**Chapter 18**
—
**2. Boyhood**
The air thrummed with the merry tune of the musicians. The castle glistened with every form of lavish decoration imaginable — silks and velvets, ornate chandeliers, and magic stones that shimmered like fairy lights in every hue of the rainbow.
The celebration held in honor of Dale’s tenth birthday was, in every sense, the height of ostentation — precisely the kind of hollow ceremony that the Duke of Saxen himself so deeply despised.
It was never for their own sake, of course.
It was for the guests who had come all the way to attend.
> “Oh! As expected of His Grace, the Duke of Saxen!”
> “My, just look at these dishes!”
They were *the Emperor’s people*. It wasn’t difficult to understand what that meant.
These were the greatest powers that made up the Empire — the central nobles of the Imperial Capital, the core of the Emperor’s faction.
> “Perhaps not quite on par with the Imperial Palace, but… to think such splendor exists in the middle of the northern wastes!”
> “Indeed!”
Each of them wrapped in costly velvet or silk, they reveled as if they themselves were the guests of honor. And they were keenly aware of it — that their presence here, “in the name of His Majesty,” was the source of their worth. Even if their host was the Duke of Saxen, it mattered little.
> “To think I worried about coming to this frozen frontier! Foolish of me!”
The central nobles of the Empire loved to compare the Duke’s political standing to the nature of his lands: vast and barren — impressive in scale, yet devoid of practical value.
He was a great noble of the Empire, yes, but also a self-imposed outcast in the far north — the strongest military power in the realm, and the master of the Black Tower, feared and loathed in equal measure.
Still, that did not change the fact that he was one of the Empire’s grand dukes. However much they scorned necromancy and black magic, they could never dismiss the military value of that darkness.
That uneasy balance — between fear and reverence — was the true nature of the Duke of Saxen’s standing within the Empire.
Seated upon his throne, the Black Duke gazed down upon the guests with cold, emotionless eyes.
The nobles laughed and drank within *his* castle as if it were a stage built for their pleasure.
Of course, few among them were worth even calling a threat. What concerned the Duke was not the nobles themselves, but the meaning behind their presence here.
It was a silent warning.
A message from the Imperial Family — that they would not overlook an insult toward the Holy Sword’s chosen knight.
──And the man who best understood that message appeared before the Duke.
> “My deepest respects to Your Grace, the Duke of Saxen.”
A red-haired man bowed with elegant precision. His gentle smile immediately drew the attention of the noblewomen nearby.
> “Welcome, Marquis Yuris.”
Standing beside his father, Dale offered a mechanical bow, his lips pressed tightly together.
Behind that soft and refined appearance, he had not forgotten the true visage of the monster within. How could he ever forget that face?
The man known as *Lord Crimson.*
The master of the Red Tower — ruler of flame and wrath, who pursued a world governed by strength.
The red mages of his Tower were the Emperor’s most loyal allies, the executioners of the Empire’s ambition. For them, the *justice of the strong* was the Empire’s very creed.
──And it was by their hands that Dale, in his previous life, had endured countless grotesque experiments and torturous transformations.
> “And this must be the young Lord Dale.”
That hated man smiled quietly at him.
> “The prodigy of House Saxen… I hear you possess magical talent unmatched in all the Empire.”
For an instant, Marquis Yuris’ eyes gleamed like those of a serpent studying its prey.
> “Rumor has it that you single-handedly slew a horde of orcs to save your family’s knight?”
He spread his arms theatrically, like an actor taking the stage.
> “At only nine years old, to achieve such a feat!”
> “Stories of heroism tend to grow in the telling,” the Duke replied evenly, cutting him off with practiced modesty. He understood all too well the danger inherent in Dale’s talent.
> “As expected of Your Grace’s son.”
> “He is indeed a child overly blessed, even for me.”
Again, the Marquis’ gaze drifted to Dale — sharp and appraising, as though weighing both his potential and the threat he represented.
Magic, after all, was the manifestation of one’s inner self. And the man before him — *Lord Crimson* — stood at the pinnacle of flame.
Perceiving the burning hatred within a child’s heart would have been trivial for one such as he.
Yet no such flame burned.
Only a cold, frigid chill spread slowly within Dale’s chest.
> “Dale of Saxen, greets the Marquis Yuris.”
Within that numbing frost, Dale smiled innocently — the very picture of a naïve ten-year-old boy.
—
—
Even late into the night, the fireworks of the festival showed no sign of dying down.
Leaving behind the swelling festivities of his birthday, Dale quietly slipped out of the grand hall — away from his father, his mother, and the maids who attended to the noble guests.
──The Red Tower master, *Lord Crimson,* had personally come to Saxen with the nobles of the Capital in tow.
Dale understood, perhaps even more clearly than his father, the meaning behind that gesture.
The Empire’s unification had not brought peace.
The Emperor’s faction, the noble faction, and the remnants of fallen nations — rebels declaring separation from the Empire — continued their struggle in the shadows.
In that chaos, the Duke’s warning toward the Holy Sword’s champion must have caused no small stir.
> ‘Should I just take up my sword alone, then?’
Walking through the marble corridor, Dale thought. He would have called for Charlotte to spar with, but officially, she was now serving as Lady Elena’s attendant. If it were discovered that *the daughter of the Holy Sword’s bearer* was secretly training in swordsmanship, the consequences would be dire.
Once again, he realized how privileged and protected his life had been.
Then—
> “Kyaaaah!”
A sharp, youthful scream echoed not far away.
> “Stay still, you damned servant!”
It wasn’t hard to piece together what was happening from the voices alone — some dark corner outside the great hall, where such things often occurred.
> “P-please, I beg you! I serve House Saxen—”
> “And what right does a filthy servant have to utter that name?”
The difference between a noble-born *maid* and a lowly *servant girl* was absolute.
> “Ha! Everyone’s too busy celebrating to care!”
Among most nobles, the way they treated their servants hardly required explanation.
> “Better to spend the time bedding a wench than wasting it on pleasantries!”
Such behavior was hardly rare within the Empire — even if it was unimaginable within House Saxen.
In this world, birth defined worth. Those of lower station could never oppose a noble.
> “Resist again, and I’ll slit your throat!”
*Shing!*
The chilling rasp of a blade being drawn — a stiletto.
> “Ah…”
Following the trembling voice, Dale moved without hesitation, rounding the end of the corridor toward the shrubs outside the castle wall.
> “What are you doing?”
> “L-Lord Dale…!”
The girl struggling against the wall cried out at his voice.
Seventeen-year-old *Eve* — the same maid who so often tended to Dale’s daily needs.
> “Y-you’re… Lord Dale!”
The fat noble who had been forcing himself on her turned, startled. His velvet coat strained against his enormous frame, his half-unbuttoned trousers presenting a sight so revolting that bile rose in Dale’s throat.
Not even pearls deserved to hang from such a swine’s neck.
> “What exactly were you doing here?”
Dale’s calm question made the man flinch.
> “Th-that is—”
But then, he forced a slimy grin.
> “My lord, have you ever lain with a woman before?”
With that obscene smile, he continued:
> “Surely you’ve never tasted the body of a ripe maiden, have you?”
He pressed the tip of his stiletto down between Eve’s breasts.
> “Allow me, Petro, to teach you pleasures beyond imagination!”
He must have thought Dale nothing more than a ten-year-old child — easy to manipulate or amuse.
Pathetic. Disgusting.
> “…”
Dale’s lips tightened. The nausea burned in his throat.
> “L-Lord Dale…”
Eve’s face had gone completely white.
> “Don’t worry.”
Dale smiled softly.
> “Send her this way.”
His tone left no room for refusal.
> “Did you not hear me, Lord Petro?”
The noble hesitated, then shoved Eve toward him.
The moment she was clear, Dale raised his hand — a current of freezing mana burst forth, crackling in the air.
Petro’s face drained of color.
> ‘My actions…!’
*BANG!*
The ice bullet grazed Petro’s cheek, slamming into the stone wall.
> “Hiiiiek!”
The fat noble collapsed backward with a thud, trembling violently as the stiletto clattered from his hand.
> ‘I must think of what this means for House Saxen.’
He couldn’t simply withdraw — yet striking down one of the Emperor’s men outright was also not an option.
> “Kneel.”
Dale spoke — the very same command his father had once given the Holy Sword’s knight.
> “Kneel, and apologize to Miss Eve for what you tried to do.”
> “W-what!?”
> “Did you not hear me?”
> “My lord! Please, don’t—!”
Eve tried to stop him, but Dale didn’t waver.
> “As Miss Eve said, she is *one of House Saxen’s own.*”
Petro swallowed hard, rage and humiliation twisting his face.
> ‘This damned brat!’
A ten-year-old boy — a mere child. How dare he humiliate him so!
> “My lord, I’m afraid I cannot kneel.”
> “And why is that?”
> “Because I stand here on behalf of His Imperial Majesty!”
Petro puffed up his chest.
> “A young boy like yourself may not understand the weight of that duty—!”
He sneered, trying to reassert control.
> “To humiliate me over some lowborn wench’s honor is to—”
> “Does His Majesty make a habit of assaulting other men’s servants?”
The chill in Dale’s voice cut like a blade.
> “Wh-what did you just say!?”
> “You claim to stand in His Majesty’s stead. Tell me, Lord Petro — is *that* what you mean by it?”
The noble’s lips twisted, but before he could respond—
> “Over here!”
> “What’s going on, my lord!?”
Servants of the Ducal House arrived, drawn by the noise. Soon, his father — and *Lord Crimson* — would hear as well.
Petro swallowed again.
> “This is your final chance,” Dale said quietly. “Kneel.”
Footsteps approached. Dale’s gaze grew colder still.
—
—
Before long, a crowd had gathered — the Duke and Duchess of Saxen, knights, maids, and nobles alike.
There, before them all, Petro knelt — his head bowed to Dale and the trembling maid behind him.
> “Well, what a sight,” Marquis Yuris murmured, stroking his chin with amusement.
> “Dale,” said the Black Duke, his voice sharp as frost, “what is the meaning of this?”
Eve’s face turned ghostly pale at the escalating scene.
> “This man tried to violate one of our maids.”
Dale explained, calm and unyielding.
> “D-Dale!”
Elena gasped, but the Duke raised his hand to stop her.
> “And for *that,* you insult Lord Petro, who came here from the Capital in person?”
*For that.*
Those two words laid bare the reality of this world — the gulf between nobility and those beneath.
Petro’s face brightened with relief.
> “Y-yes, Your Grace! The young lord—”
> “Who said you could stand?”
Dale’s voice cut through the air like a whip. Petro froze, half-risen.
> “Dale…”
Even the Black Duke drew a sharp breath.
> “Nobles of the Capital,” Dale continued, unwavering, “are entrusted with representing His Majesty’s will.”
He knew full well what his words might bring upon House Saxen.
> “Yet this man has forgotten that sacred duty and sought to violate a mere servant.”
> “…”
> “Thus, I could not abide his disgrace — a stain upon His Majesty’s name.”
The Duke’s eyes widened faintly at his son’s reply.
> “To mock the Emperor’s name with such filth…”
Silence followed.
Until—
> “Ha!”
A laugh broke the stillness — Marquis Yuris’.
> “Truly remarkable.”
The corners of his mouth twisted.
> “The young lord’s wit is… exceptional.”
> “M-Marquis Yuris…?” Petro stammered.
> “To dare represent His Majesty, and yet attempt to defile a servant girl…”
The words turned approving — toward Dale.
Then, softly—
> “Burn, you wretched insect.”
From the Crimson Lord’s fingertips, scarlet mana burst forth and raced along the ground.
*WHOOSH!*
> “Ah—!”
Flames wrapped around Petro’s massive frame.
> “Aaaagh! AAAAAAHHH!”
He rolled across the ground, screaming, consumed by unbearable fire.
> “It hurts! It hurts, it hurts—!”
*Flame Tongue.*
A spell with little combat utility — but infamous for what it did best:
It peeled away flesh, caressed every nerve, and denied release. A slow, merciless conflagration that delivered agony beyond imagining.
> “I could hardly ignore a fool who sullies His Majesty’s name,” Yuris said coolly.
He turned his eyes toward Dale and the Duke.
> “Purging vermin who would defy the Empire and the Crown — that is my duty.”
Neither he nor the Duke so much as looked at the burning man.
> “You are right, Marquis,” said the Black Duke at last, his tone even. “Such is the way of the Empire — and His Majesty’s will.”
> “Wouldn’t you agree, Dale?”
> “Yes, Father.”
And with that, Petro’s screams ceased. Flesh, bone, and viscera melted to nothing, leaving not even ash intact — only a faint scattering of gray dust carried off by the night wind.
Silence fell.
Then *Lord Crimson* looked upon Dale.
> “I look forward to your future, young lord.”
Meeting that gaze, Dale smiled — the pure, innocent smile of a ten-year-old child.
> “You won’t be disappointed.”
