**Chapter 33**
—
The Black Duke and the Holy Swordmaster.
A proxy war fought under the names of mere barons, but in truth between two of the Empire’s greatest lords.
That day’s battle, later known as the *Battle of Black and White*, spread like wildfire—wordless steeds galloping a thousand li.
And before long, the story, swollen and embellished as it passed from mouth to mouth, became a splendid piece of propaganda—one that even Dale himself had never intended.
A child standing at the very front of the battlefield, cutting down enemy knights with a single sweep of his blade, commanding encirclement formations with divine stratagems, and leading his men to a dazzling victory.
And at the end of that victory, showing not a shred of mercy to the foes who begged for their lives.
A mountain of corpses that even a week of pecking crows could not diminish, and a sea of blood overflowing like a flood.
That, according to the people of the Empire, was the terrible glory and cruelty of the *Black Prince*.
A tale where truth and falsehood were conveniently mingled and lavishly exaggerated.
The son of the Black Duke—*the Black Prince.*
*“Like father, like son.”*
It was not unrelated to why Dale’s father had become a figure of fear himself.
People’s stories are always prone to exaggeration.
And after all, which would sound more convincing to the public: a dull truth where an entire battalion perished due to an incompetent commander, or a sensational story about the Black Duke’s son ruthlessly executing surrendering foes?
The latter always wins.
—
—
“I have a gift for your eleventh birthday.”
Some time later, in the Duke of Saxen’s study, the Black Duke spoke to his son.
“When your birthday comes, at the formal ceremony, you shall be appointed as a *Viscount* of the Duchy of Saxen.”
“……!”
It was a birthday gift truly befitting one born with a silver spoon.
“After that, as my *appointed deputy*, you will assist me in overseeing the affairs of the duchy.”
A viscount, strictly speaking, is not a *true noble* like a count or baron.
He holds no independent fief of his own, but instead acts as a representative on behalf of his liege within that liege’s territory—a title closer to that of an honorary noble.
“As the Duke’s deputy, you will have the authority to summon Saxen’s knights and demand the fulfillment of their obligations, including military service, as necessary.”
Yet even among viscounts, there are distinctions.
To serve as the deputy of a mere count is one thing—but to serve as the deputy of a grand duke like the Duke of Saxen is another entirely.
It was the difference between heaven and earth.
And Dale was also the heir who would one day inherit the duchy itself.
Thus, what the Black Duke was granting his son was not a trifle that could be measured by titles or lands.
“Thank you, Father.”
Dale bowed again, showing his respect.
It was the Black Duke’s promise—to recognize him as an equal partner in leading the House of Saxen. And he had kept that promise.
“And since you’ve said so, Father…”
With that promise as his foundation, Dale raised his head.
“It may be somewhat sudden, but as Your Grace’s deputy, there is something I wish to carry out.”
—
—
Not long after, Dale turned eleven.
And in the name of his father, the Black Duke, he was formally invested as *Viscount* and appointed deputy of the Duchy of Saxen.
Around that time, a letter reached the Holy Church:
The Black Prince of Saxen was preparing to set out on a *pilgrimage* to the Holy Site—the land of the goddess.
—
—
“You intend to make a pilgrimage to the Papal States of Sistina?”
At that, the Black Duke blinked, as if doubting his own ears.
“Yes, Father.”
The Papal States of Sistina—once known as the *Theocracy*, the heart of the Goddess Church and home to the White Tower, whose magi called themselves the handmaidens of God.
“People say that during that battle, the Black Prince showed no mercy—slaughtering all without leaving a single prisoner.”
Dale’s tone was calm.
“The knights of the Goddess Church became the victims of my so-called cruelty. I doubt the Church is pleased about that.”
It was well-known that the Holy Swordmaster and the Order of Saint Magdalena proudly bore the Church’s banner.
And those same faithful warriors had been annihilated, their corpses forming mountains and rivers of blood.
The Church could hardly be pleased with the result—a result that had made the name *Black Prince* synonymous with merciless savagery.
The *Battle of Black and White* had ended in a devastating defeat for them. As Dale said, it was a truth the Church would rather forget.
“Fear,” the Black Duke replied slowly, “is a greater asset than anything else.”
“Do you mean to deny your own infamy just to curry favor with the Church?”
“That’s a power worth appeasing,” Dale said firmly.
“As the Duke’s heir and deputy, if I walk to the Holy Site to beg for the goddess’s forgiveness…”
He paused, then continued.
“…then surely the Church will respond in kind—with appropriate goodwill.”
The Black Duke narrowed his eyes. “You’re planning something.”
“Yes.” Dale nodded without hesitation.
“I intend to make them an offer they can’t refuse.”
And, while he was there, acquire a few *forbidden grimoires*—books the Church had sealed away.
—
—
The border between the Greenbelt and Perker Baronies, where the *Battle of Black and White* had once raged.
It marked the end of what was considered the northern reaches of the Empire—and the beginning of the central lands beyond the Duke of Saxen’s influence.
The only ones who had not been destroyed in that battle were not the Count’s men alone.
The bandit-turned-knight, Baron Perker—who had earned his title through plunder—was no exception.
He had lost nearly all of the trusted men who had followed him since his mercenary days, and had been forced to pay the Duke of Saxen a vast ransom just to secure his own release.
His castle ran dry of liquor and women, and his scorched lands had nothing left to squeeze.
Thus, the destitute Baron Perker returned to what he knew best.
Thievery.
As befit a man once famed as a *bandit knight*, robbing travelers who passed through his territory was an ancient and noble tradition of the Perker domain.
──And that day was no different.
A group of travelers had wandered foolishly into his lands, and one of the baron’s men shouted excitedly:
“Fire!”
A volley of arrows whistled through the air, breaking the silence—launched from the hills ideal for ambush, from both the front and rear of the road the travelers were following.
Neighhh!
Startled by the sudden attack, the travelers’ horses reared and panicked.
“How dare you trespass upon the domain of Baron Perker without permission!”
Before long, the bandits surrounded them, and one among the travelers, cloaked in a robe, stepped forward.
“What is it that you desire?”
The voice was youthful—almost childlike.
“It is only proper to pay tolls when crossing a noble’s land!”
“……Understood.”
Yet, despite the threat, the traveler nodded calmly, unfazed.
Clink.
He drew a pouch heavy with coins from within his robe.
“I have prepared the appropriate toll in advance.”
“Well, well, looks like you’re not entirely ignorant.”
One of the baron’s men grinned, snatching the pouch from the boy’s hand and inspecting the contents with satisfaction. The sum was considerable.
“Good! Out of the goodness of my heart, I’ll let you go this time!”
At his loud, boastful declaration, the rest of the bandits stepped back, snickering and exchanging knowing glances.
—
—
A few hours later, as dusk settled over the western hills—before the travelers had even crossed the ridge—
The same bandits appeared once again, now in far greater numbers.
“Stop right there!”
Their leader, Baron Perker himself, had joined them, accompanied by what few knights remained in his service.
“Make way for Baron Perker!”
“Show respect before the Baron!”
“How dare you pass through this domain without paying the toll!”
Their equipment was worn and rusted, pitiful compared to the Black Duke’s elite knights—but still more than enough to threaten a group of travelers.
“Toll?”
The young traveler spoke up again.
“We already paid your men earlier.”
His tone was calm, almost puzzled.
“By Imperial law, isn’t it illegal to collect tolls twice within a single domain?”
“Paid? What nonsense are you spouting in broad daylight!”
One of the baron’s men cackled.
“We just met you for the first time!”
“That’s right! We’re men of the law, after all!”
They burst into laughter, pretending not to remember the earlier encounter.
In this world, danger lurks everywhere, and the word *law* carries little weight.
The law is distant—but the sword is near. That is the world they live in.
“Do you even know who you’re speaking to?”
“This is the man who fought the infamous *Black Prince* himself—without taking a single step back!”
“Aye! The heroic Baron Perker, survivor of the legendary *Battle of Black and White!*”
“If you value your life, hand over your belongings quietly!”
But then—
“……What?”
As his men shouted their boasts, Baron Perker felt a chill run down his spine.
That voice. That battle. That boy. It couldn’t be—
“‘Hero of battle,’ is it?”
The young traveler spoke again, his voice mild but cold. Then, he pushed back his hood.
“What I remember… differs somewhat from your version.”
The face beneath it was that of an eleven-year-old boy.
Baron Perker’s face turned deathly pale.
“A-ah… ahhh…”
Meanwhile, the other travelers dismounted, drawing the blades from their waists.
“Your orders, my lord.”
Their swords gleamed darkly, cloaked in *black aura blades*—the mark of the *Raven Knights*.
How could he forget? Those same black blades had slaughtered his men mercilessly on the left flank of that battlefield.
They were not the swords of mere travelers defending themselves, but the blades of the *House of Saxen’s Black Knights*—merciless, unfeeling, unstoppable.
The nightmare he had long tried to forget… had returned.
