Training, day seven.
Today too they were scheduled for the same training as yesterday.
Run, eat, drill, spear practice, ideological instruction......
But partway through, the routine abruptly changed.
Every trainee of the 19th intake was gathered on the parade ground.
"Straighten the line, you bastards!"
"You learned drill, didn't you!"
The instructors ran back and forth among the trainees setting the mood.
Grimmer than usual — as if they meant to kill someone again.
The reason came to light a moment later.
Because personages of high standing had come, ones they'd never seen before.
The camp commandant, the knight who was conscription officer, and the senior instructor.
"Trainee Delam, step forward."
At the senior instructor's words every eye swung to one side.
Straight toward Delam.
The most flustered party wasn't Delam but the older boys from his home village.
At the sudden calling of the youngest one's name they traded urgent looks.
But Delam only shrugged, telling them not to worry.
Presently Delam stepped forward.
The camp commandant opened his mouth for the first time.
"They say your talent is quite outstanding?"
"I am a beggar who did nothing but raise sheep out in the country, so I would not know. But hearing the instructor speak, I have come to understand that I have some talent of my own."
"How old are you?"
"Thirteen this year, sir."
"I see."
The camp commandant nodded and turned his gaze.
Toward the trainees, who were wondering what was going on.
A stage arranged to test Delam's talent.
But the instructors could not step forward themselves.
A senior instructor, no less, had affirmed that the boy was [better than he was].
And now they were to set an instructor against him on top of that?
If he lost, what an utter humiliation that would be.
The trainees' attitude might turn insubordinate.
Then again, the knight Obern stepping in made no sense either.
So there was exactly one risk-free method.
"Today's training is a spar. Is there a volunteer to spar against this young trainee before you? Win, and there are special rations."
"......!"
Snap, snap, snap!
The moment the commandant's words landed, hands went up.
Not one or two — dozens.
But there was something strange in the volunteers' eyes.
Rather than greed for special rations, they were stained with jealousy.
Come to think of it, it was only natural.
Hadn't Delam alone been called out and trained separately?
There were many trainees who had ground their teeth watching it.
And that first morning had been the same.
Delam alone had slipped out of the beating like a loach.
From that point the mood had been to regard Delam as a thorn in the eye.
"Deplorable. The opponent is barely more than a little brother to you."
Obern, fair-minded by nature, clicked his tongue.
A few whose consciences pricked them lowered their hands, but the majority held firm.
It was a chance to work over an annoying brat without consequence.
"Shall we pick out someone of similar build first?"
"Rather than that, I think it best to let the party concerned choose."
"The party concerned, meaning?"
Obern looked at the trainees and spoke.
"Those who raised their hands, step forward. And trainee Delam, choose the sparring partner you want from among them."
Rumble.
The words had barely ended before the trainees came pouring out.
Their number was a full seventeen.
Every one of them a strapping man in his twenties or thirties.
With a bit of exaggeration, twice Delam's build.
But Delam was not flustered.
If anything he was puzzled.
Because the one bastard who ought to have wanted to hit him most was nowhere to be seen.
He looked, and found him at the back, mixed in with the group that hadn't raised a hand.
The idiot from his own village, Mark.
Astonishingly, the concern on his face was plain.
'That's a hell of a late age to grow up.'
Still, better late than never, wasn't it?
When right in front of him stood a whole crowd who never had.
Delam snorted a laugh and asked.
"Do I have to pick one, sir?"
"Hm?"
"I don't mind if they all come at once."
At the arrogant words Obern's face hardened.
Having the camp commandant and himself observe in person was a tremendous opportunity.
Did the boy not know that?
Or did he know it and behave this way all the more?
If it was the latter, it was a grave mistake.
Because the ends Obern had seen for fellows who trusted their own thin talent and hopped about like frogs were all alike.
The end of conceit was always death.
He didn't need to look far for an example.
Delam himself might well be beaten to death by his fellows today.
And a fellow about to die was outside Obern's interest.
His expectations cooling fast, Obern spoke coldly.
"Do as you like."
"It won't take long."
Conceit, and more conceit.
Obern's eyebrow twitched.
***
Delam was loosening up on the parade ground.
Stretching his arms and legs out long, looking rather at his ease.
The weapon issued to him was a single wooden staff.
But calling it a staff was a formality; it was identical to a spear.
The only difference was that no spearhead was fixed to the end.
Natural enough, since spearmanship was all the trainees had trained in.
Of course, his sparring partners cared nothing about weapons.
Staff or whatever else, there were seventeen of them.
Even barehanded, one hit apiece and Delam would be beaten to death.
Was it anticipation of violence, perhaps?
The trainees grinned cruelly and threw remarks his way.
"You bastard... swaggering around all this time, weren't you."
"Felt good, did it, slipping the instructors money and resting all by yourself?"
"I'll snap those legs of yours in half!"
"But then that bastard's the only one who doesn't get dragged off to war, isn't he? Let's crush his skull instead. Have him live on drooling."
And Delam's reaction?
"Hahahahaha!"
Delam suddenly burst out laughing.
Everyone — the camp commandant and Obern included — stared at him like a madman.
But the laughter wouldn't stop.
Because he was genuinely, sincerely delighted.
Supreme Commander.
No — from long before he'd reached that seat.
Delam had made his name across the continent on skill second to none.
[Weapon Master!]
[Prodigy of strategy and tactics!]
[The undefeated commander!]
Which meant nobody had dared treat him carelessly.
Not the nobles of the great houses, and not even the imperial family.
And now, threats this cheap and stares this low?
It had been so long that it was fresh and new beyond words.
At the same time his mood improved enormously.
Would the man he'd been before regressing have laughed at words like these?
Far from it — he wouldn't have shown the slightest ripple of feeling.
Blunted, as he was, from having been through fire and water.
It was thanks to having grown young again.
His body had turned young, and his heart had changed to match it.
Which was why nonsense like this could get a laugh out of him.
Now his spine stood up straight — and so did the other thing!
'Being young is wonderful!'
But delight was delight.
And wanting to knock a jaw sideways was wanting to knock a jaw sideways.
Whirl!
Delam raised the wooden staff and spun it gracefully once around.
Then he asked Obern.
"Sir Knight, when do we begin?"
For some reason Obern felt a chill go through him.
It was because of that smile, bright enough to show his gums.
To be enjoying himself with a fight he could not possibly win right in front of him.
Was this a madman, or a born warrior?
He would know the answer soon enough.
Obern spoke to them all one last time.
"...You are His Majesty's soldiers. Therefore to take an opponent's life is to harm His Majesty's soldier — a grave crime. Drive that point into your skulls. Furthermore, the spar continues until I call a halt."
"......"
"Begin."
FA-FA-FAT!
Delam kicked off the ground and shot forward.
Toward seventeen grown men!
***
"That bastard's coming at us first?"
"Just run in and grab him, take a couple of hits!"
The seventeen trainees said as much and charged to meet him.
They'd even flung their wooden staffs onto the ground.
Why would they need weapons?
It wasn't as if getting hit was going to kill them anyway.
Just take it on the body, grab hold, and it was over.
However strong and however skilled he was, it was one against many.
And with a difference in build this large, none of it would matter.
Of course, everyone's plan is grand.
Right up until they get punched.
Halt!
Delam, mid-charge, abruptly stopped.
At precisely the point where the spear's reach barely did or didn't touch.
At the same time, the force generated by stopping condensed in his toes.
The force did not end at condensing.
From his toes it rose through ankle, knee, waist, and up to the shoulder.
Last of all was the shaft held lightly in his right hand.
The rotation that flowed into it set the spear in motion.
This, precisely, was the third form of the Imperial Spear — the essence of the single-point thrust.
SHWEEK—
CRACK!
"Kheugh!"
The spear speared the big man leading the charge, exactly.
The place it struck was the jaw.
His jaw knocked aside, the big man went down scattering teeth.
He wasn't in pain, and he wasn't outraged.
That was simply the end of it.
He dropped like a puppet with its strings cut.
"Huh?"
At the big man's sudden collapse the trainees faltered.
But they gritted their teeth and rushed him all at once.
As long as I'm not the one who gets hit!
Then in the meantime I'll close in and fold him clean in half!
But that was the trainees' misapprehension.
Or, precisely speaking, a naive notion.
A man who has never met a master of the spear does not know.
A long spear, the proper distance, a witless enemy.
And last of all, skill that has climbed to the level of a master.
He does not know what happens when those things come together.
"Hup!"
SHK-SHK-SHK-SHK-SHIK!
Standing in place, Delam's spear extended like a repeating crossbow.
Fast enough that thrust and recovery were nearly simultaneous!
Accuracy needed no mention.
"Urgh!"
"Kugh!"
"Agh......!"
Every time the spear extended, a trainee went down.
All of them with their jaws knocked aside, dropping like logs.
The attacks never ran to a second strike.
Once and once only, without exception!
CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!
Eight trainees went down in a blink.
And the number who succeeded in getting past Delam's spear to close in?
Astonishingly, not a single one.
The reason was simple.
Because Delam did not permit it.
"Aaagh!"
"Fall back!"
"I-I withdraw from the spar!"
The remaining trainees cried out, flustered too late.
But Delam gave a snort.
'The ones who volunteered out of malice?'
If they'd stepped up simply because they wanted the special rations, he'd have understood.
But these bastards were nothing of the sort.
They'd even gone on about crippling him.
And now at this late hour they wanted to withdraw as they pleased?
"If you won't come, I'll come to you!"
Delam shouted it and threw himself in.
The half-cracked spear had already been flung aside.
Seeing that, the trainees cheered and shouted.
"Hey! That bastard's barehanded now!"
"We can win! Everyone at him!"
But why could they not understand?
That being able to handle one particular weapon at a master's level.
Means being able to use other weapons at an expert's level as well.
In the end there was no choice but to learn it with the body.
SHK— THUD!
SHK-SHK— THUD!
This time as well, what met with disaster was each man's jaw.
Delam moved across the ground like a ghost and shot out his fists.
Every time, screams and teeth and blood flew about.
The truth is that, short of being blinded, the body parts whose loss hurts most are precisely the teeth and the jaw.
A person has no choice but to eat something twice a day, and imagine that a horrific pain arrives every time he does.
His quality of life can only plummet vertically.
And each time, he would come to understand what he had done wrong.
"Aagh!"
"D-don't come!"
Several ran again, and several charged again.
The result, of course, was identical.
Run and he chased them down and hit them; charge and he gladly hit them.
They were a contemptible lot, so there was no going easy whatsoever.
Of course, by this point some began guarding only the jaw.
Which was naturally a meaningless act.
'A human being is all vital points, really.'
The throat, the belly, the liver, the shin, the crotch.
Strike one of those five spots and the jaw opened.
And then Delam's small fist was sucked straight toward that jaw.
'Last one!'
Delam, running, floated up into the air and hooked his forearm around the big man's neck.
Then straight down into the ground with him — WHUMP!
Thirteen he might be, but Delam's body weight was 50 kilograms.
Take that full weight and get driven into bare earth?
It was no wonder the big man foamed at the mouth and passed out.
"Hoooooo—"
Delam brushed the dust off his body and took a deep breath.
His breathing was somewhat disordered, but apart from that he was fine.
Because he hadn't taken a single hit.
And with that, the situation was concluded.
With seventeen men writhing and groaning on the ground.
Delam turned his head toward the camp commandant and asked.
"Do I get special rations too?"
"......"
Silence settled over the drill yard.