Chapter 14
Chapter 14
The battle raged on.
Spear and greataxe clashed, struck, and slashed.
If one had to describe the scene in a single phrase:
'It's like fighting a damned ghost!'
The Sambala tribes worshipped ancestral spirits, so they rarely used such words lightly.
But right now, there was no other way to describe it.
Because the boy's spearwork was utterly bizarre.
"KAHAP!"
The barbarian warrior swung his greataxe.
The boy blocked it with his spear shaft.
Under normal circumstances, that should have been the end.
Aura should have cleaved through the shaft and split the boy in two—that was only natural.
But it didn't happen.
Shockingly, the boy was using mana as well.
But the real problem was the emptiness.
Whoosh—
Again, the same thing happened.
The boy, having blocked with his spear, was sent flying backward.
Yet the warrior felt no impact in his hands.
It was like striking at passing wind.
The most frustrating part?
The boy's offense and defense were one and the same.
His defense wasn't just defense—it was also an attack.
His attack wasn't just an attack—it was also defense.
Even now, as he was knocked back, he flipped his grip midair and swung the spear like an axe.
The combined reach of his arm and spear created an absurd range.
More than enough to strike the barbarian.
"KYAAAH!"
Whoom—
Evasion was no different.
The warrior raised his greataxe overhead and brought it down with all his might—like splitting firewood.
The boy's response?
He simply dodged.
By a hair's breadth.
And as mentioned—offense and defense were one.
The moment he evaded, he suddenly reversed his grip on the spear.
The long spear was now behind his back.
From there—SHUK!
From the warrior's perspective, the attack's origin point had shifted in an instant—as if the thrust had come from outside his vision.
Yet, somehow, he reacted.
A fraction slower, and his eye would have been skewered.
"You brat! You little—!"
Losing his temper was inevitable.
But the angrier he got, the more he danced to Delam's tune.
Delam extended his spear one-handed, swinging it like a whip.
When the warrior dodged, the follow-up came instantly.
With just a flick of his wrist, he sent the spear spiraling upward, then stepped forward and reversed his grip—blade to shaft.
The next move was obvious.
THWACK!
"GAAAH!"
The barbarian staggered back, his jaw rattled by the spear shaft.
He was on the verge of losing his mind.
Decades of experience meant nothing.
The boy's movements were clownish—yet impossible to evade.
A two-meter spear, yet its distance was unreadable.
Backing away, blocking—none of it worked.
A relentless display of skill that defied belief!
A ghost. A monster.
"What the hell are you even doing—?!"
But what truly enraged the warrior wasn't the fight itself.
It was the boy's attitude.
Amid the brutal clash—
Delam occasionally closed his eyes or gazed into the distance.
As if his mind was elsewhere.
"......"
No response.
Even now, his pause was mechanical.
The opponent stopped, so he stopped.
This should have been impossible.
This wasn't a fight where he held overwhelming advantage—it was a desperate struggle where the slightest misstep meant death.
Yet Delam was thinking of something else.
A level of focus only possible for someone who had witnessed countless deaths, mastered them, and ultimately transcended them.
Then why was his mind wandering?
The answer was simple.
'I'm reaching my limit.'
His body was still immature. His mana, insufficient.
He had already cut down dozens of enemies before rushing here.
And now, facing this barbarian warrior.
The warrior's skill wasn't even that high—equivalent to a low-ranking knight.
'Even a low-ranking knight can handle twenty armed soldiers or fifty poorly equipped ones.'
By that measure, this was a formidable foe.
And Delam had already exchanged dozens of blows with him.
Now, his body was battered.
His mana had long been depleted.
He was scraping the dregs from the bottom of his heart, forcing out every last drop to reinforce his body.
If not for the stability of Fleurex Arts, he would have already coughed blood from mana exhaustion.
Yet the fight dragged on.
Delam was dominating, but the problem was delivering a killing blow.
He could bloody his opponent—but not finish him.
Only one solution remained.
'I need another method.'
So he pondered.
If mana, body, and skill weren't enough...
How could he bring down this hulking brute?
In a knight-versus-knight duel, there was no answer.
Unless someone intervened.
'That's the common sense view.'
Then he needed to think outside common sense.
Luckily, he had one option.
That incredible thrust from training camp.
The [Wind] that had been whispering to him all along.
He still couldn't control it freely.
He only knew that some kind of [energy] lay dormant within him—something that made it possible.
So he hadn't factored it into this fight.
A power he couldn't consciously wield was meaningless.
But now, he had no choice.
It was his last remaining card.
So, even as he fought, he focused.
Luckily, he was already dancing on the edge of death.
With the Reaper swinging his scythe right before his eyes, Delam's concentration was at its peak.
The mysterious energy within him reacted the same way.
He could sense it dozens of times more acutely than usual.
And now—
"Sorry for the wait."
Delam picked up a sword from the ground.
Then he hurled it high into the air before stomping down.
CRACK!
Even without mana, his burst of speed was terrifying.
As if he had become the wind itself!
"Finally fighting seriously? Though your methods remain as underhanded as ever!"
The warrior swung his greataxe.
The sword Delam had thrown was deflected midair.
CLANG!
It was impressive—how had his frail body thrown it so high?
But wasn't the move too obvious?
Then—
SQUELCH.
"Huh...?"
The warrior touched his own throat.
His fingers met a gaping hole, blood gurgling out.
No need to check.
It had been pierced clean through.
Staggering back, his expression wasn't fear—but confusion.
Because the boy—no, the warrior—stood frozen, spear extended straight toward him.
Yet he had heard nothing.
And the spear was still far out of reach.
How had this attack even—?
"The wind opened a path. I just thrust my spear along it."
"Wha...?"
"That's all there is to it, kid."
He had even named it.
Secret Technique—Silent Thrust!
A bit tacky, but the perfect name.
No sound. Just a thrust.
Delam walked forward and pushed the warrior.
But the corpse had already stopped breathing before it toppled.
THUD.
Then another body fell.
Delam dropped to his knees, collapsing.
THUMP.
He tried to rise, leaning on his spear—but it was impossible.
His body wouldn't obey.
Stamina, strength, mana, and that unknown power—
He had scraped the absolute bottom of everything.
"Strong... but... a pain... to use..."
His consciousness blurred.
In his ears, the retreat horn kept blaring.
HOO— HOO— HOO—
The Pior Kingdom had not lost.
No—they had lost, but... they hadn't been defeated.
Nonsensical, but accurate.
Initially, the kingdom had been crushed.
Frontline infantry, mages—all of them.
Only the knights held an advantage, but not enough to turn the tide.
To any observer, defeat was certain.
—Sir Roel has arrived!
But in the battle's final stages, a knight order arrived—just in time.
Led by the kingdom's sole [Sword Master].
A Sword Master wasn't human.
They were a calamity in human form.
The pinnacle of knighthood, unleashed in full fury.
Before them, the barbarians were mowed down.
But the tribes didn't take it lying down.
Thanks to the legendary [Rune Master Tamuka] taking the field.
Though he couldn't match the Sword Master in combat, in a large-scale battle, his influence was even greater.
Thus, the battle ended with neither side victorious.
A fair exchange of blows.
"The losses are severe."
A female knight surveyed the battlefield, muttering.
Clad in plate mail, a greatsword on her back.
Even at a glance, she was no ordinary warrior.
Her insignia confirmed it—
She was a member of the Sword Master's order.
Her assigned role was guarding the command post's front.
A precaution against assassins or ambushes.
But then, soldiers came running.
—K-Knight! Save us!
—Calm yourselves. You're safe now. Just a bit farther to the command post—
—Not us! The Squad Leader's in danger!
—Hm? Squad Leader? Aren't you one too?
—W-Well, yes, but... he's different!
Soldiers never saw knights as comrades.
Knights were battlefield butchers—nobles.
The gap in skill, rank, and treatment was too vast.
Especially with female knights.
Men who suddenly found courage at the sight of a woman—even commoners were the same.
But was this knight some pushover?
To overcome physical disadvantages and become a knight, she needed talent, effort, and ruthlessness enough to break male knights.
Many lust-driven fools had lost their heads to her instant judgments.
[Female Knight = Death] was the equation.
—And yet they're pleading like this?
But hearing their story, it made sense.
A barbarian warrior during the retreat.
While regular soldiers were being slaughtered, their Squad Leader had stepped forward alone.
"Run while I hold him off."
"A fine man. We should at least recover his body."
She muttered, scanning the battlefield.
Of course, she didn't expect him to be alive.
A mere conscript-turned-squad leader.
Versus a recognized Sambala barbarian warrior.
A master of mana and greataxe combat.
A fight he couldn't possibly win.
"Around here..."
Sure enough, after walking a bit farther, she spotted a giant corpse.
Bare torso covered in crude tattoos.
Distinctly barbarian attire.