Chapter 12
Chapter 12
"Cough, cough...!"
The trajectory of the spearhead slicing through the barbarian's throat.
A simple, almost tender motion.
But the recipient seemed to disagree.
Given how he clutched his fountain-like spurting neck while gurgling.
"Huh...? Delam!"
"Damn it... I told you to stay close."
Delam approached beside the now lifeless barbarian.
His face uncharacteristically twisted in irritation.
Come to think of it, I couldn't remember.
I'd definitely been running beside Delam just moments ago...
When I came to my senses, a barbarian was swinging a scimitar at me.
Mark offered a sheepish apology.
"S-sorry."
"Whatever. Just don't wander off again."
Delam wiped his brow as he spoke.
Not from sweat.
The droplets were blood—whose, I couldn't tell.
The crimson beads formed long trails down his face.
He looked like he'd bathed in blood.
Yet Mark felt no fear.
Had Delam not stabbed with his spear moments ago?
He wouldn't even be here to think such thoughts.
"Delam, th-tha—? Behind you!"
Mark's eyes bulged mid-thank you as he pointed behind them.
Another barbarian was charging with a raised axe.
"Raaaaagh!"
Swish.
Delam didn't even turn.
Instead, he reversed his spear grip and thrust backward.
Thunk!
"Gack!"
The axe clattered from the barbarian's lifeless hands.
A natural outcome when your throat gets impaled.
All from a careless, almost lazy stab.
'He didn't even look?!'
Mark's jaw dropped at the impossible skill.
Which meant only one thing to do now!
Grabbing Delam's pant leg, Mark pleaded with desperate sincerity.
"Lord Delam! Please save me!"
[Weapon Master]
One of Delam's many titles.
Requiring mastery—at minimum [Expert] level—with every conceivable weapon.
A glorious honor bestowed only upon those who met this impossible standard.
Knights were combat specialists.
Creatures who did nothing but train when not eating or sleeping.
Which meant they spent every waking moment pondering how to kill most efficiently.
True madmen.
And these madmen acknowledged his skill as Expert-level.
Not with one weapon—but all of them!
Transcending difficulty to achieve the impossible.
The stuff of legends?
Until Year 121 of the Fiore Empire.
When [Weapon Master] ceased being legend.
And became reality.
Unique and peerless... because Delam made it so.
Which begs the question:
How strong is a [Weapon Master]?
And when does their might shine brightest?
"Gyaaaah!"
"Guhk!"
"Waaaaaagh!"
Right now.
On a battlefield littered with every weapon imaginable!
Schlick.
The scimitar in Delam's hand split a barbarian's throat.
As the warrior gurgled his last, Delam had already released the blade to sweep his hand along the dying man's waist.
Snatching a throwing axe mid-motion.
"Die!"
Simultaneously, another barbarian lunged from the side.
Broadsword in hand.
The 90-centimeter blade descended vertically toward Delam.
Clang!
But the broadsword lost momentum instantly.
Caught between two throwing axes Delam crossed like scissors.
The axes then rotated in opposite directions, generating tremendous torque—
Forcing the barbarian to release his weapon.
Game over.
Chop, chop, chop!
"Guh—urk!"
Twin axes severed the barbarian's arms before cleaving his neck.
Delam spun without looking and hurled both weapons.
They traced erratic arcs through the air.
Two charging barbarians collapsed instantly.
Foreheads and Adam's apples split respectively.
The finale belonged to the spear.
Delam flicked his toe, launching a fallen spear skyward.
As it reached eye level—
Instead of catching it, he simply elbowed the shaft.
Whoosh!
The spear impaled a hesitant barbarian mid-charge.
Imagine the agony of a spear through the gut!
Mercy came via a dagger embedding in his throat.
Naturally, thrown by Delam.
"M-monster!"
"A berserker! One cursed by Ahide!"
"That child already bears divine blood...!"
By this point, even the barbarians broke.
These were warriors famed for their fearless savagery.
Yet they discarded weapons and fled in terror.
Their ravings made little sense.
But one truth remained:
To defeat madness requires greater madness.
"Ugh, this is exhausting."
Delam sighed and collapsed onto his rear.
The first real exertion in ages left him drained.
Superior skill didn't equate to invincibility.
His 13-year-old body hadn't fully matured.
Muscle mass and stamina paled compared to adults.
Reach posed another issue.
Short limbs demanded extra effort for every strike.
Enemies that would die in one slash now required two.
'Mana's no different either.'
Six months since his regression.
Despite diligent accumulation—even mastering Fleurex Arts to gather mana while sleeping—the time gap proved insurmountable.
His current mana reserves fell below even low-ranking knights.
A far cry from his former self.
"D-Delam! You okay?"
Yet the results spoke for themselves.
This battlefield should've been chaos—screams and clashing steel.
Yet around Delam and Mark, silence reigned.
Because every enemy here was dead or fleeing.
"Here, drink this!"
Mark uncorked his canteen and passed it over.
Delam drained it in one go despite his exhaustion.
The liquid burned his throat—cold yet fiery.
"This is alcohol?"
"From yesterday's supplies. Meant to drink it before charging, but I swapped it for water instead."
"Why the change?"
"Figured you'd throw a fit..."
"Good call."
Delam bonked Mark's head with the empty canteen.
After catching his breath, Delam bellowed:
"I am Squad Leader Delam! All Pior Kingdom soldiers who value their lives—rally to me!"
His voice carried across the plains.
Though just a boy, the troops responded instantly.
Survivors staggered toward the call.
And why wouldn't they?
What had Delam just demonstrated?
The literal [slaughter] of dozens single-handedly.
Anyone hesitating after witnessing that deserved death.
About thirty gathered.
From two thousand who'd charged alongside Delam.
That handful of survivors...
Painted a grim picture.
"Any squad leaders present? Sound off!"
"Here, sir!"
"M-me too..."
Two among the thirty.
Delam had them organize the troops.
First order: scavenge weapons.
Ditch whatever they held and take only spears.
Though technically the same frontline unit, they were strangers.
Without shared training, coordination would fail.
'Standardizing weapons is best in such cases.'
Next came armor.
The kingdom issued basic [gambesons].
Quilted cloth armor.
Surprisingly decent when properly made.
A well-crafted gambeson could stop sword strikes.
Keyword: well-crafted.
Expecting that from standard-issue gear was idiocy.
Some conscripts had bought additional gear privately.
Sure enough, scavenging yielded leather armor, gauntlets, boots.
Delam took the least bloodstained options.
Four throwing daggers and a shortsword at his waist.
Finally, a longspear in hand.
"Delam, we're winning, right? All the barbarians around us are dead..."
"Like hell."
Delam snorted at Mark's question.
When frontlines clashed, melee ensued.
Shield walls locking as blades sought lives.
But no one fought alone.
Comrades maintained defensive lines, pushing and holding—
"Did you see any pushing earlier?"
"...Can't recall any."
The implication was simple.
One side had been overwhelmingly crushed.
Here, the Pior Kingdom.
Once your frontline buckled, that was it.
Only slaughter awaited.
Mark and these thirty scavengers should've shared that fate.
Their survival had one cause:
Delam.
His overwhelming power rendered any "pushing" irrelevant—he'd erased combat in this entire sector.
"Gather up! No time to scavenge further."
"Ready, sir!"
The soldiers converged at Delam's shout.
Not even a general's orders would've achieved such speed.
Their trust in Delam was absolute.
"Anyone know this plain's geography? Sound off!"
"I do, sir. My hometown's nearby—helped my father cross here for merchant trips."
"Our current position?"
"Likely the central plains."
"Then we're safest here for now."
"Here?"
"Listen closely."
Battles typically progressed in three phases.
First: frontline clashes like Delam and Mark experienced.
Next: full engagement between main forces of heavy infantry.
Finally: knights and mages took the stage.
The knights targeted command structures and enemy mages.
Mages intercepted charging knights while dueling counterparts.
Meaning the real battle happened at the rearmost lines.
"So central position means safety?"
"Whew... We're saved..."
"Don't relax yet. That's against conventional foes. Who are we fighting?"
"The Sambala Tribal Union barbarians!"
"Exactly—a coalition. Their command structure's chaotic. Some crazed chieftain might decide to 'cleanse' the center by charging here."
"Ugh... But odds are low, right?"
"Nearly nonexistent."
Boom. Boom. Boom.
Then the ground began trembling.
For such vibrations to carry across vast plains?
Signaled something massive occurring.
'Thousands of cavalry or large-scale magic.'
FWOOOOSH!
Sure enough, enormous fireballs erupted on the horizon.
Not just fire—blizzards raged, golden spears fell from heaven, midair explosions lit the sky.
Both nations' elites.
Knights and mages, barbarian champions and shamans—unleashing everything to annihilate each other.
"T-that's magic! Mages, Delam!"
"I see it, dumbass."
Delam and Mark admired the spectacular display.
Elemental magics embroidered the battlefield's sky.
Continuous thunderclaps provided the soundtrack.
After observing, Delam finally spoke:
"Huh... We're screwed."
The knights' status was unclear.
But the mages were clearly losing.
Whether barbarian champions had overwhelmed them or they'd simply run dry on mana—
Either scenario was bad.
Drastically increasing defeat likelihood.
"We retreat immediately. All of you—drink up."
"B-but no retreat horns have sounded."
"Is that so. Your name?"
"Haintel."
"Right. Anyone wishing to wait for retreat horns with our glorious Squad Leader Haintel may remain."
"......"
Was this kid insane?
Every soldier stared at Haintel like he was an idiot.
Flustered, Haintel backtracked:
"I-I just meant—"
"Then move out!"
Thus began their retreat.
Like salmon swimming upstream.
For context: salmon have a 10% chance to reach spawning grounds.
Far higher than a conscript surviving their first battle.