**Chapter 23**
—
A few days later.
Leaving the matter of Sephia behind, Dale faced the *Tower’s Trial* on the 11th Floor.
And nothing had changed.
Sephia was still his trusted teacher.
To her, he was still her beloved pupil.
That day’s incident had been nothing more than a meaningless episode — a brief happening. In fact, Sephia herself probably hadn’t even *realized* it as such. To her, it was nothing but the passing whim of a ten-year-old boy.
At times like this, Dale didn’t know whether he should be grateful or resentful for being trapped in the body of a child. His feelings were complex.
*Nothing has changed.*
He muttered that to himself as if to drive it home.
The same was true for the Tower’s trial.
He was there for one reason — to prove himself as the rightful successor to the Master of the Black Tower.
Every movement of those taking the lower-floor trials was projected through magical recording devices.
And as for whose image captured everyone’s attention — there was no need to ask.
The Saxen’s prodigy.
The son of the *Black Duke*.
That was him.
Cold air and refined dark mana rippled across his palms as Dale cooled his mind to ice.
The **11th Floor** —
A stage where artifacts, grimoires, and all manner of magical equipment were permitted, and a wizard’s full power was allowed to manifest.
A place where even the *Life Point Necklace* could not guarantee a challenger’s safety or life a hundred percent.
And that, rather than weighing him down, made Dale’s heart astonishingly light.
No need to hide himself.
No need to *consider* his opponent.
At last, it felt as though the heavy shackles had fallen away.
In the windless chamber, Dale’s cloak billowed wide in all directions.
The *Shadow Cloak* — the dark artifact that could be called his signature gear.
*Now that I’ve reached the Third Circle, let’s see how far I can draw out this cloak’s potential.*
Following the hem of the cloak, the shadows at his feet began to writhe wildly.
He remembered the Duke of Saxen’s words — advice given before he faced the trial.
*“The Tower’s mages are unlike our knights. To them, the Tower itself isn’t an object of loyalty — merely a ladder toward their own ambitions.”*
As both his father and the Tower’s sovereign, the Duke had added:
*“Then what do you think earns a mage’s allegiance?”*
*“What is it, Father?”*
*“Fear.”*
**Fear.**
That was why Dale had shown such overwhelming performance in the First Floor’s *Life Point Battle.*
The kind of terror born only from an unbridgeable gulf in strength —
The kind of terror that made rebellion unthinkable.
One cannot rule without first inspiring fear.
To Dale, the Duke of Saxen was at times strict, yet endlessly thoughtful and affectionate as a father.
But to those of the Black Tower — and to those beyond the North — the name of the *Black Duke* carried a notorious dread.
And the fate of anyone who had dared to stand against House Saxen was proof enough of that.
So Dale lifted his head, recalling that counsel.
──*Tower’s Trial, 11th Floor.*
The trial’s format: *A Tournament of Magical Duels.*
Like the *Life Point Battle* of the First Floor, this too was a means of elimination.
But the opponents here were no longer fresh academy graduates — they were seasoned magi, many of them previous challengers who had joined the formal ranks of the Black Tower.
*Still… they’re not worth making a fuss over.*
It was the same principle — crush them utterly with overwhelming force.
And Dale’s opponent ahead of him, no doubt, held the same intention.
Albert Rosenheim —
The Black Tower’s top-ranking Third Circle Master, burning with the zeal to prove himself by defeating the *Black Duke’s son*.
The whistle announcing the start of the duel rang out—
No, not even half a second had passed before—
“**Dark Arrow!**”
Whoosh!
The opposing sorcerer, Albert, unleashed a volley of dark arrows using *Quick Chanting*.
An attack before the duel had even formally begun.
A blatant foul.
*Oh? So that’s how you want to play it?*
Even Dale was caught off guard by the sudden strike and hastily accelerated his heart’s mana circle.
A fraction of a second — yet to a skilled mage, that was enough to utter several incantations.
A black blade sprang from Dale’s cloak, deflecting the incoming arrow.
And no sooner had he blocked the first than dozens more dark arrows materialized behind Albert, stringing themselves upon invisible bows of mana.
*…Hoh.*
Endlessly multiplying, the storm of darkness surged forth — far beyond what a Third Circle mage could normally sustain.
It wasn’t hard to guess why.
*He’s using amplification-type artifacts.*
Anyone capable of climbing past the tenth floor would surely own a few.
Though, of course, none could rival the craftsmanship of House Saxen.
“Haha! How do you like this, Lord Dale?”
Having seized the tempo of the fight through a dishonest start, Albert pressed on relentlessly with artifact-boosted power.
Tch!
Dale kicked off the ground, narrowly avoiding the bombardment of black arrows raining like an artillery strike.
*So that’s how you’re going to play it.*
A flagrant foul from the start — yet no signal came to halt the duel.
The spectators didn’t understand the weight of that tiny delay.
And those who *did* understand it remained silent, watching, testing Dale.
Cunning.
His opponent clearly knew that — and was exploiting it.
*This is why I hate mages.*
Knights swore loyalty to their liege’s house.
Mages pursued only their own world.
Pure meritocracy — eat or be eaten.
Even being the Black Duke’s son was to them nothing more than a convenient test subject.
“Now! Rise, and swear eternal obedience before me!”
Taking advantage of Dale’s defensive stance, Albert began raising corpses from the ground.
“O seeds of darkness, deeper than blood-starved night!”
A typical overwrought incantation — mages loved their theatrical phrases.
*This is embarrassing just to listen to.*
Inefficient, ridiculous — but undeniably, the longer and grander the chant, the greater its effect.
The corpses rose. Arrows of black magic poured endlessly.
Even so, it was still the caster’s skill that drew out the artifact’s true power.
*Not bad. Stronger than the rookies, at least.*
Dale stayed silent, purely on defense.
He wasn’t cornered — far from it.
A preemptive strike through cheating was within his expectations.
If he wanted to, a single *Ice Bullet* could end this.
But he chose to wait.
To let his opponent show *everything*.
Because destroying another’s “proof” was the most perfect proof of one’s own superiority.
Soon, the reanimated soldiers, reinforced by Albert’s pompous spell, surrounded Dale.
“Attack, servants of darkness!”
Albert shouted triumphantly, certain of victory.
“…You’ve got nothing else to show, have you?”
Dale’s voice was calm.
And just as the undead lunged toward him—
From beneath his feet, black blades shot upward, piercing through the skulls of the onrushing dead.
Crack!
Precisely into the gaps of their skulls — pinning them in place.
Albert Rosenheim smirked. He’d been *waiting* for that.
“**Corpse Explosion.**”
With that murmur, the bodies erupted before Dale’s eyes.
“This is the end, my lord!”
The undead’s flesh, blood, and bone burst apart like grenades. Razor shards of bone whistled through the air — too fine, too fast for the Shadow Cloak to block.
Too late to raise an Ice Wall.
A desperate situation.
But Dale… smiled. Coldly.
“…!”
His shadow thickened, swallowing his form.
His body dissolved, melting into the darkness beneath his feet.
He vanished — merging with the writhing sea of shadows.
A new application of the *Shadow Cloak*.
**Specter Form.**
The living shadows on the ground surged toward the Third Circle Master with terrifying speed.
──As Sir Helmut once said: *In a battle between mages, distance is life.*
Whether Dale himself was a mage was irrelevant.
“He–Heeek!”
The mass of darkness coiled around Albert’s legs, taking on a *human shape*.
“Quick chanting before the duel even started,” a voice murmured—
right behind him.
“──Isn’t that a bit cowardly, against a kid?”
The space between them vanished.
The swarm of shadows rippled, writhing like a frenzy of piranhas that had scented blood.
*“Hungry, hungry, hungryyy…”*
*“Can we eat? Can we eat?”*
*“Let us eaaaat!”*
Dale smiled faintly, then spoke softly—coldly.
“──Don’t eat *too* much.”
An eye for an eye. An artifact for an artifact.
At his words, the ravenous shadows crawled up Albert’s legs — hundreds of serpents of darkness wrapping around him.
“AAAHHHH! AAAAHHHHH!”
Too late to struggle now.
The living shadows opened their jaws.
Kraaang!
With a shattering sound, Albert’s *Life Point Necklace* triggered its shield and broke —
but before the endless hunger of shadow, a simple shield could do almost nothing.
The necklace could not guarantee life or safety a hundred percent.
“Ah, sorry. I’m still not very good at controlling them.”
Dale smiled as if it were someone else’s problem. Icy, detached.
“AAAHHHHH!”
The screams tore through the air.
Crunch, crack, rip.
The shadows bit into his ankles, tore at his shoulders, devoured flesh, drank blood —
avoiding vital organs, keeping him alive.
Just enough *not* to die, but *enough to wish for death.*
He had to *show* them.
The fear born from an unbridgeable difference in power.
The terror that ruled.
Only after Albert’s body was left shredded, barely clinging to life, did Dale murmur—
“Withdraw.”
The shadows instantly obeyed, slithering back beneath his feet.
Silence fell.
The audience said nothing.
Even the Black Tower’s magi were struck dumb.
This—this was the way of House Saxen.
And more than that, the way of the Black Duke.
And so, not a soul dared doubt it now—
that Dale was indeed *the rightful heir* to the Black Duke.
—
—
──*Tower’s Trial, 11th Floor.*
Magical Duel Tournament.
**Second Round.**
“I—I forfeit!”
**Third Round.**
“I surrender! I yield!”
And finally, the last match.
“I… I want to live…”
Every duel after that ended the same way.
With the exception of that *one* battle, Dale advanced entirely by default.
A dull outcome, perhaps—
but considering the fate of Albert Rosenheim, the one man who had dared to prove himself against Dale,
…it was, in truth, the wisest decision they could have made.
