The Imperial Supreme Commander Has Returned - Chapter 43

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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 Supreme Commander of the Empire Returns — Episode 43

[Mage]
They were those who inverted the laws of the world through Mana.

Put in difficult terms, but the meaning was simple.
You could think of it as using Mana to induce natural phenomena.
Moreover, they were far superior beings compared to Knights, who could only destroy things—cutting, bursting, shattering.
Or so Mages claimed.

Of course, Knights would have scoffed at that.
What did Mages pride themselves on most, after all?
Offensive magic.
Whether you fell by the blade or burned to ash made little difference.

In any case, one thing was certain.
Becoming a Mage was far harder than becoming a Knight.
A Knight could become one simply by learning Mana Formulas and training with a sword.
Even the dullest mind was guaranteed to reach the lower ranks.

But Mages were different.
Talent was everything.
Especially without the talent to see Mana with one’s own eyes—no amount of studying Mana Formulas would matter.
Such a person would never even cross the threshold, not in a lifetime.

‘Unlucky bastards, the lot of them.’

This was why Mages harbored such a strong sense of chosenness.
They went about proclaiming themselves selected from birth.
Some even refused to associate with anyone who wasn’t a Mage.
As if they were the finest thing the world had to offer.

For the same reason, even before the return, Mages had been the ones he disliked most.
Whatever he asked of them, they always tried to pick a fight over rank.
Even when the difference in standing was as vast as heaven and earth.

‘If I had my way, I’d burn the whole lot of them.’

Sadly, that wasn’t possible.
Mages were the flower of the battlefield.
Particularly in area-of-effect assault, Mages were an asymmetric force that Knights simply could not match.
So he had to coax them, placate them, and use them however he could.

‘That one’s aged considerably.’

The person Delram was regarding with displeasure.
None other than the Tower Master of the Magic Tower, the interest organization of Mages.

‘Or is he Sub-Tower Master now?’

He looked slick as butter.
And that hair—coarse as seaweed—was irritating in itself.
He didn’t even want to think about how many times he’d clashed with that man.

Especially the way he spoke without restraint was second to none on the continent.
At every council meeting, Delram had seriously pondered whether, at that distance, a blade through the throat might go unanswered.

“I’ll just take a quick look around the perimeter.”
“Go together, boy. The three-inch tongues of nobility are more perilous than any earnest duel with drawn blades.”
“You’re going to see the Mages?”
“…Well, then my presence won’t be of much use.”

Rubian withdrew at once.
The Mages’ specialty was precisely to needle rigid Knights.
But judging by Rubian’s temperament, the outcome was predictable.
She’d draw her sword before exchanging more than a few words.

‘Come to think of it, they said Rubian’s betrothed was a Mage too, didn’t they?’

Former betrothed, technically.
So Rubian knew better than anyone that she’d be no help.

Delram approached the Mages directly.
Their hostility was every bit as intense as expected.
The fact that they wouldn’t even look at him when he came to stand right beside them was striking.
If they were going to be like this, there was no point in attending the reception at all.

Of course, Delram was unmoved.
This behavior of theirs wasn’t a once-in-a-blue-moon occurrence—it was par for the course.

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance. I’m Delram Flerre.”
“…….”
“Allow me to introduce myself. Wind!”

Delram extended his hand and called out the spell.
First Circle magic—Wind.
A simple incantation to summon a breeze.

Yet as mentioned before, magic was talent itself.
Those without the aptitude couldn’t even begin to learn it.
Whether First or Second Circle—if one could cast it, one was a Mage.

A low whistle of wind swept through the room—

“Hmm?”
“That’s definitely… Wind magic.”
“We heard you were a Knight, but are you also a Mage?”

The breeze circulating through the enclosed space.
Feeling it, the Mages finally paid him attention.

“I may be lacking, but I too walk the path of the arcane. I wield a sword as well, though my true strength lies in magic, naturally.”
“Ah, a Mage-Swordsman then.”
“Mage-Swordsmen rarely achieve greatness, do they…”
“My Mana reserves are modest, to be honest. And truly, isn’t delving into the truths of the world far more fulfilling than brandishing a blade? Mages are the Vanguard of Human Knowledge—”
“the Vanguard!”

As Delram began the phrase, the Mages took it up in chorus.
Vanguard of Human Knowledge—the Mages’ rallying cry.
It was their battle call, after all.

The Mages laughed together, delighted by something.
The atmosphere had shifted one hundred and eighty degrees from moments before.
Delram greeted them one by one as he made his way toward the center of the room.
There stood the Sub-Tower Master of the Magic Tower he had spoken of earlier.

“An honor to meet you for the first time, Sub-Tower Master.”
“Do you know me?”
“As a Mage, to not know you would be a sin. I especially appreciated your paper on the Metaphysics of Mana—your ontological inquiry was quite compelling.”
“Well then, what about the Higher Order Led by Mana?”
“You’ve never written on that subject, have you?”
“Ha, ha, ha!”

The Sub-Tower Master, a man with an oily face, laughed heartily.
When they’d met in his later years, he’d been so fastidious and irritable, but now he proved himself a man of some humor.
Perhaps that was what came of aging ungracefully?
Delram, laughing along, slipped in a remark.

“Still, looking at The Boundary Between Mana and Dimension, which your teacher wrote, it seems rather like a paper that’s about to emerge from your own pen.”
“Oh? You know of my teacher as well?”
“Of course. The anecdote about your teacher marveling at your talent and entrusting the Magic Tower’s future to you before departing—it moves me deeply even now.”
“That story… yes, it happened! You know your way around these things, don’t you?”
“Any mage worth their salt ought to know such things.”

Of course, no such history existed.
The Sub-Tower Master’s teacher—the Tower Master—had left of his own accord.
The reason given was that he’d fallen into dementia.

Dementia? The Tower Master?
If word of it reached the outside world, it would cause nothing short of chaos.
For mages were those who held mana within their minds.
The reputation of all mages would crumble to dust.

‘In truth, it was nothing of the sort.’

And that wasn’t the real story either.
As Delram had later learned, it was the result of his own withdrawal.
He’d caught wind of his disciple, the Sub-Tower Master, conspiring with the elders to frame him and engineer his expulsion from the Tower.

The Sub-Tower Master was an orphan whom the Tower Master had brought in.
He’d taught the boy with great care, recognizing his talent despite his lowly birth.
Yet consumed by that loss, he’d used dementia as an excuse to depart—enduring slander to the very end for his disciple’s sake.
Bearing false shame so that his student might rise.

Honorary Rye-an.

Tower Master Rye-an was the genuine article.
A great sage who perceived the principles of the world from where he sat.
And most importantly—

‘Rye-an’s specialty is Dimensional Magic.’

Demons pouring through an invasion?
If one knew that fact, merely waiting would not suffice.
He needed to understand how they breached dimensions.
And whether there was any way to seal them off beforehand.

Victory in battle alone was not enough.
The best course was to prevent them from entering at all.
Therefore, Rye-an’s wisdom was essential.

Even setting aside the dimensional question, it remained true.
Rye-an’s epithet was the Sage.
In Delram’s life—a miserable tangle of regression, demons, war, and countless other wretched elements—he would prove a counselor of immeasurable value.

The only problem was one.
Delram had no idea where he was.

But now he could begin to search.
That’s why I approached him.

“Now that I think of it, might you know where he’s from? I’d like to leave a flower at his birthplace.”
“He’s been living in seclusion elsewhere, though.”
“That’s alright. I suspect he’s already passed away by now.”
“True enough. Past ninety, after all. I don’t know his hometown precisely myself, but I’ve heard it was Azhar—a territory in the far south of the continent.”
“I see.”

Delram bowed politely, lowering his head.
At the same time, he desperately swallowed back the words rising in his throat.

‘Damn bastard… said he didn’t know before the regression?’

Either way, his business with the Mages was finished.
His next destination was decided.

The territory of Azhar!
The key to preventing the apocalypse lay there.

* * *

The western district on the outskirts of the Royal Capital.
A place where the estates of nobles clustered together.
Commoners couldn’t so much as set foot here without an employment credential.

Among them stood one mansion that was particularly conspicuous.
Not because it was extraordinarily ornate.
Quite the opposite—it bore a stark, unadorned exterior.
The other estates were dressed in white marble, but this one was not.

The interior was much the same.
Cold stone floors without so much as a carpet.
The walls were decorated only with weapons and armor.
This was the estate of House Vistache.

One of the five great noble families of the Fiore Kingdom—the Iron-Blooded Sword House!
In the study of its household head, father and daughter were in conversation.

“Father, there’s someone I’d like to invite to the estate.”
“Rubian, you say this?”
“Yes. He’s a wonderful young man.”
“An invitation… how unusual.”

Rubian spoke with a smile that was rarely so warm.
And that wasn’t all.
A hint of shyness could be glimpsed beneath it.

But the household head was not.
Whether hearing of Bigo or of joyous tidings, his expression never wavered.
That was precisely why Rubian respected her father above all.
The master of a house must always be grave!
So now, too, he lifted his teacup without a flicker of emotion.

Tap-tap-tap-tap.

But why?
The surface of the tea rippled violently without respite.
Rubian looked at him in puzzlement.

“Father, are you alright?”
“Then what could possibly be wrong?”
“Your hands were trembling, sir…….”
“I pushed too hard during morning practice, it seems.”
“But you’re a top-ranked Knight, Father?”
“Foolish child. Don’t you understand that if one hasn’t wrung out every ounce of strength, then it wasn’t training at all—merely playing around?”
“Ah… I see I still have much to learn!”

Rubian sighed as understanding dawned on her.
In the same moment, she gazed up at her father with eyes brimming with admiration.
He was one of the kingdom’s greatest Knights.
Yet even so, he refused to rest on those laurels, training as relentlessly as this!

By contrast, she was only an intermediate-ranked Knight.
Compared to him, she hardly deserved to be called anything more than a novice.
And here she was, lounging about so carelessly…….

“I should go train as well.”
“Stay a while longer.”
“No, I can’t afford to be a shameful teacher.”
“Teacher……?”
“It’s a secret.”

With that vague deflection, Rubian rose at once.
She left the family quarters.
Only then did her father set down the teacup, which had been rattling slightly in his trembling grip.

His daughter—the one who’d cared for nothing but swordcraft and martial prowess.
Naturally, men fell into that same indifference.
But after the war with Sambala ended…….
No—even during the war itself, she’d begun writing letters about a man.
And now she had secrets, too?

Muttering at the improbable reality, the patriarch turned to his disciple and butler.
The man stood waiting beside him.

“Our daughter has grown so much.”
“She’s grown far more than just ‘a bit’—she’s already twenty-nine, sir…….”
“She’s still young.”
“There are no more marriage proposals coming to the house…….”
“This is the first time our daughter has spoken of a man.”
“Strictly speaking, it wasn’t the first. The first time was when she said she was going to kill her fiancé…….”
“Knock your head on the floor.”
“Yes, sir.”

The butler promptly planted his forehead against the ground.
The patriarch sighed and drew the sword that rested against the desk.

Shiiing—

Aroset—the Vistache family heirloom, a blade of legend.
Even as a great sword, it was massive enough that mere maintenance consumed an eternity.
Yet the patriarch paid no mind, slowly polishing the blade.

As one might brush mold from a work of art.
Or perhaps as one might wipe away the blood of a certain someone, soon to be splattered upon it in abundance…….

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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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