Chapter 17
Chapter 17
"The final training session."
Delam muttered as he gazed at the forest ahead.
Over the past few days, he had undergone various training exercises.
How to infiltrate barbarian settlements undetected.
How to track down hidden enemies.
How to silently subdue a target.
The tactical training had been no different.
Estimating enemy numbers just by glancing at their formation.
Predicting supply quantities based on warehouse size.
Recognizing signs of enemy construction projects before they even began.
But the training period had been a mere three days.
Naturally, the instructors hadn't expected much.
"If mastering everything after one try were possible, would that even be human?"
So this training was more of an introduction than anything else.
"These are the kinds of missions the Special Forces undertake. Choose your specialty and keep honing it."
In reality, each squad had its own specialization, and those who joined would receive advanced training from scratch.
'Which makes these records fairly meaningless...'
But only to an extent.
Take, for example, the reconnaissance training—finding hidden enemies.
Most trainees took around twenty minutes to locate all targets.
Delam's time?
Fifteen seconds.
A record so absurd it made the instructors question their eyes.
And it wasn't a one-time fluke.
For all three days of training, he had taken first place in every single exercise—each time with an overwhelming lead.
Murmur, murmur.
That was why the testing grounds were now packed with spectators.
They were all Special Forces operatives.
'Because in the Special Forces, your comrades' skills matter most.'
Typically, missions were carried out in squads of eight.
With such small numbers, individual ability was critical.
One weak link?
Survival rates plummeted exponentially.
But on the flip side, a single exceptional squad member—
'Drastically increases everyone's chances of making it back alive.'
In that sense, Delam was exactly the kind of comrade they needed.
Sure, they'd heard he preferred reconnaissance and infiltration.
But love could be swayed—how hard could it be to win him over?
Hence the drooling stares.
Everyone wanted to pull him into their squad.
'Their gazes are practically burning holes into me.'
Click.
Delam smirked as he opened his locket.
By now, it had become something of a habit.
Opening it before or after important moments—it was almost ritualistic.
Inside was a portrait of his mother.
Mother...
A woman whose face he could no longer remember.
Her warmth, her scent, her voice—all faded, like the countless comrades he had lost.
"Huuuuh..."
He inhaled deeply, closing his eyes.
As always, a crisp, refreshing scent filled his lungs.
But something felt... off.
'Hm?'
There was an additional fragrance lingering in the air.
Like the deep, earthy scent of a forest blanketed in morning dew.
The smell of fallen leaves, decayed after autumn's end, leaving behind only skeletal veins as traces of their existence.
A thick, loamy aroma.
"Trainee Delam, is something wrong?"
"No, sir."
Probably nothing.
He closed the locket and stepped into the forest.
The final exercise of the three-day training.
A simple game of hide-and-seek.
The rules were straightforward.
In thirty minutes, the unit commander would come looking for him.
Delam just had to stay hidden until then.
The passing time limit? Five minutes.
Given how small the forest was, lasting longer would be difficult.
'Now then...'
His eyes swept across the surroundings.
An artificially cultivated forest.
No caves or natural hiding spots—and even if there were, they'd be obvious traps.
'Guess I'll have to make my own.'
His plan was simple.
Though the area was small, the grass was thick.
Dig a shallow pit, cover it with the uprooted foliage—a makeshift foxhole.
A method so crude it seemed laughable.
But when time was short and hiding spots nonexistent?
Nothing worked better.
From hearing to scent, touch to sight—
A forest was a place designed to confuse human senses.
'And this time, I've got an extra edge.'
Remember when Delam first sensed the [Wind] in the training camp?
Since then, much had changed.
His body felt lighter, faster—freer, as if riding the wind itself.
In the process, he had realized something.
A third energy, distinct from mana, aura, or divine power.
Something dormant within him.
And recently, another change had occurred.
During his battle with the Barbarian Warrior.
At death's door, the energy had finally stirred—
And Delam had channeled it through his spear.
The result?
[Silent Thrust].
A massive leap forward.
Not just recognizing the energy's existence—but wielding it.
He had named it [Wind].
'Childish, I know... but it fits.'
Its abilities were straightforward.
Literal control over wind.
Creating breezes, shifting grains of sand—useless in combat at first glance.
But applied creatively? Game-changing.
[Silent Thrust] was one such application.
Opening a wind-path in the air, then thrusting his spear through it.
Zero resistance.
The dead Barbarian Warrior had been proof enough of its lethality.
'An incredible power.'
The only question was—why did he have it?
A parting gift from the Luminary God upon regression?
Well, forcing him back into the grind did warrant some compensation.
But that didn't seem likely.
Hell, he wasn't even sure the Luminary God was the one who sent him back.
'No idea.'
Regardless, Delam had spent his recovery studying [Wind].
And its applications were limitless.
Dampening sound when moving.
Masking his presence and scent.
Sound, presence, scent—
Those three accounted for 80% of stealth.
So even if his camouflage was crude, [Wind] would make him near-undetectable.
'Twenty minutes of hiding should do it.'
Pulling out a small shovel, he got to work.
But as he dug—
Thud. Thud.
'Huh?'
The soil gave way too easily.
Normally, grass roots ran deep, making digging tedious.
And since this was a foxhole, minimizing disturbance was key—a time-consuming task.
Yet—
'It's like... the earth is parting on its own.'
But that made no sense.
Assuming the soil was just loose, he kept digging until half his body could fit inside.
Then, carefully covering himself with the uprooted grass.
A green tarp over the top finished the job.
Finally, he slowed his breathing and closed his eyes.
Eliminating even the slightest variables.
Unaware of what was happening just beside him.
—......?
Waddle, waddle.
A plump mole scurried past.
Knight-Exclusive Training Grounds
A knight's life was one of relentless training.
Yet, surprisingly, the grounds were empty.
For one simple reason—
Secrecy.
Most knights came from noble families, each with their own inherited swordsmanship.
Practicing those techniques openly?
Like begging to be countered.
Whoosh—! Whoosh—!
But some couldn't care less.
Like the female knight, Rubian Bistache.
Rubian prioritized physical training above all else, spending most of her days here.
Today was no different.
Since dawn, she had been swinging a training greatsword.
A thousand overhead strikes.
Then slashes, then thrusts.
Midway through, she glanced at the sky—
Again.
Time seemed to crawl today.
The sun hung at its zenith.
'He should be done by now.'
The Special Forces' training lasted three days.
The final session usually ended around noon.
Barring complications, Delam's last exercise would be over.
Wipe, wipe.
Dabbing sweat with a cloth, she sniffed her arm.
Only fragrance. Satisfied.
Humming, she headed for the barracks.
"Hmm~"
Uncharacteristically cheerful, even whistling.
A few fellow knights, spotting her from afar, immediately backtracked.
Because whenever Rubian was in this kind of mood—
Disaster always followed.
Legends said that day had started the same way.
When her ex-fiancé had been "sparring" on the training grounds.
And ended up minced meat.
'What a cute kid.'
Oblivious to their fear, Rubian smiled.
That boy she'd picked up from the battlefield.
The more she thought about him, the more she liked him.
Not romantically, of course.
How could someone so young embody knighthood so perfectly?
Pure respect, as one warrior to another.
"Hm? What's everyone doing?"
Arriving at the Special Forces' training site, she frowned.
Something was off.
At the edge of the outpost, where the final test—a small forest—was held...
Dozens of operatives were gathered.
"Ah, Dame Rubian."
"Has the boy's training not ended yet?"
"W-Well, it's technically over. We're on the final concealment test now."
"Concealment... where the trainee hides in the forest, and others try to find them?"
"Correct."
A familiar exercise.
The Special Forces' training was so practical that even knights were encouraged to participate.
Though for mana-wielding human weapons like them, the difficulty was far beyond standard.
Still, the framework was the same.
'The record was... ten minutes?'
The forest spanned just 100 meters square.
Dense with trees and grass, but small enough that a thorough sweep should uncover anyone.
So why the crowd?
"Don't tell me...?"
"Yes... we still haven't found him."
"How long has he been in there?"
"Two hours..."
"You personally searched?"
"I did."
"The unit commander of the Special Forces couldn't find him?"
"......"
"I don't know whether to worry for the future of the Special Forces and the kingdom... or marvel at that boy's absurdity."
The commander's face reddened at the jab.
Now she understood the crowd.
They'd all been called in to search.
They could've just yelled for him to come out, but pride demanded a proper sweep.
"Mind if I take a look with you?"
"Of course."
As they entered the forest, Rubian couldn't help but marvel.
Two hours? When others couldn't last ten minutes?
Statistically impossible.
Frankly, suspicion was warranted.
'Did the brat just leave the forest?'
But Delam wasn't the type.
From leading comrades in battle to sacrificing himself.
Defeating the Barbarian Warrior, volunteering for the Special Forces—
The boy was always upfront.
'For now...'
She circulated mana.
Heightened senses sharpened further.
A bit unfair, but she was in a hurry.
Back in her quarters, a feast awaited—prepared to celebrate Delam's graduation.
And if it got cold?
Unacceptable.
She would find him.
And make him eat her home-cooked meal.
Piping hot.
Rubian's eyes burned with determination.