Chapter 15
Chapter 15
"Ugh!"
The barbarian warrior's corpse.
The female knight who arrived before it suddenly let out a groan.
It was because of the soldier kneeling before the barbarian's body.
The insignia of a squad leader was clearly visible on his chest.
Astoundingly, a mere squad leader had slain a barbarian warrior!
But there was something even more shocking.
The squad leader's age.
'How can he be this young?!'
The conscription age in the Pior Kingdom started at fifteen.
Of course, poor nutrition often resulted in smaller physiques relative to age, but this boy didn't seem to fit that description.
He wasn't malnourished—his physical proportions were perfectly balanced.
Meaning, he was genuinely young.
Or perhaps blessed with extreme youthfulness.
"Incredible..."
The knight marveled as she reconstructed their battle in her mind.
An epic clash where brutal scars were exchanged.
In the final moment, both delivered their last strikes.
Neither emerged standing—both collapsed simultaneously.
The boy must have poured everything he had into that fight.
Like a leader hound throwing itself at a dire bear to buy time for its pack, he clung desperately.
To hold on just a moment longer.
To buy just a few more seconds.
Then fortune favored the boy—the barbarian's carelessness and depleted mana led to this outcome.
"Salute!"
The knight drew her greatsword and planted it before her in solemn tribute.
Honoring the true valor of this boy hero who saved his comrades yet lost his own life—who refused to fall even in death!
"...?"
But then her cheek twitched strangely.
When she opened her eyes in confusion, she nearly stumbled over someone who shouldn't have been there.
Because someone was watching her.
The boy she thought was dead!
"You...! You're alive?"
"My leg."
"Huh?"
"My leg's gone completely numb..."
Thud.
"Boy!"
With those absurd final words, Delam collapsed.
The knight swiftly caught him and laid him flat.
She slapped his cheeks repeatedly, but he remained limp.
This time, he seemed truly unconscious.
"Damn..."
After brief hesitation, the knight rummaged through her armor.
Her fingers closed around a hard glass vial.
The crimson liquid sloshing inside was an extremely precious [potion].
She thumbed off the cap and poured it into his mouth.
Then pressed her lips against his.
Gulp, gulp, gulp.
Delam drank greedily.
Unbelievably, for someone unconscious.
"Ugh... ughhh..."
"Oww, owwww."
Delam's eyes fluttered open.
He wanted more sleep, but the surrounding noise made it impossible.
Groans of pain came from every direction.
"Gaaahhh..."
Soon Delam joined the chorus.
His entire body hurt as if being torn apart.
This wasn't hyperbole.
Not his limbs, but something deeper.
Parts of his thin tendons beneath the skin had snapped, and significant portions of his [Mana Roads]—the pathways connecting his mana—were severed.
Catastrophic damage.
Enough to drive any other knight to despair.
Mana Roads were the channels through which mana flowed.
Damaged roads meant impaired mana movement—
Which equated to a permanent drop in skill level.
'This will take a while to heal.'
Still, Delam kept his composure.
Surviving alone was fortunate enough.
But the bigger issue was his location.
The stench of blood and pus assaulted his nostrils.
This was the unique reek of a medical tent.
The surrounding moans came from wounded soldiers.
'The true hell of war.'
Battles were often called hellish.
But real hell began when fighting ended.
Soldiers missing limbs. Arrows embedded in flesh. Pus oozing from muscle sliced by blades.
The sole mercy was the priests' presence.
Church of Light priests worked tirelessly to heal them.
Yet 20% who arrived here died, while another 30% suffered permanent disabilities before discharge.
And life after discharge?
'Rock bottom beneath rock bottom.'
He had much to say but kept it brief.
The first policy Delam implemented as Supreme Commander was compensation for disabled veterans.
Though all nobles opposed it, hearing about discharged comrades' fates made refusal impossible.
And that excluded the dead.
Full compensation would have bankrupted the kingdom.
'All that struggle, all those lives sacrificed to unify the continent... only to become demon chow.'
Delam chuckled darkly without realizing.
Back then, he believed it necessary.
That the world would improve.
That eliminating royal families and nobles across kingdoms made it worthwhile.
Now he recognized that as nonsense.
Royals and nobles were essentially glorified thugs.
No matter how many you removed, others always rose to take their place.
Why hadn't he seen this before regression?
It seemed so obvious now.
Had he been brainwashed?
'No. I knew but chose denial...'
Naturally.
Admitting otherwise would negate his entire life's work.
Ultimately, there were only two ways to improve the world:
[Drag everyone down equally]
[Or lift everyone up together]
Which first required continental unification—
"Wow, this is fun."
Is this how power corrupts?
The thought amused him.
Truthfully, after regression.
Royalty, nobility—none of it interested him anymore.
He was a regressor.
One who returned through time to correct mistakes.
Though not by choice, he'd fulfill his duty.
Prevent the war, gather the heroes...
'And slaughter every last demon.'
That was all.
Yet recently, doubts had surfaced.
To be precise—questions.
Would that truly suffice?
Would stopping the war save all the heroes?
Could those heroes united defeat the demons?
'No, fundamentally... could they even unite?'
Delam's reason for killing the heroes was simple.
They were enemies.
And utterly incompatible.
Heroes were beings of absolute conviction who believed their way supreme—wielding both power and authority.
More accustomed to [conflict] than [compromise].
Such were heroes.
Would they suddenly laugh together and join hands against demons if war vanished?
Was that even possible?
Hence his inner beast kept whispering.
The incarnation of destruction, the demon of battlefield...
"You're awake."
Someone addressed Delam then.
A voice as blunt as war itself.
Yet incongruously melodic.
"Don't rise. Your body's still wrecked."
"Ugh... yes."
Delam abandoned attempts to sit up.
Instead, he turned his head toward the speaker.
A female knight stood there.
"Uh... Rubian Bistache?"
"You know me?"
Delam's eyes widened.
Know her?
Of course he did.
Hell, he'd personally beheaded her in his past life...
Gulp.
Nervous, Delam unconsciously licked his lips.
[Wraithblade] Rubian Bistache.
Eldest daughter of the prestigious Bistache family, one of the kingdom's great noble houses.
Famous since childhood for her unbending personality.
Her knight initiation was already legendary.
She'd been betrothed for political marriage when rumors spread of her fiancé's infidelity.
After personally beating him senseless, she fled to the knight order.
Her skills matched her reputation.
A relentless hard worker with exceptional sword talent.
In the future, she'd become Sword Master Roel's prized disciple.
'That's the problem.'
A belated rebellious phase?
After Roel's death, Rubian changed completely.
She suddenly joined rebels and began ambushing imperial forces.
This elite knight, once the epitome of chivalry, discarded all honor to wage guerrilla warfare—with devastating effectiveness.
Ultimately, Delam intervened.
Setting a trap before eliminating her.
Her unresisting death had left him unsettled.
Her final words were nothing but resentment toward the emperor.
'Well... obvious. Back then, ever-loyal Roel started meddling in imperial succession by allying with princes. The emperor probably had him assassinated when his back started itching.'
Alternatively, they might have been lovers.
Roel was famously sculpturally handsome.
Losing a beautiful boyfriend could drive anyone mad.
Though this was mere rumor.
Hadn't Delam heard Rubian's dying words himself?
Her tone suggested profound respect rather than love.
Regardless, the conclusion was simple.
A future elite knight had appeared.
'Knights weren't part of my immediate plans.'
Knighthood bred an unusual number of personality defects.
Understandable, given their training.
Their entire discipline revolved around perfecting murder—accumulating mana, honing swordsmanship.
With such occupations, good personalities would be stranger.
Thus Delam intended to engage them later.
After raising his rank and establishing connections.
These plans... disrupted already?
Well, Rubian was famously rigid.
Perhaps this was for the best.
Gulp.
"...Why lick your lips?"
"Ah, nerves. Meeting a knight and all."
"No other reason?"
"What other reason would there be?"
"Perhaps you were actually conscious back then..."
"Back then?"
"Ahem, never mind."
Rubian coughed awkwardly.
She proceeded with various questions.
Most concerned his duel with the barbarian—Delam revealed only half his capability through plausible explanations.
The barbarian's exhaustion, his aged slowness, missing the axe's glowing moment...
In short: [I was impressive, but he was too drained to use mana].
'Probably verifying my merits.'
Merit moderation was Delam's specialty.
A routine task from his commander days.
He also gleaned information during their exchange.
He'd been unconscious three full days.
Mark and other soldiers all survived.
'A relief.'
Truthfully, sending soldiers ahead earlier.
That wasn't altruism.
He was humanity's would-be savior.
Dying to save a few grunts made no sense.
They'd have been useless anyway.
Sacrificing them as bait wouldn't have guaranteed escape.
The barbarian would slaughter them instantly before pursuing.
Fighting together similarly pointless.
They'd only distract him—hence his choice.
The heroic sendoff was just for show.
Rubian interpreted differently.
"Boy, I respect you."
"Suddenly?"
"Strong versus strong is competition. But weak versus strong is courage. Especially for comrades—"
Rubian placed a hand on Delam's shoulder.
"That's true chivalry."
"Uh, sure."
Her flushed face and blazing eyes.
Why did they make her seem like such a fool to Delam?