Chapter 13
Chapter 13
Bwooo— Bwooo— Bwooo—
"Hmm~ They're quick to sound the retreat, those bastards."
Delam spat out curses as he listened to the horn blaring.
Everyone was too exhausted from running to speak, but if they could, all thirty soldiers would've been hurling similar insults.
And rightfully so.
When exactly had their formation collapsed and their mages been wiped out? And now, of all times, they blow the retreat horn and bail?
It was obvious—they didn't give a damn if the regular soldiers lived or died. The horn had only sounded because the knights and mages were in danger.
"Don't stop! We're leaving stragglers behind!"
"Huff... huff... Yes, sir!"
Delam urged the soldiers onward as they traversed the battlefield.
A full sprint was impossible, so they settled for a quick march.
As they moved in a tight formation, eyes turned toward them.
The barbarians glared at Delam's group but didn't attack.
An hour had already passed since the first battle began.
War was about expending every ounce of strength in a short time, so the barbarians were likely just as exhausted.
More importantly, there were plenty of other targets to chase.
The Pior Kingdom's forces were retreating in scattered groups—why go after a squad that was clearly still combat-ready when there were wounded prey to pick off?
Especially when thirty soldiers, all wielding spears in unison, moved like a pack of wild boars—nicknamed "mountain madmen."
The message was clear: Stand in our way, and you die.
"Filthy kingdom dogs... cough—!"
"Drop dead!"
Of course, a few barbarians still had the spirit to challenge them.
But the moment they lunged, they were silenced.
Delam's short sword severed the lead barbarian's neck, and the soldiers' spears skewered the rest like kebabs.
"Guh—!"
"What's wrong with him?"
"Go on ahead! My leg's busted—I can't walk anymore...!"
"If we stop here, we die. Hey, big guy next to him—carry him. The one being carried can hold a spear in return."
"Th-thank you!"
"If your stamina runs low, take turns carrying him. It'll be tough, but endure a little longer. It's not all bad for you."
He'd made it clear before they set out.
Stragglers get left behind.
But this wasn't an emergency worth abandoning a man over.
At Delam's order, the burly soldier thumped his chest.
"No problem! If carrying a comrade means saving him, I'll gladly push through the pain!"
"Good man. Though, to be honest, I meant it's not bad because if arrows or spells start flying, he'll take the hit for you."
"Ah...! Then I'll carry him."
"You wanna die?"
Mark, who had timidly stepped forward, immediately regretted it.
This guy—was his courage boundless or nonexistent? Hard to tell.
How long had they been running while carrying the wounded?
The command post and mage units were undoubtedly in chaos, so Delam's group kept to the edges of the plains.
But was that a mistake?
"Aaaaagh—!"
A distant scream echoed ahead.
Not just one.
Pleas and shrieks repeated in rapid succession.
Some soldiers even floated into the air—though without heads, they never came back down.
"S-sir, it's a Barbarian Warrior!"
"I've got eyes, I can see that."
As Squad Leader Haintel reported, it was indeed a Barbarian Warrior.
In the Pior Kingdom's terms, a [Warrior] was equivalent to a knight.
Normally, that barbarian should've been locked in a brutal fight with Pior's knights by now.
But this one was different.
A deserter?
Or a vengeance-blinded patriarch?
The aged Barbarian Warrior relentlessly pursued retreating Pior soldiers, slaughtering them in a bloodbath.
Five had already fallen in that brief moment.
Then, someone came running toward the soldiers from ahead.
Their equipment was a cut above the regular troops.
Clad in chainmail over leather armor and a gambeson, the figure wore the insignia of a centurion.
"Come at me, you savage!"
The centurion roared, drawing a longsword.
Hearing that voice, Delam's squad instinctively froze.
A reflexive reaction.
Because that shout carried mana.
Centurions and above were officers—high-ranking personnel.
As such, they were granted basic mana techniques.
But basics were just that—basic.
To infuse mana into one's voice with just the fundamentals required monumental effort.
And this officer had pulled it off.
'But his opponent's bad news...'
Even so, he was far from knight-level.
Knights trained in secret mana techniques from childhood.
Only through grueling repetition could they be forged.
So the outcome of this fight was obvious.
The Barbarian Warrior was a knight's equal.
"H-hey, Delam. Our guy's gonna win, right?"
"Nah, he'll lose."
"Then what do we do?"
"Fight together, obviously."
Run.
That was his real thought.
Sorry to say, but while the centurion kept the Barbarian Warrior busy, they'd slip away and circle around.
Buy us some time, will you?
"Raaaagh—!"
"Huh?"
Then, the centurion was split in two by a two-handed axe.
His face, spewing blood, twisted in indignation.
But Delam was even more indignant.
Did I really expect him to last thirty seconds?
Seemed the Barbarian Warrior was far stronger than anticipated.
'We're screwed.'
Now, they had no choice but to fight.
But was it even possible?
Delam quickly analyzed the Barbarian Warrior.
Conclusion?
'No shot.'
Only one option left.
Time to grab Mark and run like hell.
Delam turned to the soldiers and spoke.
"Listen up. I'll only say this once."
"......"
"I'll hold him off here. Run for your lives. Especially you squad leaders?"
"Yes, sir!"
"At your command!"
"Get these 27 kids back to HQ safely."
Snap!
The squad leaders saluted instead of replying.
Though they held the same rank, that didn't matter now.
The other soldiers also saluted, tears in their eyes.
"Keh keh... Done with your little charade?"
The watching Barbarian Warrior slowly approached.
He'd killed the centurion but hadn't rushed in.
The antics of these brats amused him.
"Interesting words. You'll hold me off? A snot-nosed brat who's barely weaned?"
"......"
"My grandson—had you not killed him—would've been your age. As an elder, I'll teach you the folly of your ways. By butchering your comrades one by one!"
What was his story?
The Barbarian Warrior advanced, face twisted with madness.
His steps weren't fast.
Yet the soldiers stood frozen, unable to flee.
Like mice before a cat, they only broke into cold sweat.
They all knew.
The gap between a mana-wielding knight and themselves...
Swish.
The Barbarian Warrior grinned cruelly and raised his axe.
Just as the lead soldier's head was about to roll—
"......!"
The warrior faltered, stepping back as he stared to the side.
There stood Delam.
He had discarded all other weapons.
Bent forward, he gripped only a single long spear.
Like a bowstring drawn taut.
One touch, and it would snap forward.
And pierce straight through his neck.
The Barbarian Warrior realized it now.
The cold sweat trickling down his brow.
Physique, mana, experience, years...
In every aspect, he dwarfed this brat—except one.
Spirit.
And he was losing in that.
"Rooooar—!"
Unwilling to accept it, the Barbarian Warrior roared.
But Delam's expression didn't change as he spoke.
To his soldiers. And to his enemy.
"Go. And... come at me!"
People often wondered:
Could skill bridge the gap between realms?
[Peak Mastery of Skill]
[VS A Higher Realm]
One side had supreme skill but lower cultivation.
The other had higher cultivation but lesser skill.
An unsolvable question, really.
Because if skill peaked, cultivation usually followed.
Meaning, the skilled were often the strong.
But here and now.
That question was being answered.
"Roooar—!"
The Barbarian Warrior swung his two-handed axe.
As large as Delam's torso.
Before the blade even connected, the sheer pressure of its wind threatened to split him in half.
Boom!
But it failed.
The axe only gouged the innocent plains.
What was astonishing was Delam's evasion.
A slight sidestep—then he firmly planted his foot on the flat of the axe.
Using the recoil to launch himself backward.
On battlefields, weapon edges were often kept slightly dull.
With so many enemies to cut, an overly sharp edge?
Would break after a few kills.
That's why Delam's ankle wasn't severed.
Of course, not just anyone could pull this off.
"Like a damn eel!"
Slightly startled, the Barbarian Warrior snorted.
A nimble body and an acrobat's sense of balance.
Impressive, but that was it.
A fly buzzing around? Swat it.
Once it lands, crush it.
Wham!
The Barbarian Warrior closed the gap in an instant.
The two-handed axe swung again.
This time, vertically—aiming to cleave Delam's upper body in half.
"Hup!"
Delam didn't dodge this time.
Instead, his spear thrust into the axe's path.
A perfect moment.
Right before the axe's force peaked!
"Ngh—?!"
The spearhead tangled with the axe, even threatening his fingers.
Panicked, the warrior hastily altered the axe's trajectory.
Trying to pull back and smash the spear down.
But he failed.
The spear rotated counterclockwise, sticking to him.
Swish!
The Barbarian Warrior tried to shake it off.
With his overwhelming strength, it should've been easy.
But strangely, it didn't work.
No matter how he pushed, pulled, or twisted—
The spear clung like a leech.
The secret lay in Delam's stance.
His left leg, waist, and spear moved as one.
Leg shifted, waist followed, spear adjusted—his entire body's strength focused into that single shaft.
Despite the vast difference in raw power, he was overcoming it.
"Grrk—!"
The bigger issue was the spear's tip.
It danced along the axe's haft, striking unpredictably.
Impossible to anticipate where it would stab next.
Thwack!
Then, the Barbarian Warrior's reaction slowed.
At the same time, Delam lunged forward, thrusting.
The spear shot toward his philtrum—the hollow beneath the nose.
"Guh—!"
But blood sprayed from the warrior's cheek.
Only thanks to his mana-enhanced reflexes did he barely evade.
The Barbarian Warrior stumbled back, panting.
Thud! Thud! Thud!
"You... what are you?"
Each step back was heavy, his voice now deadly serious.
Laced with wariness.
The ancestral spirit within him was warning.
This is no child—he's a warrior like you.
Keep underestimating him, and you won't live to see dawn...
A glorious moment—recognized by a true warrior!
But Delam wasn't even looking at him anymore.
Click.
He opened a locket, glanced at his mother's photo.
"Huuu... haa."
Then took a deep breath of crisp, leafy air.
"Ah, sorry. What'd you say?"
"...I asked what you are."
"Me? A farmer. My mom was great with sheep, but I had no talent for it. They'd always run scared when they saw me..."
"What?"
"Instead, I grew the tastiest potatoes in the village. Boiled just right, they were fluffy and delicious. And—"
Delam leveled his spear.
"This year's final fertilizer? It's you, bastard."