**Chapter 57**
—
“Please, I beg you for mercy—spare me my foolishness!”
The elder of the Black Tower—a 6th-circle necromancer—was on his knees, pleading desperately. Across the entire continent, there were barely a hundred high-ranking magi, yet not a single one among them dared to resist. They trembled in fear instead.
“I beg you like this! Have mercy, please!”
Once the 8th Division Commander of the Black-Red Cult, this warlock had conducted countless abominable experiments in pursuit of “truth.”
One of the hardliners who had rejected the rule of the Black Duke and did not hesitate to become a monster for his ideals.
Now that very *“Devil’s Commander”* was kneeling and begging.
Before the man who had severed ties with the darkness of the old age, yet sought to bind himself to petty, hypocritical notions of morality.
“Do you seek my mercy?”
The man asked quietly.
“P-please, show me mercy! I’ll pledge you my eternal loyalty! I beg of you—please!”
“Do you remember what you did to my son?”
After a long silence, the Black Duke spoke again, his expression utterly devoid of emotion.
“I… I…”
He had joined hands with the Crimson Tower in secret, crossed the Saxen River under cover of darkness, and handed over information about Dale to the Purifiers. He had told them that Dale would act independently, leading his own cavalry.
Remembering that, the elder gave a hollow laugh.
He knew there was no chance this man would ever grant him mercy.
Yet neither did he think to resist meaninglessly.
As an elder of the Black Tower, he knew better than anyone the weight of the name “Black Duke.”
Even so, realizing the folly of allying himself with the Crimson Tower, he could only laugh bitterly.
“…Yes, of course. There’s no way you’d show mercy.”
He murmured weakly.
“Tell me, Black Duke—do you think there’s a more hideous hypocrite in this world than you?”
And then, as if it no longer mattered, he spat his venom.
“The Black-Red Cult’s 2nd Division Commander—how many prisoners did you sacrifice for your ‘experiment’? How much blood was spilled to open your damned Gate?”
The true purpose of the Black-Red Cult—something the Empire struggled desperately to conceal.
“The real monster is you.”
“…”
“Do you think you can escape your past?”
The Black Duke gave no answer.
“Do you think your son would still be proud of his father after seeing your true self?
Ah, well, perhaps he would—after all, he’s a monster’s child!”
“…Grim Reaper.”
After a long silence, the Black Duke finally spoke.
At his feet, a current of pitch-black mana began to swirl, forming the outline of a shape—
a cloaked figure draped in shadow.
Death’s emissary, wearing a robe of utter darkness.
A hood covered his face, and what lay beneath seemed like a shadow at first glance—
but it was not. It was simply the fathomless darkness itself, writhing beneath the hood.
“You’re right, Black Duke! You *are* the real monster! One that lowly worms like us could never hope to imitate!”
Two arms, made of darkness itself, gripped a reaper’s scythe.
The Grim Reaper swung it once.
That was the signal.
The purging bloodstorm began.
—
—
Not long after that, the eldest son of House Saxen safely returned to the Duchy.
As always, the tales of his exploits at the Imperial Academy spread quickly from one gossip’s mouth to another—
just as the winds of bloody purges began to blow under the name of the Lord of the Black Tower.
—
**Ducal Castle of House Saxen**
“Dale!”
Hearing the familiar voice of a young girl calling him, Dale turned his head.
A girl stood there, clad head to toe in a suit of black armor. It was a tailor-made set of the Night Raven knights’ armor, and in her hands gleamed the dual longswords of House Saxen.
She had clearly been devoting herself tirelessly to sword training, day and night.
“Charlotte.”
“Mm! Welcome back!”
Charlotte smiled brightly, as if she had been waiting eagerly for his return.
“How goes your training?”
“Eh, not bad!”
Charlotte nodded proudly, and Dale chuckled softly at her expression.
“W-what are you laughing at?!”
“Nothing.”
After laughing, Dale spoke lightly.
“I’m just glad to see you again.”
“Ah… u-uh…”
At those casually spoken words, Charlotte’s tongue stumbled, and she quickly shut her mouth.
“What’s wrong? Bit your tongue?”
“N-no, nothing!”
“Well, that’s good then.”
Dale replied offhandedly. Beneath her black helmet, her face was burning red—something he couldn’t possibly have known.
“Ugh, seriously… you idiot.”
“Why am I an idiot?”
“Because you just are, you big idiot!”
So it was that the heart of a young girl, swelling day by day for the boy she liked, continued to grow.
—
—
As Dale appeared at the training grounds where the Night Ravens carried out their drills, the knights all knelt in unison and drove their swords into the ground.
“You’ve returned, Young Lord Dale!”
Among the ranks of black-armored knights, a familiar face greeted him.
“Sir Yones.”
“Young Lord Dale!”
“Training going well?”
In response to Dale’s question, the knight instructing Sir Yones bowed his head respectfully.
“He’s far more talented than he looks. His swordsmanship improves by the day.”
The knight who taught him was of *Aura Knight* rank—an elite among elites. Receiving such praise, Sir Yones bowed again to Dale.
“It’s all thanks to you, Young Lord.”
“Good. And the mercenaries under you—they’re keeping up with training, I hope?”
“You needn’t worry about my men!”
Yones answered with confidence. As a mercenary captain leading roughly a hundred men who had shared blood and hardship under him, their loyalty was as deep as brotherhood.
Thus, they too had been granted lodging within the duchy and were training diligently under the knights’ guidance.
While Dale had been at the Imperial Academy during the Great Demon Migration, it was now time to assess their growth under the Night Ravens’ supervision.
A hundred-strong mercenary unit—
an ideal force to serve as Dale’s personal soldiers.
All that remained was to see how prepared they truly were.
—
—
To wander endlessly, fighting battles with no promise of rest—
the so-called “romance of a mercenary” was little more than a fanciful illusion, spread by fools who had never known the front lines.
As the second son of a minor noble house, Sir Yones himself had lived the life of a wandering knight, roaming the continent with nothing but his sword.
It was no wonder that most mercenaries’ greatest dream was “to return home alive.”
That was the ugly truth behind the so-called romance.
So for Yones and his hundred men, the hand extended to them by Dale Saxen was nothing short of a miracle.
A personal force under the direct command of the Duke’s heir.
Generous pay, stable lodging, and even systematic training from the famed Night Raven Knights—said to be the finest in the Empire.
Not every soldier could don black armor or receive such elite instruction.
But Dale Saxen had the power to make it possible.
“Young Lord!”
“From now on, call me Captain.”
“Haha, understood! Captain!”
“Salute to the Captain!”
Yones’ mercenary band had no strict discipline or rigid hierarchy like the knights of Saxen, yet their easy camaraderie was something Dale found rather pleasant—especially once a few drinks were involved.
“And this guy’s your new vice-captain.”
“Wouldn’t have it any other way!”
The mercenaries’ devotion to Dale defied description.
Yones himself, without hesitation, volunteered to step down to the position of vice-captain, and the entire hundred knelt before their new leader—
Dale Saxen.
No longer mere mercenaries, but fully armed heavy infantry sworn to the Duke’s heir.
“Good.”
Even for Dale, providing a warhorse to every one of them was impossible.
But a hundred well-trained heavy infantry could command as much presence on the battlefield as cavalry.
“You’ve all been training hard, I trust?”
His tone carried meaning.
To serve under the Duke’s heir was a privilege, but privileges came with expectations.
And the blessings Dale granted them were no gifts given freely.
“We’ve been training to the edge of death, my lord.”
The knight in charge of their instruction answered.
“Good.”
They were not soldiers of House Saxen—they were *Dale’s men.*
Among the Night Ravens, a few served him directly. But that didn’t change the reality.
“You’ve trained long enough. Time to test yourselves in real combat, wouldn’t you say?”
“Leave it to us, my lord!”
“We’ve been itching for battle!”
Building his own organization—his own power—was not something Dale could neglect as the Duke’s heir.
“I’m planning to start a new enterprise soon.”
Dale’s organization. Dale’s people.
The hundred heavy infantry before him were merely the beginning.
From basic combat operations to strategic planning—
from intelligence gathering to full-scale war contracts—
they would evolve into a unit capable of command, execution, and war management alike.
Not mere mercenaries rotting away, but a paramilitary group capable of fulfilling every demand of war.
A *company of war.*
To become the greatest military corporation—the premier **Private Military Company (PMC)** on the continent.
—
—
That evening.
The sun, slanting westward, painted the sky in shades of deep violet.
As Dale inspected the heavy infantry’s training and pondered what to name the unit, a voice he didn’t recognize called out.
“Ah, there you are.”
He turned toward it.
“You returned from the capital sooner than I expected.”
“…”
Standing against the dying light was a blond-haired boy.
“And you are?”
Judging by his age, he didn’t seem much older—or younger—than Dale.
“My name is Ray. Ray Yuris, eldest son of Marquis Yuris.”
“…!”
At that, Dale’s breath caught.
The son of the Crimson Duke, heir to the Red Tower.
Marquis Yuris was unmarried—but it was no secret, even to Dale, that he had a “son not of his blood.”
“…A pleasure to meet you.”
Likewise, Ray Yuris was a mystery—no tales of his feats, no whispers among the nobles. His silence was almost ominous. Yet not a single mage of the Red Tower dared deny that he was indeed their heir.
“Do you have business with me?”
Dale asked, keeping his guard up.
“Dale Saxen,” Ray said, smiling faintly.
“Son of the Black Duke, heir to the Black Tower.”
Quoting the nickname spread by gossipmongers—the “Black Prince”—Ray continued.
“…”
“I wonder… would the one hailed as the Empire’s greatest prodigy be willing to grant me a lesson?”
