**Chapter 26**
—
*Tak.*
With a soft click, Dale moved a knight-shaped piece across the wooden table. At that, his father—Duke of Saxen—responded by advancing one of his own.
The pieces might resemble those of chess—knights, foot soldiers, and all—but this was no mere chess game.
Before them was a *war game*: a simulation using miniature models of troops and units, governed by rules far stricter than any real war.
They had been trading moves for dozens of turns now.
“My victory.”
On the table, Dale’s pieces had completely encircled his father’s army. The final move had just been made.
“This means you’ll keep your promise, won’t you?”
“……”
The Duke fell silent for a moment.
“Well, I’ll be damned…”
Standing nearby, Sir Helmut, who had been observing the entire match, let out a low gasp of astonishment.
He could hardly believe it.
*‘Please allow me to lead the Saxen knights in this coming campaign.’*
That was Dale’s request, made just after Baron Perker, leveraging the Holy Sword Knight’s faction, had declared a territorial war against Baron Greenbelt, a vassal under House Saxen.
Even for the Duke himself, it was not an easy request to grant.
After all, this was no petty squabble between barons. The battlefield was far too early a place for a child like Dale.
And so, Sir Helmut had proposed this war game—hoping to make Dale realize the *complexities of real warfare.*
Naturally, the game’s rules were elaborate beyond measure.
──And just as Sir Helmut had expected, convincing Dale to play hadn’t taken long.
“Alright. I’ve memorized it all.”
After reading through a *rulebook* as thick as several encyclopedias combined, Dale looked up with calm confidence.
“Let’s begin.”
And that had led to this result.
Dale stood before the table, surveying the entire field like the palm of his hand. With each move, he recited, word for word, the precise rule and reasoning behind it—granting logical justification to every maneuver, every command.
The outcome: two wins and one loss against his father, the Duke of Saxen.
Yes, the odds had been stacked in Dale’s favor—greater numbers, better terrain, and his father deliberately playing less aggressively—but even so, defeating the foremost Grand Duke of the North was an achievement that could not be diminished.
“When did you first learn this game?”
Those were the Duke’s first words once the match concluded.
He asked as if he had seen through Dale’s cunning from the start.
“I found a copy of the rulebook in the library a few years ago,” Dale replied, smiling faintly, “and studied it whenever I had free time.”
It was a childlike smile, as if caught in the act of mischief.
──It was a lie.
But he could hardly reveal the truth without inviting suspicion or misunderstanding.
“……”
The Duke nodded quietly.
“A promise is a promise.”
Then, after a pause, he spoke again.
“In my name, I hereby entrust you with command of the Saxen knights in the coming battle.”
“Y–Your Grace!”
“Yes, Father.”
While Sir Helmut looked on in shock, Dale bowed his head respectfully.
—
—
“The number of knights to be dispatched from the Order of Saint Magdalena ranges between three hundred and five hundred.”
Before the wooden war table, Sir Helmut and the other vassal knights began to outline the campaign map.
“Considering the number of *lances* each knight commands, that gives them roughly two thousand men in total.”
A *lance*—a small unit consisting of one knight, his squire, and several men-at-arms.
The Duke nodded at the report.
“We shall gather five hundred of our own.”
Gasps rippled through the chamber.
Summoning even a hundred knights was no small feat. The Duchy of Saxen spanned vast lands, much of which bordered the demon territories. Countless monsters roamed the frontier, and it was the knights’ duty to suppress them. Each knight also had his own domain to govern.
Unless waging an all-out war, mobilizing five hundred knights was something even a Grand Duke of the Empire would hesitate to do.
But then again—
‘The same burden lies upon the Holy Sword Knight’s side as well.’
Neither side could afford to retreat now.
“The honor of House Saxen is on the line,” said the Black Duke grimly. “Defeat is not an option.”
His gaze fell upon his son.
“No matter how much I expect from you…”
His voice carried a rare gravity.
“One reckless move—born of overconfidence—could erase everything you’ve worked for.”
Dale nodded silently.
“I’ll ask you one last time.”
“Yes, Father.”
“Can you truly bear the weight of this battle?”
Depending on the outcome, everything Dale had built up could crumble to dust.
“Be prudent, Dale,” said the Duke, as though urging him not to feel shame in withdrawing if needed.
“Trust me, Father.”
Dale’s eyes were steady, unwavering.
“Trust that I am your son.”
The Duke said nothing further. For the outcome was already decided—long before the battle began—in Dale’s mind, where victory was a landscape vividly drawn.
—
—
Some time later, at Malbork Castle—the fortress of Count Brandenburg.
“I hear the young heir of House Saxen himself will be leading the Black Duke’s knights.”
“There’s no need to worry, Father!”
At his father’s words, the Count’s eldest son—Philip, known for his debauchery—laughed heartily.
“The opponent is just a ten-year-old boy! Please, grant me permission to lead our knights and crush that arrogant little brat!”
“…A ten-year-old boy, you say?”
At those words, the Count’s expression hardened coldly.
“That ‘arrogant little brat of Saxen,’ you called him?”
“F–Father, I meant—”
“The young heir of Saxen,” the Count cut him off, his voice sharp as ice, “is a monster that a dullard like you could not hope to match even after a hundred years.”
He remembered the stories—*the prodigy of the ducal house, the Empire’s greatest genius*—repeated endlessly by gossips across the realm.
And above all, he remembered *that look* in Dale’s eyes—the gaze that had humiliated him beyond words that day.
“You are less than a worm beneath the feet of that ten-year-old boy.”
“……”
He looked at his son now, disgust etched across his face.
A useless, talentless fool. A man who needed a full day of training with the Empire’s finest knights just to reach mediocrity. A man who overestimated himself, indulged in pleasure, and shunned discipline.
‘I should have taken that Orhart girl—the one with the blood of the Divine Sword—long ago…’
The look the Count gave Philip now was devoid of anything resembling paternal affection. It was the cold gaze one gives to worthless refuse.
“In the coming battle, you will command our knights.”
“Father…!”
Philip inhaled sharply, overwhelmed with gratitude.
“──But you will do nothing.”
That warmth froze before it could reach his chest.
“In fact, do not even try to do anything.”
The Count’s voice was cutting, merciless.
“W–what do you mean…?”
“The actual command will be in the hands of Sir Milbas, your adjutant. Your role is simply to show your face on the field.”
A figurehead. Nothing more.
He himself had wanted to lead the charge—but to personally wage war against a ten-year-old would be beneath his dignity as a war hero of the Empire.
Even if victorious, it would only serve to glorify Dale’s name and make a mockery of his own.
No—this battle required the *illusion* of being a duel between two heirs, between the sons of a duke and a count.
Even if his own son was nothing but a worthless worm compared to Dale.
‘So this was the Duke’s plan all along,’ the Count mused, clicking his tongue.
He never once realized that *he* was the one caught in Dale’s web.
—
—
As the knights of House Saxen began assembling and the day of departure drew near—
In the early morning, within the Duke and Duchess’s bedchamber.
Elena, the Duchess, had wept through the night before exhaustion finally drew her to sleep.
Only after hours of quiet persuasion did the Duke finally sit at her bedside, resting for the first time.
It was no different in this world than any other. What mother could send her child to war without anguish?
“There’s no need to worry so much,” he murmured softly.
“He carries within him more than we could ever imagine.”
The Duke gazed at his sleeping wife, brushing a lock of her hair aside.
“When Dale comes of age, the world he sees will be one even I cannot fathom.”
His voice was quiet, almost like a vow whispered to himself.
“Our son,” he said, “will one day rule this world.”
—
—
Around the same time, Philip of House Brandenburg began marching north, leading the Order of Saint Magdalena.
In response, Dale of Saxen set out as well, leading his five hundred knights.
At the northern frontier—the Barony of Greenbelt—Dale’s forces arrived: five hundred knights, their squires, men-at-arms, and the ducal supply corps.
Not long after, Philip’s army reached the neighboring Perker Barony.
—
—
Inside Greenbelt Castle—
“It is an honor to meet the young lord of Saxen!”
The name *Dale* carried such weight across the North that few dared even to imagine it.
And yet, here in the farthest reaches of the Duke’s dominion, where his influence waned, Baron Greenbelt’s feelings were conflicted.
*‘I can’t believe he actually sent a ten-year-old to lead the campaign…!’*
Prodigy or not, the boy was still just a child.
“Baron Greenbelt.”
Dale stood in tailored armor, draped with a black surcoat—the emblem of House Saxen gleaming upon it. Behind him stood the pride of the Duchy—the *Black Cavalry.*
“If I may, my lord,” the Baron began carefully, “we have prepared a modest banquet to welcome—”
“There’s no time for that.”
Dale shook his head softly.
“First, I wish to inspect the state of your forces.”
Then, after a brief pause, he asked,
“Among your men, who is the strongest?”
*Shing—*
The sound of steel rang out as Dale drew his arming sword from his side.
