Chapter 102

Chapter 102

Chapter 102

Leaving the icy gloom behind, Dale took the initiative and spoke:

“Take a step back.”

His order included the gloom-spawns and the Death Knight under his control as well. A spiral of nocturnal essence emerged from his feet, causing his dark attire to ripple.

Dale tightened his grip on his weapon, The Peace Mediator. The absurdity of the situation caused Michael to swallow with difficulty.

A practitioner of the dark arts who disdains his own servants and decides to fight using only steel?

“That borders on absolute insanity.”

Just like those of the House of Saxon, the members of the Lancaster family could not lightly raise their weapons against the Saxon lineage. That was the true weight of the blood that bound those gathered there.

“Are you afraid of taking my life?”

“……” Michael remained silent at the question.

Dale insisted once more:

“Are you scared of the repercussions of ending me here, knowing that my progenitor and the entirety of the Northern lands would turn against you?”

Michael shook his head in disagreement.

“It is simply not my wish to take your life, my lord.”

“The warrior who perished decapitated by your steel would be lamenting right now in the afterlife,” Dale mocked, downplaying the matter. “We are all clear that justice does not govern this world, right?”

Michael Lancaster replied while maintaining his composure, honoring his position as the successor to the most influential ducal dynasty in the empire:

“It is comforting to know that you share that vision.”

Dale adjusted the position of his hands on the hilt and added:

“In a reality so devoid of fairness and sense, nothing should cause us astonishment.”

Nothing astonishes. In that instant, Dale’s fourth circle increased its rotation speed. This time, he did not summon the essence of the gloom, but an overwhelming frost. The surrounding environment experienced an abrupt thermal drop, and frost covered the ground.

An absolute cold that froze the surroundings.

“Shub,” Dale uttered, and the Mother of the Ancient Darkness drew a silent grimace. A thin branch made its way through Dale’s ear, connecting with his auditory channels until it reached his mind.

The perception of reality transformed.

A winter night landscape, dominated by ice and gloom, spread out before them.

It was not a real dimension, but a fantasy projected by Shub into Dale’s psyche, altering the environment of the fight club.

And that was enough.

A sorcerer’s strength lies in his faculty to build a precise mental representation, no matter how fictitious it may turn out to be.

Dale lifted his gaze.

At that moment, he was immersed in a state of deep self-hypnosis.

The support of Shub implied the possibility of suffering permanent sequelae in Dale’s brain.

The paladin from distant lands, the relentless executioner of the empire…

He squeezed the handle of his sword firmly.

An icy shiver ran down his spine.

It was not due solely to the freezing cold that covered the fight club.

The Dale of Saxon who stood before him manifested a chilling presence, as if he were a completely different individual.

He was indecipherable.

A mystic of the gloom who pushed away his death knight, dispensing with the use of his shadow entities and his own magical attire.

He only held a weapon, accelerating four circles to compensate for the absence of aura, while staring fixedly at him. Analyzed coldly, it represented a disastrous strategy, a contest doomed to failure. That is how it should have been.

However, Michael Lancaster’s sensations as a master of the sword warned him clearly.

“Imminent danger.”

How was it possible? That twelve-year-old child in front of him? A mystic incapable of manifesting an aura, using only an ordinary steel? It was absurd. Completely illogical.

Any trace of emotion was erased from Dale’s countenance. His bluish eyes contemplated the void, without fixing his gaze on a specific point.

In that very instant, Dale lunged. The blade, covered by extreme cold, made a cut, while Michael’s crimson steel unfurled sinuously around him.

Or that was his intention.

Before the metals collided, Michael stepped back, dominated by an irrational dread.

Involuntarily, the insignia of the Duke of Saxon’s dynasty printed on Dale’s clothing captured his attention.

The Night Raven. The messenger of demise.

Only in that instant did Michael identify the feeling that overwhelmed him.

The panic of perishing.

Gaining ground, Michael began to project the invisible force of his weapon. In the midst of that tempest of energy, the whip of the crimson blade lashed out with force.

Clang!

Dale intercepted the movements by brandishing his steel, deflecting Michael’s crimson weapon and continuing his advance. Once again, the ethereal energy traced indecipherable paths, but it was futile.

He repelled them all absolutely.

A simple mystic devoid of aura standing up to a warrior classified as the firmest candidate to join the Seven Swords of the entire continent.

Without showing hesitation or weakness, with absolute coldness.

Clang!

The crimson flower that intended to bloom withered, opening the way to a flower of pure ice.

Just at that moment.

Clang!

Dale’s offensive missed the trajectory, and the tip of the ethereal blade finally found a gap in Dale’s defense.

In parallel, Dale extended his extremity.

His objective was to stop the steel charged with Michael Lancaster’s aura directly.

The outcome was projected in which the successor to the ducal house of Saxon would end up mutilated by the rival weapon, bringing with it political disputes between both ducal lineages.

Said thought momentarily disturbed Michael’s actions, but Dale, without hesitating in the slightest, grabbed the whip of the steel.

An action equivalent to inserting an extremity into a gear of blades.

“Stop this.”

Michael stopped his attack abruptly.

Dale’s arm, which should have been shattered by the force of the impact, held the weapon firmly, without showing any wound.

The imposed peace.

An absolute shield that neutralizes any offensive, under the requirement that the damage be perceived by the senses consciously. And under the effects of his self-hypnosis, Dale’s sharpened reflexes identified Michael’s steel perfectly.

He managed to perceive without observing, to understand without reasoning, to notice without touching.

As long as Dale maintained consciousness of the ethereal weapon, breaking the peace that resided within him was an impossible task.

A blade could not cut his tissues and fire was incapable of damaging him.

If the blue mystic discipline represents the weakness of sorcerers, The Peace Mediator could be considered the scourge of any warrior, given that it invalidates any damage of a physical nature.

“How… how is this possible?”

Michael was disconcerted, ignoring the reality of the situation, while Dale executed his next movement. He took Michael’s weapon and The Peace Mediator made its trajectory.

Similar to the tool of death, the panic of demise imprisoned Michael.

An inevitable fear of perishing.

In that precise instant, Dale’s mind reached its maximum capacity, forcing him to regain lucidity. To aggravate the situation, the forced peace coming from The Peace Mediator vanished, causing that…

Zap!

The worst of outcomes occurred.

The extremity with which Dale was holding the edge resulted pulverized, as if it had been exposed to shredding mechanisms.

From the fingers to the elbow joint, the tissues, blood flow, and bone structures were sent flying.

Despite this, he did not emit any complaint.

Without showing weakness, dismissing the martyrdom of his destroyed limb, the steel in his other hand pointed fixedly at the neck area of Michael.

Acting as if he knew in advance that this would be the outcome of the combat.

“What was the reason for not attacking my neck immediately?” inquired Dale. Even with the destroyed limb, he preserved his calm and brought the sharp edge closer to the throat of the future member of the Seven Swords of the territory.

“If you had sliced my arm to then attack my neck without hesitation,” added Dale, “at these hours I would no longer be alive.”

However, he was prevented. Paralyzed by the weight of the blood that runs through the veins of Dale of Saxon.

“Did you assume from the beginning that I would hesitate?”

“At the very least, I assumed that fairness does not exist in this reality,” replied Dale.

“……”

Michael kept absolute silence. Had he attempted to eliminate Dale employing the totality of his faculties, the contest would have concluded with his own triumph.

After mutilating his opponent’s arm, dealing the definitive blow would have been simple. However, Michael Lancaster lacked that firmness of character.

An instant of doubt. That gap in resolution determined the outcome.

It did not differ from having lost the dispute in the mental plane.

It represented a minuscule variation, but in the field of honor combats, the “what ifs” lacked value. Only victors and the fallen existed. Nothing else. In this scenario, the same occurred.

An abysmal disparity regarding mettle.

Michael Lancaster remained intact, while Dale was on the verge of collapse due to the hemorrhage. Despite this, the balance of triumph leaned to his side.

A conquest overshadowed by darkness.

“I, Michael of Lancaster,” pronounced Michael after a brief space of silence, “pay honors to Dale of Saxon.”

Releasing a wave of invisible aura, he shattered his prized sword completely.

“…! “

“I admit my resounding defeat.”

The warrior rendered his own weapon useless, assuming the dishonor before the victor of the fight club, a considerable degradation for the second descendant of a duke.

“… I admit your surrender,” replied Dale, remaining firm in the middle of the stage covered in blood, tissues, and metal remains, without evidencing any alteration.

“A triumph achieved losing an arm and altering my mental faculties.”

Late at night, Dale, deprived of one of his upper limbs, remained seated in his place of rest murmuring to himself. It was an achievement that only brought him bodily afflictions. Despite this, no bitterness was appreciated on Dale’s face, even having lost the extremity definitively.

His countenance looked so imperturbable that it transmitted peace.

“An object of great value for the Duke of Saxon.”

It had to be a reward that justified the sacrifice of his own body. If the claims circulating in the Guild City were mere exaggerations, it would not have been necessary to resort to the intervention of the Black Duke.

Dale extended the only hand he preserved, observing the useless remnant of his other extremity.

In that instant, his dark attire moved and the gloom began to occupy the empty space of the amputated limb.

To a certain extent, it was not unreasonable to consider it an extension of his being, surpassing the figurative sense.

The gloom acquired structure, replicating the shape of an arm. He tested the new shadow extremity, performing verification movements.

“It possesses great manufacture.”

The shadow intertwined with his nervous connections, structuring an arm forged of pure hostility.

“It will be enough to manage until I concretize my return to the territory of the duchy.”

Unlike the general perception, the loss of body parts does not represent an insuperable tragedy, at least under the notions of the Black Tower. Regeneration or the replacement of limbs is something accessible through their knowledge.

Especially treating oneself to the descendant of the most gifted dark mystic of the continent, the Black Duke.

This perspective is the reason why the Saxon lineage and the Black Tower frequently carry the nickname of the Clan of Darkness.

Even the White Tower usually disguises such interventions under the denomination of “works of divinity,” obtaining great economic benefits in exchange.

Counting on that support before physical mishaps, Dale allowed himself to assume such risks.

A way of thinking incomprehensible to the knights, and even more so for the Lancaster lineage, which lacks links with mystical arts.

Contrary to Mikhail’s assumptions, Dale maintained control from the beginning. Not even someone like Dale would discard a part of his body without possessing a backup plan.

That did not suppress the physical suffering. Dale clenched his teeth trying to assimilate the pain.

“There is no other option but to tolerate it.”

As much as he tried to feign indifference, Dale preserved his human nature.

While Dale fell into the rest dragged by his pain, a lethal figure emerged from the gloom.

Lady Shadow.

Observing Dale agitate in his nightmares, Aurelia approached the Black Prince, the same individual who led his territory of origin to devastation acting as the armed arm of the Empire.

Her stylized and pale fingers grazed Dale’s cheek with delicacy, emulating the compassion of a saintly figure.

What was the motive?

The one to whom it corresponded to profess rancor and contempt manifested before her eyes as someone fragile and close.

Each occasion in which she contemplated him resisting his own gloom and martyrdom from the interior of his shadow… he resulted so valuable and worthy of affection that it was impossible for her to stop her feelings.

“Oh, my lord…”

Leaving aside her condition of instrument of the heights, she began to assimilate her own emotions, emulating an infant who finds delight and frenzy in the act of dealing death. Aurelia pressed her lips on Dale’s cheek, letting herself be carried by the longing and the joy that flooded her being.

“I beg you to subject me with the ties of a puppet.”

She committed herself to endure as the killer blade that would act from his gloom in a perpetual manner.

The agitation in the air of Dale gained greater calmness throughout his rest.

After some time, the events of the fight club concluded, allowing the opening of the black market.

A hidden exchange site reserved exclusively for the aristocracy and the sectors with greatest purchasing power of the continent, a space where the darkest ambitions of the Empire converged, without caring if the commerce involved material goods or human existences.

A festival of masks for the beasts.

Dale was part of them, assuming his role among the beasts, carrying the right to demand his award in an immediate manner in his quality as winner of the fight club.