Chapter 24
Chapter 24
Recon Report from the Special Forces Unit
Naturally, regular soldiers weren't allowed to view it.
But Delam was an exception.
The Special Forces Commander had secretly handed it over, pleading for his help in formulating a strategy.
Delam's mastery of weapons was truly extraordinary.
So much so that the barbarians, terrified of his supernatural skill with seven different weapons, had dubbed him the Master of Seven Weapons.
But that was just the tip of the iceberg.
The Commander had seen Delam's true talent lay elsewhere—strategy and tactics.
It was always the same.
With just a simple reconnaissance report, Delam could devise bold yet meticulously precise plans as if he were on the battlefield himself.
And astonishingly, most of them succeeded.
At any rate, Delam muttered under his breath,
"Damn it, we're screwed."
"......?"
The soldiers stared at him in confusion.
Even if he wasn't jumping for joy, shouldn't he at least be celebrating?
Why did he look like he'd just seen a ghost?
"What's wrong? I mean—what troubles you, sir?"
Instead of answering, Delam flapped the report in the air.
The Special Forces operatives, who had been approaching to congratulate him, froze mid-step.
Then, they slowly began backing away.
Delam had never once faltered, no matter how perilous the mission.
His process was always simple—he'd think for a moment, propose a plan, then storm in like a hurricane and succeed in a single sweep.
But now?
This wasn't even an order—just a reconnaissance report—and yet he looked like death warmed over.
That could only mean one thing: something had gone horribly wrong.
And since Delam had just been promoted to Deputy Commander... if they were unlucky, they might get dragged into whatever mess this was.
Hence, the retreat.
'Honestly, it was bound to happen sooner or later.'
Delam mulled over the report.
The Special Forces' primary mission was sabotage—particularly severing enemy supply lines and intercepting reinforcements. No one could match their veterans in that regard.
Above all, Delam's presence had skyrocketed their mission success rate to absurd levels, sealing the barbarians' fate: a slow, withering death.
'As expected of the Rune Master... that troublesome old bastard.'
They had, at most, two or three months left.
But unfortunately, it seemed the Rune Master had caught on.
The report's contents were far from reassuring:
[Four days ago: Confirmed sightings of five tribal chiefs and their aides.]
[Blacksmith smoke has sharply increased.]
[Unidentified wagons moving under heavy guard.]
[Rune Master spotted near the front lines.]
......
"They're planning to wipe out the Special Forces."
That was Delam's conclusion.
No matter how he looked at it, this was a trap—one designed to lure them in under the pretense of an all-out offensive.
But he wasn't overly worried.
The trap was so blatant that no one would fall for it.
And then, a week later—
"Deputy Commander, we've received our orders."
"...Don't tell me—all 300 of us are to strike the enemy's rear?"
"Huh?! How did you know?"
"......."
Delam pressed his palm to his forehead.
Inside the Commander's tent, only the two of them remained.
The reason? The mind-boggling news the Commander had just delivered.
Delam was the first to speak.
"It's a trap."
"...I haven't even told you the mission yet."
"It's obvious. The Sambala are preparing for a full-scale offensive, aren't they? The Rune Master, the other tribal chiefs, and their elite warriors—they're all gathering at the front."
"Correct."
"And regardless of the specifics, our job is to hit their rear, right? If I were the Rune Master, I'd use this chance to wipe out the Special Forces."
"That... would also be correct."
The Commander's expression darkened.
He had been a soldier for twenty years—the latter half spent not in ceremonial posturing but in large-scale battles that determined the fate of kingdoms.
In other words, he was no stranger to real combat.
Did he really think this wasn't suspicious?
"I figured the barbarians would eventually see us as a thorn in their side. And like you said, they might've set a trap. But—"
"We can't refuse the mission?"
"Exactly. With the front lines locked in a bloody brawl, they won't let us sit back and relax."
"Still, if command isn't completely brain-dead... they wouldn't send us blindly into the rear. We'd be targeting a specific individual, right?"
"You're terrifying."
The Commander clicked his tongue.
Even after twenty years in the military, he'd only just pieced it together—yet this kid had figured it out without even hearing the details.
Thank the gods he was on their side.
And that he was his deputy.
Promotion was only a matter of time—assuming they survived this mission.
"Our target is the shamans. They're preparing a large-scale ritual in the rear. And just to be clear—this isn't a feint. It's the real deal."
"A ritual... So we'll need to destroy the altar."
"Impressive. Are you well-versed in shamanic arts?"
"Just common sense."
"I didn't know that......"."
"Not knowing doesn't affect your survival. What kind of ritual do our mages think they're preparing?"
"Nothing's confirmed, but they suspect weather manipulation—turning the ground into a quagmire to bog down our cavalry."
"How unimaginative."
Delam scoffed.
Mages were a prideful bunch.
Sometimes, they'd spout nonsense just to sound superior.
Of course, rituals were generally weaker than magic.
But they had one advantage: synergy.
Mages together were like 1/1/1.
Shamans, however, were 1+1+1.
In other words, with a skilled captain like the Rune Master, dozens of shamans could achieve miracles.
And they thought it was just weather manipulation?
'In the original timeline... wasn't it [Diaroia]?'
In the unaltered history, Delam would've been conscripted a year later.
Back then, the Sambala were on the back foot.
So they'd gambled on a grand ritual for a reversal—while the Pyorr Kingdom just watched, assuming it was mere weather magic.
But what actually activated was something else entirely.
Diaroia—in Sambala tongue, food poisoning.
And just as the name implied, it spread among the soldiers.
Not just a few—one in five fell ill.
That meant 10,000 men.
And those 10,000 infected their comrades.
Naturally, Pyorr's command scoffed.
Not even a deadly poison—just food poisoning?
Were the ignorant barbarians so limited in imagination?
But soon, they learned the true horror of food poisoning.
Its power lay in the fact that it didn't kill.
'Though left untreated, they'd definitely die.'
The real issue was manpower.
Who would treat the sick?
Those distributing medicine, cleaning up waste, washing soiled linens, spoon-feeding the bedridden—all soldiers.
So who would fight?
'Fight? They couldn't.'
But they couldn't just let them die either.
If comrades were dying not by enemy blades but from diarrhea, morale would plummet.
Desertions would number in the hundreds daily.
Truthfully, Pyorr's strategy far outclassed the Sambala's.
Yet the original war had dragged on for three years—half of which was due to that damned food poisoning.
No further words were needed to describe its potency.
"Tsk tsk. Either way, we're cornered."
"That's the situation. Originally, command planned to send a small elite force of mid-rank knights or higher—"
"But the Sambala's full-scale offensive complicates things. If we send our best to destroy the altar and a major battle erupts, casualties would skyrocket."
"Meaning we're the only option."
"Sigh."
Delam exhaled deeply.
Feeling somewhat guilty, the Commander added,
"They did say they could spare a few low-rank knights and mages. We'll take the knights but refuse the mages."
"The honorable mages would slow us down."
"You really do know everything."
"Hmm......"
Delam scratched his chin, running the numbers.
Their forces: 300 Special Forces operatives and four low-rank knights.
Could they overcome the trap with just this?
'Probably not.'
Delam knew the Rune Master well.
They'd clashed for years in the original timeline.
In the end, he'd won—but the Rune Master wouldn't let this chance slip.
'A path to certain death.'
A hollow laugh escaped Delam's lips.
The best option now was not to go.
Break his own leg, desert—anything.
But Delam knew:
That would be the end of everything.
All his hard-earned achievements would vanish, and he'd never rise to a high position again.
'Knights never accept deserters as comrades or superiors—no matter the excuse.'
Broken leg? An accident?
No one would buy it.
-Fuck, I heard a barbarian Warrior Chief will appear in tomorrow's battle. Maybe I should break my leg and skip it...?
A fantasy every knight entertained at least once.
But who'd fall for such a transparent trick?
If he ran now, there'd be no future.
And if Delam didn't climb high, he'd likely fail to stop the demons.
Might as well live it up until then and hang himself when the demons arrived.
'But I can't do that.'
Delam reassessed his abilities, then asked himself:
[Can I survive alone?]
-Maybe?
[Can I bring most of the unit back alive?]
-That's... tougher.
[Can we complete the mission?]
-Hmm.......
After what felt like an eternity of deliberation, Delam finally spoke.
"It might be possible."
His mind began racing.
Deep in the Sambala Tribal Union's rear, a unit moved silently through an oak grove.
At the front: three low-rank knights, the Commander, and Delam.
Behind them: all 300 Special Forces operatives.
The infiltration went smoothly.
They should've run into barbarian scouts—yet they advanced unhindered.
But the longer this eerie calm lasted, the more Delam's expression soured.
'Just as I thought.......'
Sure, they could just be lucky.
But luck on the battlefield?
Delam knew better.
Luck existed solely to screw you over.
So the reason they hadn't encountered any barbarians wasn't luck—they were being herded.
Delam asked the Commander:
"When will the battle start?"
"Can't fight in the dark—probably at sunrise."
Delam requested a brief discussion.
The Commander and knights gathered around, listening intently.
"We haven't seen a single barbarian in two days. That means they know we're here."
"I can't even call that a stretch."
"So we need to change tactics."
"How?"
"Doesn't it feel off because we're moving on someone else's board?"
"...Then what?"
Delam's hardened gaze pierced the darkness ahead.
Dawn had yet to break.
Walking into a trap wasn't his style.
But if he had to—
"We smash the board."