Chapter 23
Chapter 23
"Flames? It's a shaman!"
"Everyone, scatter!"
The special forces operatives dispersed as searing flames erupted.
Fortunately, there were no casualties—not because the fire was weak, but because the flames ignored everyone else, targeting only Delam.
Whoooosh!
A fan-shaped arc of crimson fire surged forward.
From dozens of meters away, the shaman curled his fingers into a circle and blew into it. His breath passed through the densely inscribed runes on his fingers, transforming into an elongated stream of fire.
"Wooaaah!"
"We finally killed—gurk!"
The nearby barbarians cheered, only to choke on their next breath. Their faces turned ghostly pale, as if they had seen a specter.
And for good reason.
From the heart of the still-burning flames, Delam was walking out—step by unhurried step.
Not only was he unharmed, but there wasn't even a single scorch mark on him. Not a single thread of his robe had burned.
"Huuuuuh!"
Whooooooosh!
Seeing this, the shaman exhaled harder, his face turning as red as the flames. The fire intensified, swallowing Delam once more.
"It was getting cold—thanks for the warmth."
Delam's response was almost mocking. He merely shrugged before drawing a spear from his back—a short spear, barely over a meter long.
In an instant, he took stance and hurled it forward.
Shhhhiiing—!
Thunk!
The throwing spear tore through the flames. At temperatures that should have melted the shaft and warped the blade, the spear instead carved a perfect tunnel through the fire, crossing the distance to the shaman in a blink.
Path of the Wind.
As long as the [Wind] protected him, flame-based attacks—reliant on air and lacking physical force—were utterly useless.
Against Delam's body.
Against the spear he had thrown.
Thud.
"Ghk—!"
The spear's destination was the shaman's throat.
With his breath cut off, the flames sputtered out.
"The shaman's silenced! Push forward and wipe them out!"
"Yes, sir!"
The special forces operatives surged forward in unison.
That marked the end of the battle.
The remaining barbarians dropped their weapons and fled.
Their comrades had been slaughtered before their eyes, and even their trusted barbarian warrior and shaman had been killed in a single strike.
Bravery? Pride? At this point, stubborn resistance would have been absurd.
"Delam! Should we chase the runners?"
"Senior, have you lost your mind? Go burn their food supplies instead."
"On it!"
I knew that was coming!
The veteran soldier grinned brightly despite the reprimand.
Delam was still the youngest in the special forces, but as the veteran had just demonstrated, no one dared to pull rank on him.
This was the same Delam who had just cut down a knight-level barbarian warrior and shaman. Who in their right mind would try to act superior to him?
If they did, their death would be ruled a natural cause.
"Ahhh~ burns nicely."
Delam watched the flames with satisfaction.
The Sambala warriors' precious food supplies—the wheat, corn, and potatoes they had painstakingly cultivated all year—ignited instantly with a few sparks and generous splashes of oil.
Then, suddenly, Delam startled and dashed into the fire.
Moments later, he emerged with an armful of something from the burning wagon, his face smudged with soot as he held it out.
"Seniors, these look well-roasted. Let's grab some potatoes before we go."
"......"
The special forces operatives looked at him, dumbfounded.
They were in a critical situation—enemy reinforcements could arrive any moment—and he wanted to stop and eat potatoes?
"Uh... sure?"
"I am kinda hungry..."
One by one, the operatives took the potatoes.
With awkward smiles.
[Little Demon of Pyorr]
[Quasi-Knight of the Special Forces]
[Master of Seven Weapons]
All epithets symbolizing Delam.
This was an exceptionally rare occurrence.
Even knights seldom earned titles, yet here was a mere soldier with not one, but three.
But it wasn't hard to understand why.
In fact, looking at his achievements, it made perfect sense.
Three months had passed since Delam joined the special forces.
A mere ninety days.
Yet in that time, he had participated in countless missions.
Five large-scale operations involving over a hundred operatives, eight search missions, sixteen reconnaissance missions—far more than any other member.
But the truly staggering part was his success rate.
No need for lengthy explanations.
100%.
Every mission he was assigned to, he completed—no matter what.
At first, no one realized.
The mission success rate was skyrocketing, but surely it couldn't be because of the rookie?
Of course, such a thought was unimaginable.
But that didn't last long.
[Operation 11/6: Severing Enemy Supply Lines]
[Operation Hammer: Destroying the Fort Under Construction]
Both were major operations.
Both were also doomed to fail due to unforeseen variables.
Until the rookie, Delam, stepped in.
"What are you all doing? Follow me."
"You crazy little brat! Didn't you hear the retreat order?! There are two shamans on that makeshift wooden watchtower!"
"Yes, I'll take care of them."
And then he drew his bow.
Pulled the string to full draw—and released without even aiming.
One shot. Two. Three...
At first, the arrows bounced off the hemispherical barrier.
But against the insane archery skill of landing three consecutive shots in the exact same spot, even the barrier was useless.
Soon, it shattered.
The fourth arrow pierced the shaman's forehead.
"There~ It's over. At this point, we've practically won. The last shaman seems pretty weak, so let's just rush him."
"......"
"What are you waiting for, you cowards?! Shields to the front! Archers, keep firing to disrupt his casting!"
"Y-Yes, sir!"
After that, it was a clean sweep.
Delam and the special forces operatives charged forward with terrifying momentum, slaughtering every barbarian constructing the fort.
From then on, everyone knew.
The reason their mission success rate had suddenly soared.
It was because Delam—who had been quietly observing from the rear—had finally stretched and stepped forward.
And so, in the barracks of the Pyorr Kingdom's military, the special forces commander was listing Delam's achievements.
"...But what's even more astonishing is the survival rate. Not just him—most operatives deployed alongside him return alive."
"Is that truly so remarkable?"
"Yes. Even if I handpicked only the elite, achieving the same results under identical conditions would be difficult."
"But he's still fourteen. Promoting a child who hasn't even undergone his coming-of-age ceremony to squad leader will invite severe backlash."
His skill, his record, his background—all were undeniable.
Yet a negative undercurrent lingered in the barracks.
Because of Delam's age.
Though he had turned fourteen after spending a year on the battlefield, he was still the age of these commanders' grandsons.
But the special forces commander shook his head.
"That's precisely why he must be promoted."
"What do you mean?"
"The operatives trust Delam's word more than their squad leaders' or seniors'."
"You're saying a single operative is disrupting the chain of command. In that case, rather than promotion, we should be discussing whether to court-martial him."
"That won't be necessary. Even the squad leaders and seniors who should be opposing him follow him unconditionally..."
The commander spoke with a hint of shame.
In other words, the unit's discipline had completely collapsed—hardly something a commanding officer should admit.
Tsking sounds echoed from around the room.
But more than disapproval, most were stunned.
This wasn't just any unit—it was the special forces.
An elite group assembled from the best of each division, their pride and skill unmatched.
They would openly defy even a knight if given an unjust order.
And yet, they were meekly obeying a fourteen-year-old boy?
"Now that I think about it..."
The murmuring in the conference room abruptly ceased.
The White-Haired Commander had spoken.
A veteran of countless battles, entrusted with the king's authority, and possessing the strength of a high-ranking knight.
"That boy is the soldier who single-handedly took down a barbarian warrior, correct? Adjutant, am I right?"
"Yes. Though it was a fatigued warrior and he got lucky, the kill was confirmed, earning him a fourth-class merit."
At that, the special forces commander shook his head.
"That was just the beginning."
"What do you mean?"
"After that, Delam was taught a mana technique by Sir Rubian. Not a basic initiation—an advanced technique, I heard."
"Oh? By that picky Bistache family's daughter?"
"Since then, Delam has killed seven barbarian warriors and three shamans. I tried to recommend him for merit, but he insisted on sharing the credit with the entire unit..."
"W-What?!"
Even the commander couldn't hide his shock.
The entire room gaped.
What rank were barbarian warriors?
Though their skill varied, they were generally on par with the kingdom's knights.
And this boy had killed seven of them?
"This is hard to believe..."
"But Commander, I swear on my honor—it's true. I even witnessed several of those kills myself."
The special forces commander had fought alongside the White-Haired Commander on the battlefield.
Though from a collateral branch, he was still a knight who had mastered mana.
He knew exactly how absurd his words sounded.
Yet he still spoke them.
"I'll judge for myself. In one week, summon him to my training grounds. Sir Rubian as well."
"Understood."
"However, even if his skill remains unverified, his confirmed achievements alone warrant promotion. His reputation is solid—there's no reason to hesitate further."
"But his age—"
"I enlisted at fifteen! A one-year difference is irrelevant. Operative Delam is hereby promoted to vice-commander of the special forces."
The special forces commander, listening, startled.
"Not squad leader—but vice-commander, sir?"
"The special forces commander and vice-commander trained and utilized him well, leading to these results. Thus, it's only fitting that both be promoted as well. Each of you will rise one rank."
"Thank you, sir!"
The special forces commander saluted, moved.
From start to finish, everything had gone exactly as Delam predicted.
To think they'd actually promote us just for playing along!
'Thank you, Delam!'
"Delam! Delam!"
Someone burst into the barracks in a hurry.
A special forces operative, breathless with excitement.
"Hey! Guess what I just heard?"
"......"
"You're an officer now! You've been promoted to vice-commander of our unit! Oh, wait—does that mean I can't speak casually to you anymore... Vice-Commander Delam...?"
"......"
The news stunned the surrounding operatives.
They had expected a squad leader promotion—but vice-commander?!
Their junior had suddenly become their superior.
Yet no one objected.
Instead, the atmosphere was one of "Well, of course."
Given Delam's overwhelming achievements—and the fact that not a single operative hadn't owed their life to him—it was only natural.
But what was strange was Delam's reaction.
He remained silent, scanning a report—intelligence recently gathered by scouts, summarizing the barbarians' movements.
"Ah."
Only after a long pause did Delam finally speak.
He tapped the report with his finger.
"We're screwed. This is bad."