***
"Please allow me to take the Trial of the Tower in Necropolis."
The Tower of Necropolis.
There was no need to explain what that meant.
The Black Magic Tower.
And the "Trial of the Tower" Dale referred to was a test where one proved how far they could ascend as a mage by facing the Floor Guardians of the tower.
Furthermore, it was a kind of ranking game among the tower's mages.
Novices taking the trial for the first time often collapsed before clearing even a few floors, while those who defeated higher-level guardians and climbed the tower earned the right to become "Elders of the Tower."
—And finally, the one person who reached the very pinnacle was granted the title of "Tower Master."
Just like the man standing before Dale… Lord Black.
Among the five colored magic towers, the Black Tower — associated with death — was infamous for being one of the most brutal trials, rivaled only by the Red Tower.
"You said the Trial of the Tower?"
Dale nodded silently.
"It is an extremely dangerous place where you could lose your life."
Speaking not just as Dale's father, but as the one who reigned at the peak of the Black Tower, Lord Black continued:
"You have not even completed the third circle yet. It is too early for you."
At ten years old, Dale had already mastered the second circle in both Water and Darkness.
To even qualify for the Trial of the Tower, one had to reach the third circle — either graduating from the academy or demonstrating equivalent power.
"I'll reach it soon," Dale replied, calm but firm.
The average age for an ordinary student to graduate and reach the third circle was their mid-twenties. But Dale had reached the second circle at nine — and just one year later, he was already confident he could break through again.
The third circle — the mark of a true mage.
"As I said, this is a decision for both myself and for House Saxen."
"And how do you see it that way?"
"If I reach the third circle and then prove myself through the Trial of the Tower…"
Dale's voice was even, resolute.
"Your position as Tower Master will be further solidified by my succession."
The position of Tower Master.
It was never inherited by blood, and the succession of a new master was never a light matter.
That was why Dale's desire to stand in the spotlight as the "prodigy of the ducal house" was not born from vanity.
"I will also gain a reputation built on proof, not baseless gossip."
A formal debut into the world of magic — proving before all that the so-called prodigy of the ducal house was real.
"My proof will be your proof," Dale said, and then added,
"And your proof will be the proof of House Saxen."
"The proof of House Saxen…"
The Duke of Saxen's expression darkened with thought.
"You volunteered for the Trial of the Tower for that reason?"
"Yes."
At Dale's calm answer, the Duke let out a quiet laugh.
Through the recent events, Dale had come to understand clearly:
The power held by House Saxen — the Empire's greatest grand duchy — far exceeded what he had once imagined.
Thus, hiding in the shadows was never an option. Even if Dale stayed silent, the Empire's ambitions toward the ducal house would never cease.
Instead, before the Empire could make its move, Dale needed to use the full weight of House Saxen's power to prove himself.
To gain a reputation so great that even the imperial family would hesitate to threaten him.
This was only the beginning.
That night.
Dale sat cross-legged in his room, checking his condition.
Two circles. Second-circle master.
Now, he needed to create and build one more mana ring.
Simply put, expanding a circle meant surpassing one's limits.
'But from the third circle onward, it's different.'
Unlike before, breaking through to the third circle was no longer a matter of talent or mere technique.
It was enlightenment.
Only by deeply contemplating and understanding the principles of magic could one reach that realm.
That was why the third circle was the academy's graduation standard — the mark of a true mage.
'But I don't have the luxury to sit around meditating.'
There was not just one path in the world.
Dale chose a path hundreds of times more dangerous — but one that guaranteed more certain results.
The forbidden path.
The same method he had used in his previous life.
If reaching the third circle through enlightenment was like climbing over a wall, Dale's method was to crash into the wall and shatter it.
Risking his life, he would trigger mana overload to transcend his limits.
Whoooom!
A vortex of magic swirled through the room, scattering frost-like patterns across the air.
Mana began a precarious tug-of-war between control and overload.
'Again.'
Through the pain and ringing in his skull, Dale refocused.
He detonated the mana stored in his heart like dynamite.
But the two interlocked circles functioned like gears, suppressing the overload.
'…Not all second circles are equal.'
The completeness of the circles he had built — with the knowledge of two lifetimes — far surpassed what he had achieved in his past life.
Even now, they grew more refined, their precision and rotation power dozens of times greater than that of a normal second circle.
The "limit" he had to surpass was far higher than expected.
But he could not stop.
'Again!'
In a vicious cycle of forcing his heart to pump mana beyond the second circle's capacity, the circles spun faster and faster, absorbing the endless torrent.
'Still not enough.'
He pushed them harder — like flooring the accelerator beyond the engine's limit.
"—!"
At that moment—
The mana broke free of the circles' control and flooded his entire body.
Crack, crack!
His breath stopped.
The mana screamed, draining the heat from the room.
Frost formed on the windows. The air turned to ice.
And then—
Thud!
"—?!"
A burning pain stabbed through his chest.
The cold edge of metal — a sword tip, glowing faintly blue, had pierced him.
'The blade of the sacred sword Durandal…?'
When he came to, Dale was no longer in his room.
He stood in the middle of a white wasteland.
A pale, dark winter night — the line between reality and illusion blurring.
Realizing this, Dale smirked.
As Sepia had said — magic is a mirror of the heart.
And now, Dale was standing inside that mirror.
Not waiting for enlightenment to come, but stepping into it with his own feet.
The abyss of thought.
A pale, dark winter night.
White ground, black sky.
Every mage possesses a "world of their own," and their training is the process of shaping that world.
A mage's ideal is to overlay that world onto reality.
The clash of high-level mages being called a "collision of worlds" was no exaggeration.
And this was Dale's world.
Ash-gray sleet scattered endlessly across the blank horizon.
There was nothing here.
No father. No mother. No sister Lize.
No Sepia. No Charlotte.
'I never had anything from the beginning.'
Realizing this, his heart became calm.
The cold seeped into his chest.
Clink!
The illusion shattered. The frost vanished.
There was no grand revelation — just truth.
"…"
Yet, three circles now interlocked around his heart, spinning like perfectly meshed gears.
The price he paid was simply facing his true world.
When he had reached the second circle, he had grown dozens of times stronger.
And now, having attained the third—
This was no ordinary third circle.
He wanted to test weapon projection, spell refinement, countless new formulas…
But alone in the ducal castle, he dared not risk it.
The next morning, in the Duke of Saxen's office:
"I've reached the third circle."
Dale's voice was calm, but the Duke inhaled sharply.
"...Is that true?"
Dale nodded, then spun the three interlocked circles within his heart.
Mana erupted, perfectly processed into magical energy.
The memory of the pale, dark winter night lingered — black and blue mana swirled at his fingertips, cold enough to freeze breath.
Refined Darkness. The dual attributes of shadow and frost.
Only now did Dale realize — his choice of Water and Darkness magic had not been coincidence.
When Sepia became his teacher, he could have refused her.
But he hadn't.
At first, he thought it was will.
—It wasn't.
'My world chose it.'
"Even now, it's hard to believe," the Duke said with a bitter smile.
"Now all that remains is to prove my ability in the tower," Dale replied.
At that, the Duke smiled — a quiet, complicated smile.
He knew it. Dale's talent had already surpassed the realm of genius.
But even knowing that, Dale's decision could not be stopped.
Even a monster was still his child.
But the time for silence had passed.
Regardless of Dale's age, the Empire — and the world — would keep moving.
Taking the Trial of the Tower, and proving himself with all his might—
"Please trust me, Father."
No matter what he became, now was the time to step forward.
Some time later.
The city of death, Necropolis.
At its center stood a towering jet-black spire — the Black Magic Tower.
A procession of noble carriages and knights advanced toward it.
Clad in black armor and gray surcoats embroidered with raven insignias — the Black Cavalry.
The Raven Knights.
The personal guard of the Duke of Saxen.
And the man within the lead carriage was the ruler of this city of death, master of the tower, and lord of the northern region.
Together with him — his young son, the most brilliant talent in the entire Empire.
The Trial of the Tower was a fair test given to every mage of the tower.
Even the Tower Master was not exempt.
The burden of proof did not fall on Dale
alone.
And so, two mages — father and son — walked the streets of Necropolis.
Each headed toward the trials that awaited them.
***