**Chapter 38**
—
**The Demons, and the Demon King.**
Those words, though they sound like something out of a fairy tale, are merely names given **from a human point of view.**
The term *“Demon”* does not refer to a specific race, but rather serves as a **collective label for all monsters possessing intelligence beyond a certain level.**
Orcs, goblins, and even other aberrant creatures whose species cannot be identified—
All of them fall under that same definition.
As for the land known as the **Demon King’s Domain**, beyond the northern reaches—
The *Dark Land*—
little is known.
Long ago, when the Hero joined forces with the Empire’s armies to slay the being known as the “Demon King,”
the people of the continent believed, without a shred of doubt, that peace had finally come to the world.
But what the Imperial High Command came to realize was this—
that many among the demons had not been annihilated,
but had simply undertaken a **mass migration** to survive the barren environment of the Dark Land.
It was not some grand, evil ambition to stain the world with darkness.
They simply sought to live.
Thus, even after the fall of the Demon King,
large-scale southward migrations of demons never truly ceased.
They came to be known collectively as the **“Barbarian Invasions.”**
And the fact that a massive orc war horde had begun marching southward toward the Duchy of Saxen—
meant precisely that.
—
—
“Could it be… another *Barbarian Invasion*?”
“Most likely.”
At Dale’s words, the Duke of Saxen gave a silent nod.
“This will be a battlefield unlike any we’ve faced before.”
The most terrifying opponents are those who fight simply to survive.
And in that regard, Dale understood the danger of demons better than anyone.
The Church might claim that demons seek to engulf the world in evil—but he knew that was not true.
Fortunately, wars are never waged in a single day.
“We’ll need allies, then.”
“I’ve already ordered a summons to the northern lords, the Black Tower, and all knights under my banner.”
“No other aid we can expect?”
The Duke fell silent at Dale’s question—an implicit answer.
After all, fighting and bleeding against the demon tribes was exactly what the Empire and its rivals wished to see from them.
“It will not be an easy war.”
And so, the Duke continued.
“It seems the time has come to teach you how to wield necromancy upon the battlefield.”
—
—
“Charge!”
Led by Sir Vale of House Baskerville, the Saxen cavalry raised their voices as one.
Their lances gleamed beneath the sun as the heavy cavalry thundered forward toward a pack of wolves.
Beasts and monsters—both threaten human survival just the same.
Both are foes to be eradicated for the peace of the domain.
The knights’ spears pierced through the charging wolves,
while the beasts counterattacked with desperate ferocity.
Blood and steel clashed in a blur of motion.
“As you can see,” Dale said quietly, observing from a nearby hill alongside his retainer, Knight Charlotte,
“the lance charge of Saxen’s knights doesn’t suit you.”
Charlotte’s small, delicate frame was ill-suited to cavalry warfare that relied on horsemanship and spearplay.
Even the greatsword she carried—a blade of Saxen’s make—was something she could wield only thanks to her *Aura Power*.
“…I know.”
Her voice faltered slightly at Dale’s words.
“But as long as you can wield aura, even a child’s body can match a grown knight’s strength.”
He paused, then spoke again with quiet weight.
“You must draw out every ounce of talent that’s been given to you.”
“My talent…”
The talent of the sword—
a blessing and a curse bestowed upon her as the daughter of the Holy Sword.
In some sense, it was no different from being born with a gift for aura itself.
“I understand.”
Charlotte nodded solemnly.
Aura and mana were, at their core, powers that harnessed the same energy.
And a knight’s blade, once honed to mastery, carried within it the same “intent” as a mage’s spell.
“Stand on your own two feet,” Dale said.
“Focus on wielding Saxen’s black blade.”
The black aura that was the pride of the Saxen line shimmered faintly in her grasp.
“From now on, you’ll gain more combat experience than you’ll know what to do with.”
As the battle between cavalry and wolves drew to its end, Dale spoke again.
“Let’s find a sword style that suits you.”
“Thank you,” Charlotte replied softly.
“I’ll train even harder—for your sake.”
Her cheeks flushed shyly, her expression bright.
“So that one day, I can be a knight worthy of standing before the *Black Prince* himself!”
Her words carried not a hint of hesitation.
—
—
That afternoon, in the Duke’s underground workshop—
Dale’s first lesson in the battlefield use of necromancy began.
“What do you think is the difference between a *Death Knight* and a *corpse soldier*?”
The Death Knight—the Knight of Death. And the undead soldiers.
“The difference between a knight and a footman, perhaps?”
The Duke nodded at Dale’s reply.
“Then where does that difference come from?”
“The difference in strength.”
“Half correct.”
The Duke shook his head.
“Not everyone who wields great strength can become a knight.”
He extended his hand toward the body laid upon the platform—
the corpse of a *Raven Knight*, who in life had sworn to serve House Saxen,
and in death, had donated his body for its cause.
“Then… it’s whether they possessed an Aura Blade?”
“Exactly.”
The Duke snapped his fingers.
Dark mana swirled and seeped into the corpse.
The knight’s body rose—clad once more in black armor, sword in hand.
“The higher one’s mastery of aura in life…”
The undead knight exhaled a faint, cold breath—
his *Aura Blade*, honed in life as a Raven Knight, now erupting in black brilliance even in death.
“…the stronger the Death Knight they become.”
“And when aura and dark mana share strong compatibility,
a truly powerful Death Knight can be born.”
“…!”
Dale felt as if struck by a hammer.
Now he understood why the Raven Knights of the north—
the knights of Saxen—
all wielded **black aura blades**.
Because *dark aura* and *dark mana* shared the perfect affinity.
The aura of shadow. The mana of shadow.
In other words, the Raven Knights had forged their blades with the resolve to **rise again as Death Knights after death.**
“Never forget,” said the Duke, gazing at the risen knight,
“that even in death, they are still proud knights.”
Then, turning away from the newly reborn Death Knight, he said quietly—
“Come with me.”
After a long silence, he began walking across the workshop, his steps heavy,
the undead knight following in his wake.
“There is something I must show you.”
Something that carried an unfathomable weight.
“Yes, Father.”
They walked through the workshop,
arriving at the place where Dale had once obtained a dark artifact.
But the Duke did not stop there.
He continued downward—
deeper still, into the blackest depths below.
‘Where is he taking me…?’
Dale followed silently.
“Do you know of our ancestor, the Immortal Duke, *Frederick of Saxen*?”
At that name, Dale’s thoughts turned to *The Book of the Black Goat*—
the grimoire rooted in his heart,
and to the girl with black goat’s horns who waited for him in the Abyss of Thought.
“I’ve read of him in books… and heard stories from you, Father.”
“The man was a monster of truth,” the Duke said quietly.
“One who sought knowledge beyond death’s veil—
even offering up his own daughter as sacrifice.”
He stopped walking.
“And what I’m about to show you…”
Thud.
His steps ceased.
“…is what he sought—and what we, House Saxen, still owe to that ancient darkness.”
Before them stood a vast underground vault.
The walls themselves seemed to breathe with living shadow,
and Dale could sense a barrier of unimaginable power at work.
“Only those of true Saxen blood may pass through here.”
With that, the Duke stepped into the dark.
Dale followed without hesitation.
Whoooom—
The barrier of pure darkness accepted them both,
opening wide like the jaws of an abyss.
A bond of blood beyond doubt.
And what lay beyond stole Dale’s breath away.
There stood **an army of undying knights.**
In a cavernous tomb reminiscent of pyramids or imperial mausoleums—
rank upon rank of black-armored warriors,
like the *terracotta army* of the First Emperor.
Not one.
Not ten.
Not a hundred.
Thousands.
“What is this…”
Even Dale could not hide his shock.
Thousands of Death Knights—an *Army of Death*—slumbered there.
More than the total number of knights any single nation could muster.
Each mounted upon an undead warhorse.
Yet he soon realized—they were not sleeping.
They were silent.
Merely waiting.
Waiting for an order.
…From whom?
The thought sent a chill down Dale’s spine.
“The Immortal Duke discovered a way to sustain the dead
without continuous mana supply,” the Duke said quietly.
“And ever since, each head of House Saxen has nurtured
a legion known as the *Death Order*.”
The Death Order—
a monastic order of dead knights.
And at last, Dale understood.
“I am no exception,” the Duke continued.
He now realized why House Saxen had always clung to isolationism—
and why his father, the Black Duke,
so fiercely upheld “morality” in wielding the powers of darkness.
“This is our darkness.”
It was hypocrisy so vile it made one’s stomach turn.
“And yet,” the Duke added,
“this darkness is also our shield.”
Against enemies from without—
and from within.
The Death Knight the Duke had just raised began to march
among the ranks of the Death Order.
Dale recognized him immediately—
a knight who had died on the left flank of the Black-and-White Battle, fighting for Dale’s sake.
And thus, another joined the Death Order—
a Death Knight whose aura blade still shone,
now powered by eternal, self-sustaining force.
How?
Even Dale could not begin to imagine.
“Are you prepared to accept this darkness?”
the Duke asked, his tone even, heavy.
At that moment, Dale’s heart began to throb violently.
The three mana circles—
and the *black tendrils* that clung to his heart—
writhed in response.
“…”
Dale steadied himself,
then gave a firm nod.
“I was prepared from the very beginning.”
There was no reason to hesitate—
no matter how profane,
no matter how accursed this power might be.
