**Chapter 39**
—
The underground workshop of the Black Duke.
At Dale’s command, the corpse of the Raven Knight slowly rose to its feet.
It was the corpse of the knight who had fallen in battle that day—for Dale’s sake.
He had sworn, even in death, to offer his body to the House of Saxsen, and had been knighted for that vow.
Though he could not be called an *Aura Knight* by conventional measure, Dale detected the coagulated remnants of aura within the knight’s body and infused it with his own mana.
*Hwoooom—!*
Black mana and aura fused together, reacting and surging upward—
and soon, that power spread throughout the body, transforming into the aura of the dead.
The deathless knight wrapped his blade in a shroud of black aura.
The Black Sword of House Saxsen.
There was no mistaking it—a Death Knight knelt before his lord, driving his sword point-first into the ground.
*Thunk!*
The Black Duke involuntarily drew in a sharp breath at the sight.
> *He’s controlling the movements with impossible precision.*
A Death Knight—a warrior whose aura transcended even that of a living Aura Knight, and whose control far outstripped that of any ordinary necromancer.
Such a feat was only possible because Dale possessed deep understanding—of swordsmanship, of the knight’s discipline, of what it meant to *be* a knight.
Without understanding the sword, to move a knight’s corpse was nonsense.
And thus, the Death Knight Dale commanded was no mere undead warrior.
He was the *Embodiment of the Sword*—a reflection of Dale’s mastery and comprehension, perfectly projected into form.
No necromancer of the Black Tower—men who shunned the sword—could ever imagine a dance of blades such as this.
Not even the Black Duke himself.
“…It worked, Father.”
At Dale’s words, the Duke of Saxsen remained silent, stunned.
He did not yet perceive the *Book of the Black Goat* whose obsidian tendrils had rooted in Dale’s heart, but he could not fail to sense the immense, dark power that now coursed through his son.
Mana—so potent and refined—that even an Eighth-Circle Archmage like the Black Duke could not hide his astonishment.
“Unbelievable. Such pure, concentrated mana…”
“I’ve had the best teacher, after all.”
Dale replied with feigned nonchalance to the continent’s greatest black mage, the man who stood atop the Black Tower.
“But Father, the Death Knights you control—the ones under the *Death Order*—they can act even without a mana supply from their master. How is that possible?”
“It’s too soon for you to learn that.”
The Black Duke shook his head.
“For now, what I’ll teach you is how to wield necromancy effectively on the battlefield.”
Thus began a lesson—based on the undead knight Dale had raised—about the principles of battle magic pursued by the Black Tower.
“You’ll need to train hard, to prepare for the battles to come.”
Dale nodded silently.
Then, the Duke snapped his fingers.
At once, several goblin corpses within the workshop began to rise, staggering to their feet.
*Crunch. Crack.*
Modified through the Duke’s dark mana, they were twisted far beyond recognition—mere remnants of their living selves.
They were death-soldiers, built solely for slaughter.
And now those death-soldiers charged toward Dale’s Death Knight, pounding the ground in unison.
The knight shifted his grip upon his sword—and danced.
His black blade spun like a vortex, slicing through bone and steel alike.
The bony sabers of the undead shattered like brittle branches.
Shadows of the blade scattered across the workshop—beautiful, graceful.
It was not ornamental beauty, but the purest form of restraint born of efficiency.
A sword meant only to take life.
“……!”
The Black Duke’s breath caught once again.
Not all Death Knights were equal.
To be revived as an undead knight, to wield an aura blade—these did not guarantee that one’s swordsmanship would remain as it was in life.
Unless one employed high black magic to reconstruct the brain and recover memories from life, a corpse was but a puppet—
and most necromancers had no understanding of the sword to guide such a puppet properly.
Thus, Death Knights were almost always crude, clumsy things.
But the swordsmanship Dale projected through his Death Knight—
it far surpassed even the Raven Knight’s own skill when alive.
> *How is this possible…?*
The Duke knew well that Dale never neglected his sword training.
Even so, for a mere *mage*—not a knight—to replicate such perfect sword forms…
> *“Young Master Dale’s gift for the sword is beyond anything I have ever witnessed.”*
The words of Sir Helmut Blackbear resurfaced in the Duke’s mind.
Dale’s talent—
Yes. In the end, it came down to talent again.
> *What kind of talent does this child truly possess?*
No, could this even be called “talent”?
In swordsmanship, in magic, in wisdom, and in strategy—
he was the Empire’s brightest prodigy, the child genius of the ducal house.
He was the Black Duke’s son,
the *Black Prince*—
Dale of Saxsen.
“…Father?”
At that moment, Dale’s voice drew him from his thoughts.
The Duke turned.
There stood his son, gazing steadily his way, his Death Knight at his side.
“Yes… You are truly my son.”
The Duke dismissed his doubts with a faint smile.
“I am proud of you.”
“It’s all thanks to your teachings, Father.”
They exchanged smiles—father and son.
No matter what anyone said, this boy was unmistakably his blood.
—
—
Day by day, Dale’s progress astonished the Empire.
As his master, who could be prouder than to hear of his student’s ever-rising achievements?
And yet, the elven mage Sephia’s heart was anything but simple as she watched him grow.
Even today, as she taught him water magic, she could not quiet the turmoil within her.
“Is something wrong, Lady Sephia?”
Dale asked gently, sensing her mood.
Sephia smiled faintly. “…It’s nothing.”
But she remembered that night—
the night after his Tower Trial, when they had walked together through the quiet city streets.
> *I like you, Teacher.*
The memory of Dale’s confession returned.
He had worn the innocence of a child afterward, as though nothing had happened—
but Sephia knew. She *felt* it.
The cold void and nameless darkness that filled Dale’s world—
the hunger, unmistakably, of a man longing for affection.
A loneliness so deep it could freeze the soul—
a yearning for a woman’s warmth.
In that moment, something had rippled through Sephia’s heart,
like a pebble dropped into still water.
He should have been just an eleven-year-old boy—
and yet, she worried for him, feared for him… and loved him dearly.
Her heart burned.
“……”
At last, Sephia reached out, her slender, pale hand brushing the boy’s cheek.
“L–Lady Sephia?”
Dale blushed deeply at her touch.
“Elves live long lives,” she murmured softly.
Her voice, gentle as always, carried a strange, haunting allure.
“Even when the day comes that you’ve grown into a man…”
She smiled faintly—beautiful, sorrowful.
“I will still look just as I do now.”
She could not understand why she said such things for his sake.
When she had heard the tale of the *Black Prince’s* overwhelming victory in the *Battle of Black and White*—
how he had annihilated all his foes—
and when she saw the Empire singing praises of the young heir of House Saxen,
she could not rejoice purely.
Human history was a history of blood and war—of killing and being killed.
And Dale’s gift… was the kind that could turn the wheels of history itself.
A god of massacre.
That thought alone terrified her.
She did not want this child to walk the path of slaughter.
“Until the day you understand your true feelings,” she whispered, extending her hand once more,
“I will remain by your side.”
Her fingers caressed his cheek.
“And when that day comes… I won’t be your teacher anymore,
but a woman.”
“……!”
Sephia’s own cheeks flushed as she spoke the words, unlike her usual self.
“So you are not alone.”
She looked away, embarrassed, as though she had just confessed her heart.
In a sense, she had.
Dale said nothing—he only watched her in silence, feeling for the first time the mature, graceful beauty of a woman.
For the first time, he understood what it meant that elves were a race of beauty.
Seeing his wordless expression—
“Ahem.”
Sephia coughed, realizing belatedly what she had said and how embarrassing it was.
“W–Well then, shall we resume the lesson…”
But before she could finish—
“Thank you.”
Dale smiled, and suddenly stepped forward, burying his face against her.
“……!”
The boldness of the gesture made her gasp,
but she could not help returning the embrace with a gentle smile.
“I really do like you, Sephia.”
He spoke softly, still holding her.
“So please… wait for me.”
“…All right.”
Warmth filled her heart, melting away the cold loneliness that had once consumed him.
It was a promise neither of them would ever forget.
A promise from their youth.
—
—
That night—
In his bedchamber, Dale sat in silence.
Sephia’s confession, if it could be called that, had caught him entirely off guard.
During his Tower Trial in Necropolis, his yearning to escape solitude had exposed his inner world to Sephia.
Their magical resonance had allowed her to glimpse it—his *world*—and feel everything within.
The frozen winter night, filled with cold and darkness.
By coincidence, their shared affinity for the water element made this possible.
The chill and loneliness that defined Dale’s world had swallowed Sephia’s entirely.
Even for a Sixth-Circle elf mage, maintaining composure after such contact was impossible.
It had been a mistake born of inexperience—and at the same time,
a warmth unlike anything she had ever known.
Now, seated cross-legged upon his bed, Dale stared out the window.
Three circles pulsed around his heart.
Between them, the black tendrils of the *Book of the Black Goat* took root.
He had once thought he had nothing to lose.
But now—he had things he wanted to protect.
Things he cherished.
> *I must grow stronger.*
And so, he would not hesitate.
No matter the price.
—
—
Soon after—
In response to the Great Demon Migration, the northern lords loyal to the Duke of Saxen began gathering within his duchy.
At the command of the mighty Duke, small and large nobles alike assembled.
Among them were many ambitious men—and their sons.
Men who sought to use the Duke of Saxen and his *Black Prince*
to prove their own worth to the world.
