Chapter 46
Chapter 46
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 46
Chapter Title: The Duty of a Knight
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“My lord…”
The knight, his body scorched black, was on the verge of death.
“I, and the House of Sachsen, will never forget your devotion.”
Dale knelt quietly and took the knight’s hand.
“Please… allow me to… to fulfill my duty as a Night Raven Knight, even in death…”
“I understand your will, Sir Knight.”
Dale nodded at the knight's strained words. In agony, the man's breathing grew faint. Thus, a life was extinguished. Dale rose silently, biting his lip so hard it could have bled.
Crack. Crackle.
Embers scattered from all directions. Strewn about were pieces of human bodies, mangled beyond recognition.
It was a familiar sight to Dale—the landscape of a battlefield.
“One hundred and ninety-three knights were caught in the explosion and have perished.”
Beside Dale, Lord Veil of Baskerville delivered the damage report with a stoic expression.
“The Aura Knights are all safe, aside from some minor burns.”
“…”
Hearing Lord Veil's words, Dale remained silent. He turned his head.
“…Dale.”
Sephia was there, watching him with a worried expression. He turned his head again.
Dale's father, Lord Black, was also there.
The greatest black magician on the continent, who had dealt with the remaining Purifiers with a single gesture, denying them even the release of death.
“Recover the bodies and remains of the knights.”
“As you command, Your Grace.”
He assessed the situation coolly, issuing orders in a business-like manner to the black magicians who had gathered by his side.
“Eris.”
“Yes, Tower Master.”
“Move ‘that’ to the tower in the Necropolis.”
Lord Black continued, gesturing toward the squirming mass of flesh.
“Once it's there, uncover everything they know.”
“I will follow the Tower Master's command.”
Eris, the secretary to the Master of the Black Magic Tower and the Agent of Black, nodded silently.
After issuing the remaining orders, Lord Black started walking.
“Dale.”
“Father.”
Dale replied, struggling to maintain his composure.
“The losses are quite severe.”
Although the Purifiers from the Red Magic Tower had failed to achieve ‘their objective,’ this was, in a sense, Dale's first taste of bitter defeat and loss.
“Are you blaming yourself as the commander?”
“I led the knights of Sachsen to their deaths.”
Dale answered.
“…I should have pulled the knights back from the start.”
Dale continued, biting his lip again, as if their deaths were his responsibility.
“Did you intend for you and Lady Sephia to face hundreds of orc riders and twelve Purifiers by yourselves?”
Lord Black retorted.
No matter how exceptional Dale and Sephia were as magicians, the world of magic was no different from that of knights.
Unless one was an outlier on the level of Lord Black or the ‘Hero from Another World,’ the power of numerical superiority was absolute. Moreover, their opponents were the ‘knights of the Red Magic Tower,’ beings who existed solely for battle.
He hadn't been strong enough to overcome that difference, and so he had failed to protect the knights of Sachsen.
It was the first time he had felt so powerless since being born as the eldest son of House Sachsen.
His own weakness, for failing to become an ‘outlier.’
“Don't blame yourself too much.”
Lord Black began to speak.
“It is not your fault.”
Faced with the kindness of a father encouraging his son.
“…”
Dale did not answer. He merely rotated his three circles, along with the jet-black tentacles rooted in his heart.
He infused one of the fallen Night Raven Knights with ‘black mana.’
“The knights of Sachsen…”
Black mana coursed through the knight's body, and the corpse that should have remained dead began to rise.
“…left word that they wished to fulfill ‘their duty’ even after death.”
Those who sought to fulfill their duty as knights, in life and in death—such were the Night Raven Knights who swore loyalty to House Sachsen.
“And the battle is not yet over.”
And so Dale spoke. With unwavering resolve, he stood, leading the Death Knights wreathed in jet-black aura blades.
“Please, allow the knights of Sachsen to fulfill their duty.”
He spoke toward the front lines beyond, where a fierce battle was still raging. His voice was devoid of all emotion.
* * *
To the people of the North, the rising of the dead was never a cause for fear. No, in a way, it was the most reliable guarantee of victory.
Therefore, when the dead began to rise from friend and foe alike before the endless tide of orcs, the morale of the Northern Army soared to unprecedented heights.
It was proof that the ‘God of Death’ was finally using his power for their sake.
* * *
The tide of battle was turning quickly.
Most of the river crossings had been successfully defended, and with victory secured, the advance had begun to cross the shallows and annihilate the enemy.
But the orcs would not stop resisting until the very last one had fallen.
“Graaaaaaah!”
An Orc Warboss swung his massive two-handed axe, and steel armor crumpled like paper. He was the very picture of a berserker.
Whoosh!
Soldiers fell like leaves before the sweeping slashes, and no one dared to approach recklessly.
A monstrous destructive power befitting his several-meter-tall frame. The steel axe swung relentlessly, and with each swing, unrecognizable chunks of flesh were sent flying.
Men were being mown down like autumn leaves.
Drenched in cascading blood and viscera, the Orc Warboss roared again. The elite orc soldiers guarding him shouted in kind, not to be outdone.
The battle was nearing its end. Even so, putting a stop to the orcs, who were burning with a do-or-die fighting spirit, was proving more difficult than expected.
“Stand back.”
And so, a knight in black armor strode through the soldiers who were hesitantly forming an encirclement.
“I will deal with them.”
It was Lord Helmut Blackbear, the Mad Sword.
And just as Lord Helmut was about to draw his beloved sword, ‘Madness,’ from his hip…
“—Lord Helmut.”
An unexpected voice called out.
“Lord Dale?”
Lord Helmut turned his head and immediately caught his breath. Dale was there.
Leading the knights of death, who wielded the black swords of Sachsen.
“Stand down.”
Dale said.
“Defeating them is a task for me and my knights.”
His shadow cloak billowed around his feet. His expression was devoid of any hesitation.
“My lord!”
At this sight, Lord Helmut gasped for a moment. Then, he sheathed his sword.
“…Understood.”
Such was the extraordinary trust he placed in Dale of Sachsen.
Lord Helmut silently stepped back. Then, Dale raised his head toward the Orc Warboss, who was burning with fighting spirit.
“Swords of House Sachsen.”
He stood with the knights of death under his command.
“Fulfill your duty.”
Wreathed in jet-black aura blades, the Death Knights commanded by Dale kicked off the ground, unleashing the full martial might contained within their black swords.
“What in the world is that…!”
Watching them, Lord Helmut cried out in astonishment.
The sword dance performed by Dale's Death Knights was nothing like that of some run-of-the-mill black magician.
It was a sword dance like that of a master swordsman of the highest caliber, executing their forms.
A Death Knight's swordsmanship ultimately stemmed from the necromancer's control, and it went without saying that an ordinary necromancer would have no expertise with the sword. For that reason, the swordsmanship displayed by Death Knights was typically crude and clumsy.
But the Death Knights commanded by Dale were different. So very different.
Their absurd swordsmanship and skill surpassed the level the knights had possessed in life. Before their sword dance, the axes of the orcs, a race of warriors, cut through empty air.
They deflected the orcs' axes as fluidly as running water, and the black swords of Sachsen swung as if they were starved for the enemy's blood.
Thwack!
Orc blood sprayed into the air. It was a one-sided slaughter, almost impossible to believe even while watching it.
‘I knew Lord Dale's talent with the sword was extraordinary.’
But this was on a level beyond mere talent.
‘But what in the world is that absurd swordsmanship?!’
It could no longer be called talent. The sword forms displayed by Dale's Death Knights—that sword was already a ‘perfected sword.’
Lord Helmut, the Mad Sword, could never have imagined it.
The fact that what was unfolding at the tips of their blades was none other than the ‘sword of the Hero’ who had once conquered the continent.
Before it, the resistance of a mere band of orcs was meaningless. It was nothing more than a desperate struggle.
“Grrrraaaargh!”
As a race of warriors, they made a final, desperate charge with suicidal resolve. Nevertheless, their fighting spirit and roars never reached the Death Knights. There was only slaughter.
The black swords swung, and with each swing, the corpses of elite orc soldiers piled up one by one.
Just then, amidst the one-sided slaughter, the Orc Warboss's two-handed axe swung.
Craaaash!
With an impact that seemed to shake the very earth, the body of one Death Knight was finally crushed.
The title ‘Orc Warboss’ was not just for show. He was the leader of an orc horde that had survived the Great Demonic Migration through desperate struggle.
Seeing this, Dale snapped his fingers.
The knights' black swords stopped all at once. He pulled back the undying knights, and the ‘Black Prince’ stepped forward from among them.
His shadow cloak, disguised as a black surcoat, fluttered as he prepared to end this battle with his own hands.
“M-My lord!”
One of the knights cried out in alarm at Dale's appearance.
“There is no need to worry.”
But Lord Helmut Blackbear quietly extended an arm to stop his subordinate.
He had realized it after seeing the swordsmanship Dale displayed through his ‘Death Knights.’ What he was showing now was 100% of his power, holding nothing back for his opponent.
That was why he couldn't help but look forward to seeing what the ‘Black Prince,’ the greatest genius in the Empire, would do. Even if his opponent was an Orc Warboss capable of effortlessly crushing several of Sachsen's knights.
The Orc Warboss readjusted his grip on the steel axe, instinctively sensing the overwhelming presence emanating from Dale.
Dale, too, formed a blade of darkness from his shadow cloak.
A brief standoff ensued.
At the end of the standoff, the wind howled—a biting northern gale, cold enough to chill the bones.