The Imperial Supreme Commander Has Returned - Chapter 12

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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The Imperial Commander Returns – Episode 12

“Ck, cough…!”

The arc of the spear blade sweeping across the Barbarian’s throat.
A simple motion—almost gentle, one might say.

But the victim’s own thoughts seemed rather different.
He clutched at his neck as blood fountained upward, choking and gasping.

“Wh—? Delram!”
“No, damn it… I told you to stay close.”

Delram approached the dying Barbarian, his expression—unusually—clouded with irritation.
A rare sight.

Now that Mark thought about it, his memory was blank.
He’d been running alongside Delram just moments ago…
When he’d regained his senses, the Barbarian was already swinging his Scimitar down at him.
Mark flinched and offered an apology.

“S-sorry.”
“Never mind. Just don’t leave my side from now on.”

Delram said this while wiping his forehead.
It wasn’t sweat.
Blood—whose, he couldn’t say—beaded across his skin.
Droplets streamed down in thin rivulets.

As though he’d bathed in blood itself.
But Mark wasn’t afraid.
If Delram hadn’t thrust his spear through just then?
Mark wouldn’t be thinking anything at all right now.

“Delram, th—wait, behind! Behind!”

Mark’s eyes went wide as he tried to thank him.
He pointed frantically behind them.
Another Barbarian was charging at them, Throwing Axe raised.

“Graaaaah!”
Whoosh.

But Delram didn’t turn around.
Instead, he flipped his spear and thrust it backward in one fluid motion.

Thud.
“Gack.”

The Throwing Axe tumbled from the Barbarian’s grip and clattered to the ground.
Of course it did—the spearhead had pierced his throat. Death was instantaneous.
It was the work of a casual thrust, almost dismissive in its execution.

‘He didn’t even look?’

Mark’s jaw dropped at this impossible feat of skill.
There was only one thing left to do.
He grabbed the hem of Delram’s trousers and cried out in earnest.

“Delram, please! Save me!”

* * *

Weapon Master

It was one of the titles Delram possessed.
He could wield any weapon at the level of Master or above.
This was a glorious title, granted only to those who met such demanding conditions.

Knights were a warrior caste.
They did nothing but train—eating and sleeping were mere interruptions.
Which meant they were genuine madmen, spending their days scheming how best to end an opponent’s life.

Delram had reached a mastery that even such lunatics acknowledged.
And not in one weapon alone, but in many—all of them.
It transcended difficulty. It bordered on the impossible.
The stuff of legend, one might have said.

But in the year 121 of the Pyor Empire.
From that moment on, Weapon Master ceased to be mere legend.
It became reality.
One man alone—Delram—had made it real.

Which begged the question:
Just how formidable was a Weapon Master?
And when did he display his true power?

“Aaaaagh!”
“Gah!”
“Screeeech!”

Right now. This very moment.
On a battlefield strewn with every conceivable weapon.

Crack.

The Scimitar in Delram’s hand split open a Barbarian’s neck.
As the Barbarian’s final breath rattled in his throat, Delram had already released the blade and was reaching across the corpse’s waist.
His fingers found a short Throwing Axe.

“Die!”

In the same instant, another Barbarian lunged from the side.
A Broadsword gleamed in his grip.
The ninety-centimeter blade dropped vertically toward Delram.

Clang!

But the Broadsword lost its momentum.
Delram had caught it between two Throwing Axes, now held before him.
The axes rotated in opposite directions, generating a sudden, crushing external force, and the Barbarian’s grip shattered—the Broadsword fell from his hands.
That was all.

Thwack, thwack, thwack!
“Aaaghh!”

The two axes bit into the Barbarian’s arms, then his neck.
Delram spun without hesitation, hurling both axes forward.
They traced an erratic arc through the air.

Two Barbarians rushing at Mark collapsed in quick succession.
One had his forehead split open, the other his throat.

The last weapon was, as always, a spear.
Delram flicked his foot against the shaft of a spear lying on the ground, launching it upward.

The spear rose to eye level.
He didn’t catch it—just tapped the end of the shaft with his elbow.

Whistle!

The Barbarian hesitating between charging and retreating found himself pierced.
A spear through the belly—the agony must have been beyond measure.
What finished him was a Dagger that followed, embedding itself in his neck.
Of course, it had left Delram’s hand.

“Monster… monster!”
“A Berserker! A Berserker cursed by Ahide!”
“Such a child already bearing divine blood…!”

At that point, even the Barbarians could not hold their ground.
These were the very tribesmen known far and wide for their valor and ferocity.
Yet even they cast down their weapons and fled in panic.

What they were shouting as they ran—he couldn’t make sense of it.
But one thing was certain.
It took a madman to beat another madman.

“Ugh, that was exhausting.”

Having witnessed the rout, Delram exhaled and sank to the ground.
For the first time in ages, he’d moved at full force, and it had drained him considerably.

No matter how superior one’s weapon mastery, it didn’t grant invulnerability.
A thirteen-year-old body had not yet ripened into adulthood.
His muscles fell short of a full-grown man’s, and his stamina even more so.

Then there was reach.
Short limbs meant he had to exert unnecessary extra force.
An enemy a fully-developed man could kill with a single sword stroke—he’d had to exhaust himself swinging twice to finish.

‘And Mana is no different.’

Six months since the return.
He’d gathered it diligently, even mastered Plurex so he could accumulate Mana while sleeping, yet the absolute gap in time remained insurmountable.
His current Mana reserves fell short even of a junior Knight’s.
Compared to what he’d possessed before the return, it was woefully inadequate.

“D-Delram! Are you all right?”

Yet the result was staggering.
The battlefield should have been chaos—a cacophony of confusion, noise, and screams.
But around Delram and Mark, there was only silence.
The enemies had all died or fled.

“Here, drink some water!”

Mark unstopped his Water Flask and thrust it toward Delram.
Delram, too spent to speak, drained it in one long pull.
A liquid, cold yet burning, scalded his throat.

“What is this, liquor?”
“Got it from yesterday’s supply run. I mixed some in. Was going to drink it before the charge, but I changed my mind and brought it instead of water.”
“Why’d you change your mind?”
“Figured you’d make a fuss about it…….”
“Know me too well.”

Delram tapped Mark on the head with the water flask.
After catching his breath, Delram bellowed out across the field.

“I’m Squad Leader Delram! All soldiers of the Pyor Kingdom, and anyone who wants to live—gather here now―!”

His voice boomed across the surrounding area.
Though it was the voice of a young man, the soldiers did not hesitate.
Every living man struggled to his feet and gathered close.

It was only natural.
What had Delram just done?
He had slaughtered dozens of Barbarians outright.
Anyone who wavered after witnessing that had no right to live.

Roughly thirty men gathered in all.
Two thousand had charged forward with Delram.
Yet only a handful survived…….
It was a dire sight.

“Are there any Squad Leaders here? Speak up!”
“I’m here, sir!”
“I, I’m here too…….”

Two Squad Leaders stood among the thirty.
Delram ordered them to take command of the men.

The first thing he did was scout the area.
They discarded their current weapons and each took up a spear instead.

Though they served in the same battle line, they were essentially strangers.
Without shared training, they could never move as one.

‘In times like this, unifying weapons is the quickest fix.’

Once the weapons were sorted, it was time for armor.
The standard-issue armor provided by the Kingdom was the Gambeson.
A basic cloth garment.

Yet for what it was, its performance was quite sound.
A well-made Gambeson could withstand a sword blow.

Of course, that was only true when it was properly made.
Only a fool would expect such quality from supply-issue gear.
So some of the conscripts had outfitted themselves with extra equipment at their own expense.

Sure enough, searching the bodies yielded Leather Armor, Gauntlets, Boots, and more.
Delram equipped himself with pieces that had the least blood on them.
For weapons, he took four Throwing Axes at his belt and a Short Sword at his hip.
Finally, he gripped a pike in hand.

“Delram, our Kingdom’s winning this, right? All the Barbarians around us seem dead…….”
“Fat chance.”

At Mark’s question, Delram let out a short, derisive laugh.
When the front lines collided and held, what followed was melee—the grinding chaos of close combat.
Shield pressed against shield, spear and blade seeking each other’s throats.

But no soldier ever fought alone.
To keep the line from breaking, you had to hold formation with your nearest comrades, maintaining the defensive wall through constant, exhausting push and pull—

“Was there any give-and-take out there?”
“…I don’t remember seeing any. I think there wasn’t.”

The implication was simple.
One side had been routed entirely.
Here, that meant the Pyor Kingdom.

In the front line, once you broke, it was over.
Annihilation lay moments away.
Mark, of course—and those thirty wretches scavenging corpses nearby—would have met the same end.

They survived for one reason alone.
Delram.
Delram had erased the entire engagement with overwhelming force, nullifying any chance of a contested line, reducing the whole skirmish to nothing.

“Everyone, gather! No time to pick up what we can’t carry—leave it.”
“Assembled, sir!”

At Delram’s call, soldiers converged from all directions.
Even a commander’s direct order couldn’t have drawn them faster.
It spoke volumes for the trust they placed in him.

“Anyone here know the geography of these Plains well? You there!”
“I do, sir. This region’s near my home. I’ve crossed these lands several times helping my father with trade runs.”
“Where would you say we are now?”
“The middle of the Plains, I’d estimate.”
“Then this might be our safest ground for now.”
“Here? Safe?”
“Listen up.”

Most battles unfolded in three stages.
First came the clash of heavy infantry like Delram and Mark.
Then the main force—ranks of armored soldiers and footmen—engaged in pitched battle.
Last came the Knights and Mages.

The Knights aimed for command posts and Mages.
Mages intercepted the charging Knights and traded spells.
Which meant the far rear of the battlefield was where the real fight happened.

“And here in the center? We’d be well away from it.”
“We made it… we actually made it.”
“But don’t relax yet. That holds for normal enemies. The Barbarians we’re facing now—who exactly are they?”
“The Sambala Tribal Confederation’s savages!”
“Exactly. A coalition of separate tribes means the chain of command is chaos. There’s nothing stopping some mad clan-chief from deciding to sweep through the center and charging straight at us.”
“Ugh… but surely the odds of that are slim?”
“Almost none.”

Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump.

Then the earth began to tremble.
A vibration like that, felt across such open ground?
It meant something catastrophic was happening.

‘Thousands of cavalry, or large-scale magic.’
Whoooosh!

Indeed, a massive fireball erupted from the sky above.
Not only fireballs—blizzards swept across the battlefield, and colossal golden spears fell or detonated in mid-air.

The elite forces of two nations.
Knights and Mages, Barbarian warriors and shamans were unleashing their full power to kill one another.

“That—that’s magic! A Mage, Delram!”
“I see it, Mark.”

Delram and Mark stood on the battlefield, admiring the magnificent spectacle.
Magic of every element embroidered the sky above the battlefield.
Booms and thunderous crashes echoed relentlessly beneath it all.

Moments passed.
Delram, who had been quietly observing the situation, spoke.

“Hmm… we’re done for.”

He couldn’t tell how the Knights were faring from where they stood.
But it was clear the Mages were losing ground decisively.
Whether the Tribal Confederation’s Barbarian warriors had overwhelmed our Mages, or simply Mana reserves were depleted, he couldn’t say.
Either way, it was bad.
The odds of defeat had surged dramatically.

“We retreat immediately. Everyone, take a final drink from your flask.”
“B-but the retreat signal hasn’t sounded yet.”
“What’s your name?”
“Haintel.”
“Right then, anyone who’d like to wait for the retreat signal with our esteemed Squad Leader Haintel here can stay behind.”
……

Is this bastard insane?
Every soldier stared at Haintel with a bewildered expression.
Haintel himself stammered in confusion.

“Uh… I just meant that.”
“Everyone move out!”

And so they all began their retreat.
Like salmon swimming upstream.

By the way, salmon have only a ten percent chance of reaching their spawning grounds.
Far lower than a soldier’s odds of surviving his first battle.

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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