**Chapter 31**
—
The perspective of a third party observing a battlefield from afar is vastly different from that of one who actually stands upon the front lines.
A soldier’s vision narrows; his mind clouds. The pressure of command and the anxious awareness of mortality blur sound judgment. There are few who can remain as coldly rational as an onlooker while standing on the razor’s edge between life and death.
Even the famed *Sir Milbas the Pure Sword* was no exception.
“For Saint Magdalena!”
“Charge!”
In a desperate bid to bring the battle to a swift conclusion, the knights launched a deep thrust into enemy lines.
As they pursued the retreating Saxen cavalry and their commander, the distance between them and their own rearguard steadily widened.
At that moment, Dale—retreating at the head of his unit—turned his upper body just enough to glance back at the pursuing Sir Milbas and his knights. From atop his galloping horse, he released the reins and drew his bowstring taut with the precision of a seasoned mounted archer.
His finger leveled toward them.
*Magic…!*
It wasn’t hard to guess what would come next. A *Parthian shot*.
“Ice Bullet.”
*Bang!*
Azure mana surged from Dale’s fingertips, and a shard of condensed frost screamed through the air.
“Petty tricks!”
Even if the boy was extraordinary, Milbas was still a knight capable of wielding an *aura blade*. Before a body that had long transcended human limits, even a magical ice bullet should have been meaningless.
“Neighhh—!”
But the same could not be said for the *horse*.
One of the warhorses carrying an aura knight of the Count’s household collapsed without even a whinny of warning.
*Thud!*
The knight tumbled to the ground, armor clattering. While a simple fall could not possibly harm an aura knight, losing one’s mount in the midst of a chase was as good as being removed from battle altogether.
*To hit a moving horse with that accuracy… while riding himself?*
Milbas could not hide his astonishment.
The Saxen heir possessed unmatched talent with both sword and magic—but even so, he was merely a *Third-Circle mage*.
Though respectable, that rank was far from sufficient to shoulder a soldier’s share on the battlefield. Unlike knights—whose training was honed for combat from the outset—mages rarely reached parity with warriors in open war.
Even high-ranking wizards sometimes fell to ordinary knights.
And yet this boy, from horseback, had maintained perfect balance without reins and struck his target cleanly with a projection spell?
Such accuracy was not “magic.” It was the domain of mastery—an art that demanded a seamless union of horsemanship and archery.
It was no reckless bluff when the commander himself chose to act as bait.
“Rise, wall of ice.”
*Boom!*
A towering wall of frost erupted directly in the path of Milbas and his charging cavalry.
He had believed he wasn’t underestimating the boy. He was wrong. He had gravely misjudged the young heir’s ability.
The enemy’s supreme commander had willingly taken the role of *sacrifice*, buying precious time for his men to retreat.
And while the aura knights of Saint Magdalena floundered—confused and trapped by this single youth—the black cavalry of House Saxen reformed behind them.
“To protect our young lord—!”
“Become his shield, even at the cost of your lives!”
“Charge!”
Hearing their battle cries, Milbas could only give a bitter laugh. His instincts told him the truth. His enemy was no longer the ragtag force of mercenaries masquerading as Baron Greenbelt’s men.
*Trap within a trap…*
The infamous *Black Cavalry*—a unit Milbas had faced countless times and whose reputation he knew well—was now upon him.
And their goal was not victory over Milbas or the Count’s knights.
Count Brandenburg’s official commander, young Philip, had overcommitted his center to the right flank, destabilizing his own line. Anxiety was eating away at Milbas, while the Black Cavalry’s objective was simply to protect their commander until the time was right.
That realization only fanned the flames of Milbas’s desperation.
*Before this worsens further, I must break through the Black Cavalry and seize the Saxen heir.*
The elite aura knights of the Night Raven Order were absent—engaged elsewhere, collapsing Baron Perker’s left flank and executing a full encirclement.
If Milbas wanted to capture Dale, he would have to do it now.
“Charge!”
Ignoring the fatigue of their overrun steeds, heedless of how far they’d outpaced their reinforcements, Milbas’s white-armored aura knights spurred forward once more.
And slowly—but surely—they became isolated.
—
—
Sir Milbas and his 1st Cavalry Battalion did reach Dale in the end.
But not in the way they had hoped.
After their reckless pursuit, they found themselves encircled—cut off deep within enemy lines by the Saxen Black Cavalry.
*Still overconfident in their aura knights,* Dale mused dryly as he surveyed them.
When knights gained experience, their collective wisdom crystallized into “battle doctrine,” defining their order’s identity.
In his past life, the Holy Sword himself had overseen and guarded Dale—meaning Dale knew the Magdalena Order inside and out: its strengths, its flaws, and its many secrets.
He knew how they thought, what they prioritized, and how they made tactical decisions.
Like reading his own palm.
Their chronic flaw had always been the same—an excessive overestimation of their aura knights.
The image of a lone swordmaster cleaving through ranks upon ranks of foes was little more than romantic *knightly literature*. Above aura knights stood *aura masters*—and even among those, few could truly claim the title of swordmaster.
“Baron Greenbelt’s disguised knights have broken through the enemy’s left flank!”
“The central cavalry has completed a successful flanking maneuver!”
“Left-wing commander, Baron Perker, has been captured!”
Messenger reports poured in from the central and right flanks. Dale merely lifted his gaze, his voice even.
“So, young Lord Philip truly was unfit for command.”
A smirk tugged at his lips.
Sir Milbas and his men—once fifty strong—had been reduced to barely a dozen. The survivors could hardly stand, let alone fight.
“So this was all a trap from the start?” Milbas asked hoarsely.
“The battlefield is chaos,” Dale replied calmly. “And those who perish in that chaos do so by their own folly.”
Beyond them, the enemy’s main force was collapsing entirely—screams echoing through the blood-soaked field as steel met flesh, bone, and iron alike.
“Will you beg for your life, then?” Dale asked, his voice cold and clear amidst the cries.
“Will you kneel, pay your ransom, and plead for mercy?”
Behind his black helm, mockery colored his tone.
“Those who do, I will—by the noble customs of our Empire—grant mercy.”
Ransoming captured knights was an old tradition. Yet Dale’s words, so steeped in ridicule, left no man willing to speak.
“Don’t make me laugh!” spat one aura knight, defiant to the end.
“Oh? Is that so.”
Dale snapped his fingers.
*Thrust!*
Without hesitation, the surrounding Black Cavaliers drove their lances forward. The sound that followed was faint, like air leaking from a punctured bellows. Blood sprayed like crimson mist.
“Then die,” Dale said, utterly devoid of emotion.
“What of you, Sir Milbas?”
“…”
“In the end, it won’t be you who bears the blame for this defeat—it’ll be poor, innocent Lord Philip.”
Milbas said nothing.
Then, with a clatter of steel plates, he sank to one knee. A humiliation worse than death.
It wasn’t fear of dying that drove him. Nor disregard for honor.
He had to *live*—to deliver the warning that the Saxen heir was far more dangerous than anyone imagined.
Aura knights were irreplaceable assets. To throw away one’s life out of wounded pride was no noble death.
“Everyone, kneel!” Milbas bellowed.
“By the Empire’s code, we surrender and demand the rights due to prisoners of war!”
“You mean to kneel and beg for your lives?” Dale asked, voice still calm behind his helm.
Milbas gritted his teeth until blood welled at his lips and nodded once.
To die pointlessly in provoked rage—that was exactly what his enemy wanted.
Seeing this, Dale’s mocking smile vanished as though erased from his face.
Like an actor stepping down after the final act.
“….”
A dreadful silence hung behind the black helm. No emotion. No warmth.
“Those who survive this place…” Dale finally spoke.
“…there will be none.”
“—What?”
Gasps broke out among friend and foe alike.
“Kill them all.”
Even his own Black Cavaliers froze.
By Imperial custom, captured knights were ransomed. Yet Dale’s voice brooked no argument. His command was absolute.
A heartbeat of hesitation—then none. For a knight’s virtue lay not in doubt, but in execution.
Their unwavering obedience came from faith in their lord—and from the charisma that made such faith possible.
The black-armored knights struck as one.
*Stab! Stab!*
The disarmed knights of the Count’s household tried to rise—but it was too late.
All but one fell.
Only Sir Milbas still stood.
He snatched his sword from the ground, white aura blazing along the blade.
“I will not die so easily!”
A flash.
The blade burst with blinding light—desperate, yet magnificent, worthy of a high knight.
It was strength far beyond what Dale could match. Yet Milbas’s sword never reached him.
“Protect the young lord!”
“Don’t let that blade touch him!”
*Clang!*
The black knights surged forward, forming a living wall, their bodies the only shields Dale required.
He did not move. Did not even blink.
A commander, not a duelist.
*Thrust!*
A single spear found its mark, piercing Milbas’s thigh. His stance faltered.
Then came more spears—dozens of them—pinning him in place.
Unable to move, he was fixed upright like a broken statue as Dale stepped forward.
The boy drew near, his voice dropping to a whisper.
“Do you remember my death?”
“…What?”
Milbas blinked, confused.
“That night—I remember your face there,” Dale murmured, unblinking. “When your lord drove his sword into my back… and you stood beside him.”
He spoke with calm detachment, but his words carried a cold, forged hatred.
“I ask again, young knight… do you remember my death?”
At first, Milbas could not comprehend.
Then, as his consciousness dimmed and the world faded, terror froze his blood.
“Ah… Aaaahhh—!”
He tried to scream—
*Shhk!*
—but the *shadow cloak* beneath Dale’s black surcoat lashed upward, piercing through his chest.
A faint, hollow sound escaped his lips.
Like air leaving a burst balloon.
And then, silence.
