**Chapter 47**
—
Elizabeth, the noble lady of the Imperial Capital, was a woman of extraordinary fortune.
Not just anyone—but the *Crimson Marquis* himself… Marquis **Yuris** had invited her in secret!
One of the Empire’s Five Heroes, alongside the Hero from Another World and the Holy Swordsman—and, without question, the most handsome man in the Empire. There were not many women alive who could refuse the courtship of such a man.
After all, Marquis Yuris was the very image of the ideal prince every lady of the capital longed for.
Swept up in a rapture that felt as though a prince on a white horse had come to receive her, Elizabeth accepted the Marquis’s invitation without a moment’s hesitation.
At the deep hour before dawn, when not a single star shone, she went alone, unseen by all.
—
—
The wind blew.
In a biting gale that cut to the bone, **Dale** advanced.
With the *Black Sword of Saxen* in hand, he walked forward, leaving behind him the silent ranks of his Death Knights.
A duel between two warriors—nothing more, nothing less. A one-on-one battle that would, in truth, bring this entire war to its end.
“Graaaaargh!”
The **Orc Warlord** let out a thunderous roar and stomped the ground.
*Chwaaak!*
The twin-bladed axe in his grasp swept out, scattering blood and brain matter that clung to it in every direction.
*Weight and speed combined.*
He was monstrously strong—and monstrously fast. No magic, no aura, no trickery—only the overwhelming might of a warrior’s flesh, honed from birth.
Dale effortlessly summoned the current of frost around him, forming a shield of ice.
*Clang!*
The axe smashed through the ice wall, and Dale immediately countered—fracturing the shards into an explosive burst.
**Shard Magnum.**
Yet even as countless blades of ice surged toward him, the Orc Warlord showed not the slightest hesitation.
“…!”
The freezing magic failed to halt him in the slightest; the distance between them closed in an instant.
Even Dale had not expected such reckless ferocity.
He ducked low, darting past in a crossing motion—rushing *into* the axe’s range to deflect its swing and drive in his counterstrike.
The razor edge of the axe grazed by, slicing a thin line of blood along Dale’s cheek.
Then—
The **shadow blades** orbiting Dale burst forth all at once, soaring toward the Orc Warlord. Dozens of swords forged from darkness, launched without even the twitch of a finger.
But from the Warlord’s own chest, a **dark sword** swung out to meet them. The shadow blades shattered like glass and scattered into fragments—
—fragments that swiftly refined themselves into *bullets of shadow*.
The scattered bullets fired simultaneously.
A fusion of blade and sorcery—no, more aptly, a blend of **sword and gunfire**.
Two forms of attack merged seamlessly as one, as living malice of darkness tore toward the Orc Warlord.
*Chwaaak!*
The dark blades ripped through his flesh, and the shadow bullets burrowed deep into the wounds.
*It hit.*
Blood poured freely—but the Warlord only roared again.
It was no ordinary cry. It carried the unyielding will and pride of a warrior who refused to kneel, even in his final moments.
「KIEEEEHHH!」
At that earth-splitting roar, the shadows writhing within his body faltered in terror—then fled back toward Dale’s **Cloak of Shadows**.
Clicking his tongue, Dale glanced down at the trembling shadows gathering beneath his feet.
The Orc Warlord had lost all reason.
**Berserk.**
*So it’s come to this.*
Burning his own life, the Warlord charged again. Every swing of his axe carried the flare of a soul consuming itself.
*Fast.*
Swing after swing, the assault came without end. Dale dodged by the barest margins, mind wholly focused.
Behind him, the shadows underfoot cowered, quivering before the Warlord’s killing intent.
Then—the **three magic circles** began to spin faster and faster.
300 rpm… 1,000… 2,000… accelerating like a motorbike’s revs screaming upward.
But that wasn’t all. Dale possessed *another* source of mana beyond those circles.
Between his heart and the circles—roots had sunk deep. *Tentacles.*
His other source of darkness:
the **Book of the Black Goat.**
From two *black wells* of power, he refined and condensed an unfathomable density of dark mana—forcing it into the cowering Cloak of Shadows.
He recalled the artifact’s true ability, shown once by its original demonic owner. The shadows at his feet were no mere petty phantoms.
*Still not enough.*
Resolute, Dale lashed his own dark power harder—whipping it into fury.
*Crueler. More wicked. More dreadful.*
He would show them—the reason he had once donned this accursed artifact without hesitation.
Just then—
─ *Shall I help you?*
A voice whispered—from within his own heart.
It was the voice of a girl.
*Not yet,* Dale shook his head, recalling the tentacles writhing beneath her dress hem.
Before the Black Duke, Sir Helmut, and the entire northern host watching him, borrowing her power was far too dangerous.
But—
He suddenly felt the tentacle around his heart tighten, constricting painfully.
*Damn it, not now…* If she lost control here, it would be catastrophic.
Then—
─ *I like your world, brother.*
The **Book of the Black Goat** answered softly.
─ *I’ll never do anything you hate.*
As if to soothe him.
─ *So… play with me as much as you like.*
The voice was innocent, pure—and yet brimming with angelic cruelty.
*Whoooom—!*
「KIEEEHHH!」
At that instant, the shadows beneath Dale screamed.
Not a warrior’s cry of defiance—
but the most horrifying shriek in the world.
*Chwaaaa!*
The shadows spread outward, devouring the ground. No longer mere silhouettes, but a **wave of darkness**.
A **lake of shadow**, flooding the battlefield beneath Dale and the Warlord alike.
Gasps rippled across the ranks.
“L-Lord Dale…!”
“What in the—!”
Even Duke Saxen and Sir Helmut stood speechless.
As for the others—no words could describe their terror.
Even the elders of the Black Tower were struck dumb.
The Warlord stomped, churning the surface of the shadow lake. Dale, unmoving, watched his enemy charge once more—fully aware of the domain beneath his feet.
*This is my realm.*
He raised his hand.
*Chwaaak!*
From beneath the dark waters, something stirred—
The **lurkers** began to emerge.
Breaking the rippling surface of shadow, they rose—
Not blades, nor spells, nor bullets. Only **spikes**, sharp and glistening.
**Shadow Lurkers.**
Creatures born of darkness, lying in wait for prey.
The lake beneath them was their **nest**—a realm of pure shadow lifeforms.
The Cloak’s third form.
From its depths, countless spiked tentacles surged up, piercing toward the Orc Warlord. They drove into his flesh as effortlessly as a fork sinking into tender steak.
“GRAAAAAH—!”
There was nowhere to run. No room to move. No matter how he thrashed, the Shadow Lurkers’ spikes erupted from every direction, binding him completely upon the dark lake.
*Crack! Crack!*
The tentacles stabbed down again and again. The Warlord swung his axe in desperation—
Dale didn’t flinch.
As the axe came within an inch of him, new shadow tendrils shot up, seizing the Warlord’s arms.
Then his legs. His torso. His shoulders.
Bound tight—then pierced clean through.
Like a grotesque sculpture, the Warlord was lifted, impaled and torn by countless black spines.
Green blood sprayed in all directions.
Entrails spilled from the gaping rents torn open by the Lurkers’ spikes.
Dale gazed upon him with no emotion.
The Warlord no longer roared. Only a faint, hollow wheeze escaped him—like air leaking from a bellows.
And then, slowly, the Orc Warlord looked at Dale.
The **Great Migration of the Demons**—
He had led his kin from the Demon King’s realm, crossed the White Mountains to survive, and at last reached this place by the upper Saxen River.
His final struggle had come to an end.
The journey’s end.
The orcs had not lost because they were evil.
They had lost because they were weak.
It is not the strong who survive—
It is that the weak *cannot*.
The law of this world was **the survival of the fittest**.
The Demon King, the Holy Sword, even Dale’s past self—all had fallen for lack of strength. The Orc Warlord was no exception.
With a quiet bitterness, Dale turned away.
Amid the countless corpses of orcs strewn across the field, he saw the northern warriors watching him—the nobles, the knights, and the soldiers of Saxen who had borne witness to it all.
Silence hung heavy.
Overwhelmed by the sheer might he had displayed, none dared to speak.
*Shrrring—!*
Then, the **Death Knights** who had just annihilated the elite orcs knelt in unison, driving their black swords upright into the earth.
*Thud!*
A heartbeat later, the nobles and knights of the north followed suit—kneeling, planting their blades in the ground.
“The young lord has slain the Warlord!”
“Victory to the Black Prince!”
“Lord Dale has triumphed!”
“WAAAAAAAH!”
The roar of victory rose, deafening, shattering the silence as if it had never been.
Upon the name and legend of the **Black Prince**, new awe was etched—layered atop his old fearsome repute.
The northern protector who had felled the orc chieftain during the Great Demon Migration—
and the rightful heir of House Saxen.
Thus ended the battle.
