**Chapter 3**
—
“It worked.”
Dale spoke calmly, feeling the distinct ring of mana securely anchored around his heart.
“……What did you just say?”
“I can feel it—the shape of the mana ring engraved around my heart.”
Sephia blinked, doubting her own ears for a moment. But Dale continued as if it were nothing, as though speaking about someone else’s matter entirely.
“Couldn’t this be the completed form of a ‘Circle’?”
“Can you try releasing mana along that circle?”
“Yes, Master.”
At Sephia’s request, Dale nodded.
Before long, mana began rotating along Dale’s newly formed circle. It converted into a tangible current of magical power, flowing through his veins.
A faint, luminous blue aura shimmered—ethereal yet clear.
And then—
“……!”
*Bang!*
It didn’t stop at condensed mana. The flow began to crystallize, taking on the sharp, pale hue of ice.
The mana emitted from Dale’s fingertips solidified, slicing through the air with a chilling frost.
A basic among basics—an elementary water-attribute spell, *Ice Bolt.*
Seeing that, Sephia’s pointed ears twitched in astonishment.
Dale, too, was unable to hide his bewilderment at the magic that had just unfolded from his own hand.
His initial intention had been modest—to release a bit of mana and lightly infuse it with frost element for testing.
Yet the mana that burst from his fingertips had slipped beyond his control, absorbing the surrounding chill and manifesting as a *perfect* Ice Bolt.
‘What on earth…!’
Of course, Sephia was an elf—one of the race beloved by mana itself.
In her long life, she had witnessed many who possessed talents that defied common sense.
A young mage unable to fully control their ability, unconsciously influenced by their environment and chanting a spell—such cases were understandable.
Especially for one as prodigiously gifted as the son of the Black Duke, it was not so strange.
But what truly left Sephia speechless was something else entirely—the *refined structure* of Dale’s Ice Bolt.
‘……It carries supplementary formulas meant to maximize lethality.’
Three, to be exact: *Rotation, Acceleration, and Concentration.*
It was not rare for a mage to unconsciously infuse their spells with a trace of individuality.
Nor was it unusual to deliberately add supplementary formulas to modify the spell’s nature according to purpose.
The problem, however, lay in *who* had done it—an eight-year-old child.
The “individuality” Dale had unconsciously embedded in his spell reflected the golden ratio of *military-grade magic*—a configuration built solely for killing efficiency.
Not only that, its precision and completeness were at a level fit for immediate deployment on the battlefield… or perhaps even beyond that.
A perfectly structured killing spell.
A chill ran down Sephia’s spine before she even realized it.
“Master?”
Dale looked up nervously, watching Sephia’s reaction with the unease of a frightened child.
“……No, it’s nothing.”
Sephia shook her head lightly, then smiled faintly.
“Now I finally understand why the Black Duke spoke with such longing.”
Her lips curled into a wry smile.
“What mage would *not* covet such a brilliantly shining gem as their disciple?”
“Master……”
Dale hesitated, about to speak again when—
“So this is where everyone was.”
A familiar voice echoed behind them.
“Dale, are you studying hard under your teacher?”
“Mother!”
His mother, Elena, stood there, watching him with warm affection.
And beside her stood his father—the Duke of Saxen himself.
“Elder Sephia of the Blue Tower, I pay my respects to His Grace, the Black Duke.”
—
—
Shortly after the ducal couple returned, the Black Duke did not immediately retire to his private hall.
Sephia had urgently requested a private audience with him.
“Your Grace, may I have a moment of your time?”
The Duke’s study, situated at the highest floor of the Saxen stronghold.
“Archmage Sephia.”
“I am deeply indebted to Your Grace.”
After the formal bow, Sephia went straight to the point.
“This concerns Young Lord Dale.”
“What about him?”
The Black Duke’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“……Only minutes after being taught mana manipulation, he succeeded in engraving his first Circle.”
A brief flicker of surprise crossed the Duke’s expression.
As the sovereign of the Black Tower and one of the five greatest mages on the continent, he fully understood what those words implied.
“And right after that, he successfully cast an Ice Bolt.”
Sephia continued.
“An Ice Bolt imbued with supplementary formulas designed for *battlefield-grade* use.”
Rotation. Acceleration. Concentration.
Formulas known to most efficiently amplify the lethality of projectile spells.
“And not just any arrangement—it was the *perfect golden ratio*, precisely matching the Imperial Army’s codified combat magic structure.”
At those words, another faint ripple disturbed the Duke’s composed expression.
“You mean to say…”
“I can no longer teach the young lord.”
Silence lingered before Sephia spoke again.
Pacifism—the rejection of killing—was the central tenet of the Blue Tower’s philosophy.
Thus, she could not in good conscience guide a child whose gift leaned toward slaughter.
The Duke, anticipating her reasoning, asked quietly,
“You mean you cannot teach a talent that contradicts the Blue Tower’s creed?”
“I both fear and covet Young Lord Dale’s gift, Your Grace.”
Sephia shook her head slowly.
“That is precisely why part of me wishes to guide him correctly, with my own hands.”
“Then that gives you all the more reason not to refuse.”
“My personal desire says so. But—”
Sephia shook her head again, recalling her earlier conversation with her pupil that morning.
*‘Because there’s another kind of magic I wish to learn instead…’*
“Forcing a mage’s path under external pressure is something that should never be done.”
One cannot compel a child to learn magic against their will—just as one cannot impose a soul not their own.
“You, of all people, understand how horrifying the consequences of such an act can be, Your Grace.”
She knew the weight of every word she spoke.
“──I respect the vow you made to Lady Elena.”
The Duke remained silent.
“But a parent’s promise does not grant them the right to dictate their child’s future.”
A belief imposed by others—Sephia could not treat that lightly.
Even if that belief was draped in good intentions, the danger remained unchanged.
“Especially for one with such immense talent as the young lord.”
Talent beyond comprehension.
There is but a paper’s thickness between *genius* and *monster.*
And Sephia had seen such a “monster” before—one who wielded the magic of slaughter.
For a fleeting moment, she even saw that same shadow flicker across Dale’s image.
“……”
The Black Duke fell into heavy silence.
No one understood the truth behind the elf’s words better than he did.
—
—
While Sephia was locked in that private conversation with the Duke—
Dale was at that very moment being celebrated in the ducal grand hall for his eighth birthday, beside his mother Elena.
But despite the festive atmosphere, Dale’s heart was anything but at ease.
‘That was careless.’
Instead of pride, regret filled him. He had lost control.
The *Ice Bolt* he cast before Sephia had far exceeded the level of power he had intended.
What was meant to be a weakened test spell had erupted into something several times stronger.
Worse, his instincts—honed from a lifetime as the Empire’s hound—had unconsciously embedded *battlefield-enhancement formulas* into it.
‘Who would have thought my first spell after engraving a Circle would have *that* much power?’
He had underestimated his own vessel—the blood of the Black Tower’s Master that flowed in him.
‘The talent in this body surpasses even my imagination.’
And Sephia, as a Tower Elder, would have seen through everything without difficulty.
Dale could still picture her face vividly—stunned by what she had witnessed.
At that moment—
“Happy birthday, Young Lord Dale!”
A booming laugh broke through the hall—a massive man over two meters tall, built like a bear.
Despite the joyous occasion, he wore a full suit of black plate armor, every seam sealed tight.
“Sir Helmut!”
Only then did Dale’s face show the innocent delight befitting his age.
Sir Helmut Blackbear—captain of the Night Raven Knights, the Duke’s personal order.
He was renowned across all of northern Imperial territory as a swordsman without equal.
The strongest knight of the north, one of the continent’s *Seven Blades,* and a vassal famed for his unshakable loyalty to House Saxen.
At present, Sir Helmut stood fully armed for battle, as did his knights behind him.
“Are you heading out to subjugate the dungeon that appeared near the Demon Territory?”
As expected, Elena spoke softly beside Dale.
The outbreak of monsters or appearance of dungeons was always a grave affair for any domain—doubly so for Saxen territory.
Worse still, after the Hero had slain the Demon King, the Emperor had decreed that the entire Demon Territory be granted as fiefdom, commanding it be reclaimed as imperial land.
A “royal grant” in name—an impossible burden in truth.
The Demon King might be dead, but the Demon Territory was far from conquered.
Unclaimed dungeons teemed within it, filled with monsters and high-ranking demons.
Even within the duchy’s own borders, rampaging creatures were an ever-present plague.
“Please forgive this knight’s disloyalty for failing to remain for your celebration, my lord!”
“Be careful out there, Uncle Helmut!”
“Ha-ha! Young Lord! Surely you’re not *worried* about this Helmut!”
The knight laughed heartily at Dale’s concern.
Just then—
“His Grace, the Duke, approaches!”
A herald’s voice rang out sharply.
The noise in the hall vanished in an instant, replaced by solemn silence.
From beyond the crimson carpeted corridor, the Black Duke appeared.
Accompanied by Elder Sephia of the Blue Tower, the head butler, attendants, and several elders of the Black Tower.
“Pay your respects to His Grace!”
Sir Helmut and his knights dropped to one knee in unison—*clang!*—their armor plates clattering in disciplined unison.
The Duke strode through the hall, making his way directly to where Elena and Dale stood—toward the ducal throne at the far end.
“Dale. Congratulations on reaching eight years of age.”
“Yes, Father.”
The brief ceremony ended, and music once again filled the hall.
Elena smiled warmly at the sight of father and son together.
“And Elena—thank you, for everything as always.”
“Dale, tell your father what you would like as a gift.”
Elena quickly shifted the topic, perhaps to hide her embarrassment.
*A wish, huh.*
There were many things he desired—the heads of those who had destroyed his former life, the Emperor’s neck itself.
But Dale was in no hurry.
So instead, he spoke only the pure, honest wish of a boy.
“I want… a little sister.”
