**Chapter 65**
—
When Dale regained consciousness in the darkness of the night, the place he found himself in was an all too familiar world.
“Finally, you’ve come to see me?”
There stood a girl with the horns of a black goat. The hem of her jet-black dress fluttered as she danced lightly across a world steeped in icy cold.
“I’ve been waiting for you, big brother,” she said, smiling as though greeting a father returning from a long journey.
At that smile, Dale recalled something his father—the Black Duke—had once told him.
“Do you know of the *World of Truth*?”
The forbidden domain that one must reach in order to ascend to the 9th Circle.
“Kyahaha!”
At his words, the girl burst into laughter—an uncontrollable, delighted laugh that rang through the world.
“What’s so funny?” Dale asked, frowning.
Still clutching her stomach from laughter, the girl finally replied, her voice lilting like a child teasing an adult.
“Well, that’s funny, isn’t it?” she said, her grin widening.
“Because I was *born* in that world.”
“……!”
Dale drew in a sharp breath. At last, he understood. *The Book of the Black Goat* was no mere grimoire. And the being standing before him—this embodiment of thought—was no avatar created by a mortal magician’s imagination.
Could it be that even the Undying Duke, Frederick, had reached the World of Truth?
Then how many magicians had truly touched that domain throughout history—and if so, why had there never appeared, in all the continent’s history, a single magician of the 9th Circle?
“Then you…” Dale’s voice trembled slightly. “Were you one of the demons from that world?”
“Demon? What’s that?”
The girl tilted her head innocently to one side, then smiled—a cold, scornful smile that looked down on him as one might at a crawling insect.
—“Do you really think a mortal bound by the fetters of thought could ever *understand us*?”
“……!”
An overwhelming pressure unlike anything before surged outward. From beneath the hem of her dress, countless tentacles shot forth, consuming Dale’s world in darkness—a darkness like staring into the bottomless abyss.
“Hey, you know…”
The girl stepped closer to him.
“I like you, big brother.”
She threw her small arms around him and whispered into his ear.
“Your loneliness… your solitude… they’re so lovely I can hardly bear it.”
But the voice whispering those words was no longer that of a girl. It was the voice of a woman—filled with ecstasy and obsession.
“So I’ll stay by your side.”
Yet there was no warmth in the girl’s embrace. Only the biting chill of a glacial void seeped into him.
“I’ll be a good girl who listens to everything you say.”
The cold and the darkness slithered into his heart, numbing his very soul.
“…What is your name?” Dale asked quietly amid that suffocating sensation.
“Shub.”
“Shub…”
At her answer, a violent gale erupted. It was so fierce he could no longer keep his footing.
When he regained his senses amid the roaring wind, Dale was back in his bedchamber.
His heart throbbed painfully. The three circles wrapped around it pulsed with light.
*Three circles…?*
No—something was different. As he thought this, he realized the truth: the circles were incomplete, but above them, *a fragment of a fourth circle* had begun to form. And entwined around that fragment—tentacles.
As a 3rd Circle Master, he had already begun to glimpse the threshold of the 4th Circle.
To reach the 3rd Circle in one’s early twenties was considered a near-miracle of talent. To go beyond that—to reach the 4th Circle—was something most magicians could not achieve even after a lifetime of effort.
And yet before the age of twelve, that threshold now stood before him.
Even calling him the Empire’s greatest genius no longer felt sufficient to describe his growth.
—
—
Some time later, in the barracks of the heavy infantry under Sir Yones—
“Ahh, this drink hits the spot!”
“After all that rolling and drilling, nothing tastes better!”
“The food’s great too! Makes all that running worth it!”
“Ha ha! Being able to eat meat every day—this is the life!”
Training good soldiers is like training fine warhorses; it isn’t achieved by mere brute effort. It requires systematic care, quality meals, and rigorous structure.
It was a luxury no ordinary mercenary could even dream of.
Gone were the ragged looks of worn-out sellswords. Their bodies and skills were growing stronger by the day.
A hundred men strong—the heavy infantry company. Individually, they might not match a knight in strength, but their coordinated formation could even halt a cavalry charge.
“Truly, not just anyone can be the Duke’s eldest son.”
“Ha, you said it.”
The drink flowed freely, and their tongues loosened. Their talk turned, inevitably, to their captain. Sir Yones took a long swig and nodded.
“At first, I thought he was just some stuck-up brat who lived off his pedigree…”
“Ha! I still remember when our dear lieutenant here got his ass handed to him by that ‘brat’!” one mercenary snickered.
“Shut your damn mouth, you bastard.”
Then the men recalled the sight of the *Black Prince* on the battlefield.
“Does that look like an ordinary kid to you?”
“You got that right! He’s the Empire’s number-one prodigy!”
“Even the Night Raven Knights couldn’t keep up with him!”
They remembered that day—the great demon migration—when he alone crushed an Orc Warlord.
Later, when news came that the Black Tower’s elders had attacked the ducal castle, the company had rushed to arms, joining the Night Ravens in battle.
There, Sir Yones had witnessed the true terror of the *monsters of House Saxen*—creatures who slaughtered their enemies without mercy.
And the one those monsters knelt to without hesitation—
That was no mere prodigy. That was something else entirely.
An incarnation of absurdity.
“…Well, for our part,” one mercenary said after a pause,
“as long as the boss feeds us well and treats us right, he’s the best superior there is.”
“And that boss just so happens to be the Duke’s heir himself!”
“Ha! Guess we really picked the right side!”
“To our captain!”
“And to our lieutenant, who got beat like a dog by the captain!”
Even if the Night Raven Knights’ discipline was harsh beyond measure, these mercenaries knew well enough what happened to soldiers who grew lazy and untrained—they died first.
Thus they understood the value of the Night Ravens’ brutal instruction. And with fine meals and even heavy armor—luxuries no ordinary mercenary could afford—they had nothing to complain about.
The *hundred heavy infantrymen* personally trained by the Black Prince himself—
“The man’s even got hair down there now, they say! He’s practically a grown man!”
“Ha ha ha! You don’t say!”
Just then—
“How many times must I hear that filthy joke of yours?”
A cold, familiar voice cut through their laughter.
The black surcoat fluttered in the night breeze as their captain approached, unbothered by the late hour.
“C-C-Captain!”
Their faces turned pale. An awkward silence fell as Dale Saxen stepped into the light. He didn’t seem to mind.
He calmly strode among them, stopping before Sir Yones.
“Pour me a drink,” Dale said.
“…Yes, sir.”
Awkwardly, Yones handed him a cup.
“Drink it.”
“…Yes, sir.”
Silence lingered.
“I remember well the courage you showed against the Elders’ Death Knights,” Dale said quietly.
“It was only our duty to fight for you and for House Saxen!” a mercenary shouted, breaking the tension.
Dale smiled faintly.
“Now that you mention it, it’s about time we chose a proper name for the company.”
Until now, they’d called themselves the *Kenneth Mercenaries*—a rather uninspired name.
It was common enough for lesser nobles to lend their name to their retinues for fame’s sake—but when it came to a *ducal house*, that was another matter. Using the family name carelessly could be risky.
After a moment’s thought, Dale spoke.
“From today, we are the **Black Armor Company**.”
And thus, the hundred men wearing the black armor of House Saxen gained their true name—*Black Armor*. Nothing could symbolize their house more clearly.
An armed organization that would handle every aspect of warfare demanded by its clients.
A warfaring corporation.
A military enterprise that would one day become the greatest **Private Military Company** on the continent.
“Ooooh! The Black Armor Company!”
“For the Black Armor!”
“For our captain!”
The men roared in delight, their cheers echoing through the night.
—
—
“The *Black Armor Company*, you say?”
At Duke Saxen’s question, Dale nodded.
“You intend to raise a mere band of mercenaries?”
“They won’t be mere mercenaries,” Dale replied.
“What I’m building is a force with *greater operational capability than any client it serves*.”
“Greater operational capability… than the client?” the Duke repeated, intrigued.
“Most mercenaries are just hired bodies—soldiers filling ranks according to their employer’s whims. Even the strongest, most famous companies are bound by that limit.”
“But our Black Armor Company won’t sell soldiers.”
“Then what will you sell?”
Dale’s answer was calm and unwavering.
“*Victory in war.*”
Not battles—*wars.*
“We will accept commissions and intervene in *every operational process necessary for our clients to win their wars.*”
As consummate professionals of warfare, they would manage everything from planning to execution.
Ordinarily, no noble would ever entrust such power to mercenaries—their pride would not allow it. Strategy, tactics, command—those belonged to the nobility. Mercenaries were pawns to be moved, nothing more.
But Dale possessed the final, decisive piece to make the impossible possible.
“As the Duke’s heir, even they cannot ignore my authority.”
It was nearly unheard of for a great duke’s heir—let alone one lauded as the Empire’s greatest genius—to personally lead a mercenary army.
Dale Saxen’s talents extended far beyond the sword and spell; by now, everyone knew that.
He was not just a warrior, but a strategist.
*A genius of war.*
Thus he continued, outlining the *Black Armor Company’s* vision like an entrepreneur before an investor.
They would recruit carefully, train elite soldiers, secure funding and resources to perform missions beyond simple combat, and incorporate cavalry support from House Saxen for fully integrated combined-arms warfare.
Everything that could be used—would be used. Even, of course, the name of House Saxen itself.
“Well then,” Dale concluded, “what do you think?”
“I’d say that’s quite an unexpected form of organization,” the Duke said, stroking his chin, intrigued.
“A mercenary force that conducts *entire wars* on behalf of its clients…”
He couldn’t deny it made sense—especially for Dale’s continued training.
And when the Duke finally saw the scale of investment his son proposed, even Dale himself was taken aback.
*As expected,* Dale thought, suppressing a grin, *nothing beats being born with a golden spoon.*
