**Chapter 46**
—
“Milord…”
The knight’s body was charred black, his breath faint and ragged as he stood at death’s threshold.
“Neither I nor House Saxen will ever forget your devotion.”
Dale knelt quietly and took the man’s trembling hand.
“Please… even in death… let me continue to fulfill… the duty of a Raven Knight…”
“I understand your wish.”
At those strained, faltering words, Dale gave a slow nod. The knight’s breathing grew fainter, fading like the last flicker of a dying flame. Thus, another life burned out, and Dale rose silently to his feet—his lips clenched hard enough to draw blood.
*Crackle. Crackle.*
Sparks scattered through the air. All around him lay mangled pieces of flesh and armor, too ruined to even recognize as human.
It was a scene Dale knew all too well—*the familiar landscape of war.*
“One hundred and ninety-three knights were caught in the explosion and killed.”
Beside him, Sir Vale of House Baskerville reported the losses in a flat, emotionless tone.
“All Aura Knights have survived, aside from minor burns.”
“…”
Dale remained silent, turning his head away.
“…Dale.”
Standing there, looking at him with quiet worry, was Sephia. Dale turned his head again—toward the man who stood beyond her.
His father, the Duke Black—the greatest dark sorcerer on the continent—who had denied the remaining Purifiers even the mercy of death and erased them with a mere flick of his hand.
“Gather the bodies of the knights and the remnants of the fallen.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
He assessed the situation coldly, his voice calm and precise as he issued his next command to the black mages gathered nearby.
“Eris.”
“Yes, Tower Lord.”
“Take *that thing* to the Tower of Necropolis.”
The Duke gestured toward the quivering lump of flesh writhing faintly nearby.
“Bring it there—and extract every piece of knowledge it possesses.”
“I shall obey your command.”
Eris, the Duke’s secretary and the Black Tower’s shadowed executor, bowed her head in silence.
After issuing the remaining orders, the Duke turned and began to walk.
“Dale.”
“Father.”
Dale answered, his tone composed though his heart weighed heavy.
“The losses are considerable.”
Even if the Purifiers of the Red Tower had failed in their mission, it was still, in one sense, Dale’s first true defeat—his first bitter taste of loss.
“Do you blame yourself as their commander?”
“I led the knights of Saxen to their deaths,” Dale replied. “I should have pulled them back from the start.”
He bit his lip again, as if to bear the weight of that guilt.
“You and Lady Sephia alone intended to face hundreds of orc riders and a dozen Purifiers?” the Duke asked.
No matter how gifted Dale and Sephia were as magi, the world of mages was no different from that of knights—numbers *mattered.*
Unless one was an anomaly like the Duke himself or a “Hero from another world,” sheer numbers could never be ignored. Their opponents were Purifiers of the Red Tower—knights born and trained solely for combat.
The truth was simple: Dale had not yet grown strong enough to defy such overwhelming disparity. He had been unable to protect the knights of Saxen.
It was the first time in his life as the Duke’s heir that he had truly *felt powerless.*
The weakness of one who had not yet transcended into an *extraordinary being.*
“Do not blame yourself too deeply.”
The Duke’s voice was steady.
“This was not your fault.”
In the face of that fatherly kindness—
“…”
Dale said nothing. Only the black tendrils coiling within his chest stirred, and three circles began to turn in unison.
He extended his hand toward the fallen Raven Knight and infused the corpse with black mana.
“The knights of Saxen…”
The dark energy surged through the corpse, and the dead knight rose once more.
“…spoke their final wish—to continue their duty even in death.”
To serve as knights, both in life and beyond the grave—that was the oath of the Raven Knights who had sworn their loyalty to House Saxen.
“And the battle is not yet over.”
Thus Dale spoke again—his voice unwavering, resolute—as he commanded the Death Knights wreathed in pitch-black aura blades.
“Please grant the knights of Saxen permission to fulfill their duty.”
His words carried across the battlefield beyond, cold and devoid of all emotion.
—
—
To the people of the North, the sight of the dead rising was not a thing to fear. On the contrary—it was the most reassuring proof of victory.
So when the fallen began to rise again, heedless of friend or foe, to stand once more before the endless tide of orcs, the morale of the Northern army soared to unimaginable heights.
It was the sign that *the God of Death himself* had turned his power to their side.
—
—
The tide of battle was shifting swiftly.
At most of the crossing points, the defenders had successfully held the line, and now, with victory near, the Northern army began their countercharge across the shallows—determined to annihilate the enemy.
But the orcs did not stop. Not until the last one had fallen.
“GRAAAAAH!”
An Orc Warlord swung his massive twin-headed axe. Steel armor crumpled like paper before the blow. He was the very embodiment of the word *berserker.*
*Whoosh!*
The cleaving strikes hurled soldiers aside in droves. None dared to approach him recklessly.
His monstrous strength matched his towering size—each swing of that steel axe painted the air with blood and mangled flesh.
Men were swept away like autumn leaves.
Bathed in gore, the Orc Warlord roared again, his elite guards bellowing alongside him.
The battle was reaching its final act—but to bring it to a true close against such relentless foes was far easier said than done.
“Fall back.”
Through the wavering line of hesitant soldiers stepped a knight clad in black armor.
“I will face them myself.”
It was the *Mad Sword,* Sir Helmut Blackbear.
He reached for the blade at his waist—his beloved sword, *Madness*—
“──Sir Helmut.”
A calm, unexpected voice stopped him.
“My lord Dale?”
Helmut turned—and froze. Dale stood there, flanked by the Death Knights who bore the Black Swords of Saxen.
“Stand back,” Dale said.
“Those foes will fall by my hand—and by the blades of my knights.”
His shadowed cloak billowed behind him, his face calm and unflinching.
“My lord!”
Helmut swallowed hard, then sheathed his sword once more.
“…As you command.”
Such was the depth of trust he held in Dale of Saxen.
Helmut silently stepped aside. Dale then lifted his gaze toward the Orc Warlord still roaring in defiance.
“Blades of House Saxen,” he commanded.
“To your duty.”
The Death Knights, cloaked in darkness, surged forward—unleashing the martial might that once awed the living.
“What in the world…!”
Helmut’s eyes widened in shock.
The swordplay of Dale’s Death Knights was nothing like that of a common necromancer’s puppets.
Their movements were fluid, refined—like those of master swordsmen executing perfected forms.
Ordinarily, Death Knights fought with crude, clumsy swings, for their movements were bound by the necromancer’s limited understanding of swordsmanship.
But Dale’s Death Knights were *different.* So very different.
Their swordplay surpassed even the mastery they’d possessed in life—each movement precise, overwhelming.
The orcs’ axes cleaved only empty air.
Flowing like water, the black blades slipped past their defenses and struck with unrelenting hunger.
*Shhk!*
Orc blood sprayed. It was slaughter—swift, one-sided, unbelievable.
*I knew Lord Dale’s swordsmanship was exceptional,* Helmut thought, *but this… this is beyond talent.*
That was no mere skill.
*What is that sword art…?*
It was not the product of genius—it was *perfection itself.*
The sword techniques displayed by Dale’s Death Knights were not the clumsy mimicking of the dead—they were the manifestation of a *complete sword.*
Helmut could scarcely imagine it, but what unfolded before him was the very swordsmanship that had once *conquered the continent*—the *Sword of the Hero.*
Against such a blade, the orcs’ resistance meant nothing. Their struggle was but the flailing of doomed beasts.
“GUAAAHHH!”
The Warlord bellowed his last defiance, his warrior’s will ignited to the limit—but his roars never reached the Death Knights.
Only the sound of slaughter answered him.
The black swords swung again and again, and elite orcs fell one by one.
Then, amidst that unbroken carnage—the Orc Warlord’s twin axe came crashing down.
*KA-BOOM!*
The earth shook. One Death Knight’s bones shattered under the colossal strike.
The title *Orc Warlord* was no mere boast. He was the hardened leader of the orc hordes who had survived the Great Migration through relentless battle.
Dale snapped his fingers.
The Death Knights froze in place, parting to either side. Between them strode the *Black Prince.*
His shadowed cloak, shaped like a black surcoat, rippled as he advanced—ready to bring the battle to its end with his own hands.
“M-My lord!” one of the knights cried out in alarm.
“Do not worry,” Sir Helmut murmured, raising a hand to restrain him.
He understood. From the swordsmanship Dale had shown through his Death Knights, Helmut had seen it—the overwhelming, merciless strength that brooked no restraint.
And now, the genius of the Empire was about to reveal the full, untempered power of the *Black Prince.*
Even if his foe was an Orc Warlord capable of crushing knights like insects.
The Warlord gripped his twin axes tighter, instinctively recognizing the pressure emanating from Dale.
Dale too raised his hand, shaping a blade of shadow along the sweep of his cloak.
They faced each other in silence.
Then—
The wind howled. A cutting gale swept through the field, cold enough to chill the bones.
