**Chapter 41**
—
“Truly remarkable, Lord Dale!”
“Unbelievable skill!”
“So all those rumors were true after all!”
As the lords busied themselves with their fawning praise, celebrating Dale’s overwhelming victory,
*Was it really this easy?*
Even Dale himself, who tried to maintain composure, couldn’t entirely hide his surprise at such an effortless triumph.
His opponent was no mere novice—he was a full-fledged knight, one who wielded aura and fought with all his might. Yet the moment Dale faced him, it felt as if the entire world around him had slowed to a crawl.
Everything—except himself.
And that wasn’t all.
*The Shadow Mantle’s sword… it feels like a part of my own body.*
It was as though invisible tendrils extended from him, controlling the shadowy blades like extra limbs. That thought led him to realize the truth—about the *grimoire* that had taken root in his heart in the form of those very tendrils.
The essence of black magic fused with his body—**the Grimoire of the Black Goat**.
A grimoire is, by nature, a “magician’s sword,” a vessel that amplifies its wielder’s magical realm. In that sense, *The Grimoire of the Black Goat* was among the most dreadful of such cursed blades in existence.
Thus, when Dale rotated his magic circles to generate black mana, the grimoire embedded in his heart acted as another *Source of Darkness*, amplifying his power exponentially.
That same dense black mana strengthened his body and drew out the power of his dark artifact—the *Shadow Mantle*—to a degree that could no longer be measured by simple multiples. At his current level, Dale could now face even an Aura Knight and fight on even ground.
“Is that all you’ve got?”
Keeping his composure, Dale looked down on Sir Yones—as if he had foreseen this outcome from the very beginning.
As the eldest son of the House of Saxen, as the *Black Prince*, he stood before the man who had dared to question his name and challenge his worth.
“—*Shadow Bullet.*”
Dale snapped his fingers.
The shadow blades orbiting around him shattered all at once. The fragments reformed into bullets—black shards of malice—and rained down upon the kneeling Sir Yones.
It was like the roar of a machine gun—*Shadow Bullets* pouring down in relentless bursts.
“……!”
A scream tore through the hall—but when the echo faded, the bullets had only pulverized the marble floor at Yones’s feet.
As dust rose in the air, Dale turned away.
A silent warning. That was all it took for Sir Yones’s calm to collapse completely. His legs trembled uncontrollably.
And in that moment, everyone understood—the swordplay that the Black Prince had shown just now was nothing more than a *pastime.*
Before the full power of his magic, before the might he commanded as a true sorcerer—
those shadow blades were *nothing at all.*
The air was thick with awe—a kind of fear that words like *shock* or *amazement* could never quite express.
“……”
*Reverence.*
Just as his father had once inspired.
“Is there anyone else who wishes to challenge me?”
No one dared to speak.
“Is there anyone still left who doubts my name, who dares to prove themselves against me?”
Dale’s voice echoed coldly. The hall remained wrapped in silence.
*Kwoom!*
Then came the heavy clang of metal striking the floor. The sound of kneeling.
One by one, the armored lords and knights knelt before the young heir of House Saxen, their swords driven vertically into the ground—a gesture of unquestionable loyalty.
In that moment, Dale remembered his father’s oft-spoken words.
*Fear guarantees loyalty.*
And indeed—it was true.
—
—
That night.
After the gathering and its formalities concluded, a feast was held to celebrate the victory to come.
There was a ballroom for nobles and their families, and even the soldiers in the outer barracks were given meat and ale.
But Sir Yones, the man defeated by Dale, slipped away from the ducal castle alone, heading toward the camp of his mercenaries.
He could almost hear the curses of his father and brother—how they must have scolded his reckless behavior.
“Captain, you don’t look so good.”
“……”
Ignoring the concern of his subordinate, Yones gulped down his drink.
“Damn it all. The world’s a real piece of shit.”
Only after the alcohol began to burn in his throat did his tongue loosen.
“I could swing my sword till I drop dead and still not reach that brat’s damn *toenails*! You think I’d be in a good mood after that?”
“C-Captain…?”
“And he’s not even a knight—he’s a *mage!* Ha!”
One of his men asked cautiously, “Sir, what are you talking about?”
“I’m saying I got smashed to pieces by an *eleven-year-old brat,* you stupid bastard!”
“You mean—the Duke’s son?”
“That’s right.”
“Well, they do say he’s the greatest prodigy the Empire’s ever seen…”
*Exactly that.*
“They say a man’s worth isn’t decided at birth—that it can be changed by effort.”
Who could dare utter such nonsense in front of the Black Prince of Saxen?
This was no mere defeat—it was despair. A wall so absolute that it suffocated his heart.
A living embodiment of the world’s cruelty and unfairness.
That was what the Black Prince represented.
“Goddamn it! This booze tastes too damn good!”
Yones bellowed, slamming his cup down.
“Hell yeah! Nothing beats a good drink, Captain!”
“Bottoms up!”
In that pompous castle full of pretentious etiquette, he was sick of acting like a noble. Being among his men, who treated him as one of their own, was his only solace.
“Still makes me mad just thinking about it.”
He took another swig.
“You should’ve seen those noble ladies clinging to that eleven-year-old brat.”
“What about them, Captain?”
“Ha! They looked no better than alley whores!”
Pathetic—that was all he could think, seeing them fawn and giggle for the favor of a child.
“Then he’s probably rolling in bed with some lady right now!”
“Maybe more than one!”
“Guess that’s how it goes for a duke’s heir!”
“Think he’s even got hair down there yet?”
“He does.”
“Oh, yeah?”
Yones nodded absently—and only then did he realize how quiet the camp had become.
“What’s wrong with you lot? Cat got your tongues?”
“C-C-Captain…”
One of his men stammered, pale as death.
“The boy who just walked in… isn’t that the one you were talking about?”
None of the mercenaries had ever seen Dale Saxen in person.
But the black surcoat embroidered with the sigil of the *Raven of Saxen*, and the small frame of the boy wearing it… left no room for doubt.
“You mean that brat showed up *here*?”
Even drunk as he was, Yones turned his head without a care.
“That’s right,” came the reply.
From the boy himself.
“……”
The *Shadow Mantle* rippled faintly around him, disguised as a black coat.
Silence fell—soft as a feather.
“……”
“……”
It was painfully awkward. Then Dale quietly sat beside Yones.
“Have a drink.”
He handed over a bottle of wine he’d brought from the castle.
“This world feels cursed, doesn’t it?”
“N-No, not at all.”
Yones’s hands trembled as he accepted the bottle.
“That’s how the world is,” Dale said, almost like an older man advising a junior.
“Unfair, irrational… and there’s not a damn thing we can control.”
He spoke as if it were all someone else’s story.
“Talent you’re born with, your surroundings, your blood, your family…”
Then Dale asked,
“Of all the things that shape our fate, is there *one* we truly choose ourselves?”
“N-No, there isn’t.”
Yones shook his head.
“Yet you still believe we can forge our own destiny?”
“……”
Yones almost nodded—at least, he would have, before he’d met the Black Prince.
“So don’t blame yourself too much,” Dale said softly.
“……”
“There’s no such thing as a fate we can change with our own hands.”
Hearing *that* from the very person who embodied such unfairness—
it was almost laughable.
And after he laughed, he found himself weeping.
—
—
At first, he thought it had all been a dream. Or a drunken hallucination.
*Lord Dale is asking for you,* they said the next morning, when the Raven Knights of Saxen came to fetch him.
Inside the ducal castle’s chamber—
“Do you remember what happened last night?”
“L-Lord Dale…”
At Dale’s calm, polite tone, Yones swallowed hard.
*So it really was a dream?*
“You were so drunk you said you’d start calling me ‘big brother.’”
“……N-No way.”
“We had quite a meaningful talk until dawn.”
Only after Dale began recounting their entire conversation word for word did Yones realize—none of it had been a dream.
“Sir Yones, second son of Baron Kenneth,” Dale said evenly.
The duel, his defeat, the late-night commotion—all of it.
“You were born to live in your brother’s shadow, built your life as a wandering knight, and raised a company of a hundred mercenaries by your sword alone.”
It all sounded like a fleeting dream… yet somehow, it was real. And Yones was sure this would be the last scene of his life.
Soon, he thought, the Raven Knights would take his head.
But then—Dale said something entirely unexpected.
“I like you.”
“…Pardon?”
“You and your mercenaries both.”
And the next words left Yones doubting his own ears.
“How about serving under me—for House Saxen?”
“W-What do you mean…?”
“Before the coming battles, my knights will train you and your men,” Dale continued.
The Raven Knights themselves—training mercenaries?
“From the way you hold your sword to the cultivation of aura—you’ll learn everything.”
Yones had long stopped believing in opportunity. He thought the only thing he could rely on was his own blade.
“Forget the future for now. What matters is surviving the next battlefield.”
And ironically, the one who had taught him the cruelty of the world—
was now the one offering him something no one else ever had.
“Why… why are you doing this for me?”
Yones’s voice trembled. He had almost forgotten he was speaking to an eleven-year-old boy.
“I just happened to need people,” Dale replied casually.
“And you happened to be there.”
As if it truly didn’t matter either way.
“That’s how the world works.”
