**Chapter 28**
—
At that very hour, inside the manor of Baron Perker—
While the strategists of the Knights of Saint Magdalena were still deep in discussion late into the night,
“Drink up! More wine!”
“Kya-ha-ha!”
The banquet hall was filled with shouting, laughter, and the stifling stench of liquor.
Half-naked courtesans gathered in small groups, giggling and fawning. In the middle of them sat *Philip the Lecher*, his face flushed crimson with drink and desire.
“Hah! You really do know how to please me, don’t you!”
“Of course, my lord Philip!”
It never took much for Baron Perker to provide entertainment for Philip.
Wine and women—things that overflowed in Perker’s domain even without the young noble’s presence.
“That brat from House Saxen? My knights and I will crush him to pieces!”
Philip guzzled his wine and raised his voice, full of arrogant bluster—deliberately forgetting that he was nothing more than a front, a mere decorative figurehead for this campaign.
“Oh my! You’re so brave, my lord!”
“So reliable!”
“Hah! Do you even know who I am?”
The courtesans’ coquettish voices fanned his intoxicated ego, and under their flattery, Philip shouted even louder.
“I am the one and only son of the Empire’s war hero—the Holy Knight, Grand Count Brandenburg!”
“And our opponent? A ten-year-old brat who still smells of milk!”
“Ha! Isn’t he still young enough to be nursing at his mother’s breast?”
“This battle is won before it’s even begun!”
Baron Perker’s sycophantic praise, the courtesans’ sweet words—all of it echoed in Philip’s head like absolute truth.
“Yes, of course.”
—*The young heir of House Saxen is a monster. Even a hundred years from now, you dull-witted fool, you could never reach the tips of his toes.*
*A monster I could never catch up to, even in a hundred years?*
Ridiculous.
*No matter what they say about that so-called prodigy of the Duke’s house, he’s still just a ten-year-old child.*
His father feared the young heir of House Saxen far too much—and failed to recognize his own son’s worth.
That made this a perfect opportunity. His father would finally open his eyes. The whole Empire would sing of *his* glorious victory—just as they once gossiped endlessly about that damned ducal brat.
Philip raised his glass again, imagining the scene where not “Dale of Saxen,” but *his own name* would spread from the lips of every gossip in the Empire.
To Philip of House Brandenburg, son of the Holy Knight, this was his chance—his chance to prove himself.
—
—
If the knight is the flagbearer of victory and the flower of war,
Then the mage is a tactical weapon—one who can change the entire course of battle.
But a *territorial war* is not total war. Its goal is never the annihilation of the enemy.
Shortly after unifying the continent, the Emperor issued a new Imperial Constitution, the *Goldene Bulle*.
Among its decrees was one that forbade the use of any mage above the Fourth Circle—and, by extension, the casting of any “Magics of Mass Destruction”—in disputes between minor lords.
And since this particular conflict qualified as nothing more than a *quarrel between barons*, House Saxen could not deploy its vaunted dark sorcery.
A duel fought under countless restrictions and prohibitions.
A pure, straightforward clash of steel and skill, without the aid of Fourth-Circle magic or higher.
That was the Holy Knight’s intention—and Dale’s as well.
—
—
That same dawn, in a small chamber of the lord’s keep—
—*Dale, the Third-Circle mage, sat quietly in meditation.*
The Third Circle.
Though it made him a proper mage in his own right, it was still too shallow a realm to influence the outcome of a full-scale battle.
But Dale’s true danger did not lie in following the path others had paved.
Cold energy and refined dark mana intertwined, merging into a twin-helix formation.
‘There.’
Dale’s own creation, born from long contemplation and countless trials to combine the elements of Water and Darkness.
A double-helix structure—like the spiraling threads of life itself.
In this world, magic was the manifestation of one’s *ideology*. Depending on the root of that ideology, magic divided into five colors, five meanings.
The White Tower of Light (Wisdom) — serving the Church of Sistina and calling themselves “Handmaiden of God.”
The Black Tower of Darkness (Truth) — seekers of knowledge beyond death.
The Red Tower of Fire (Power) — executors of the Empire’s spirit and the most dominant order across the continent.
The Blue Tower of Water (Harmony) — those who maintain a strange silence under the Red Tower’s tyranny.
The Green Tower of Nature (Life) — recluses who reject civilization, living in the Great Forest by the primal ways of the wild.
Though Dale had studied black and blue magic under the Black Duke and Sephia, strictly speaking, the *root of his ideology* belonged to none of them.
He stood apart—observing from a distance, building upon the philosophy and knowledge system of his *previous world*.
A lone magician.
The sole traveler on an uncharted path, envisioning the scenery at its far end.
In a world where no one else existed, he imagined himself standing alone—looking upon a landscape unseen by all others.
—
—
Before dawn had fully broken—
“Haa… haaa!”
“Please! No more, I beg you…!”
The sound of ragged breathing echoed through the clearing in front of Greenbelt’s keep.
“What is this? You’re already down?”
“Stand up, weakling!”
“And you dare call yourselves northern knights?!”
The five hundred knights of House Saxen were at their morning drills, as always. Alongside them, under their harsh supervision, the bedraggled knights of Baron Greenbelt’s household rolled in the dirt, gasping for air.
‘So much to do, so little time.’
And when the sun rose, Dale still had to oversee military drills for the conscripted levies.
Watching from a distance, Dale clicked his tongue in mild frustration.
Even if the Knights of Saint Magdalena had just finished their grueling march across the continent, considering the poor supply lines of such a long expedition, it was only a matter of time before they launched their offensive.
‘A few weeks at most.’
And Baron Perker’s forces were not to be underestimated either.
His cavalry was composed of hardened veterans—men who had followed him since his days as a bandit knight. Considering that his entire domain had once been a den of outlaws, their discipline would be fierce indeed.
‘Better a villain than a fool.’
He clicked his tongue again and turned to the knight beside him—his aide and senior officer of the Night Raven Order.
“Sir Vale.”
“Yes, my lord!”
“I have a specific training regimen in mind for Baron Greenbelt’s knights.”
After explaining the details from start to finish, Dale added,
“Also, send a messenger to Baron Perker’s domain. Tell them I wish to propose negotiations.”
“Negotiations…?”
Sir Vale blinked in surprise.
“It’s not as if I intend to accept some humiliating peace.”
But Dale shook his head calmly.
“I just want to see someone’s face before the battle begins.”
He said it with quiet finality.
The face of a poor child—broken by the greed and obsession of his own father.
A face from more than a decade ago, before he was ever called *Dale of Saxen.*
—
—
There is nothing easier in this world than for a parent to destroy their own child.
And in that regard, the Holy Knight Count Brandenburg was a masterpiece of failure.
*The swordsman consumed by his lust for eugenics.*
At the end of that recollection, Dale raised his head.
After sending his messenger to Baron Perker’s lands, preparations for the meeting proceeded swiftly.
The place was the border between the two baronies, lined on both sides with heavily armed knights.
Standing as representatives were *Philip, the Count’s son*, and the high-ranking knight who served as his advisor.
The same arrangement existed on the Greenbelt side.
A clear sign that this was a proxy war—between the Black Duke and the Holy Knight.
‘As expected.’
And when Dale saw them take their seats, his suspicions turned into certainty.
The count’s son was merely a puppet, a face to justify the campaign. The true commander was that knight standing behind him.
‘……’
The golden epaulets on his surcoat said it all—a mark of a senior officer in the Knights of Saint Magdalena.
“Lord Philip of Brandenburg,” Dale said at last, bowing politely.
“Negotiations, you say?”
Unlike the careful knight beside him, who studied Dale with measured caution, Philip made no effort to hide his sneer.
“Looks to me like the little brat wet his pants before the real war even started.”
Dale didn’t respond right away. A brief silence followed.
“Why did you agree to meet with me?”
He finally asked.
“Ha! That’s obvious—”
Philip had just begun to open his mouth when—
“I wasn’t asking you.”
Dale cut him off, his tone cold and sharp.
“I’m speaking to the *real* commander of this army, not the puppet they put out front.”
The words dripped with quiet mockery.
“W-what did you just say…?”
*Puppet.*
*Real commander.*
Philip’s face twisted in humiliation.
“Am I wrong?”
Dale turned his gaze from Philip to the knight behind him.
“Surely the great Holy Knight would never entrust a battle of such importance to a man with not even a trace of talent.”
The senior knight—clad in pristine white armor and a crimson surcoat—stiffened.
“……!”
At that, the aide, *Sir Milbas*, realized Dale’s intention—and his blood ran cold.
“Lord Philip! Do not listen to him!”
How could a backwater northern noble possibly know the inner workings of House Brandenburg?
To the Holy Knight, his son’s matter was a stain—a private shame buried deep and guarded fiercely.
“What does it feel like,” Dale continued, voice cutting like ice,
“to be denied even the faintest trust by the father you so admire?”
—But how?
How could he know?
It didn’t matter. Not right now.
Realization dawned too late—Dale had drawn him exactly where he wanted.
“The negotiations are off! Lord Philip, we’re leaving!”
Sir Milbas shot to his feet, furious and alarmed.
But then—
“Do you need your subordinate’s permission just to hear another man speak?”
Dale’s tone was almost amused.
“You call yourself a leader, yet you obey your underling like a slave.”
He gave a soft laugh.
“No wonder the title *Heir of House Brandenburg* sounds like a joke.”
“Lord Philip, please—don’t let him provoke you!”
“—Shut up!”
Philip exploded, face bright red, snorting furiously through his nose.
As if to prove that he would *not* obey his subordinate’s orders.
As if he refused to play the puppet Dale had accused him of being.
Dale watched the display in silence, then smiled coldly.
“At this point, I don’t even know whose puppet Lord Philip really is.”
His voice was gentle—mockingly so.
The innocent cruelty of a child’s smile twisted into something far sharper than any blade.
