**Chapter 17**
—
—
Creak.
The man who had once fought shoulder to shoulder with the Hero, the war hero of the Empire, and the one chosen by the Holy Sword *Durandal*—
Count Brandenburg, the Holy Swordmaster—stepped into the Grand Hall of the *Saxen Ducal Castle*.
No trace of welcome awaited him.
No warmth, no courtesy, not even a hint of acknowledgment.
Silence fell like a feather—so deep and heavy it resembled the stillness of a graveyard. It was a silence so ominous, even the word *rude* failed to do it justice.
Even the knights accompanying the count swallowed hard, stifled by the frozen air.
And there he was.
At the far end of the hall, seated upon a throne that loomed like an executioner’s block—
the man draped in a pitch-black cloak that seemed to swallow all light.
“Truly, you’ve gone to great trouble to visit us, Count.”
The *Black Duke*.
One of the Empire’s Three Grand Dukes.
The master of the Black Tower of Magic.
The continent’s most feared sorcerer.
Other than the late Hero, he was one of the greatest dangers the Empire had ever contained within itself.
The Duke turned his head slightly.
Beside him stood the Empire’s most gifted prodigy—his son, *Dale von Saxen*.
And beside Dale, the daughter of the Holy Sword, now serving as a mere handmaiden to the Duke’s house.
The Holy Swordmaster bowed, unable to meet the eyes of the girl whose glare burned with barely contained hatred.
Even the most exalted knight in the Empire could not afford defiance before the authority of one of its High Dukes.
“…I pay my deepest respects to Your Grace, the Duke of Saxen.”
He bent low, driving the Holy Sword *Durandal* into the ground before him as a formal gesture of deference.
“Despite your many duties, I never imagined that a man of your renown would grace this remote land with his presence,”
the Black Duke said from his throne.
“I must apologize that we weren’t expecting you quite so soon. Forgive us if our welcome seems lacking.”
Even in the face of that sneering tone, Count Brandenburg could not reply.
He could only lower his head, doing everything within his power to remain courteous.
“What matter could possibly take precedence over the Duke’s summons?”
After a pause, the Count finally spoke.
“……”
The Duke did not answer. Instead, he raised one hand.
The eight mana rings engraved around his heart began to turn—channeling a dreadfully ominous energy.
The air trembled.
The continent’s greatest black magician invoked his spell.
A surge of perfectly refined black mana rushed through the Grand Hall.
“…!”
Sensing the danger, Count Brandenburg adjusted his grip on *Durandal’s* hilt.
*Whoooosh—!*
A black tempest erupted from beneath the Duke’s feet.
A storm of darkness—cold, violent, and deathly—raged through the hall.
The wind of death struck toward the Holy Swordmaster and his pure-white knights.
They screamed, convulsing in agony.
They didn’t even have time to resist.
Not even time to cry out.
Their mithril armor, forged and blessed by priests, corroded like metal dissolving in acid—melting away in streams.
Then, beneath the armor, their bodies began to decay, rapidly and grotesquely.
As though someone had poured an entire vat of acid upon them.
Flesh sloughed off.
Bones turned white, then crumbled into powder.
When the wind of death finally subsided, not even bone dust remained.
Only a few pitiful ashes scattered across the marble floor.
The *Knights of Saint Magdalena*, the proud order of the Holy Swordmaster, were utterly annihilated—without even a moment’s resistance.
Only one man survived: Count Brandenburg, protected by the Holy Sword *Durandal*’s divine blessing.
Yet even the golden barrier flickering around him seemed moments away from shattering.
It was the high black magic—**Tempest of Nihil**.
An incantationless, instantaneous cast.
“D-Duke of Saxen…!”
The Count’s face twisted in horror as he raised his sword, but the Black Duke merely looked down from his throne, unmoving, impassive.
“Kneel.”
After a long silence, the Duke finally spoke.
His voice was devoid of emotion.
*Kneel.*
At that command, the Holy Swordmaster’s face distorted with humiliation.
“Do you even realize what you’re—”
“Did you not hear me?”
“…!”
The Duke’s gaze sharpened.
“I told you to kneel, Count.”
“……”
The silence pressed down on him.
The greatest black magician of the continent gazed down upon him, calm as death itself.
Even the Hero of War—the Emperor’s most *loyal sword*—could not defy that oppressive will.
He knew.
Even if he fought with all his might, he could not win.
And this was *the Duke’s domain*.
A magician’s territory was not merely land—it was a fortress of power, bound to the caster’s very essence.
And above all, the Duke had the justification.
Coldly assessing the situation, the Count slowly sank to one knee.
It was an undeniable act of submission.
“As you know,” the Duke said quietly, “I summoned you here for the sake of peace.”
He continued, voice utterly calm.
“And so, with utmost sincerity, I must ask you…”
His words fell like ice.
“If you dare lay a hand on the children of Saxen again—”
The *children of Saxen.*
That phrase did not refer solely to those of his bloodline.
“I swear upon my name, I will annihilate every last one of the Brandenburg family.”
There are few phrases in the world that carry such weight as the promise *I will kill you*.
But when the Black Duke swore it in his own name, it was no mere threat.
It was certainty.
And even the Holy Swordmaster could not suppress a shiver.
“Well then…”
The Duke turned his head slightly.
“You must be weary from your long journey. My servants will see to your comfort.”
“…Your Grace’s generosity humbles me.”
The Count bowed again, expression stone-cold.
“However, given the circumstances, I fear I cannot remain in the Duchy any longer.”
“I see.”
The Duke nodded, unsurprised.
“What a pity,” he said at last.
The words sounded almost amused.
“I wish you a safe journey home.”
The Count’s hand trembled upon *Durandal’s* hilt.
Rage flared—an overwhelming urge to strike, to tear the air apart.
But stronger than rage… was fear.
He remembered.
The darkness this man had unleashed during the War of Unification.
He knew the *true* face of the Black Duke.
“…Once again, I thank Your Grace for your boundless courtesy.”
Count Brandenburg bit his lip hard enough to draw blood and bowed deeply once more.
That was the end of their conversation.
—
—
That man’s face—
one he could never forget, no matter how much he hated it.
When Dale saw the Holy Swordmaster for the first time, what seized his chest was not awe, but a deep-rooted hatred.
Charlotte was no different.
And before the two of them, the Duke of Saxen had shown—
as both Dale’s father and the Empire’s greatest black magician,
the authority and warning befitting the House of Saxen.
The true weight of the name *Black Duke.*
Count Brandenburg was one of the Emperor’s most loyal vassals, a leading pillar of the Emperor faction.
Even for the Duke, he was not a man to be trifled with easily.
And yet, the Duke had delivered the sternest warning possible—
in the name of the North’s ruler, the Duke of Saxen.
*‘Father’s confrontation with the Emperor’s most loyal knight… this will shake the entire Empire.’*
It began as a spark—
but a spark that would soon ignite oil and wood alike.
*‘The one to take the Holy Swordmaster’s head… will be us.’*
Dale knew that.
And it was precisely what he desired.
*‘And with my own hands, I will bring the Empire to ruin.’*
—
—
The Empire had no other name.
For it was the only surviving nation upon the continent—
and thus, it needed none.
Merely for convenience, to distinguish it from the fallen empires of old,
people called it the **Third Empire**.
—
Some time later, in the Duke’s study.
Sephia stood silently, saying nothing.
“I have already been indebted to you far more than I deserve, Lady Sephia,”
the Duke began, his tone composed.
“So please, do not feel burdened by my proposal.”
“……”
“Decide freely. Whatever you choose, I will respect it.”
At his words, Sephia recalled the recent incident that had shaken the Duchy—the Holy Swordmaster’s visit.
That day, when Dale had survived the attack by the *Thieves’ Guild* and wiped them out completely—
her relief that her precious student was alive was quickly drowned by horror.
The corpses she had seen…
gutted, puppeted by darkness.
Bodies torn and shredded, as if riddled with dozens of cannonballs.
And all of it—
the work of a nine-year-old boy.
Her own pupil.
For the first time, Sephia had doubted herself.
Had she taught him wrongly?
Had she shaped something she should not have?
It was shortly after that when the Black Duke had offered her the position of *Chief Adviser* to House Saxen.
Accepting that proposal would mean far more than a mere change in title.
It would mean stepping beyond the life of a hermit and joining the turbulent world of noble politics.
It would mean becoming a part of House Saxen itself.
“To guide Dale’s talent down the right path,” the Duke said, “I need your wisdom.”
He added quietly,
“It cannot be done by my strength alone.”
After a long silence, Sephia slowly nodded.
She envisioned the future—
the man Dale would become, and the world he would one day reshape with his own hands.
There was no more room for hesitation.
For someone who had lived nearly three centuries,
this decision carried the weight of a sacred duty.
—
—
Months later.
As word spread across the Empire—
that the Holy Swordmaster had knelt before the Black Duke,
and that the great sage Sephia had become adviser to House Saxen—
Dale had already reached the level of a second-circle master in both *Water* and *Darkness* attributes.
His duels with Charlotte were now evenly matched—half victories, half defeats.
And around that time, Dale’s tenth birthday approached.
To officially celebrate that occasion—
A letter arrived at the Duke’s mansion.
A letter announcing that **“the Emperor’s envoys”** would soon visit the Saxen Duchy.
