Episode 111
In the stark, dark winter night stood a solitary, towering fortress of pitch black.
Within its walls resided the lonely lord of the castle.
The grand hall, built in a somber Flamboyant Gothic style, was as imposing as a medieval cathedral, filled with an overwhelming sense of gloom.
There, high above, was a throne of black and gold, from which one could survey the entire realm.
The “Dark Prince” sat upon it.
Not on the cold, dark earth below, but as the master of this fortress.
The Fortress of Solitude.
A newly woven world of thought, ruled by the “Overlord of the Demon Realm.”
The rampaging dark artifact and its host, the black sorcerer, were also present.
To expel this unwelcome guest, Dale’s world began to stir.
This fortress, erected on the barren land, was known as “Dale’s Empire.”
“Rise, my knights.”
At the lord’s command, the tireless, relentless undead knights rose.
The “Order of the Dead Knights.”
Simultaneously, the black sword in the sorcerer’s hand swung, scattering black petals once more.
Yet, the falling petals did nothing to alter Dale’s world.
The icy chill and darkness from outside the castle began to swirl within the grand hall.
The temperature plummeted rapidly, and frost formed, coating the interior in white.
This was the world of the “Dark Prince,” an empire, a fortress.
The world that fourteen-year-old Dale had built was impervious to the chaos of a mere dark artifact.
The “Shadow Cloak,” mimicking Dale’s black surcoat, flapped wildly.
The dark artifact was in a frenzy, and its puppet host was under its control.
Thus, Dale had only one decision to make.
Swoosh!
Death knights, projecting the prowess of a hero through “Automated Formulas,” surged from all sides.
The arm of the black sorcerer, holding the sword, was severed at the shoulder.
The black sword, now without a host, plunged vertically into the marble floor of the hall.
“Agh, aah…!”
The sorcerer, losing his arm, screamed and finally regained consciousness.
Before he could even take in his surroundings, Dale spoke.
“This is not your place.”
Dale’s words expelled the sorcerer’s presence from the “world of thought.”
A forced banishment.
Healing the severed arm and restoring the body would be the task of those outside.
Dale turned his head.
The black sword, now hostless, stood embedded in the floor.
Dale walked toward the sword without a hint of hesitation.
The “Shadow Cloak” flapped madly, screaming.
A sudden, splitting headache struck Dale, as if his consciousness was being torn away.
Just like when he first donned the Shadow Cloak… no, with even greater darkness, the sword’s malice tried to consume Dale as its host.
‘This is no ordinary artifact.’
Yet, Dale’s expression showed no sign of disturbance.
“You want to subdue me, don’t you?”
Dale spoke, as if addressing a sentient being.
The artifact’s hilt trembled violently.
“I’ll give you a chance, go ahead and try.”
Dale said, driving the hilt into the black-and-white mosaic tiles.
Simultaneously, the Shadow Cloak flapped, creating a lake of darkness that engulfed the area.
And from that lake of darkness, an arm emerged.
A shadowy figure, a “Shadow Walker,” rose and grasped the sword’s hilt.
─ Heh, heh, heh.
The shadowy creature gripped the hilt, unleashing a force far beyond what had been seen before.
A “Shadow Knight” stood before Dale.
No longer a creature that obeyed Dale, but a new host driven by the sword’s malice.
For the sword, it was the perfect host, far superior to any mere sorcerer’s body.
It allowed the artifact, filled with malice, to unleash its full power.
A reckless act, indeed.
But Dale was unfazed.
‘There’s no better way to understand the artifact’s power.’
What filled Dale’s heart was the thrill of facing a formidable opponent.
A sword forged in the darkness of demons.
The term “demon” refers not to a specific race, but to creatures like orcs with a certain level of intelligence.
The distinction between ordinary demons and “high demons” lies in their ability to use magic.
Just as the people of this world build magical systems based on elements like fire, water, and light…
High demons also wield magic with their own systems.
Using “shadows” as the foundation of their thought.
The fear and disdain for the black tower’s sorcerers stem from their acceptance and inheritance of high demon thought.
Shadows, darkness, the absence of light.
Strictly speaking, the existence of the current black tower and the Saxon family owes much to “demonic thought.”
The artifacts of the Demon Realm are all based on “shadow power” for this reason.
If demons were to establish a tower in the empire, it would likely be a “Shadow Tower.”
Just as tower sorcerers are known by colors—Pyromancer, Wizard, Necromancer, Cleric, Druid…
Dale remembered well the infamy of “Shadow Casters,” the high demons.
And among the artifacts infused with their power was Dale’s prized “Shadow Cloak.”
The black sword before him was no exception.
‘The one who will bring down the Empire of Fire and Light, and usher in the Empire of Shadows.’
‘The Black Apostle, the Shadow Lord.’
The words of the “Shadow Church” saintess to Dale came to mind.
‘Why is everything around me so dark and gloomy?’
That idle thought was as far as it went.
The “Shadow Knight,” controlled by the black sword, charged, and Dale drew his own sword to meet it.
Clang!
The hero’s sword clashed with the black sword, projecting the essence of the Peacemaker.
The “Enforced Peace” twisted the laws of the area, nullifying all attacks.
Yet, as the deep labyrinth’s monsters had shown, the power within the black sword would not yield easily.
Crash!
The sound of shattering glass echoed, and the sword in the Shadow Knight’s hand slipped forward.
‘Figures, a fake is still a fake.’
The distance closed, and Dale cursed, quickly retreating.
At the same time, the Shadow Cloak flapped, unleashing a barrage of dark bullets along the black barrel.
But the attack never reached the Shadow Knight.
The dark bullets were being absorbed into the sword.
Like a black hole drawing in light, the sword’s gravity devoured Dale’s “Shadow Bullets.”
Then, the Shadow Knight swung the black sword in the air.
The dozens of “Shadow Bullets” swallowed by the black hole were fired back at Dale.
Bang!
Several bullets pierced Dale’s body, narrowly missing vital points, causing his flesh and bones to collapse.
Spectralization.
Dale’s disintegrated body, now a shadowy form, swiftly retreated.
The swirling dark blue magic beneath him transformed into a spell aimed at the Shadow Knight’s “sword.”
But this magic was no exception.
‘It’s absorbing all my magic.’
Like a black hole.
This was no mere shadow.
A voracious sword of gluttony, devouring all thought.
‘Hunger…’
The Shadow Knight closed the distance with a powerful leap.
The black sword “Hunger” swung.
Clang!
But another black sword blocked its path.
No, it wasn’t just one black sword.
Dozens of black swords, wielded by death knights, moved to protect their lord.
Each death knight, imbued with the prowess of a hero, surrounded and charged the “Shadow Knight.”
‘It seems it can’t absorb aura blades.’
Though the death knights in Dale’s world were not real, merely manifestations of his imagination.
When a high mage unfolds the world of ideas and wields it as a “weapon” to utterly exclude their enemies, they can exert god-like power within that realm, depending on their abilities. It’s no exaggeration to call the battles between high mages “clashes of worlds.”
In the icy cold and darkness of the frozen wasteland, the fortress of solitude erected on the barren land was a true “symbol of power.”
This was the Empire of Dale.
No mere knight could hope to triumph against a nation. Even if he wielded a “sword that devours magic,” it wouldn’t change the outcome. A sword might consume magic, but it could never consume an entire world.
In Dale’s world, the immortal knights were endlessly deployed to protect their lord. The army of death knights, the countless black swords of Saxon, charged toward the obsidian demon sword.
This was the Empire of Dale, and standing against it was just “a single knight.”
A shadowy knight was struck by a pitch-black aura blade, his form shredded by Saxon’s black sword. Yet, there was no blood, no shattered bones.
The obsidian demon sword in his hand struck the marble mosaic tiles of the grand hall once more.
Dale stepped forward and grasped the hilt of the demon sword, “Gluttony.” There was no resistance, only a faint, needle-like malice, like a frightened child cowering.
Undeniable submission.
“A sword that absorbs magic,” he mused. He wasn’t sure how much it could consume, but it was undoubtedly worth possessing.
As he dispelled the world of ideas, the labyrinth city’s scenery returned around him.
“Baron Saxon has acquired the artifact…” came the hushed whispers from all around as they watched Dale holding “Gluttony.”
However, Dale spoke up, “I’ve stopped the artifact’s rampage.”
He spun the hilt and drove the sword into the ground.
“As expected of Baron Saxon…!”
“An artifact that even a 5th-circle dark mage couldn’t handle!”
The son of the Black Sphere, heir to the Saxon family—who would dare question that name?
Dale turned his head. Amidst the crowd drawn by the sudden commotion, he spotted someone he couldn’t ignore.
“Sir Drake, the Monster Hunter.”
With his hand still on the hilt of “Gluttony,” Dale called out to him.
“You summoned me, Baron Saxon?” Sir Drake, the Monster Hunter, bowed respectfully. Dale smiled and continued.
“This sword—how much would you sell it for?”