**Chapter 20**
—
“Please grant me permission to take the *Tower’s Trial* in Necropolis.”
The Tower of Necropolis—there was no need to ask which one he meant.
It was the **Black Tower**.
And the *Tower’s Trial* he spoke of was the arena where one challenged the Floor Guardians that defended each level, proving how high a mage could ascend on their own…
A place that also served, in a broader sense, as a ranking ground among the mages of the Tower.
Novices who dared to enter often collapsed before clearing even a few floors, while those who defeated the upper Guardians or transcended their limits earned the right to be called “Elders of the Tower.”
──And finally, the one who alone stood at the pinnacle of the Tower was granted the title of *Tower Lord*.
Just as the man before Dale—**Lord Black**—had once done.
Moreover, among the five-colored Towers, the Black Tower—entwined with the concept of *Death*—was renowned, alongside the Red Tower, for having the most perilous trials of all.
“You said, the Tower’s Trial?”
At that, Dale silently nodded.
“It is a place where one may lose their life all too easily,” said his father—before being a father, a sovereign who reigned atop the Black Tower itself.
“You have yet to even complete your third circle. It is far too soon.”
At ten years old, Dale had already mastered the Second Circle in both Water and Darkness.
And yet, the *minimum* requirement to challenge the Tower’s Trial was the Third Circle—an accomplishment equal to that of a formally graduated mage from the Academy.
“I’ll reach it soon enough,” Dale replied, his tone firm and unshaken.
The average talent required until one entered the Academy and reached the Third Circle—graduation level—was mid-twenties.
But Dale had attained the Second Circle at nine, and though only a year had passed, he was already confident he could break through to the next realm.
The Third Circle—where one could finally stand as a full-fledged mage.
“As I said before, Father, this is a decision made for your sake—and for House Saxen.”
“Oh? And in what sense do you believe that?”
“When I reach the Third Circle, and then prove myself through the Tower’s Trial…”
Dale spoke calmly, his tone steady but his eyes gleaming.
“Through me—your successor—your standing as Tower Lord will become unshakable.”
The standing of the Tower Lord.
Becoming Tower Lord was never a matter of lineage.
Thus, *inheritance through succession* carried tremendous weight and meaning.
That was why Dale’s pursuit of recognition as the *prodigy of House Saxen* was not some childish vanity.
“I, too, will earn a reputation—not from hollow rumors, but from something solid and undeniable.”
To formally step into the world of magic, to *prove* the name of “the Saxen Prodigy.”
“My proof will also be your proof, Father.”
He paused, then added,
“And your proof will, in turn, become the proof of our entire House Saxen.”
“The proof of House Saxen…”
His father’s voice was low.
“You mean to say you requested the Tower’s Trial for that?”
“Yes,” Dale answered simply, nodding again.
At that, the Duke of Saxen let out a soft laugh.
Through the events of recent days, Dale had come to a firm realization.
The power wielded by House Saxen—one of the Empire’s greatest ducal lines—was beyond anything he had imagined.
Thus, to remain silent, hidden beneath the surface, would be folly.
For the Empire’s ambitions toward House Saxen would never rest, regardless of his quiet restraint.
Before the Empire struck first, Dale would use the full might of his House to establish *his own proof*—a name so great that even the Imperial family would think twice before threatening him.
It was only the beginning.
—
—
That night.
Seated cross-legged in his chamber, Dale began to examine his inner state.
Two Circles—complete mastery. What remained was to forge and stack another ring of mana upon them.
In essence, expanding one’s Circle was an act of transcending one’s limits.
‘But the Third Circle is… different.’
Unlike before, breaking through the wall beyond the Second Circle was not a matter of talent or technique.
It required *enlightenment.*
A deep understanding of the very principles of magic itself.
That was why the Third Circle marked the distinction between apprentices and true mages—the point of graduation, both from the Academy and from immaturity.
‘Still, I don’t have the luxury to just sit and meditate.’
There was never only one *right path* in this world.
What Dale chose was a path hundreds of times more dangerous—but one that promised results.
The *forbidden way*.
The same method he had taken in his previous life.
If enlightenment was a way to climb over the wall, Dale’s method was to ram into it headfirst and shatter it to pieces.
A gamble of life and death—forcing mana into berserk overdrive to transcend the limits of his being.
*Fwoooom!*
Winds of mana spiraled violently through the room, scattering frost into the air.
A delicate tug-of-war began between control and chaos—the vortex of mana trembling on a knife’s edge.
‘Again.’
Through the blurring of consciousness, Dale steadied his mind.
He detonated the mana gathered within his heart like a compressed charge of dynamite.
Yet the twin Circles interlocked like gears, stabilizing the explosion with perfect precision.
‘…Not all Second Circles are the same.’
For the structure he had refined—built upon his past experiences and present mastery—surpassed even his former life’s perfection.
His Circles grew ever more intricate, spinning with strength dozens of times beyond ordinary capacity.
The wall before him—the limit he had to transcend—was far higher than he’d anticipated.
But he could not stop.
‘Once more!’
Pushing his heart beyond its limit, he forced mana through his veins like a raging flood.
His twin Circles spun faster, accelerating to a feverish pitch—
Like an engine pushed to full throttle, screaming beyond its redline.
“……!”
Then suddenly—control snapped.
Mana broke free, surging wild, devouring his entire body.
*Crack, crack!*
His breath hitched.
The mana shrieked, devouring the surrounding heat.
Frost crawled over the windows, the air turned brittle, the chill sliced like blades.
And then—
*Shk!*
“……?!”
A searing pain tore through his back.
The cold bite of steel. A blade’s point burst through his chest, gleaming with blue-white light.
‘The holy sword, Durandal…?’
When his senses cleared, Dale realized he was no longer in his warm chamber—
But standing in the midst of a vast, snow-white plain.
A white and shadowed winter night. The line between reality and illusion had vanished.
Realizing this, Dale laughed bitterly.
As Sephia once said—
*Magic is the mirror of the heart.*
And now, he stood inside that mirror, within the reflection of his own heart.
He had not *waited* for enlightenment to come to him—
He had *entered the realm of enlightenment* with his own two feet.
The Depths of Thought.
A white and shadowed winter night.
The ground pale and endless, the heavens black and vast.
Every mage possessed their own *world,*
and their training was the act of completing that world.
A mage’s *ideal* was to overlay that world upon reality itself.
That was why battles between Archmages were often called *Clashes of Worlds*—
not metaphor, but truth.
And this—this empty, desolate landscape—was Dale’s world.
Gray sleet drifted across an endless white horizon.
There was truly *nothing* here.
No father.
No mother.
No sister, Lize.
No Sephia.
No Charlotte.
‘From the very beginning… I never had anything.’
The realization left him strangely calm.
A frigid stillness filled his chest.
*Crash!*
The illusion shattered—and with it, the cold.
He lowered his gaze.
There had been no grand revelation.
“……”
Yet, already, three Circles interlocked around his heart—turning like precise clockwork.
The price he paid was merely to face the true world within himself.
When he had reached the Second Circle, he’d realized how many times stronger he had become.
And now, upon touching the Third—
there was no need to say it. This was no *ordinary* Third Circle.
He had countless new incantations and constructs he longed to test—
but alone within the silent castle, Dale dared not release his magic.
—
—
The next morning, in the Duke’s study.
“I’ve reached the Third Circle,” Dale reported quietly.
The Duke drew a sharp breath.
“……Is that true?”
Dale nodded, demonstrating.
Three Circles spun around his heart like finely tuned gears, radiating a surge of power.
Mana burst outward, refined by the interlocking Circles—
shadow and frost entwining,
recalling the memory of that white and dark winter night.
From his fingertips, the mana flared—
refined darkness, biting cold.
A perfect union of dual attributes.
Only then did Dale realize that his choice of *Water* and *Darkness* had never been coincidence.
When Sephia first became his teacher, he could have refused her.
He hadn’t.
At the time, he’d believed it to be his own decision.
──But it wasn’t.
*It was Dale’s world that had chosen it.*
“…Hard to believe, even when I see it,” murmured the Duke, a wry smile touching his lips.
“Now,” Dale said softly, “all that remains is to prove my power in the Tower.”
At that, the Duke smiled faintly—a complex smile, heavy with emotion.
Of course, Lord Black knew.
Dale’s talent had already transcended the bounds of genius.
Even knowing that, he could not help but love the boy—his son—though he was something almost monstrous.
And above all, the time for silence had long passed.
The Empire, the Crown, and the world itself would not stop moving simply because a child chose to wait.
To take the Tower’s Trial and prove himself—
it was the only way forward.
“Please believe in me, Father.”
And so, no matter how monstrous he might appear, there was no turning back.
—
—
Some time later.
The City of the Dead—**Necropolis**.
At its center loomed a towering spire of jet-black stone—
the Black Tower.
A noble carriage and a procession of armored knights approached it.
Each knight was clad in black plate, their gray surcoats embroidered with a raven in flight.
There was only one meaning to such an emblem.
They were the Duke of Saxen’s personal guard—
the **Night Raven Order.**
And within the carriage sat the man who ruled this city, this tower, and all the northern territories—
together with his young son, the brightest prodigy of the Empire.
The *Tower’s Trial* was a sacred rite, equal to all mages—
even the Tower Lord himself was no exception.
Proving one’s existence was a task never complete.
And so, father and son—both practitioners of the darkness—
rode through the roads of Necropolis together,
each toward the trial that awaited them.
