Chapter 11
Chapter 11
'Of all places, the frontline.'
Delam gazed at the rows of barracks with a grim expression.
Out of a thousand trainees, he just had to be assigned to the frontline?
That was proof positive of his abysmal luck.
Still, there was a sliver of hope.
Even on the frontline, as long as it wasn't the vanguard unit...
'But it is the vanguard unit.'
The name of Delam's assigned unit was [1st Unit].
The numbering indicated their deployment order in battle.
So [1st] meant they'd be at the very front.
The first to clash with enemies hopped up on battle frenzy?
With allied forces pressing from behind, cutting off any retreat?
They were essentially human shields.
'Seems unit assignments are random.'
The training camp commander's authority probably only extended to appointing squad leaders.
The frontline units must handle their own deployments directly.
Otherwise, there was no way they'd assign Delam here.
This was a unit where at least half would die when battle commenced.
Swish.
Delam stood with his spear extended straight ahead.
As if he'd just finished a thrust.
The strange part was that was all he did.
He remained perfectly still in that stance, like someone sunbathing.
But an observant person would notice—
Delam's spear shaft was moving, ever so slowly.
"Keep at it. Just focus on thrusting."
"Uh... yeah."
Mark flinched at Delam's sudden comment.
He adjusted his grip on the spear he'd been about to lower and resumed his stance.
This was the training grounds.
Delam was overseeing Mark's training while practicing himself.
"But aren't you going to teach me how to block or dodge...?"
"The guys behind you are all allies anyway. If it looks bad, just throw yourself backward. The others will handle the rest."
"Oh."
"Which is why you shouldn't grip the spear too far forward. Keep your weight centered toward the rear so you can bail anytime."
"Got it."
As Mark nodded, he glanced around.
The two of them were alone in this vast training area.
Despite hundreds of barracks housing Delam's squad and others, no one else was training.
Mark found that odd.
Before coming here, Mark had never held a spear.
Yet after just days of training—learning only thrusting—he'd grown remarkably comfortable with the weapon.
Current Mark could easily trounce his pre-training self in a fight.
His spear skills spoke for themselves.
So shouldn't everyone be training here desperately, sweating blood to survive actual combat?
"Your logic makes sense."
"Right? Right?"
"But we're the frontline vanguard. Our survival odds per battle are 50%. So what are the chances a soldier survives three consecutive battles?"
"Uh... 25%?"
"12.5%. Meaning nine out of ten die within a month. What kind of frozen hell training is that? You're better off jerking off one more time than wasting effort here."
"Ah..."
Mark's face darkened.
He'd heard it was dangerous, but this extreme?
He'd thought diligent training might reveal a path to survival, but if the margin was just 10%... it made sense.
"Still, wouldn't group training raise survival rates? Like forming that phalanx formation you mentioned."
"Doubtful."
Mark wasn't wrong.
Group training would improve survival odds.
Especially with Delam instructing.
The prodigy who'd risen to Supreme Commander through tactics and strategy could easily save half the doomed.
But it was impossible.
Regardless of Delam's skills, his [age] was the issue.
-I'll acknowledge you as squad leader.
-You will?
-Yes, sir...
The barracks confrontation hadn't been too severe.
Just a few punches to demonstrate the power gap.
These were all soldiers who'd survived at least one battle.
Pumped with adrenaline, mentally wound tight.
Provoking them gained nothing.
-...What do you want from us?
-Nothing. Just do your jobs and live.
-Meaning?
-Don't violate military law, and I don't care what you do. But treat me as squad leader in public. I'll fulfill my duties as one too.
-Then...
The soldiers were satisfied, but Delam felt bitter.
They were comrades he'd have to watch die.
Yet currently, he could do nothing.
Unless he regained his pre-regression strength...
'Wait, there is one.'
That hometown punk who drove nails into parents' hearts.
Now seemingly reformed, training diligently beside him.
He could at least protect this one.
With that resolve—
Delam smacked Mark's head.
Whack!
"Ow, why?!"
"Just felt like it. Got a problem?"
"N-no..."
Chuckling, Delam raised his spear again.
This was three days before their first battle.
Thudthudthudthud.
The world was quaking.
Or rather, just Mark's world.
Whoooooosh—
It was early autumn.
The season when breezes start turning crisp.
But Mark wasn't shivering from cold.
"Glory—"
"To His Majesty the—"
A booming voice echoed across the battlefield.
A morale-boosting pre-battle speech.
But Mark couldn't make it out.
Tens of thousands.
The battlefield stretched endlessly with opposing forces.
The plains were vast, the gathered masses immense.
No magical voice amplification could reach Mark at the very front.
'I-I must have been insane...!'
Instead, Mark felt his eyes moisten.
What? Prove himself?
Get knighted for talent?
Now he understood.
It was all bullshit.
And father—
Now he knew why father had wailed...
'At least I'm not alone.'
His sole comfort was the comrades at his sides.
Over days, he'd barely interacted with his eight squadmates.
Delam beating them down from the start meant Mark got lumped in too, preventing bonding.
A blessing, really.
Seeing other barracks' recruits, "bonding" equaled "getting beaten savagely."
Still, they were squadmates!
Now, nonexistent camaraderie surged.
Especially since these eight were battle survivors.
Veterans who'd turned battles around!
Stick close, follow their lead—
At least he wouldn't die.
Shakeshakeshake.
"Aah..."
But despair soon gripped Mark.
From the shoulders pressed against his—
Trembling. Worse than his own.
Peeking revealed the truth.
All eight were shaking like leaves.
Death's fear wasn't something you grew accustomed to.
"Hey, relax."
Except one.
Someone utterly unfazed spoke up.
Delam, positioned mid-squad.
He seemed completely unaffected.
No tremors, no tension—just analyzing the barbarians ahead.
As if born for war.
"H-how are you so c-c-calm...?"
"Asking how I stay calm?"
"Y-yeah."
"I'm not. See my legs?"
"Huh?"
Mark looked down.
Delam's legs were shaking violently, belying his steady voice.
Even Delam?
Mark's face turned from pale to ashen.
But then Delam's shaking stopped abruptly.
"Psych."
"You bastard!"
"Exactly—curse me instead of tensing. Remember—stick to me like glue."
"G-got it."
"That goes for all of you."
Delam addressed the other eight.
But their faces showed they weren't listening.
Even if they heard, they'd trust their survival experience over a 13-year-old.
'Their funeral.'
Right then—
Had the pre-battle speech ended?
A long horn blast crossed the battlefield.
Bwooooooo—
"Charge!"
"At them!"
The order for full assault!
Simultaneously, wide-eyed soldiers surged forward.
Thudthudthudthud!
None hesitated or fled.
Not just the frontline—wave after wave pressed from behind.
Stopping meant getting trampled into mincemeat.
Delam and Mark ran too.
Training-honed stamina propelled them.
Barbarians approached from ahead.
Blood-painted faces and tattoos were terrifying.
Enough to make knees weak.
But not today.
Fear required rationality.
Amid allies and enemies frothing at the mouths in frenzied charge, reason had no place.
"Shields up!"
Whack!
Delam smacked Mark's head while shouting.
Mark barely raised his shield as—
Thudthudthud!
A rain of arrows hammered down.
"Aaagh!"
"Gyaaah!"
Screams came from all sides.
Soldiers too excited to raise shields, or unlucky limbs protruding—now arrow-pierced.
"Run! Don't stop!"
"Raaaah!"
Mark's rational scream tore loose.
Vision blurred—only enemies ahead remained.
Soon even that vanished.
Warhorses wear blinkers to focus forward.
Mark and the soldiers had become such beasts.
Clashclashclang!
"Gyaaaah!"
"Save me!"
The fronts collided into chaos.
Shields bashed, spears stabbed.
Initial clashes always dissolved into melee.
Now it was every man for himself.
Until the noble knights and mages deigned to appear.
"Gasp... gasp...!"
Blades flew everywhere—necks, limbs severed, blood ballooning from stumps.
Mark stood amid it.
Expression vacant.
Hypnotized into brief bravery.
In truth—just an 18-year-old youth.
Miraculously still gripping his spear thanks to training.
That alone deserved praise.
"Fool!"
Enemies offered none.
A fur-clad barbarian swung a scimitar at Mark.
"......"
Mark stared blankly.
The curved blade neared his neck.
Death loomed.
Yet it felt unreal...
Then the impossible happened.
A blade appeared from nowhere.
Shink!
Lightly grazing the barbarian's throat.
Effortlessly.