**Chapter 9**
—
Draped in a black cloak, Dale experimented by stirring the shadows that rippled along its hem, infusing them with his dark mana as it rotated through the circle of his heart.
The shadows that should have lain flat beneath his feet surged upward, taking on tangible form—gleaming with a chilling, indigo gleam like blades forged from the night itself. It was as though pitch-black spears were sprouting from the ground beneath him.
*So this is what it feels like.*
Testing the movement of those shadow blades, Dale recalled that day’s sight.
The one who had once wielded this artifact had summoned a tempest of shadows that swept through the land like a tidal wave—able even to animate shadow itself as if it were alive.
That was what they called the *Shadow Creatures.*
By comparison, the few shadow blades Dale could command now were nothing more than a child’s game.
It was an unshakable principle: the degree to which an artifact’s power could be drawn out depended on one’s understanding of it—and the amount of mana infused into it.
*It’ll take a little more time to get used to it.*
While Dale quietly swallowed his frustration, those watching him—Black Duke and Sephia—could only stare in stunned disbelief.
Especially the Duke, whose astonishment was profound.
He was the continent’s foremost black magician and necromancer, the master of the Black Tower—one whose understanding of the darkness surpassed all others.
And yet, in the boy before him, he saw none of the signs of succumbing to the artifact’s malice.
No—on the contrary. The boy had *subjugated* that malice, crushing it beneath his heel with a dominance that left no room for doubt.
The Shadow Cloak.
A beloved treasure of a high-ranking demon from the Demon Realm—one who had fallen to the “Hero from Another World.”
The cloak’s shadows, once overflowing with malice, now knelt in obedience beneath the feet of a nine-year-old child.
*He’s completely controlling its power.*
How was this possible? Artifacts like this were imbued with powerful sentience. To maintain one’s calm against that malevolent will required spiritual fortitude far beyond the ordinary.
Certainly not something a nine-year-old should be capable of enduring.
Originally, the Duke had intended to raise the difficulty of Dale’s necromantic practice gradually—starting with low-level dark spirits, building step by step as the boy grew toward adulthood.
*What in the world is this child…?*
Sephia was equally shaken.
But while the two adults wrestled with their thoughts, Dale’s eyes gleamed brightly, like any child delighted with a new gift.
*One isn’t enough.*
His ambition was to possess at least two or three such artifacts.
But just as he thought that, he became aware of their eyes upon him.
*…Ah.*
For a fleeting instant, he had indulged his greed, forgetting how he must look. The artifacts of the Demon Realm possessed that much allure—they whispered to his very soul.
Not in metaphor, but in truth.
*“I’ll give you power! You want strength, don’t you? Wear me!”*
Artifacts carried sentient wills, and sensing the darkness buried in Dale’s heart, they resonated with it, whispering temptations.
Toward the hatred and cold malice he held against the Empire—
*“Choose me! Pick up this blade! Together we’ll slaughter them!”*
*“You have someone you want revenge on, don’t you? I can feel it!”*
*“Let’s destroy them together! Choose me, quickly!”*
*“You coward! Put me on! Let’s kill them together!”*
Life-draining swords. Armor of the Undying. The Devourer’s Grimoire.
A sentient necklace.
Trophies taken from the enemies he had slain as a Hero—along with those the ducal family had collected separately.
And Dale realized… this wasn’t all.
Beyond this chamber, hidden by magic, lay another passage.
A secret room—a writhing abyss so deep that the artifacts here could not even compare.
“…I’m sorry,” Dale murmured, tearing his mind away from the whispers.
“I suddenly felt… drawn to it. It was as if the cloak was asking me to wear it.”
He offered *half* the truth. Both the Duke and Sephia knew well that artifacts sometimes *chose* their wielders.
“…To think you would receive an Artifact’s Call.”
The Duke’s eyes widened slightly as he understood.
No matter how talented Dale was, no one could have imagined that a nine-year-old would be chosen by the *Shadow Cloak.*
Dale quieted the other artifacts’ temptations and nodded.
*For now, even mastering the cloak alone will be difficult enough.*
After all, the ducal treasures were destined to be his one day. That included the Black Duke’s personal collection of artifacts. So Dale saw no need to rush.
“That cloak now belongs to you,” the Duke said at last.
Sephia still looked worried.
“But mastering its power will not be easy.”
“Yes,” Dale replied simply, his expression calm.
The shadows beneath his feet rippled and bowed to his command.
—
—
The Duke of Saxen officially began summoning his knights to subjugate an orc horde that had intruded into his domain.
During that time, the task of teaching Dale to *control* the artifact fell entirely to the elven mage, Sephia.
A few days later, in the dawn hours—
Sephia’s lessons focused solely on control, not combat. Thus, for learning how to *use* the cloak’s power in battle, Dale sought another teacher.
“Sir Helmut!”
At the knights’ training ground of the ducal estate, Helmut, the captain of the vassal knights, turned pale as he saw Dale stride in wearing the Shadow Cloak.
“Y–young master! That cloak, could it be—!”
“That’s right.”
Dale grinned mischievously at Helmut’s aghast expression.
“The Duke told me, but even hearing it, I could hardly believe it,” Helmut muttered.
“I’m not a child anymore, you know,” Dale replied—ironically childish words for someone insisting on maturity.
“Father said I’ll be joining the expedition to subdue the orcs.”
“I have heard,” Helmut said solemnly, bowing his head.
“Therefore, even if it costs me my life, I shall protect you.”
“Thank you, Uncle Helmut.”
Dale smiled brightly. “But you haven’t forgotten, right?”
“Forgotten… what?”
“We were supposed to duel.”
Their match, interrupted last time by his father’s arrival.
“If I’m to go to war, I can’t afford to neglect my physical training.”
*Shiiing—*
He raised his foot slightly, and the shadows beneath him shimmered to life.
“How about a real duel?”
The shadow blades whirled around his feet, circling like dark satellites as he challenged the knight boldly—with no sword in his hand.
Helmut stood frozen for a moment, struck by realization.
*So this is how the young master’s sword talent will bloom!*
He had believed that teaching Dale swordsmanship was merely for discipline, never expecting the boy to truly wield a blade on the battlefield. But he had been wrong.
The shadows before him—Dale’s living sword. Even without Aura, the boy had found his lifelong weapon.
And realizing that, Helmut’s *teacher’s ambition* burned to life.
“Haha! You’d better be ready, young master!”
He grinned and drew his sword.
*Shiiing.*
The polished steel glimmered with a cold blue edge in the early dawn.
—
—
The air was still. Not a breeze stirred.
Yet Dale’s black cloak billowed violently, as though caught in a storm—alive.
Along its undulating hem, countless shadows began to writhe.
*Handling shadow blades follows the same logic as handling a sword.*
The shadows at his feet solidified into countless blades.
The only difference: his “hands” were invisible—manifestations of his mana.
That made it exponentially harder than wielding a physical sword.
But it had its advantages.
There was no limit to the number of blades he could create.
They moved freely, unbound by flesh, like swords controlled through *psychic sword arts.*
The circle in Dale’s heart began to spin faster—like an engine revving up.
RPM—revolutions per minute.
It was no metaphor.
A typical mage’s circle rotated around 300 rpm—three hundred revolutions per minute, generating mana at that rate.
But Dale’s circle—
—*1,500 rpm.*
That meant his single circle produced *five times* the efficiency of an ordinary mage’s.
Circle acceleration.
In a mage’s power, the speed of rotation mattered as much as the number of circles.
The mana generated from that rapid spin surged into the cloak.
“I’m coming,” Dale said quietly.
He kicked off the ground, charging forward.
At the same instant, the shadow blades beneath him shot toward Sir Helmut—like an assassin’s fan of daggers.
An attack so swift and precise that an ordinary knight could never hope to block it.
But Helmut was the strongest knight of the North.
Even in his past life, Dale wouldn’t have defeated him easily.
*Whoosh!*
Helmut’s blade swept through the oncoming shadows in a single motion—
swift as lightning.
The strike tore through the shadow blades like a fisherman’s net snaring a school of fish, scattering them into shards.
*Kaang!*
Steel clashed with darkness, ringing sharply.
Helmut adjusted his grip and counterattacked.
*Thrust!*
Just as the distance closed, Dale’s cloak flared.
From beneath his feet, black spikes erupted sharply, halting Helmut’s advance.
*Hoh…!*
Though it was only a spar between master and student, both were wielding real weapons. Watching them, the knights of the ducal house could only gape in awe.
None doubted the skill of Helmut Blackbear, commander of the Night Raven Knights. But his opponent—a mere nine-year-old boy—was beyond comprehension.
Everyone knew the Duke’s eldest son was a genius.
He had already sparred evenly with full-fledged knights without even using Aura.
Helmut too now faced him without Aura—but even so, the scene was staggering.
Even if it was a high demon’s artifact granting him power—was it not even more terrifying that a child could *control* such darkness so effortlessly?
It was a sight that stirred awe and unease in equal measure.
And yet, Dale’s brilliance silenced all unease.
*As expected of the Black Duke’s son.*
*Kaang!*
Shadow blades rose in waves beneath Dale’s feet, and Helmut met them with delighted fervor, pushing his sword harder.
The most frightening thing about Dale’s talent was that he needed no explanation.
He instinctively grasped what he lacked, what he needed to fix—and refined it mid-battle through sheer observation and analysis.
As if within him already lay a *perfect theory* of combat, and all that remained was to apply it.
Thus, Helmut’s duty as a mentor was simple.
To clash blades with him—and grant him experience.
For the day the boy would one day spread his wings of talent and soar, Sir Helmut Blackbear vowed to be part of those wings himself.
