**Chapter 40**
—
“Wilhelm of Geol! I come before Your Grace the Duke, leading thirty knights, one hundred heavy infantry, and four hundred foot soldiers!”
“Joseph of Biddel! I come before His Grace the Black Duke, leading thirty knights, fifty heavy infantry, fifty light cavalry, and three hundred foot soldiers!”
“Kenneth of Bilderberg! One Aura Knight, thirty knights, one hundred heavy infantry…”
Within the great hall of the Ducal Castle of Saxen, the northern lords were each delivering their reports, listing the troops and knights under their command.
Before the Grand Duke seated upon the throne—their liege, the **Black Duke**—they swore their loyalty.
Gathered here were the nobles of the North, united under the greatest of northern magnates, the Duke of Saxen, one of the Empire’s three great ducal houses.
“And my eldest son, Beth of Geol, shall dedicate himself wholly to Your Grace in this coming battle…!”
“As my father has said, we of House Geol are ready to lay down our lives for Your Grace!”
A noble, likely the father, spoke up, and beside him a young man clad in armor knelt and drove his sword into the ground—a gesture as old as nobility itself, saying wordlessly, *‘Please look kindly upon my son.’*
“Our second son, Yones of House Kenneth, has also most admirably raised a hundred mercenaries of his own, and—”
And of course, the Geol Count was not the only one seeking such favor. The Duke of Saxen, therefore, spoke in his usual detached tone.
“I am, as ever, grateful for your loyalty.”
A war does not begin overnight. Before battle comes, the lords gather in the fortress, soldiers make camp and reorganize their units—and as the liege lord, the Duke must rally his vassals and consolidate his faction’s influence.
Among nobles, that process of alliance and social exchange is a ceremony as necessary as the sharpening of blades. To which side one aligns, to which family one curries favor—none of the northern nobles and their sons could be ignorant of whom they must stand beside.
“Respectfully, we greet the Black Prince!”
“Lord Dale! Your valor in the Black-and-White Battle is known far and wide!”
“I am Beth, heir to House Geol! I would be honored to fight beside you, my lord!”
*Politics, as always,* Dale thought with a faint inward sigh. The crowd began to buzz with praise of his deeds, and he smiled with the appropriate grace.
“You all have my trust,” he replied—wearing a smile befitting an eleven-year-old boy.
“Oh my, Lord Dale!”
“You’re even more gallant and dashing than people say!”
“I never imagined you’d be so handsome and composed!”
“So young, yet already so dignified and manly!”
Even the young noble ladies, barely fourteen or fifteen, crowded around with practiced charm, each desperate to make an impression.
“In times such as these, when battle is imminent,” Dale asked mildly, “is it proper for young ladies to travel here in person?”
The girls eagerly replied one after another.
“It is our duty, my lord, to attend our fathers and brothers—to ensure the men may devote themselves wholly to war.”
A smart and well-trained answer. Even the daughters of noble houses were determined to fulfill their roles with all their might.
“I see.”
Dale nodded placidly, but as he watched the endless stream of people pressing toward him, he could only smile faintly, a touch of weariness in his eyes.
There were few things as exhausting as this.
“Lord Dale.”
It was then that a new voice cut through the air—one with actual *weight* behind it, unlike the empty flattery that filled the hall.
“I have heard that, despite your youth, your martial prowess is the equal of fully grown knights.”
At the sound, Dale raised his head.
A young man stood there, dressed in slightly weathered black armor with a sword at his hip. He couldn’t have been more than twenty, still bearing traces of youth in his features—a noble’s son, clearly.
“Y-Yones! You fool!”
A nobleman—his father, no doubt—rushed over, face pale with dismay.
“How dare you speak so rudely to the young lord!”
But Dale merely raised a hand, silencing the man with a single motion.
At that gesture, the elder Kenneth fell silent at once.
“You are the second son of Baron Kenneth, Sir Yones—yes?”
“That is correct.”
At Dale’s question, Yones knelt and placed his fist to his chest in the salute of a knight. The murmur of the hall subsided as all eyes turned to the two of them.
“What is it you wish to say to me?”
“The Empire’s greatest genius…” Yones began.
“They say the young lord of House Saxen possesses unmatched talent in both sword and sorcery.”
Sword and magic.
“At your age, you led the Black-and-White Battle to a great victory and turned the knights of Saint Magdalena into a sea of blood.”
“It was the blades of House Saxen that earned that result.”
“They say the crows pecked at the corpses for seven days and nights, and still the dead did not diminish.”
“Do you have anything else you wish to say?” Dale asked coolly.
Yones nodded.
“Would you grant me, my lord, a few exchanges of instruction—with your sword?”
A stir rippled through the hall. It was, in all but name, a challenge—a duel against the Duke’s heir. In other words, Yones was daring to test whether Dale’s famed exploits were truth or mere tale.
It was not something a minor lord’s son should ever do to the heir of a grand duke.
“You insolent fool!”
“How dare you show such disrespect!”
“Your Grace, this boy speaks out of turn!”
“Throw him out of the castle at once!”
Voices erupted on every side, but Yones’ expression did not waver.
*…Interesting.*
Dale’s quiet murmur froze the commotion at once.
“Sir Yones of House Kenneth,” he said, “I hear you command a mercenary company a hundred strong.”
“Yes. As a knight-errant, I gathered them myself—from nothing.”
*A mercenary company, is it?*
As a baron’s second son, he had no hope of inheriting land. This challenge, then, was his wager—his way to prove himself.
To command a hundred mercenaries without noble backing took talent and grit indeed.
*He might be of use,* Dale thought. *And I like his courage.*
“Very well,” Dale said, nodding decisively.
“I accept your challenge.”
—
—
Before the eyes of Duke Saxen himself, the duel was set immediately—in the very hall of the ducal castle.
From his throne, the Duke gazed down impassively at the two figures below.
The lords and their heirs present were all men who would soon fight under his and his son’s command. There was no reason for him to refuse a demonstration of his son’s strength. On the contrary, it was an ideal chance to solidify the hierarchy.
He would not have permitted it otherwise—had he not been utterly certain of his son’s victory.
Whatever else might be said, Dale was still a child. To dispel any doubts the northern lords might hold, this was the perfect occasion to reveal the truth.
That the **“Black Prince”** and his dark reputation were no mere rumors.
*Schring.*
Sir Yones drew his sword. Seeing that, Dale spoke softly.
“I trust you are aware that my sword… differs from an ordinary blade.”
His black surcoat fluttered lightly though no wind stirred.
“I have heard of it, my lord,” Yones replied.
“Your ‘Shadow Blade’—that can move at your command, even without touch.”
A forbidden technique, more sorcerer’s trick than knight’s art—but Dale had never claimed to be a knight.
“Use your Aura,” Dale said.
“…!”
Yones flinched, understanding the weight of that order. To use Aura in a duel was no small matter.
“That is an order.”
Dale’s tone was cold, absolute—no room left for retreat.
“…Understood.”
Aura flowed through Yones’ body, circulating steadily. He had not yet reached the level to form an Aura Blade, but still—
*His control is quite refined,* Dale noted coolly.
“Come at me with all your strength,” he said.
At once, the shadows at Dale’s feet gained substance—rising into blades of darkness that orbited silently around him.
*So that’s the Black Prince’s sword…*
Yones swallowed, gripping his hilt tighter.
Yones of Kenneth.
At sixteen, he had wandered the continent as a knight-errant, gaining renown from nothing. By twenty, though never formally trained, he had mastered Aura through will alone.
He braced himself and kicked off the ground.
*I won’t lose… to some pampered brat born with everything!*
Born a minor noble’s second son, with no inheritance, no privilege—only a sword to his name. And now, before him stood the Duke’s heir, flaunting his “genius.”
The very thought was unbearable.
He would prove that those without could still triumph over those born with everything.
He would not kneel to the world’s cruelty and injustice.
*Clang!*
Yones swung. Their blades collided. Each time his sword struck and deflected those swirling dark edges, unease crept further into his chest.
The Black Prince’s eyes held no emotion at all.
The blades born of his shadow weaved and struck as if with minds of their own.
Slash, retreat, rush, deflect—blades clashed again and again. After dozens of exchanges, Yones began to understand.
“Ah… Ah…”
From the very start, Dale had not even *seen* him as an opponent.
His target was not Yones—but the northern lords watching this duel.
This was a demonstration.
Yones was merely the sacrifice chosen for it.
A sacrifice for the establishment of hierarchy.
Like a child toying with an insect, Dale crushed him effortlessly, displaying his mastery for all to see.
*No… impossible…*
A boy of eleven showing such ease before an Aura-wielding knight?
It was nothing short of public execution.
*I won’t let it end like this…!*
Driven by desperation, Yones’ blade lashed out in a frenzy—his strikes now true killing blows.
*Clang!*
Again and again their swords met.
*Clang! Clang!*
But that sound no longer carried the ring of battle.
It was the dull, futile sound of striking an *immovable wall*—a wall so vast and high he could not even look up to see its top.
Before he knew it, the fight had turned one-sided—Yones’ desperate struggle against the inevitable.
And at last, he understood.
The Black Prince’s so-called genius had nothing to do with noble birth or fine education.
It was something far more monstrous.
The incarnation of injustice itself.
He represented the very **unfairness of the world**, embodied in flesh and bone.
Realizing that, Yones could only laugh hollowly. There was no point in continuing. The gap between them wasn’t merely overwhelming—it was despair made real.
“My…”
The strength left his fingers.
“…Defeat.”
At once, the orbiting shadow blades froze midair.
“My victory, then,” Dale said quietly.
“Is that truly all you have?”
Yones could not answer. He simply knelt there in silence.
And silence filled the great hall—long, heavy, and absolute.
