opening.
Though the two were mere children, their exchange bore none of the reckless strength typical of knights-in-training. What their duel instead revealed was the refined speed and technique of two assassins locked in deadly dance.
Each strike was fast—each blade, steeped in a razor-edged intent to kill.
*Is this truly a duel between nine-year-old children?*
The knights of House Saxen, watching from the side, were rendered speechless.
Dale’s genius they already knew well. But this girl—
*She really is the daughter of the Divine Sword.*
Sir Helmut Blackbear swallowed hard, recalling his old mentor, the man once called the Divine Sword—Sir Badel.
*So, blood truly cannot be denied.*
Charlotte Orhart.
Without formal training, she had taught herself to wield the rapier—a self-taught style, born of instinct and will alone.
After several fierce exchanges, Dale’s stiletto finally overpowered Charlotte’s rapier, bringing the match to an end.
“You did excellently, Lady Charlotte.”
Helmut smiled in satisfaction.
“Spare me the flattery, Sir Helmut,” Charlotte replied, unable to hide her frustration at defeat. Her tone was bold, but her eyes burned with pride.
“What did I lack?”
Her talent was remarkable, but Dale was in another realm entirely. His gift could no longer even be called *talent*—it was something transcendent.
Yet Helmut could already see it clearly. Unlike Dale, who walked the path of magic, Charlotte would walk solely upon the path of the sword. And she would grow quickly.
It wouldn’t be long before, in a pure contest of swordsmanship, the outcome might reverse.
“Lady Charlotte, do you know what lies at the heart of the rapier?”
“The thrust,” she answered without hesitation.
“Incorrect.” Helmut shook his head.
“The most important thing in rapier technique is the legs.”
“The legs…?”
“Yes. The step—the footwork—is the core of the rapier.”
“Lord Dale evaded your thrust and closed the distance at the same time. You must learn to control that step.”
Charlotte listened intently, her expression serious and cool.
To have reached such proficiency without proper instruction was already extraordinary. Helmut could almost see the day her swordsmanship would bloom—radiant and perfect—once given true guidance.
And it would be his task to nurture that gift.
The talent of the Divine Sword’s daughter—Charlotte Orhart—would blossom under Helmut’s hand.
To take even one of these children as an apprentice would be an honor beyond imagination for any knight.
But Helmut Blackbear was the mentor of *both*.
The loyal knight of House Saxen, the Mad Sword of the Continent—he was indeed among the most blessed of men.
—
—
The Holy City of Malbork, former capital of the Teutonia Knightly Kingdom.
Now, it served as the fortress granted to Count Brandenburg, the First Corps Commander of the Imperial Army, in recognition of his achievements in war.
“The Lady of House Orhart has taken refuge with House Saxen,” reported the envoy.
No sooner had the words left his mouth than the Holy Swordsman, Count Brandenburg, hurled the glass in his hand across the room.
“That damned wench beat me to it…!”
*Crash!*
He spat curses, then turned his head sharply. Beside him, as always, stood the holy sword *Durandal*, gleaming with its pure, radiant light.
A twisted smile spread across his face.
“Ah, my lovely Durandal…”
The very blade that had pierced the hero’s back.
“Ah, my dearest fiancée…”
Gazing adoringly at the holy sword, the Count’s cheeks flushed like those of a maiden in love.
“Just a little longer, my love.”
He whispered the words tenderly, his voice dripping with obsession.
Then, with his face still feverish, he turned again to his subordinates.
“Find the Thief Guild at once.”
His voice was cold, warped with possessive madness.
“Pay whatever it takes—gold means nothing. Gather the best and send them to the Duchy of Saxen.”
—
—
Dale calmed his breathing, focusing on the flow of mana coursing through his heart.
He waited patiently until that flow began to form a stable circular loop—then engraved the shape of the mana ring deep within himself.
This was the process of constructing the **Second Circle**.
It was almost… too easy.
“It’s done,” he said.
“What…!”
At his serene response, Sephia’s pointed ears twitched in surprise.
Ordinarily, adding even a single circle to the heart required years of effort—even at the lower levels.
Most so-called “gifted” young mages enrolled in the Tower’s academy around the age of ten, when they could finally form their *first* mana circle.
And to reach the Third Circle required another ten years at least—graduation at the age of twenty, if one was exceptionally talented.
Graduating before twenty made one a *prodigy*.
But Dale, who had begun walking the path of magic at eight, had reached the Second Circle in just one year.
A realm beyond prodigy—a true **genius**.
Dale extended his hand. The two mana circles revolving around his heart began to spin rapidly.
For ordinary mages, the standard rotation speed of a circle was around **300 rpm**—three hundred revolutions per minute. Only at that rate could one generate enough mana to qualify for constructing the next circle.
But Dale’s first circle, the one he’d awakened initially, rotated at **2,000 rpm**.
And the newly formed second circle already spun at **400 rpm**.
In other words, the moment he expanded it, he already met the threshold for the next realm.
“Let’s test it, then…”
Mana from the two circles flowed to his fingertips. Without a single word of incantation, he visualized his intent and projected a modified version of *Ice Bullet*.
He strengthened the molecular bonds of the ice to increase mass and durability, shaping an invisible large-caliber barrel to enhance spin, kinetic force, and projectile speed.
**An Armor-Piercing Bullet.**
‘Without fire magic, an explosive round is out of reach…’
**Bang!**
The enhanced Ice Bullet tore through the air—executed silently, flawlessly, without chant.
‘What?’
Even Dale was momentarily taken aback.
‘Was it always this easy to project the mechanism of an armor-piercing round?’
Far too easy. It was incomparable to when he had first learned Ice Bullet.
With just one more circle, it felt *several times* easier to manifest his inner image into reality.
──A mage’s ability to project their inner image onto the world is much like painting a picture. The object of creation must be clear, and the artist’s skill determines how well it can be rendered.
The circles are the tools of that art—the brushes and pigments needed to paint the world.
No matter how skilled the painter, one cannot paint without tools.
That is why the number of circles defines a mage’s standing.
With each new tool at his disposal, Dale’s progress was accelerating exponentially—like a perfect artist adding one new color at a time to his palette.
“You learn quickly,” Sephia said softly, smiling as she watched him.
She was still afraid of his gift, perhaps—but more than fear, she chose faith.
Whether it was the tale of his deeds before the orc horde, or the arrival of the Orhart girl at the ducal estate—
At the very least, this boy was striving to use his power for the right reasons.
That was the resolve of the elf mage, Sephia, who watched Dale Saxen closer than anyone else.
