**Episode 48**
—
“It feels like I’m dreaming.”
In the bedchamber of *the Crimson lord*, Marquis Yuris, Elizabeth smiled shyly, wrapped in a silken sheet. It was as if the prince of her dreams had come to life before her eyes.
“Did you have a pleasant dream?”
Marquis Yuris asked softly, swirling the blood-red wine in his glass before taking a sip.
Elizabeth, her cheeks flushed with rapture, nodded as he leaned forward and pressed his lips to hers. The liquid flowed from his mouth into hers.
Blood-red wine…?
At that instant, an unfamiliar taste spread through her mouth. Elizabeth froze.
“……!”
It wasn’t wine.
It was **blood**.
Elizabeth gasped and spat it out. The pristine white sheet wrapped around her turned a deep, dreadful crimson.
“Ah, what a shame.”
Yuris chuckled, his tone chillingly calm.
“Does the drink not suit your taste?”
The smile that followed sent a shiver down her spine—it was as cold as death itself.
—
—
The battle between a knight and a sorcerer—distance is everything.
But what Dale had just shown through his *Shadow Cloak*… the *Lake of Darkness*, and the horrifying creatures that slumbered within—
The **Thorned Abyss of the Shadow Lurkers**.
The advantage that Dale’s shadow-born familiars gave him in close combat was something even Sir Helmut could never have imagined.
The closer one got, the more fatal it became. For a knight, who should be stronger at close range, to step into such a death trap—
it was suicide.
And if one removed the element of “distance” entirely, there would be no need to ask who held the upper hand between knight and mage.
“Lord Dale has won!”
As the soldiers shouted their cheers of triumph, Sir Helmut Blackbear pondered quietly.
*Did he choose the Shadow Cloak knowing this would happen from the start?*
Such precision—such absolute understanding of battle itself—was something impossible without complete mastery.
Not merely knowledge or comprehension.
**Enlightenment.**
As though he were a god of war incarnate.
From raising a *Death Knight of the Black Sword*, a feat only possible for the highest-ranked dark magi,
to personally defeating an *Orc Warlord* with nothing but his own body—
His swordsmanship and magic—his talent and rate of growth—none in the Empire could compare.
*The young lord is evolving yet again.*
Filling every weakness, sharpening every strength—each element fusing into a perfect harmony.
A warrior who loses to neither knights in body nor mages in mind.
Then, and only then, did Sir Helmut understand.
What Dale pursued was the **most complete form of battle**.
He trained as though preparing to face both the mightiest knight and the greatest sorcerer—and lose to neither.
Even a “monster of slaughter” like Helmut Blackbear, one of the Seven Swords of the Continent, could not help but feel awe at the boy’s sheer instinct for carnage.
And so, he wondered—
*Who is the opponent this boy strives so fiercely to reach?*
Could there even exist anyone capable of bearing the enmity of the Black Prince?
But Helmut slowly shook his head. Now was not the time for speculation.
For now, he would simply honor Dale’s victory.
—
—
The **Great Demon Migration**—
the massive southward advance of the orcish horde—was finally stopped.
The war was over.
Though their army could not compare to that of a true high demon or demon king,
defending the Empire against thousands of orcs was no small feat—especially with *twelve Purifiers* among them.
In the Duke of Saxen’s study—
“We’ve extracted the Purifiers’ brains and completed three days of investigation,”
reported Eris, the Black Tower Lord’s secretary.
“Any results?”
“None of value. Their brain functions had already been destroyed—along with their memories.”
“I expected as much.”
The Black Duke nodded grimly.
The red magi of the Red Tower were known for their fanaticism. Nothing in the Five Towers rivaled it.
“The Purifiers knew in advance that Dale would be leading a separate cavalry unit,” the Duke continued.
Which could mean only one thing.
“There’s a spy among us. Someone from within fed the Purifiers information about Dale’s movements and orders.”
“Do you have any suspects, my lord?”
“The *Beasts of Truth*,” the Duke replied.
“……The radical elders of the Black Tower—are you saying they’ve allied with the Red?”
“Have you already forgotten the *Black-Red Inquisition Unit*?”
That clandestine division, created during the Empire’s unification wars,
had been meant to foster *‘academic collaboration’* between the Black and Red Towers.
It was dissolved after the war, its records erased,
and under the Black Duke’s reign, the Black Tower publicly renounced its old darkness.
Yet not everyone within had agreed.
There were still those who, though unable to defy the Duke openly,
believed that even the Inquisition’s unspeakable atrocities were “part of the path to Truth.”
Those zealots—those *monsters*—had now turned against the Duke and allied with the Red Tower.
“It seems another purge is coming,” Eris said quietly.
And as she looked at the man before her,
she remembered—he, too, could never truly escape that darkness.
—
—
In the Black Duke’s underground workshop—
The corpses of the *Raven Knights*, perfectly preserved, lay in silence.
Even in death, they awaited the day they would serve again,
their bodies becoming one with the lineage’s accumulated sins.
Before them stood the Duke of Saxen and his son.
“They were my knights,” Dale said quietly.
Knights he had failed to protect. The swords of Saxen, lost in battle.
“As their lord, it is my duty to honor their will.”
And so—
“Teach me how to raise a *Death Order*.”
Without a trace of hesitation, Dale spoke.
The secret art of the Saxen line—the method of sustaining Death Knights without constant magical supply.
But Dale had sensed something more.
These were no ordinary Death Knights.
Each one radiated the power of a *high knight*—on par with Sir Vale of Baskerville or Sir Milbas, the Pure Sword.
The Black Duke said nothing at first.
He only remembered the sight of Dale facing the Orc Warlord—
and wondered what kind of darkness would bloom if the boy’s genius fused with the Black Tower’s deepest evil.
When the day came that Dale surpassed him—
when he stood at the pinnacle of the Black Tower—
how free could he ever be from that same darkness?
“At the end of your growth,” the Duke finally spoke,
“when you surpass me… and stand at the summit of the Black Tower—”
He paused. It was not yet time.
“The army of darkness shall be yours.”
Dale inhaled sharply, understanding.
To stand above his father—to defeat the mightiest black mage on the continent—
that was the meaning of the promise.
And so, curiosity burst from him unbidden.
“Father…”
“What is it?”
“May I—challenge my master to a duel, here and now?”
He could no longer contain his need to see the height of the wall that stood before him.
“Very well.”
The Duke nodded slowly.
There was no truer way for master and pupil to test their strength.
“What shall be the terms?”
“Allow me to fight with all I have.”
Dale’s *Shadow Cloak* flared at his feet.
“Then give it everything you’ve got,” said the Duke.
“Rise, Black Swords of Saxen.”
Dale snapped his fingers, chanting the perfect incantation to summon his Death Knights.
The fallen knights gripped their blades once more and rose,
each wielding an obsidian *Aura Blade*.
“Your spellwork is exquisite,” the Duke remarked, smiling faintly.
Precise imagery. Flawless execution. No wasted motion.
He was proud—truly proud—as a teacher.
All around him, Death Knights surrounded Dale—
each one a projection of his own dark mana and swordsmanship.
From their blades, a divine radiance began to emanate—
the same power that once felled a *Holy Sword*.
Then Dale unfurled his cloak.
The *Lake of Darkness* spread.
A flood of shadow swallowed the room, and from it, countless *Shadow Lurkers* thrust their thorned tendrils.
From beneath the floor and every side, death rained upon the Duke—
merciless, absolute.
Then—
the world stopped.
The Death Knights’ black blades, the Lurkers’ thorns—all froze in midair.
And then, as if turned by invisible hands,
they aimed their killing intent toward Dale.
“……!”
Even his own summons, his own shadows, had betrayed him.
It was just like before—
when the *Headless Knight* in the Tower’s trial had bowed before a greater darkness.
“In a duel between black magi,” said the Duke calmly,
“to lose control of your creations is fatal.”
Dale clenched his jaw and focused.
He pictured the void of gray ash and freezing cold—
and drew forth the black-azure mana of that eternal winter night.
The Death Knights’ frozen blades began to move again—
slowly, stiffly, but surely—
turning back toward the Duke’s neck.
The greatest black mage of the continent—
his Death Knights had been reclaimed under Dale’s will.
“……!”
Even the Duke himself could not conceal his astonishment.
*Fwoosh!*
The blade swept through the air.
The Duke’s severed head fell lifelessly to the floor. Silence descended.
But Dale did not flinch.
“How remarkable,” came the calm voice—
from the *head on the floor*.
“To think you could take back control of the dead from me.”
Just like a scene out of a cheap horror film,
the Duke smiled.
“I truly did not expect that strike.”
He spoke as a teacher admiring his student.
Then Dale saw—the Duke’s head had returned to his shoulders.
As though it had never been cut at all.
Just like the Purifiers who, though slain, could not die.
“How is that possible…?”
Dale whispered, wide-eyed.
This was no illusion, no mere trick.
*‘Still don’t understand? I simply have not permitted death.’*
The realization struck him.
His breath caught.
*Reality manipulation…?*
Magic is the power to make imagination real.
But the human mind is flawed—no one is truly omnipotent.
Yet those who stand at the true summit of magic—
such as the Duke of Saxen himself, the greatest black mage alive—
can bend the laws of the world to their will.
Erase the *concept* of death itself.
Dale gave a hollow laugh.
He could never win.
No matter how young he was, no matter how brilliant—
if the man before him fought in earnest, the battle would be over in an instant.
The *Crimson Marquis* may be feared throughout the Empire,
but the name of the *Black Duke* was no less terrifying—and never an empty title.
—
—
Some time later, an imperial envoy arrived at Saxen to honor the family’s victory in halting the Demon Migration.
They brought chests of gold and jewels to display the Empire’s glory—
and, more importantly, official recognition of the young *Black Prince*,
who had shone so brightly despite his youth.
The envoy added one final message:
that for the sake of *“cooperation between the Black and Red Towers,”*
the Red Tower Academy in the capital wished to invite Dale as a guest—
for several weeks.
