**Chapter 43**
—
A river, in itself, is an undeniable natural fortress.
When an army attempts a forced crossing under enemy fire, countless soldiers are trapped in the narrow shallows, creating bottlenecks. In such conditions—where the current churns at their feet and the enemy holds the defensive line—it becomes nearly impossible to break through.
That is why the main forces of the Black Duke had anchored their strategy on holding several key fords along the River Saxen.
The enemy, to reach even this point, had already endured a grueling war of attrition against the defenders of the mountain fortresses. Their supplies were stretched to the brink; it was only a matter of time before desperation drove them to a reckless, tearful assault across the river.
And then, with a thunderous roar that seemed to rend heaven and earth, the orcs began their charge.
The *Orc Riders*—the fiercest elite under the Orc Warlord—drove their mounts into the river.
> “Do not let those monsters set foot on land!”
> “Archers, take aim!”
Across the shallows, the knights of House Saxen shouted their commands. Dismounting, they formed a solid defensive line to blunt the impact of the orc riders.
Axes and shields clashed as the wolf-mounted orcs collided with the heavily armored infantry sworn to the Saxen banner.
Steel met steel; iron tore through flesh. The wet air rang with the screams of battle.
At most of the fords, the defenders managed to hold. But at a few points where the garrisons or their leaders were less capable, the orcs succeeded in forcing a crossing.
The strongest of the orc elites made landfall first. When they broke through the initial line, the following troops surged forward with terrifying momentum.
In an instant, the tide turned. The morale of the defenders began to falter, and the swelling orc numbers soon pressed them to the brink.
It was then that the *Mobile Strike Force*, commanded by the “Black Prince” of House Saxen, made its appearance.
Not from behind their embattled allies—
but from *behind the orcs themselves*, across the river.
Just as the enemy’s weight was thrown forward in their desperate attempt to cross, Dale’s forces struck at their exposed rear.
> “Charge.”
> “As you command, my lord!” cried Sir Vale of Baskerville.
> “CHARGE!”
> “For House Saxen!”
> “For Lord Dale!”
Six cavalry battalions thundered forth—the *Black Cavalry*, pride of House Saxen.
After a sweeping flanking maneuver, the Saxen riders fell upon the orc horde’s unguarded rear.
A massacre began.
> “It’s Lord Dale!”
> “The Black Prince has arrived!”
> “The Black Cavalry is tearing through their rear!”
The Black Duke’s son—terror of the enemy, savior of his own.
To their foes, a nightmare. To his men, the embodiment of faith and certainty.
The very presence of that fearsome figure inspired unshakable trust—a paradoxical virtue of terror itself.
> “Lord Dale fights beside us!”
> “The Black Prince’s cavalry is cutting them down!”
> “The enemy’s isolated! Hold the line! Link with the Prince’s forces and tighten the encirclement!”
His mere existence rekindled morale and overturned a losing battle.
Six battalions—barely three hundred riders—
yet the enemy’s formation remained weighted toward the river.
It takes immense effort to turn such numbers around, and Dale struck precisely at that vulnerable moment.
The impact of the Saxen cavalry smashed into the orcs’ weak point like a hammer from the heavens.
Dale himself led from the front.
As Sir Vale’s vanguard pulled back from the first charge, Dale joined the second assault.
On horseback, his shadow-cloak fluttered—shifting and merging with the black surcoat he wore.
> “Shadow Bullet.”
With his charge, a storm of shadowy projectiles rained upon the orc ranks.
Bullets of living malice twisted through the air; the barrage was as fierce as a machine gun’s roar. Against that power, the orcs’ leather-tough flesh offered no protection.
For a commander to fight at the front carried immense risk—
but the reward was absolute.
> “Lord Dale rides with us!”
> “Show no mercy!”
Undeniable trust burned like fire in the hearts of the Saxen knights.
Fighting beside Dale were the *Raven Knights* of House Saxen, driving their lances into the enemy with maddened zeal.
At his flank, Charlotte swung her great black blade from horseback, scattering arcs of darkness through the air.
Each stroke carved through orc flesh—arms, legs, necks, shoulders flying apart like toy pieces.
> “Leave this to me!” shouted Charlotte, her face hidden behind a black helm.
> “Dale, if we delay any longer, they’ll reform their lines,” said Sepia coolly.
Dale nodded.
> “We’ll withdraw before they reorganize their formation.”
Across the river, emboldened by his deeds, the allied troops drove the orcs back—chanting his name, praising the Black Cavalry, refusing to yield their hope of victory.
At most of the other fords, the defenses still held firm. Only a few weak points, manned by lesser lords, needed attention.
> “Orc Riders are turning their mounts!”
The warning came just as Dale looked up.
> “Retreat.”
*Hit and run.*
There was no need for total victory or extermination.
The strike force had achieved its purpose. Without hesitation, they wheeled their horses and withdrew, leaving behind a riverbank carpeted with the corpses of orcs.
—
—
The pursuit came swiftly—orc riders in chase.
It was expected.
Fragmenting the enemy’s cavalry posed no danger, and even if pursuit was allowed, Dale’s men could easily destroy them.
Keeping his distance, Dale studied the approaching pursuers.
He intended to lure them far from their reinforcements—then turn and crush them.
But the *unexpected* appeared among them.
> “Horses…?”
Not the massive wolves orcs usually rode. Dale blinked, momentarily doubting his eyes.
Orcs rarely rode horses. Yet among the pursuing riders were several figures cloaked in suspicious robes—*demons* riding on horseback.
The term *demon* encompassed all intelligent monsters, not just orcs. It was not strange for a few to mingle among them.
But then—those cloaked riders extended their arms.
From their hands flared a *blood-red magic*.
Not monstrous in nature.
Human.
> “Dale! Be careful!”
For the first time, Sepia’s composed voice broke into a shout.
At her fingertips, blue mana surged—sixth-circle water magic, bolstered by the frigid lands of Saxen itself.
**Boom!**
A wall of ice erupted from the earth, dividing Dale’s cavalry and the enemy.
But the next instant, that barrier was engulfed by a wave of crimson fire.
Not ordinary flames—
but a *combined chant*, multiple mages invoking together.
Hellfire.
The blaze melted Sepia’s sixth-circle ice wall like butter, and even its lingering heat still lashed toward them.
> “Aaaaaah!”
A few Raven Knights burst into flames—screaming, their armor glowing red-hot. Even the frozen air of Saxen could not dull the heat. In mere seconds, not even ashes remained.
Annihilated.
> “No way…”
Dale’s expression hardened to ice.
> “Turn and scatter! Do *not* stop or group together!”
Then, sharply, he issued his order:
> “We’re facing *Pyromancers*! The Red Tower’s battle magi!”
As those of the Black Tower were necromancers, and those of the White Tower clerics—
so the Red Tower’s sorcerers were known as *Pyromancers*.
Why Red Tower mages were here—why they fought alongside demons—there was no time to ask.
But one thing was certain:
Anyone who could cast such precise mounted fire magic wasn’t an ordinary Red Tower mage.
Magicians were never meant for the battlefield.
Even high-ranking ones often fell to common knights.
But these riders—they rode, cast, and aimed flawlessly, like soldiers trained for war.
Such skill could belong only to those forged for combat from the start.
> “Be careful,” said Sepia quietly, eyes narrowing. “They’re *Purifiers*.”
Her tone carried the weight of authority. As a sixth-circle elf and Elder of the Blue Tower, she knew of what she spoke.
*Purifiers.*
The Red Tower’s warrior-sorcerers—trained solely to burn the Empire’s enemies and execute its will.
And now, those Purifiers hid among the demon host, targeting Dale’s cavalry.
No—Dale realized with a grim chill—
not the cavalry.
> “They’re after *Lord Dale* himself!” shouted Sir Vale.
> “Like hell I’ll let them,” snarled Charlotte, tightening her grip on her black blade.
> “Don’t worry,” said Sepia. “As your mentor, it’s my duty to protect you.”
Blue mana flared as six circles spun around her heart.
Dale wasn’t fighting alone.
His shadow-cloak whipped madly, forging countless bullets of darkness from the ground beneath.
Nothing had changed. There was an enemy—he would strike them down.
Even if that enemy wore the colors of the Red Tower.
No—*especially* if they did.
For in this moment, Dale faced his *true enemy*.
The Empire itself—
and the one foe he could never forget.
