Chapter 46

Chapter 46

Chapter 46

“My lord…”

The warrior lay on the ground, his flesh completely charred and teetering on the threshold of death.

“Neither I nor the House of Saxon will ever forget your sacrifice.”

Dale knelt silently and held the warrior’s hand between his own.

“Please… even in death, let me fulfill the duty of a Night Raven Knight…”

“I understand your wish.”

Dale nodded solemnly as the warrior’s words faded and his breathing grew weaker with every passing moment. One more life was extinguished, and Dale stood up, pressing his lips together until they bled.

Crackle, crackle.

Embers flew everywhere, mingling with the unrecognizable remains of the allies who had perished. It was a landscape all too familiar to Dale: a battlefield.

“One hundred and ninety-three knights were caught in the explosion and perished.”

Beside Dale, Sir Bale of Baskerville reported the casualties with distant coldness.

“The Aura Knights only suffered minor burns and are otherwise unharmed.”

“……”

Dale listened in silence, looking away.

“… Dale.”

Sepia remained there, her eyes brimming with unease. Dale turned his eyes away again.

His father, the Black Duke, was also present—the greatest dark mage on the continent, who had effortlessly eliminated the remaining Purifiers with a simple gesture.

“Collect the bodies of the knights and the debris.”

“Understood, Your Excellency.”

With a cold and analytical gaze, the Black Duke conveyed his orders to the assembled dark mages.

“Eris.”

“Yes, Tower Master.”

“Take ‘that’ to the Necropolis Tower.”

He pointed with a gesture toward the mass of deformed flesh and continued with his directives.

“Discover everything they know.”

Eris, the emissary of the Black Tower, nodded silently, accepting the command.

After imparting the pertinent instructions, the Black Duke turned to leave.

—Dale.

“Father.”

Dale replied, making an effort to maintain his composure.

“The losses are significant.”

Although the Purifiers of the Red Tower did not achieve their goal, this represented the first time Dale experienced the bitter taste of defeat and loss.

“Do you blame yourself as a commander?”

“I led the Saxon knights to their deaths.”

Dale stated, his voice laden with affliction.

“I should have withdrawn them from the beginning.”

He bit his lip again, feeling that those deaths were entirely his responsibility.

“Did you and Lady Sepia intend to face hundreds of orc riders and twelve Purifiers alone?”

The Black Duke inquired.

No matter how gifted Dale and Sepia were in the mystical arts, the environment of magic did not differ from that of knights. Unless it was an extraordinary individual like the Black Duke or a paladin from another nation, numbers represented an undeniable advantage. The knights of the Red Tower existed exclusively for combat.

Dale still did not possess the strength required to protect the Saxon knights, a fragility he was experiencing for the first time in his role as heir to the Saxon family.

“Do not be so hard on yourself.”

The Black Duke expressed calmly.

“This is not your fault.”

They were the words of comfort from a father to his son.

“……”

Dale remained silent, his heart bound by filaments of darkness as he spun the three circles within him.

He transmitted his black magic toward the lifeless Night Raven Knight.

“The Saxon knights…”

The dark energy flowed through the warrior’s body, and the combatant, who was previously dead, returned to life.

“They wished to fulfill their duty even after death.”

Whether in life or in death, the Night Raven Knights were bound by their obligation to the House of Saxon.

“And the battle is not over yet.”

Dale proclaimed with unwavering resolution, leading the Death Knights equipped with shadow-aura swords.

“Let the Saxon knights fulfill their duty.”

He channeled his emotionless voice toward the confrontation unfolding beyond.

For the people of the northern region, the resurgence of the fallen did not represent a source of terror. On the contrary, it constituted a hopeful promise of triumph.

Thus, when the deceased began to rise in the midst of the endless hordes of orcs, the morale of the northern hosts soared to levels never before seen.

That was the confirmation that the God of Death was manifesting his power in their favor.

The course of the combat was changing rapidly.

Most of the crossing points were successfully defended, and the northern contingents began their offensive, crossing the ford to destroy the opponent.

Despite this, the orcs persisted in the contest, resisting until the last of them perished.

“Graaaah!”

An orc warlord brandished his gigantic double-edged axe, shattering steel protections as if they were sheets of paper. A true berserker in every sense of the word.

Swoosh!

Combatants were sent flying by the devastating impacts, and no one showed the courage to approach.

The warlord’s colossal strength was proportional to his imposing size, and his axe cleaved through space, leaving unrecognizable remains in its wake.

The warriors were scattered like leaves in autumn.

Covered in vital fluids and viscera, the orc warlord roared again, and his elite escorts echoed his battle cry.

The confrontation was nearing its conclusion, but subjugating the orcs, who were firmly resolved, proved a more complex task than anticipated.

“Back.”

A warrior clad in dark armor advanced through the ranks of the wavering soldiers establishing a security cordon.

“I will handle them.”

It was Sir Helmut Blackbear, the Mad Sword.

Just at the moment Sir Helmut prepared to wield his prized weapon, Madness, an unexpected voice called to him.

—Sir Helmut.

“Lord Dale?”

Sir Helmut spun on his heels and held his breath. Dale was standing there, firm.

Escorted by the Death Knights who carried the black Saxon swords.

“Withdraw.”

Dale instructed.

“Defeating them is the duty of my knights and myself.”

His dark cloak danced around his feet, while his countenance remained impassive.

“My lord!”

Sir Helmut exhaled in surprise and immediately sheathed his weapon.

“… Understood.”

That was the magnitude of the trust placed in Dale of Saxon.

Sir Helmut stepped back, and Dale fixed his attention on the orc warlord, who was still brimming with belligerence.

“Saxon swords.”

He spoke to the Death Knights flanking him.

“Fulfill your duty.”

Carrying their grim aura swords, the Death Knights charged, exhibiting their combat capacity.

“What the hell…?!.”

Sir Helmut shouted, stupefied.

The combat movements of Dale’s Death Knights were completely different from what a conventional necromancer could generate.

It gave the impression that masters of combat were executing their maneuvers through the Death Knights.

The weapon proficiency of a Death Knight usually depended on the necromancer’s directives, and the vast majority of these mages lacked real knowledge about swordsmanship. For this reason, the handling of their Death Knights’ weapons usually appeared clumsy and awkward.

However, Dale’s Death Knights showed something different. Completely different.

They evidenced a finesse and skill far above those they possessed when they were alive. The orcs’ axes, renowned for their forcefulness, were easily parried by the black Saxon swords.

The steel moved fluidly, dodging the orcs’ charges, while the Saxon swords claimed the opponent’s blood.

Silence!

Orc fluids splattered the surroundings. It was a slaughter without any balance, something almost unbelievable to behold.

“I knew Lord Dale’s swordsmanship was exceptional.”

However, that surpassed the boundaries of simple virtuosity.

“What the hell is that incredible sword technique?!”

This went beyond innate talent. The movements displayed by Dale’s Death Knights were already immaculate.

Not even Sir Helmut himself, the Mad Sword, could grasp it.

Without him knowing, the skills that manifested before his eyes belonged to the mythical paladin who had once dominated the continent.

Facing such a level, the orcs’ opposition was insignificant. It was nothing more than sterile resistance.

“Graaaah!”

The orcs, a combative lineage, undertook one last desperate charge. Even so, their resolution and roars never affected the Death Knights. Only a systematic execution occurred.

The dark weapons moved, and with each impact, the remains of the elite orc warriors accumulated on the ground.

At that moment, in the midst of that unequal offensive, the orc warlord’s double-headed axe fell with force.

Boom!

With a formidable repercussion that seemed to shake the ground, the Death Knight finally crumbled into a pile of bones.

The designation of “Orc Warlord” was not an embellishment. It represented the leader of the orc horde, who fought bitterly to survive the great exodus of the demonic lineage.

Witnessing this, Dale snapped his fingers.

The warriors’ dark weapons stopped on the spot. The undead combatants took a step back, opening a path for the “Black Prince” to advance.

His dark cloak, resembling a black surcoat, expanded as he walked in order to conclude the confrontation.

“Y-Your Highness!”

One of the soldiers exclaimed with concern upon noticing Dale’s movements.

“There is no cause for concern.”

However, Sir Helmut Blackbear raised an arm in a sign of calm to restrain his subordinate.

He had contemplated the mastery that Dale manifested through his Death Knight. What Dale was exposing at this moment was the entirety of his potential, free of bindings and without regard for his rival’s characteristics.

Being the empire’s most prominent prodigy, the impatience to behold the “Black Prince” in full action was almost intolerable. Even if his opponent consisted of an orc warlord gifted with the strength to crush multiple Saxon knights simultaneously.

The orc warlord tightened his grip on his steel axe, instinctively identifying Dale’s imposing nature.

Dale, for his part, formed a sword born from the shadows, accompanying the movement of his dark tunic.

A moment of extreme tension was generated.

As the silence concluded, an impetuous wind roared, a freezing current that seeped deep into the bones.