Chapter 8
Chapter 8
Day 7 of Training
Today was supposed to be the same routine as yesterday—
Morning run, meals, drill training, spear practice, indoctrination...
But suddenly, the schedule changed.
All the 19th Training Corps recruits were gathered at the training grounds.
"Straighten those lines, you maggots!"
"You learned the drills, didn't you?"
The instructors barked as they paced between the recruits, setting the tone. The atmosphere was more intense than usual—like they were about to kill someone.
The reason became clear soon enough.
High-ranking officials had arrived—people we'd never seen before.
The training camp commander, the conscription officer Obern, and the senior instructor.
"Recruit Delam, step forward."
At the senior instructor's words, all eyes turned in one direction—toward Delam.
The most surprised weren't Delam himself, but the older boys from his village. Hearing their youngest suddenly called out, they exchanged frantic glances.
But Delam just shrugged, as if telling them not to worry, before stepping forward.
The training camp commander spoke first.
"So, you're the one with exceptional talent?"
"I was just a sheep-herding nobody from the countryside, so I wouldn't know. But hearing the instructors talk, I suppose I must have some talent."
"How old are you?"
"Thirteen this year."
"I see."
The commander nodded, then turned his gaze toward the curious recruits.
This gathering was meant to test Delam's abilities.
But the instructors couldn't step in themselves—not when the senior instructor had outright declared Delam was better than them. If they fought and lost, it'd be humiliating. The recruits' discipline might crumble.
Having Obern, a knight, step in was also out of the question.
So, there was only one risk-free solution.
"Today's training will be sparring. Any volunteers to face this young recruit? The winner gets special rations."
—Whoosh!
Hands shot up instantly—not just one or two, but dozens.
But the volunteers' expressions were... off.
Less greedy for the reward, more stained with jealousy.
Which made sense.
Delam had been pulled aside for private training while the others suffered. Many had ground their teeth watching him.
Even on the very first morning—when Delam had slipped away from punishment like an eel—some had already started seeing him as a thorn in their side.
"Disgraceful. Picking on someone barely older than a child."
Obern, ever the righteous one, clicked his tongue. A few, their consciences pricked, lowered their hands—but most held firm.
This was their chance to teach that annoying brat a lesson—without consequences.
"Should we pick those of similar build first?"
"Better to let the boy choose his opponent himself."
"Then...?"
Obern looked at the recruits.
"All who raised your hands, step forward. Recruit Delam, pick your sparring partner from among them."
—Thud! Thud! Thud!
The moment he finished speaking, recruits surged forward.
Seventeen in total—all strapping young men in their twenties and thirties. Compared to Delam, their builds were easily twice his size (give or take some exaggeration).
But Delam wasn't fazed.
In fact, he looked puzzled.
Because the one person who should've been most eager to beat him up wasn't there.
He spotted him in the back, among those who hadn't raised their hands—Mark, the idiot from his village.
Surprisingly, the fool looked genuinely worried.
'Took you long enough to grow a spine.'
Still, better late than never. At least he hadn't raised his hand like the morons in front of him.
Delam smirked, then asked:
"Do I have to pick just one?"
"Hm?"
"I don't mind if they all come at me."
Obern's face stiffened at the outrageous statement.
This was a rare opportunity—observed by both the camp commander and himself.
Did Delam not realize that?
Or was he acting because he did?
If the latter, it was a grave mistake. Obern had seen countless fools who, drunk on their meager talent, leapt around like frogs—only to meet the same end.
Arrogance always led to death.
And he didn't need to look far for examples.
Delam himself might get beaten to death by his peers today.
But if so? That was no longer Obern's concern.
His expectations rapidly cooling, Obern replied coldly:
"Do as you please."
"It won't take long."
Arrogance. Again.
Obern's eyebrow twitched.
Delam warmed up on the training grounds, stretching his limbs leisurely.
His weapon? A single wooden pole—essentially a spear without the blade.
Naturally, his opponents didn't care.
Wooden pole or not, they outnumbered him seventeen to one. Even bare-handed, one punch each would be enough to kill him.
Perhaps it was the anticipation of violence—the recruits grinned savagely, tossing out taunts:
"Brat... You've been acting real cocky, huh?"
"Must've been nice, bribing the instructors to slack off alone."
"I'll snap your legs like twigs!"
"Wait, does that mean he won't get dragged to war? Let's smash his skull instead. Let him drool his way through life."
And Delam's response?
"HAHAHAHAHA!"
He burst into laughter.
Everyone, even the commander and Obern, stared at him like he was insane.
But the laughter didn't stop.
Because he was genuinely, utterly delighted.
Supreme Commander—no, long before he'd even reached that position—Delam had carved his name across the continent with sheer skill.
[Weapon Master!]
[Genius of Strategy and Tactics!]
[The Undefeated Commander!]
No one dared treat him lightly—not the great nobles, not even the imperial family.
And now? Such petty threats? Such pathetic glares?
It had been so long, it felt refreshing.
And it put him in an excellent mood.
Would his pre-regression self have laughed at these words?
No—he wouldn't have shown even a flicker of emotion.
Years of hardship had dulled him.
But now, everything was young again.
His body had regressed, and his heart had followed.
That's why even this nonsense made him laugh.
His spine straightened, and that did too!
'Being young iswonderful!'
But amusement aside—he still wanted to rearrange some jaws.
—Swish!
Delam spun the wooden pole in a smooth arc, then asked Obern:
"Sir Knight, when do we start?"
For some reason, Obern felt a chill.
That grin—wide enough to show gums—was unsettling.
To be so joyful before an unwinnable fight...
Was he insane? Or a born warrior?
The answer would come soon.
Obern addressed them all one last time:
"...You are His Majesty's soldiers. Taking a life means harming His Majesty's forces—a grave crime. Burn that into your skulls. Also, the spar continues until I call it."
"..."
"Begin."
—Thud!
Delam kicked off the ground, charging straight at the seventeen grown men.
"That brat's coming at us?"
"Just rush him! Take a few hits and grab him!"
The recruits shouted as they charged.
Some had even tossed aside their wooden poles.
Why bother with weapons?
It wasn't like they'd kill him by accident.
Just tackle him bare-handed and pin him down—that'd be the end.
No matter how strong or skilled, one against many was hopeless.
Especially with such a size difference.
Of course, everyone had grand plans—until they got hit.
—Halt!
Delam stopped abruptly—just outside spear range.
The momentum condensed at his feet, traveling up—ankles, knees, waist, shoulders—finally reaching his right hand, gripping the pole.
The rotation flowed into the weapon, setting it in motion.
This was the essence of Empire Spear 3rd Form: Single-Point Thrust.
—Fwoosh!
—Crunch!
"Guh—!"
The pole struck the first charging brute square in the jaw.
His head snapped back, teeth scattering as he collapsed.
Not in pain, not in frustration—just done.
Like a puppet with its strings cut, he dropped.
"Wha—?"
The others hesitated at the sudden fall.
But soon, they gritted their teeth and rushed again.
If I'm not the one who gets hit, it's fine!
I'll just close the distance and break his spine!
But that was their mistake.
No—their naivety.
Those who'd never faced a spear master wouldn't understand.
A long weapon, optimal distance, clumsy opponents—and a master's skill.
What happened when these combined?
"Hup!"
—Swish! Swish! Swish!
Delam's spear became a rapid-fire barrage.
Thrusts and retractions almost simultaneous—each strike precise.
"Agh!"
"Ghk!"
"Urk...!"
With every extension, a recruit fell—all jaws shattered, collapsing like logs.
No second strikes.
Just one.
—Crunch! Crunch! Crunch!
Eight recruits fell in an instant.
How many managed to close the distance?
Shockingly—none.
The reason was simple:
Delam didn't allow it.
"Aaaah!"
"Fall back!"
"I—I forfeit!"
The remaining recruits panicked, shouting belatedly.
Delam scoffed.
'You volunteered with malice.'
If they'd just wanted extra rations, he'd have understood.
But these bastards?
They'd even talked about crippling him.
And now they wanted to quit on their own terms?
"If you won't come, I'll go to you!"
With that cry, Delam charged—having already discarded his half-splintered pole.
The recruits cheered:
"He ditched his weapon!"
"We can win! Get him!"
But why didn't they realize?
Mastering one weapon to perfection meant being proficient with all others.
They'd learn—the hard way.
—Whoosh! Crunch!
—Swish! Crunch!
This time, jaws weren't the only targets.
Delam glided across the ground like a ghost, fists striking—
"Agh!"
"D-Don't come closer!"
Some fled, some charged again.
Same result.
He chased those who ran and welcomed those who came.
No mercy for the insolent.
Of course, some tried shielding their jaws now.
Pointless.
'Every part of the human body is a weak point.'
Throat, abdomen, liver, shins—even that.
Hit one of the five, and the jaw would open.
Then Delam's small fist would be sucked right into it.
'Last one!'
Delam leapt, hooking his arm around the final brute's neck—
—Slam!
—and drove him face-first into the dirt.
At thirteen, Delam weighed about 50 kilograms.
Having that dropped on you from above?
The brute foamed at the mouth, knocked out cold.
"Huuu..."
Brushing off dust, Delam took a deep breath.
His breathing was slightly ragged—but otherwise, he was fine.
After all, he hadn't been hit once.
And with that—it was over.
Amidst the groans of seventeen recruits writhing on the ground, Delam turned to the commander and asked:
"Do I get special rations?"
"..."
Silence fell over the training grounds.