Chapter 10
Chapter 10
The Empire's Supreme Commander Has Returned - Episode 10
Ten days had passed since training began.
The recruits' movements were incomparably sharper than when they had first started. They swiftly returned to their positions, tidied up, and stood at attention.
The instructor surveyed the barracks before speaking.
"I have news for you all. One piece of good news and one piece of bad news, so listen carefully."
"......"
"The good news is that training ends today. You'll have free time until the morning two days from now. The scribe will write letters home for those who want them—just make your requests."
"What's the bad news?"
"After that, you'll be deployed to the frontlines."
The instructor's words were brief.
But they were enough to tense up the entire barracks.
Short, sharp inhales could be heard from all around.
The instructor continued with further explanations—the situation at the front, the rewards for distinguished service, and advice like just keep your wits about you and use what you've learned, and you won't die.
Of course, Delam scoffed at that.
'What, do they think we're idiots?'
A scribe.
A profession that wrote letters on behalf of others.
The fact that most recruits needed one meant they were illiterate.
But that wasn't because they were stupid—it was because survival was hard, and literacy wasn't particularly useful.
That night, no one slept.
Six weeks of training—short by some standards, long by others.
And now, they were being sent to the battlefield before even completing it.
No one was ignorant of what that meant.
The training camp was bustling.
Not just those who had finished training, but recruits from the first to third weeks—a thousand men in total—were preparing to march.
After two days of rest, the recruits were issued their gear.
Along with their deployment orders.
Friends gathered to compare their assignments.
Those assigned to the same unit breathed sighs of relief, while those separated from their comrades wore grim expressions.
Delam was among the latter.
Fifteen had come from his village.
Only one had been assigned to the same unit as him.
Mark—the very same guy who had picked a fight with him.
"......"
Mark looked like he was on the verge of collapse.
Ever since Delam had single-handedly taken down seventeen men, he had been like this.
He'd actually picked a fight with someone like that.
Realizing what he'd done, he had been busy avoiding Delam ever since.
But even that ended today.
Of all people, they had to end up in the same unit!
"Aahhh......"
"Hey, you're stressing me out with all that sighing. Keep it up, and I might just push you down and run away—my conscience be damned."
"Aaaaahhh......"
Delam patted Mark's shoulder as the boy despaired.
Then he looked over his orders again.
Delam's orders were different from the others'.
Longer, and bearing a unique insignia.
The length was due to the recommendations from the training camp commander and Ober. The insignia marked him not as a regular soldier, but as a Squad Leader—commanding ten men.
"A Squad Leader?! Damn, you're amazing, Delam!"
"Still, don't let your guard down. Make sure you survive."
"We've still got sheep to herd back on the plains!"
"You guys too. Hey, gather around for a sec."
Delam called over the villagers who had come to congratulate him.
Then, he gave them some tips.
In your first battle, nine out of ten men freeze up.
But if you stay frozen like that, what happens?
Your head might just roll away.
So keep your wits about you.
If you're in the vanguard, say a prayer first.
And when the first clash happens, drop to the ground immediately.
If no one's looking, play dead.
If knights have their Aura, soldiers have their playing dead...
"Usually, they'll give you strong liquor before and after battle. Don't just drink it—check yourself for wounds. Even if it's just a scratch, clean it properly and wash it again with the liquor."
"Because wounds fester, right? Don't worry!"
"We heard all that during training too."
The villagers spoke confidently.
But Delam's expression remained troubled.
Most of them—no, all of them—he might never see again.
If he were by their side, he could actively help, but since they were in different units, there was only one thing he could do.
Good luck.
And so, the final night passed.
The recruits set off for the battlefield.
An Empire.
To become an empire, four major elements were required:
So, how did Delam's Pyorr Kingdom measure up?
Judging by names like Empire Spear and Empire Sword, they called themselves an empire, but in reality, they fell far short.
Especially in the third and fourth criteria.
But if you thought about it the other way—
'That means they've roughly met the first two.'
This wasn't the Pyorr Kingdom's first war.
They had already conquered two other kingdoms years prior.
In the process, Pyorr had become a multi-ethnic state and gained territory equivalent to two kingdoms.
The foundation of an empire!
'So... it'll take about fourteen days to reach the frontlines?'
With their expanded territory, the journey to the front had grown longer.
Especially the northern front against the Sambala barbarians—the kingdom's farthest edge.
Because of that, Delam and the other recruits had to march for fourteen straight days.
And even that was only because the king had, ostensibly for trade but actually for war, repaved all the kingdom's highways.
"Drill training during the march!"
"Match your stride with your comrades! If the path narrows, the rightmost column waits and rejoins from the rear!"
But it wasn't all bad.
They supplemented their incomplete training during the march.
Of course, the march alone was exhausting, so it was mostly theoretical and drill-based—but still, better than nothing.
A hundred times better than not doing it at all.
"I can already smell it."
"Huh? What smell?"
Mark asked at Delam's muttering.
Maybe because Delam hadn't bothered him during the march, Mark had regained some of his usual bravado.
It was irritating, but Delam let it slide.
Why torment someone who was about to see hell anyway?
That included answering his question.
"It's really there!"
After another day of marching, Mark spoke up.
But his expression wasn't good.
A pungent, oddly savory... yet revolting stench.
The pungency came from the smoke billowing in the distance.
So what about the savory smell?
"Bleeegh!"
Mark finally saw the source and vomited.
What he'd thought was a burning hill was actually a pile of bodies.
Or rather, what had once been people.
The smell of blood, corpses, and the battlefield.
Dozens of recruits were busy retching.
But the instructors didn't scold them.
Instead, they looked on with pity.
Relief that they didn't have to stand in the middle of such carnage.
And guilt because of it.
"Once you're done puking, let's go."
"Y-You... you're not even fazed by that?"
Mark, pale-faced, asked.
Delam glanced up at the sky.
Black smoke drifted low, like storm clouds.
Not fazed?
How could he be?
The memories were still vivid.
The crows that had blackened the battlefield.
Delam, waking alone amidst countless corpses.
That final day of humanity...
"......"
Delam paused for a moment of silence.
For the comrades left behind, with no one to burn them.
"Where the hell is the 1st Unit stationed?!"
"Ugh... We're all gonna die..."
Delam dragged the muttering Mark through the rows of barracks.
There were over a thousand tents lined up here.
Finding the 1st Unit among them wasn't easy.
But after a few questions, they found it quickly.
"Ah, here it is."
The relatively neat tent had its entrance covered even in broad daylight.
Delam grinned and kicked Mark in the back.
Losing his balance, Mark tumbled inside.
"Oh, fresh meat's here!"
"Yes, I'm—"
THUD!
Mark tried to introduce himself, but no chance.
The moment he opened his mouth, he took a punch to the gut.
Doubled over and coughing, something fell onto his head.
"Wrap him up!"
It was a thick blanket—the kind used for sleeping.
Then, the waiting soldiers swarmed in.
And proceeded to pummel Mark thoroughly.
"Agh! Aaaagh!"
All Mark could do in the midst of it was scream.
The blanket's thickness was little comfort.
Because the ones beating him were frontline veterans.
Their fierce kicks and punches went right through the fabric.
"Nice to meet you."
Delam stepped into the tent.
In that short time, the air was thick with dust from the beating.
But even that couldn't hide Delam's youthful face.
"Huh? Who's this kid? Another newbie?"
"Two newbies? Wait, hold on. How old are you?"
The soldiers murmured.
Delam answered cheerfully.
"Age? Thirteen this year."
"What the hell?! Why's a thirteen-year-old here?!"
"I volunteered when the conscription officer came to our village."
"Damn..."
The soldiers' faces darkened in unison.
The mood turned grave in an instant.
Mark, who had been peeking out as things quieted down, silently pulled the blanket back over himself.
"Don't worry. It's not what you're thinking."
"Huh? What are we thinking?"
"The war's not going so badly that they're drafting kids. Like I said, I volunteered—it's unrelated."
"Phew... Small mercies."
A one-eyed soldier sighed in relief.
The others felt the same.
A situation where they had to conscript children indiscriminately?
That would mean the Pyorr Kingdom was losing.
Or at the very least, being pushed back hard.
Either way, every soldier here would be dead.
But since that wasn't the case, it was a relief.
They'd been seriously considering desertion.
"Wait, but... why's this brat so damn mouthy? My son back home's fourteen, you little shit!"
"Is your son a Squad Leader too?"
"What?! The hell's that supposed to mean?!"
Delam waved his orders in front of the soldiers.
Most of them were illiterate, so they didn't know what it said.
But that was fine.
He'd shown it vaguely on purpose.
"Don't worry."
Flap.
Delam lowered the cloth, covering the entrance again.
The tent darkened, just as it had been before.
"You'll figure it out once you've taken enough beatings."