Chapter 4
Chapter 4
[Mana Technique: Fleurex Arts]
Abbreviated as Fleurex.
When Delam became Supreme Commander, the Emperor granted him the entire Western Duchy as proof of loyalty and allowed him to choose one mana technique to be passed down through his family.
Among the five options, each was terrifyingly powerful.
One could obliterate mountains with sheer destructive force.
Another boasted the fastest mana accumulation speed in history.
Yet, Delam made an unexpected choice.
Fleurex Arts.
A mana technique originating from the distant East.
To be honest, it was a bit of an oddity.
Not particularly strong, not fast, nor profound.
But Delam had only one reason for choosing it.
"Stability! Even if someone strikes me while I'm using it, the mana circuits won't be damaged."
Delam had risen from a commoner to Supreme Commander.
Because of that, he faced constant assassination attempts.
And as the Empire's enemies' top-priority target, he had to worry about attacks from both within and without.
When was a knight most vulnerable?
When practicing a mana technique.
Mana accumulation was an extremely delicate process—even the slightest disturbance could cause severe backlash.
But Fleurex, as mentioned, was incredibly safe.
Even if ambushed during training, he could react instantly.
That was why he chose it—though it came with an unexpected bonus.
"It's so stable... I can use it while moving."
Delam grinned as he awakened his mana.
The conscription procession trudged forward like a funeral march toward hell.
Yet, as Delam walked among them, mana flowed into him through the soles of his feet.
"Human soles are arched for a reason."
They were designed to pump blood upward against gravity, all the way to the heart.
When a person walked—heel to toe—the arch compressed and rebounded, propelling blood upward.
Delam applied the same principle to Fleurex.
With each step, mana seeped from the earth into his feet, spreading through his body as his toes touched the ground.
No other mana technique could achieve this.
Attempting it with any other would cause mana to backfire instantly.
Only Fleurex's stability made it possible.
Too slow at gathering mana?
That's why no one bothered learning it?
Then just weaponize its stability—keep it running constantly.
While walking, while sleeping, even while taking a piss.
The result? Delam's current mana reserves were—
"The hell you smirking at, brat?"
"Huh?"
Just thinking about the mana he'd stockpiled made him chuckle.
He'd been snickering to himself when someone decided to pick a fight.
A familiar face.
"Mark, was it?"
A troublemaker from the same village, occasionally seen loafing around.
Despite being well past his coming-of-age ceremony, he still acted like a delinquent, earning the villagers' disdain.
A fool who mistook people avoiding him out of annoyance for fear—so deluded he even volunteered for conscription.
The reason for the provocation was obvious.
All the attention had suddenly shifted to Delam.
Mark had wanted the conscription officer's favor instead.
"Hey, cut it out. Why pick on a kid?"
"Stay out of this."
"What? You're younger than me—"
"We're both soldiers now. Age doesn't matter."
The older villagers tried to intervene, but Mark only grew more belligerent.
Delam extended his hand.
"Hey! Let's shake like men and call it even."
"What? You little—"
"You just said we're equals, brat."
"You—!"
Mark gritted his teeth, then scoffed before snatching Delam's hand in a crushing grip.
The size difference was nearly two-fold.
Delam was large for his age, but Mark was monstrous.
How much of his parents' lifeblood did he suck dry to get that big?
His intent was obvious.
What happens when an adult crushes a child's hand?
He could snap fingers if he wanted.
And Mark did squeeze with all his might.
Crack.
"Beg on your knees, and I'll forgive you."
"Kneeling's a bit much... Sorry about this."
"Too late, you little— AAGH!"
Mark suddenly shrieked, leaping back mid-march.
The scream drew every eye.
Soldiers rushed over, sparks of fury in their gazes.
"You little shits! What's the commotion?!"
Marching was a soldier's duty, but that didn't mean they enjoyed it.
Who'd find joy in trudging under the scorching sun all day?
It was exhausting and infuriating.
The soldiers were already on edge.
Delam spoke first.
"Sir, this guy suddenly started screaming."
"Y-you little—! You're the one who crushed my hand! Sir, look—it's all red!"
"Me? With this hand?"
The soldier glanced between their hands.
No matter how he looked at it, Delam's hand—barely larger than a fern frond—couldn't possibly have overpowered Mark.
Delam continued.
"Actually, he's been complaining about marching. Said if he faked an injury, someone else would carry his ration pouch. Then he suddenly smashed his own hand against a tree."
"N-no! Sir, believe me!"
"'Believe you'? Is that an order? I'm just a lowly trainee—I wouldn't dare make demands. I'll humbly accept whatever judgment you pass, sir."
"No! That's not what I meant!"
Mark's frantic correction came far too late.
The soldiers' patience had already snapped.
Their eyes burned with the promise of violence.
"Daring to deceive your superiors? You're moving to the rear."
"AAAH!"
Dragged away by his hair, Mark's screams were soon drowned out by the sound of a beating.
Delam muttered under his breath.
"Tch. That waste of space. If I never end up in the same unit as him, I'll die happy."
"......"
The others subtly edged away from him.
The mana he gathered today tasted especially sweet.
March. March. March.
The march was so long his leather shoes nearly tore apart.
But for the youths, it wasn't all bad.
Having lived in villages of no more than 200 households—sometimes as few as 10—this journey through the northern lands broadened their horizons.
Of course, it would've been better if they hadn't been conscripted.
"We're here."
The final tally of conscripts: 200.
Their destination: the training camp.
Here, they'd learn the basics needed for the battlefield.
Drill training, chain of command, and the like.
Well, more accurately—a brainwashing facility.
What mattered most to soldiers on the frontlines?
Strength, combat skills, strategy?
None of that was a soldier's concern.
That was the domain of knights, mages, and officers.
Conscripts only needed two things:
[Absolute Loyalty] and [Absolute Obedience].
And the tool to achieve that?
Indoctrination.
"You're lucky."
"......"
The knight guiding them spoke.
The conscripts didn't dare retort—but their faces said it all.
What kind of bullshit is this?
Yet, surprisingly, the knight wasn't entirely wrong.
Originally, conscripts were thrown straight into battle without training.
As a result, countless died tangled in friendly formations or cut down by allies who misunderstood orders.
Eventually, even the kingdom realized:
Commoner conscripts, once thought an endless resource like eggs hatching into insects, would deplete if not used sparingly.
And basic training increased their chances of victory.
Thus, the training camps were born.
Soldier mortality rates dropped significantly—so the knight wasn't entirely wrong...
"289 conscripts from the northern Tarn region, processed."
"Handover confirmed! Well done, Sir Obern."
"A duty to the kingdom. Now, may the Baron mold them into His Majesty's loyal soldiers."
"Naturally."
The knight and camp commander's exchange.
Delam listened as he passed through the gates.
The sight that greeted him was... nostalgic.
In the worst way.
"Wow. Been a while."
These camps were scattered across the kingdom.
And they were identical—as if stamped from the same mold.
The training process was similar too.
Divided into six zones, each batch of up to 500 trainees rotated through them weekly.
Week 1: Zone 1.
Week 2: Zone 2.
After six weeks?
Graduation—meaning deployment to the frontlines.
"Three thousand per camp."
Though they didn't always produce that many.
Normally, each batch had around 100—mostly professional soldiers, not conscripts.
But the key was capacity.
If the kingdom abandoned all restraint—discarding concern for its future—it could churn out 100,000 elite troops in two months.
A million per year.
"In my eyes, these camps were the Pyorr Kingdom's greatest asset in becoming an empire."
Of course, that was the Supreme Commander's perspective.
The king and nobles might praise it as a marvel of efficiency—but what about the soldiers forced through it?
The entrance alone was telling.
"You little shit! Did I teach you that?!"
"S-sorry!"
"If you can't keep up, DIE! DIE, YOU BRAT!"
"AAH! AAAH!"
Horrific scenes dotted the path to the barracks.
Instructors beat trainees bloody.
Not mere disciplinary strikes—they didn't stop even when skulls cracked and blood flowed.
The madness of it was clear:
Who cares if one or two disobedient worms become fertilizer? There are always more.
"Th-they're insane..."
"We have to go through that...?"
The conscripts quickened their pace.
The screams, the splattering crimson—
They'd thought themselves fortunate not to be sent straight to the front.
But this was just another hell.
Still, feels kinda nice being back. Can't wait to finish up and get to the battlefield.
Delam, on his second life, remained unfazed.
He even hummed as he reviewed his plans.
What he failed to realize:
Only demons enjoy hell.