**Chapter 5**
—
Twilight’s dusky hue and the darkness of night meshed together like the interlocking teeth of gears. Beyond the snow-covered, white horizon, darkness fell upon the earth even faster.
“Dale.”
At his teacher Sephia’s call, Dale stretched out his hand. Before him was a rabbit—resurrected from death through necromancy. Its corpse was encased in a shell of ice armor. The moment Dale focused his will upon it—
**Clang!**
The frozen armor that encased the rabbit shattered into pieces, exploding outward like a grenade. Countless shards of ice burst in every direction.
**Frozen Explosion.**
But the blast did not end there. Immediately after the armor broke apart, the frozen flesh and bone beneath it burst as well.
**Corpse Explosion.**
After the shards of ice came the splintering of bones—fragments slicing through the air like a storm of blades. Two overlapping detonations, completing one seamless chain of destruction.
An incredible feat of magic, harmoniously blending two elemental attributes—**Water** and **Darkness**—like the flow of water itself.
“Well done.”
A single strike powerful enough to obliterate half a dozen soldiers in heavy armor. At first glance, it looked like an ordinary explosion spell, yet Sephia noticed every hidden layer of technique within it.
*He fragmented the armor deliberately to maximize lethality.*
Dale had consciously induced fine fissures into his construct, shattering the outer shell into smaller fragments to amplify the shrapnel effect. Though Sephia had no way of knowing, it followed the exact same principle as a **21st-century grenade.**
*It’s hard to believe such precision could come from an eight-year-old child.*
Magic, at its core, was the materialization of the caster’s inner imagery. Hence, mages guided their spells through deliberate self-suggestion—what they called **formulation**—to shape and define the individuality and structure of their magic.
And this eight-year-old child was already employing a **formulation of slaughter** that rivaled that of veteran battle-mages who had devoted their entire lives to war.
It was a level beyond even the Imperial Army’s battle magic doctrines—knowledge refined and perfected through centuries of bloodshed.
*Just what kind of world exists inside this child’s heart…?*
“It’s all thanks to you, Teacher!”
And yet, this same boy smiled brightly—innocently—like any other child his age when praised. Watching him, Sephia’s expression twisted into a complicated smile.
“Let’s call it a day for now.”
“Yes, Teacher!”
Just then—
**Hiiing!**
Beyond the twilight horizon, a group of riders appeared. Their black armor glinted faintly under the fading light, and over it, they wore surcoats embroidered with the crest of **House Saxen.**
They were knights of the **Raven Order**, who had departed not long ago under Sir Helmut’s command to conquer a dungeon within the Demon Lord’s territory.
“Uncle Helmut!”
Seeing them, Dale waved his hand cheerfully. The knights, who had been about to pass by, immediately turned their mounts.
“My lord! Lady Sephia! What brings you both to this place?”
“I’m learning magic from my teacher,” Dale replied.
Sir Helmut blinked in surprise. “You’ve already begun mastering magic?”
He murmured in disbelief, to which Dale smiled modestly. “Ah, I’ve only just started learning, really.”
Despite his humble tone, his poise was far beyond that of any ordinary child.
“More importantly, Uncle Helmut—how did the dungeon raid go?”
Helmut laughed heartily, thumping his breastplate with pride. “We have once again succeeded in subjugating the dungeon!”
“As expected of you, Uncle!”
Helmut of the Raven Order—one of the seven greatest swordsmen across the continent—and his elite black cavalry.
House Saxen’s might did not rest solely upon the necromancy of the Black Duke.
“This Helmut vows to devote his life and blade to House Saxen—to ensure that one day, young master, you inherit this land safely!”
“Thank you, Uncle.”
Dale nodded with a smile. After that, Helmut adjusted his reins once more.
“I’ll report the rest directly to His Grace the Duke.”
“Ride safely, Uncle Helmut.”
“Yes, my lord!”
With a genial grin, Helmut pulled on his reins. His black warhorse neighed and thundered forward, its mane whipping through the wind.
“‘The land he will one day inherit,’ is it…”
Watching the departing knight, Sephia murmured faintly, her eyes following the endless ridges of the white mountains along the horizon.
“What vast land indeed.”
—
—
That night.
In the Duke’s study, Sir Helmut, the head butler of House Saxen, and the elders of the Black Tower stood assembled. Among them was also Sephia, elder of the Blue Tower and Dale’s private tutor.
“How progresses Dale’s training?”
As always, the Duke’s first concern was his son.
“He has achieved first-circle mastery in both necromancy and water magic.”
“Both necromancy and water…? You mean, dual attributes!”
One of the Black Tower elders gasped in astonishment.
“However,” Sephia continued, “it seems beyond my capability to instruct the young master any further in dark-attribute magic.”
Her gaze then turned toward the Duke.
The continent’s foremost necromancer and black magician—the **Archmage of the Black Tower**, ruler of its obsidian spire.
And also, Dale’s father.
For an elder of the Blue Tower to presume to teach dark magic before such a man would be laughable indeed.
“For now, please continue guiding him in water magic, as he wishes.”
The Black Duke nodded, understanding the implication.
Elena still did not know that their son was learning necromancy. But if Dale continued to pursue the path of dark magic, it would no longer be Sephia’s role to teach him.
“I shall speak with my wife again regarding this matter,” said the Duke, thus concluding the topic of Dale.
—
—
Late that same night, in the Duke and Duchess’s chamber.
“Oh my, you’re late tonight,” Elena greeted softly as her husband returned from his meeting.
“You’ve worked hard today,” she added, smiling gently.
“Thank you.”
He smiled faintly and accepted the glass of wine she offered. His expression softened—something few had ever seen outside this room.
“I bring good news.”
That kind, tender smile—shown only to his wife—was something no one else in the Empire would ever believe existed on the infamous Black Duke’s face. Before she knew his true nature, even Elena had feared the man whom the Empire whispered about in dread.
“It’s about our son.”
“Dale?”
Her face lit up instantly at the mention of their child’s name.
“Elder Sephia tells me he has already completed a first-circle spell.”
“Already? That quickly?”
“Our boy possesses a brilliance unlike anyone I’ve ever known,” the Duke said, his voice swelling with paternal pride he couldn’t hide.
“I knew our child was extraordinary.”
“There’s no denying he’s far more mature than other children his age.”
Indeed, to call him merely a *genius* would be an understatement. Though he never said it aloud, the Duke sometimes found the boy’s composure unsettling—too far removed from childhood innocence.
“Still, he’s our precious, loving son.”
Elena’s smile remained unwavering.
“Without a doubt, he is ours.”
The Duke’s gaze softened.
“For that very reason…”
He took a slow breath and fell silent for a moment.
“As a father, I wish to teach him the power to protect this land.”
At last, the Black Duke spoke his intent.
—
—
Several days later.
As usual, Dale was out on the plains beyond the city, immersed in his magical training—raising corpses, manipulating frost, refining both water and dark attributes as he strove toward the second circle.
He was listening attentively to Sephia’s instruction when, from the city gates, a procession approached—bearing the crest of House Saxen.
*Father left for the Necropolis this morning… what’s this about?*
Dale tilted his head in curiosity. Then, before him, the escort knights suddenly dropped to one knee.
Before them stood a woman descending gracefully from a carriage.
“M-Mother!”
It was Elena.
Supported by her attendants, she approached. Dale was momentarily at a loss for words—and so was Sephia.
“You were studying magic here?”
“Yes, Mother.”
As she stepped closer, Elena’s gaze fell upon the ground—where moments ago, a necromantically animated rabbit had been hopping about. Though Dale had hastily dispelled the spell, the lifeless corpse at her feet was more than suspicious enough.
“L-Lady Elena, this is…”
Even Sephia, usually composed, faltered. Dale too was about to speak when—
“You remember the promise I made with your father, don’t you?”
Elena’s gentle voice cut through the moment. But it was not scolding—it carried not a hint of anger. Instead, her tone brimmed with maternal warmth, deeper than ever.
“When I first saw the armies of the dead your father commanded… I was terrified.”
Her voice trembled faintly, not with fear, but with memory.
“So when he confessed his feelings to me, I burst into tears right there in front of him.”
“Mother…”
“I was so young and foolish then,” she said with a soft laugh. “I can still see his flustered face as if it were yesterday.”
Then silence, for a brief moment.
“But our domain is surrounded by enemies on all sides.”
Her voice hardened slightly, resolve now beneath her gentleness.
Though Elena had grown up as the beloved daughter of a count, she was still a noble of the Empire—and as Duchess of House Saxen, she knew all too well what those “enemies” meant.
The Empire—rotted and stained by the endless struggle of greed and power.
“I suppose I had forgotten that the power your father wields—the power I once feared—is what protects this land.”
“…”
“As the heir of this house, I failed to recognize soon enough what it is you must bear.”
*What he must bear as the Duke’s son.*
Dale could not bring himself to speak.
“This vast land, our family, your father, and…”
She paused, smiling softly.
“Your soon-to-be younger sibling.”
“Y-younger sibling?”
“You said you wanted a little sister, didn’t you?”
Elena caressed her abdomen tenderly. Beneath her hand stirred a faint pulse of new life.
“A slightly belated birthday gift,” she said.
It was the moment when the eight-year-old Dale’s long-held wish came true.
