Chapter 25
Chapter 25
"Pick up the pace! Double time march!"
"Stealth protocols abandoned! Noise discipline no longer required!"
The Special Forces adjusted their marching speed.
Until now, they had moved cautiously, taking extra time to erase all traces of their meals. But now, such precautions were discarded.
They didn't even stop to eat.
Chewing on dry rations, they pressed forward.
The operation, though seemingly complex, boiled down to three key elements:
Time. Location. Circumstance.
The [Location] was fixed—the altar. No changing that.
[Circumstance] was similarly immutable. No one knew what awaited them at the altar.
But [Time] was different.
It could be manipulated.
'The enemy must have a rough estimate of when we'll arrive.'
They likely expected a pincer attack—an assault timed with the battle on the frontlines.
But Delam intended to shatter that expectation.
By striking earlier—or later—than anticipated.
Yet, lingering near the barbarians' stronghold would achieve nothing.
There was only one way to disrupt the enemy's plans:
Attack much sooner than expected.
"This way!"
Guided by the scouts, the group sprinted through the forest.
The knights, of course, moved effortlessly, and the Special Forces operatives—veterans among veterans—navigated the woods like deer.
How many times did they repeat this cycle of running, walking, and resting?
Before even half the estimated time had passed—
They reached their destination.
Whoooooosh—
There was no need to confirm they were in the right place.
In the distance, crimson mirages rose into the sky like vengeful spirits.
A sight that sent chills down the spine.
The altar.
"Enemy spotted!"
The Special Forces Commander drew his sword as he shouted.
The darkness of the undergrowth writhed violently.
Dozens of torches flared to life simultaneously between the trees.
Beneath them, the barbarians' distinctive brown skin came into view.
An ambush.
"End march! Form defensive ranks! We'll hold their initial charge, then counterattack! Conserve your strength!"
The Commander barked orders the moment the enemy was sighted.
The pitch-black night made it impossible to gauge exact numbers, but the torches suggested at least 500.
Fewer than expected, but still daunting.
On open ground, a one-on-one fight would be a slaughter. But here? A dark forest—the enemy's home turf.
A brutal battle loomed.
The only silver lining was the enemy's reaction.
Their panicked, disorganized movements proved Delam's prediction correct.
Had they stuck to the original plan—infiltrating silently—they'd be facing 1,000 enemies instead of 500.
"Hold the line! Hold!"
"Archers, fall back! Archers, fall back!"
The operatives reacted instantly to the Commander's orders.
Elite among elites.
Veterans tempered in countless battles.
They formed a circular phalanx, shielding the archers within, while spearmen assembled their polearms.
Soldiers cleared the archers' line of fire, and shieldbearers stepped forward to block the front.
The entire maneuver took barely 20 seconds.
The formation was complete before the barbarians could react.
But not everything was going smoothly.
The knights who had joined the Special Forces wore uneasy expressions.
"We're supposed to destroy the altar, yet we're forming a defensive line?"
"Commander! Is this wise?"
"We should switch to a wedge formation now!"
Their protests fell on deaf ears.
The Commander shook his head firmly, his expression unyielding.
The knights had no choice.
Though superior in rank and skill, the Commander held direct authority delegated by the Supreme Commander.
Knights lived—and died—by orders.
They had to obey.
Not that the Commander was a fool.
Without the knights dispersing the enemy's pressure, even the Special Forces would suffer heavy losses.
So the Commander turned to the senior knight among them—Gillian.
"Sir Gillian, forgive the abrupt question... Do you still have your prized sword ornament?"
"Of course I— Huh?!"
"Sir Mitchel, your helmet crest is missing. And Sir Talhim, I don't see the emergency dagger you always carried."
"What nonsense— Oh."
The knights scowled at the odd remarks—until they checked for themselves.
And froze.
The items were gone.
Things they had carried on their persons.
"I have them all."
The Commander rummaged through his pouch.
Out came a sword ornament, a helmet crest, and a dagger.
The very items the knights had just "lost."
"My apologies. I needed to test Lieutenant Delam's stealth capabilities, so I had to... borrow your belongings."
"......!"
"This is part of the plan. I'd appreciate your trust."
The knights looked like they wanted to press further—and for good reason.
Their possessions had been taken without their knowledge.
Which meant—
'If he had slit my throat instead of taking my trinket... Could I have dodged?'
'Cold sweat's running down my back!'
Death had brushed past them unseen.
The knights shuddered, goosebumps rising on their skin.
The Commander, meanwhile, felt renewed conviction.
Delam's stealth skills were real.
'I'm counting on you, Delam.'
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Strange sounds echoed through the oak forest.
Like something chopping wood.
But no one heard them.
A thousand troops stood poised for battle.
The tension was so thick that the slightest movement could trigger an explosion—who would notice such faint noises?
'Going smoothly.'
Thanks to that, Delam reached the treetops undetected.
He sheathed the daggers he'd used to climb—alternately stabbing them into the bark as handholds.
Then, he took a running start.
Fwip!
A short sprint, and he launched himself.
Grabbing a branch, he swung to the next tree.
Tree to tree.
An impossible feat for anyone but Delam.
Though oaks were sturdy, the gaps between them were wide, and their branches thin.
But Delam was just 14.
His small frame—lighter than an adult's—combined with mana-enhanced strength and peerless balance made it possible.
"Hmm?"
One barbarian with sharp senses looked up.
Of course, he saw nothing.
Delam left only the faintest rustle in his wake, and this was the darkest hour—just before dawn.
Finding him would be like spotting a flying squirrel.
Besides, Delam was an exceptional assassin.
Not his main specialty, but he had ample experience.
'And with [Wind]—perfect for concealing presence.'
He'd already proven [Wind]'s effectiveness during Special Forces training.
Even Rubian, a mid-rank knight, hadn't detected him at point-blank range.
Its stealth capabilities were undeniable.
At this moment—
Calling Delam one of the Pyorr Kingdom's top assassins wouldn't be an exaggeration.
Fwip. Fwip. Fwip.
Delam raced across the treetops.
Prioritizing precision over speed, but with no obstacles, his pace was blistering.
As he moved, he thought:
'No other way but this.'
Originally, he'd agreed with the knights' plan.
Form a wedge formation upon reaching the altar, smash through the enemy, and charge straight in.
With the knights clearing the path and the Special Forces pushing forward, it wouldn't be difficult.
Especially given the Sambala Tribal Union's chronic weakness:
Their soldiers hailed from disparate tribes, making coordinated defense impossible.
It should've been easier than expected.
'But then what?'
Congratulations!
You've broken through and reached the altar.
'Now you die.'
The wedge formation's fatal flaw would emerge then—
The point of culmination.
Stopping to destroy the altar, the Special Forces would become sitting ducks.
Surrounded, outnumbered, they'd be dismantled piece by piece.
Elite or not, no one could withstand that.
Sure, they might destroy the altar.
But the survival rate would be zero.
'I have to prevent that. That's how I survive.'
Surviving alone was pointless—he'd never make it back to base.
The more operatives he saved, the higher his own chances.
And the mission would succeed as a bonus.
After much deliberation, this was the plan he settled on:
Sneak in alone and kill them all.
Destroying the altar only required killing the shamans.
So assassinate them, then escape.
'[Wind] makes this possible.'
So far, so good.
He'd advanced another 500 meters from the starting point.
Yet, not a single barbarian had spotted him.
Soon, Delam reached the altar.
A clearing stripped of all trees.
At its center stood a grotesque idol carved from lightning-struck timber.
The carving resembled something between a man and a monster—likely a deified ancestor of the Sambala.
Perhaps a particularly mighty chieftain.
'What a mess.'
Delam clicked his tongue at the altar's surroundings.
Piles of animal carcasses littered the ground.
The stench was so overpowering it numbed his nose.
Every corpse was rotted through.
This alone confirmed it.
They weren't preparing for weather manipulation.
This was Diaroia—a grand shamanic ritual to spread plague.
'Let's see.'
Delam focused, scanning the area.
Ten shamans encircled the altar, chanting what seemed to be runes while waving staffs, bronze mirrors, and bells.
Surrounding them were at least 50 barbarians.
'Killing just five shamans should do it.'
As mentioned, shamanic rituals followed a 1+1+1 amplification effect.
The more participants, the greater the power.
That's how they achieved otherwise impossible feats.
Of course, there were weaknesses.
If there weren't, why would anyone bother with magic?
Everyone would just learn shamanism.
The most critical flaw?
The shamans themselves.
Upon activating a ritual, participating shamans lost a significant portion of their mana, requiring years of recovery.
Unlike magic, rituals also had long casting times.
And if something happened to a shaman mid-ritual?
The spell collapsed.
This case was no different.
With ten shamans, eliminating half would cancel it.
The Special Forces could then retreat, laughing.
'Tch. They're too far.'
Delam grimaced.
The area around the altar had been cleared of trees, leaving no path to close the gap.
Just five more meters—
'Wait, scratch that.'
His eyes locked onto a barbarian warrior and he sighed.
A giant sat cross-legged before the shamans.
Normally, when facing another knight of similar skill, Delam could gauge their strength at a glance.
[This one's about my level!] or [Looks weaker than me!]
But if neither thought came?
'Means they're much stronger.'
Likely mid-rank—or even high-rank.
The Sambala Union only had three high-rank warriors, and with the main battle imminent, none would be here.
So, logically, mid-rank.
But mid-rank was no joke.
In Sambala terms, this was a Warrior Chief—second only to the tribal leaders.
Equivalent to a minor territory's knight commander in the kingdom.
'If I charge in alone...?'
Suicide.
Victory was highly unlikely.
So he had to wait.
Even now, the distant sounds of fierce combat reached his ears.
The Special Forces he knew wouldn't lose to barbarians.
If the enemy felt pressured, they'd divert altar defenders as reinforcements.
That would be his chance.
'If only that Warrior Chief would leave...'
For now, patience.
Delam retrieved a small case from his pocket and opened it.
Click.
The crisp fragrance of tea leaves filled his nostrils.
His mind settled like a windless lake.
"......!"
Then—a warning bell rang in his head.
Only his calm allowed him to notice.
Delam snapped his gaze downward.
And locked eyes with the Warrior Chief's golden, owl-like stare.
THUD!
The instant the Chief stomped forward—
SWISH!
Delam loosed an arrow.
Almost simultaneous.