The Imperial Supreme Commander Has Returned - Chapter 32

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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-in-Chief’s Return — Episode 32

Soft rustle.

A Continental Map unfolded across the table.
A precise military document whose possession was forbidden to civilians.

Delam scraped a piece of charcoal across the map.
What emerged were three circles.
Two large circles with a small one wedged between them.

“Our Kingdom of Piofor is the larger circle at the bottom, and Simbala is the smaller one pinched in the middle. You follow?”
“I follow.”
“I’ll be direct with you. Our king wants to strike here, this upper circle. The Kingdom of Billeron.”
“…….”
“But where does Simbala sit in all this? Given that you keep a war game at home, it seems you’re quite versed in grand strategy. Take a guess.”
“…Perfect position to cut supply lines.”
“Exactly. When our war with Billeron reaches its fever pitch, if Simbala strikes at that moment, we’re done. Finished.”
“But Simbala has no intention of doing so.”
“That’s what I think as well. You’re warlike, certainly, but that’s precisely why you pay no mind to the world beyond your own borders.”

A simple truth.
Simbala was rife with tribes.
More than thirteen of them alone qualified as mid-sized or larger.
Could they have known peace?

It was the way of the world — those nearest always fought one another.
It was no different now.
They had united only because of Piofor, the common enemy, but naturally they were a people busy waging war amongst themselves, striking and being struck in turn.
With a blood enemy living just next door — one whose forebears had slaughtered your parents and siblings — where would the strength come from to attack some outsider?
That energy should be spent crushing one more tribesman from the neighboring clan.

‘So there’s virtually no chance of Simbala interfering.’

This was what mattered.
That word: virtually.
It meant near zero, but not absolute zero.
There remained a slim possibility that Simbala’s warring tribes could somehow reconcile in merriment and turn to humiliate Piofor instead.

The most dangerous thing in war is uncertainty.
And so the kingdom had decided to eliminate it.
How?

‘By killing them all.’

Fortunately, Simbala’s land was fertile.
Left unworked as it was, it would become an excellent granary region once it fell into the kingdom’s hands — justification enough.
And so even the nobles who had opposed the war welcomed an attack on Simbala with open arms, sending forth their knights.

While Delam arranged his thoughts in this manner,
the Rune Master was desperately studying the map.
He stared at it with burning intensity, seeking any possible way out.
But there was no chance that scrutinizing now a map he had examined daily since the war began would suddenly yield a solution.

Could he request aid from the Kingdom of Billeron, which shared the border?
But the Rune Master was skeptical.

It wasn’t about geopolitical position or timing.
The reason was simpler than that.
Because the Simbala Tribal Coalition had been Barbarians.

Deep-rooted prejudice and hatred transcended strategic considerations.
The Rune Master, who had wandered across the Continent, knew this well.

In truth, it was Delam who understood the consequences best.
He had seen it come to pass from the future.

‘When Simbala was fully conquered, they didn’t just refuse reinforcements—they tore to shreds the envoys who came begging for aid.’

What Delam knew, the Rune Master could hardly be ignorant of.
He was among the age’s great sages.

In the end, only two choices remained.
Defeat in war and then slaughter, vanishing from history.
Or surrender and beg for their lives.

“Shhh—”

At last the Rune Master released a deep sigh.
His face was that of a man whose deliberations had ended.
Yet in those moments, he seemed to have aged another decade.

“What must we do?”
“It is simple. Raise the White Flag at once, and all tribal chiefs must come to the military camps of Piofor. Disarmed, of course.”

After this, Simbala would be incorporated into the Kingdom of Piofor.
Yet it would not be merged into a single whole—they would be granted Autonomy.
So long as they did not practice human sacrifice or other customs offensive to the kingdom’s sensibilities, the kingdom cared not whether they honored their ancestors or the God of Light.
Furthermore, the existing tribal chiefs would receive noble titles and participate in the governance of territories within Simbala itself.
And so forth.

“The terms seem too generous to believe……”
“Naturally, that is not all.”
“What else is there?”
“First, the delta region around the river we now occupy—the tribe dwelling there must relocate. We intend to make it a Granary Region. Though farming would be permitted, if they wish it.”
“And then?”
“Taxes must be paid, and kingdom law must be observed. Furthermore, administrators and soldiers will construct a fortress and establish a garrison. The heir of each tribe must be sent to the kingdom, and above all—”
“Military Service… or conscription.”
“Both. A fixed proportion of warriors from each tribe must enter the military, receive training, and fight for Piofor. Of course, they will be paid. There may be… inequality in treatment, I cannot deny, but those who distinguish themselves will be promoted.”

In truth, the Autonomy mentioned above was merely a side matter.
The core was Military Service itself.
To put it plainly, it meant that Simbala’s warriors would now serve the Kingdom of Piofor rather than their own tribes.

This was essential for Simbala itself.
Was there any better way to demonstrate loyalty than through Military Service?
Only by continually proving they had no intention of rebellion could Simbala achieve true security and enjoy better treatment.

‘But this is the greatest trap of all.’

Barbarians.
The reason surrounding lands called Simbala by this name was simple.
Because they were uncivilized and uncultured.
Truth be told, there was no denying it—the gap in civilization between Simbala and the other kingdoms was considerable.

So these Barbarians would now enlist in the kingdom’s army?
At first, it would be suffocating.
Men who had lived nearly as beasts as men, doing as they pleased and undressing as they wished, would now have to conform.

But that was only temporary.
You could buy all the food you wanted with your wages?
Live in a house that stayed warm even in winter?
If you were injured, you could receive treatment. You could support your family in safety. You’d never be ambushed on the road without warning?

Once you’d tasted civilization, it was nearly impossible to go back.
All people were like that.
The sense of loss from a fall was dozens of times greater than the thrill of climbing up.

The Simbala warriors were no exception.
Even if they were released later, they would willingly offer their loyalty, and in the end they would be assimilated into the Kingdom of Piofor.
That was when the Rune Master spoke.

“But there’s one major problem.”
“How are they to believe that?”
“The tribal chiefs will find it difficult to trust Piofor’s guarantee.”
“I will bring His Majesty’s personal letter. Of course, one could say it’s merely a scrap of paper… but if you demand more than that, I’m afraid open war is the simpler path.”
“Hmm.”

The Rune Master seemed deep in thought.
But Delam had said all he could.
Any further words would be superfluous and risk spoiling the matter.
Delam drained his tea in one draught and spoke.

“I can give you one week. Since you’ll all be gathered in one place for the final battle anyway, meeting shouldn’t be difficult.”
“One week… understood.”
“Don’t test my patience by piling on conditions. Without me, our army is filled with people who’d rather treat you like vermin and exterminate you.”
“…I will keep that in mind.”

Delam rose from his seat.
He was about to leave when he paused for a moment.
It was only after a moment that this uncharacteristic hesitation gave way to speech.

“May I offer one final counsel? Not to the Simbala tribes, but to you, Rune Master.”
“I am listening.”

The Rune Master nodded.
In that instant, Delam’s presence transformed utterly.
He was no longer the peculiar and enigmatic youth—but a commander leading hundreds of thousands of elite troops, or perhaps an emperor himself, radiating absolute authority.
Delam addressed the astonished Rune Master.

“I have heard many say that nation matters more than tribe, and people more than nation. Yet I have watched them all achieve great honor and wealth, only to find themselves weeping before the graves of their beloved and children in the end.
“……!”
That is the lesson I learned on the battlefield. I pray you do not fall into the same error.”
“Wait, just a moment—”

The Rune Master called out to Delam.
But Delam had already vanished into the darkness.
His long shadow trailing behind him like a shroud.

* * *

“Hurray! Hurray! Hurray!”
“At last it’s over! We can go home!”

Cheers erupted through the Piofor encampment.
The cries of joy were so loud they nearly shook the camp apart.
The soldiers, regardless of rank, embraced their comrades.
Hot tears soaked each other’s shoulders.

The same held true for the officers.
Of course, these were men who’d enlisted voluntarily, not conscripts.
But arrows cared nothing for rank or station.
All the same, they breathed easier knowing everyone had survived.

[End of War]

The war ended thus.
With the Simbala Tribal Coalition’s sudden surrender.

“It actually worked.”

Delam muttered to himself as he watched the tribal chiefs bearing white flags.
He’d known it would work, truthfully.
But he hadn’t expected it to happen so quickly.

The surrender deadline Delam had set was a mere week.
It seemed long enough on paper, but in practice it was brutally short.
With not one but thirteen tribes represented, even a single word from each faction could stretch a single day to its breaking point.

‘Not so long ago they were still fighting each other.’

The scouts had brought word of it.
Four days prior, there’d been a clash between the tribes themselves.
Unsurprisingly, it had been between those opposed and those in favor.

He’d thought it might drag on for some time, but it hadn’t.
The Rune Master must have managed to persuade them somehow.
Or perhaps had simply decided to burn away the opposition entirely.

‘I should’ve gone into the negotiation myself.’

Then he’d know exactly what had transpired.
How many times had Delam received such surrender declarations?
He was practiced enough to coax out not just the bare facts but even the most intimate details—he’d have left no secret unturned.

But he’d deliberately stayed away.
He’d chosen to let someone else take that role.
Because hoarding all the credit was a sure path to resentment.

Though even now, he’d accumulated far too much.
The sharp looks from the senior commanders made that plain.
The only reason they couldn’t openly challenge him was the man now approaching.

“Captain, are you certain about this? It’s an achievement you’ve earned.”
“Yes, Commander. I’m content with this blade.”
“Mm…….”

The Commander rumbled disapprovingly.
Now that Simbala had surrendered, the ten-thousand-strong unit would naturally be recalled.
The artifact should be returned as well, but Delam wore a poker face.

“That blade is Tarbing.”
“The same name as the legendary demon sword?”
“I gave it that name because this one too, supposedly, spews a Freezing Aura so terrible it can crystallize even an enemy’s soul…….”
“How magnificent indeed. Tarbing, greet the Commander. Tell him you’re grateful he’s sent you to me.”
“…….”

The Commander stared at Delam with a dumbfounded expression.
The man who’d named the blade Tarbing in the first place was hardly a paragon of good taste, but this one took it to such extremes he seemed practically unhinged.

But it struck him soon enough.
Regardless of what the boy was doing or what feats he’d accomplished—deeds that defied all reason—the figure standing before him was merely fourteen years old.
And he’d enlisted at thirteen.

“Yes, take it…….”
“Thank you, sir. I pledge my loyalty!”

Delam saluted with genuine reverence.
Now that he had a sword, there remained bows, sabers, spears, clubs, and more.
Surely the Commander carried a few additional weapons?

But he didn’t ask.
He had no taste for making middle-aged men weep…….
Instead, Delam posed a different question.

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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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