**Chapter 37**
—
*I can win. I can win!*
A celestial aria rang through the air, and Nicolai’s heart swelled with victory and hope.
From the heavens descended angels of war—six-winged beings wielding flaming swords. The knights of the Church, empowered by the hymn magic of the White Tower, charged with divine might. It was as though the heavens themselves were storming down upon the earth.
Dale threw out his arm in haste.
“**Shadow Bullet.**”
Along his fluttering shadowed cloak, a storm of darkness-formed bullets rained down. Yet the angels, gliding effortlessly through the air, evaded the barrage and closed in on him once more. Their speed was overwhelming.
*As expected of my angels!*
Even if the Duke of Saxen’s son was hailed as the Empire’s greatest prodigy, in the end, he was still nothing more than a fledgling—merely a third-circle expert.
And even if *The Book of the Black Goat* was the most dreadful grimoire in existence, there was no way a mere third-circle novice could draw forth its full potential.
“**Praise her…!**”
The aria resounded from deep within Nicolai’s chest, and divine light wrapped the infernal plain in radiance.
“**Alleluia!**”
“…loud.”
And then, as if answering Nicolai’s sacred hymn—
“Shut up.”
The silence of darkness finally spoke.
“Shut up, shut up, shut up!”
To Dale’s eyes, the girl with the black goat’s horns screamed.
“■■■■──!”
But to Nicolai and his angels, it must have seemed merely the shriek of some abhorrent abomination.
A grotesque being of the otherworld, its body a mass of countless writhing tendrils.
**Shaaak!**
From beneath the girl’s skirt, clusters of tentacles burst forth, lashing toward the angels who had just evaded Dale’s shadow bullets.
“…!”
Flaming swords were swung in the angels’ hands, and divine fire surged forth—a holy blaze that burned all enemies of the Goddess.
The tentacles, sliced apart with ease, seemed to wither before that sanctified flame—but in the next instant, dark blood spurted from the severed flesh.
Right before the angels’ eyes.
It was pitch-black and viscous, more like tar than blood. The sticky fluid splattered across the angels’ bodies, coating them in darkness.
“…?!”
The angels froze mid-flight. Not falling—but still.
Then, after a breathless silence, they turned.
Toward Cardinal Nicolai, the one they were meant to protect.
“P–Praise…”
“P–P–P–Praise… her…”
Their mutterings, twisted by madness, sent ice down Nicolai’s spine.
The sacred knights—heralds of the Goddess who should have been reborn as invincible warriors through the celestial aria—
Their wings now bulged grotesquely, writhing like nests of worms. From their faces, black tar-like blood streamed down in rivulets, as if they were weeping tears of darkness.
“Ah… ahhh…”
Cardinal Nicolai’s hope shattered. They were no longer angels of the celestial goddess.
There, before him, stood angels of the dark.
Black blood tears ran down their faces as veins bulged grotesquely beneath their skin, twisting their bodies into something no longer worthy of being called *wings*.
**Shaaak!**
Tentacles lashed once more—this time at the corrupted angels themselves.
**Crunch!**
Limbs snapped, wings were ripped apart, armor shattered, skulls caved in. Tentacles pierced into heads and burrowed deep, rooting themselves within. Like an evil god toying with its own creations… Nicolai’s angels—the Church’s proud knights of the Goddess Sistina—were mercilessly defiled.
And before that horror, all a sixth-circle white mage could do was tremble in fear.
—
—
“In Hell’s affairs,” came a calm voice amid the chaos,
“the parties to the contract bear no responsibility.”
The *Black Prince* broke his silence.
As Dale stepped closer, the distance between him and Nicolai closed.
“A–Ahhh…”
The Cardinal forgot entirely that his adversary was but an eleven-year-old boy. Paralyzed with terror, he trembled as though before the Devil himself.
The prodigy of the ducal house. The son of the Black Duke. The Empire’s greatest genius.
No.
Such trivial titles could not describe him.
He was the *child of a demon.*
*The enemy of the Goddess.*
The seed of evil conceived in the shadow of the twin sisters.
“Do you wish to live?” Dale asked.
Beside him stood that ghastly mass of tendrils—the girl with the goat’s horns.
“P–Please…”
Nicolai pleaded for his life in desperation.
“I don’t see why not,” Dale said evenly.
“But what can you offer me in return?”
“W–What…?”
Terrified, Nicolai stammered. Then, grasping for anything, he began to offer everything—his title, his wealth, his Church’s power, his authority as a sixth-circle white mage and a cardinal of bishop rank—spilling out promises in a frantic torrent.
“I like that.”
“W–What do you like?”
“Everything you have,” Dale replied.
“Y–You can’t mean…!”
The realization froze Nicolai’s expression, despair crashing over him like a tidal wave. For Dale’s words could mean only one thing.
“It seems we’ll have to rewrite our contract.”
A geas of absolute obedience—binding through the Oath.
At that moment, there was no turning back for Nicolai. Even if it meant selling his soul to the Devil himself.
—
—
“It was *so* much fun playing with you, big brother!”
The horned girl smiled brightly, as though she’d just returned from a pleasant outing.
“I really like your world.”
Beneath her skirt, her countless tendrils writhed. In that desolate, frozen horizon—the void that was Dale’s inner world.
“So I’ll be waiting here.”
Dale smiled faintly, enduring the pain in his heart that felt as though it would wither and crack apart from the exhaustion of mana.
A grimoire, after all, was but a vessel for thought—and not necessarily a book in form. Thus, *The Book of the Black Goat* had now fused entirely with Dale’s inner world, rooting itself into his heart in the form of those very tendrils.
“Aren’t you afraid of me, big brother?” she asked, standing upon the frozen plain.
“I’m not afraid.”
“I see. That’s good.”
She smiled with quiet relief.
“Then… can we play again someday?”
Her tone turned a little anxious.
“We’ll meet again,” Dale said with a nod.
“Good! I’m glad!”
Seeing her power—enough to overwhelm a sixth-circle white mage—Dale understood at once: she was far too dangerous to summon lightly. He could not yet fully control *The Book of the Black Goat.*
It was the very embodiment of the Saxen family’s deep-rooted darkness—the vessel of *Frederick the Undying’s* ideology.
Even for the Empire’s greatest genius, this was a forbidden domain beyond bearing.
*And it’s not something to flaunt around, either.*
This was not a power to be brandished recklessly, but a final trump card—a hidden move to be used only at the end.
In a sense, he was sealing her within the abyss of thought itself. And the girl surely understood that too.
“I promise,” Dale said quietly.
“This isn’t the end for us.”
“Before long, we’ll get to play again—freely, as much as we want.”
“Okay! I’ll be waiting!”
The girl smiled, and Dale nodded—leaving her behind in that cold, desolate void filled with frost and solitude.
—
—
When the turmoil of Hell finally ended…
The Duke’s son of Saxen received grand *absolution*—in the name of Cardinal Nicolai himself.
As a symbol of renewed friendship between the Church and the Saxen family, an unprecedented honor followed from the Church’s side.
On the road back to the ducal lands, Dale and his knights no longer concealed their identities as mere pilgrims.
And so, none dared to stand in the way of the *Black Prince* and the swords of Saxen that followed him.
—
—
**Months later.**
Dark radiance ran along the edge of a blade. It was a *heavy sword*, its thick steel infused with aura—the technique inherited from the northern Night Raven Knights.
To draw forth refined aura from one’s body and wrap it around the blade in visible form—those who could reach such a level were known as *Aura Knights.*
The jet-black aura blade shimmered. Grasping the black sword, symbol of the Saxen family, the sword maiden *Charlotte* lifted her gaze.
“It’s done.”
At her declaration, her teacher—Sir Helmut Blackbear—was struck speechless. The gathered knights of Saxen shared the same astonishment.
Dale Saxen was not the only one in the world blessed with an extraordinary, unorthodox talent.
*To have completed an aura blade of that level at her age!*
Then—
“Charlotte of Orhart,” Dale said, his tone calm and steady—the only one among them whose composure remained unshaken.
“I, Dale of Saxen, ask you this.”
Before him, Charlotte knelt, driving the black sword of Saxen into the ground.
“For the honor of your lord, your family, and all that you must protect…”
He lightly tapped her shoulder with his sword.
“Will you uphold the knight’s oath and wield your blade accordingly?”
“I swear it,” Charlotte said, bowing her head.
“Will you resist selfish desire, protect the weak, and strike down the wicked?”
“I swear it.”
“Then may true knightly virtue dwell within your sword,” Dale proclaimed.
“In the name of Saxen, I hereby appoint you—*Lady Charlotte*—as my knight.”
Charlotte’s knighting ceremony.
Though modest, attended only by a few Night Raven knights, for both Dale and the ducal house of Saxen, it was no small honor.
And so, Charlotte smiled softly—overcome with emotion at finally becoming the sword that could protect *her lord.*
—
—
After the ceremony, in the courtyard of the ducal castle—
“Are you really sure about this?” Dale asked.
Charlotte nodded firmly.
“I like the sword of Saxen.”
Though Dale hesitated, aware of the doctrinal differences between their Northern and ducal sword arts, Charlotte’s will was unwavering.
“It’s the sword that made me who I am.”
Thus, by her own choice, she embraced the Night Raven style and took up not a rapier but the *greatsword* of Saxen. As the disciple of the continent’s strongest—Sir Helmut Blackbear, one of the Seven Great Swords—
It was only natural that she soon perfected the black sword of Saxen, the *Jet Aura Blade,* with astonishing speed.
“I never imagined I’d become a knight like this,” Charlotte said with a shy smile.
“Thank you, Dale. It’s all thanks to you.”
Seeing that bashful expression, Dale realized—it was *he* who had underestimated her talent.
“…Beyond the Demon Realm,” Dale said, his tone turning serious, “intelligence reports say a massive orc warband is gathering.”
Charlotte’s eyes widened.
“It’s said the Orc Warlord himself is leading them.”
“…!”
“Father is summoning the ducal army and the northern lords. I’ll be taking part in that battle as well.”
He met her gaze.
“In that battle, I want *you* to stand by my side.”
“…”
“As my knight.”
Charlotte gasped. No matter how skilled, she was still only eleven years old.
But she did not falter.
“…All right,” she said softly, nodding.
For a knight’s sword exists only to serve her lord—and her lord had asked for her blade.
