I'm Not a Genius Commander

Chapter 4

When I returned to the barracks after the first training session, a severe headache tore through my mind.

On the platform, I had forced myself to appear calm, hiding the pain, but there was no need for such an act here, where I was alone.

"Did I push myself too hard?"

Normally, transmitting information simultaneously to 113 people would be impossible. The [Telepathy] trait consumed an unfathomable amount of mana. Especially with this frail, sickly body of the scoundrel commander, the pain from mana overload was inevitable.

A strange sensation from my nose.

When I wiped my nose with my hand, fresh red blood smeared onto my skin.

"...It can't be helped."

Even so, the only reason today's training was possible was due to my trump card—[Accelerated Thought].

The principle was simple.

It accelerated my brain and nervous system, making time feel slower to me.

Using this ability excessively in such a weak body came with a harsh backlash.

I had nearly lost consciousness dozens of times.

I had gritted my teeth and endured, but the exhaustion was undeniable.

The more I used these traits, the higher my proficiency would become, and by the final chapter, I would be able to use them without issue. But not yet.

And with only nine days left, I couldn't afford to hold back. I could only hope my body would endure.

Today's training involved sending telepathic instructions to over a hundred soldiers.

While there was technically no limit, my physical state suggested that around ninety was the safe maximum.

Anything beyond that, and I felt as if my lifespan was being cut short.

I needed to adapt quickly.

—Step, step

Then, I heard footsteps approaching the barracks.

It must be the soldier I instructed to meet me around this time.

I quickly wiped the blood off my hands.

"Sir Arthur. It's Brok."

"Come in."

I needed to handle this well.

Without this person, the battle in ten days would be almost certainly lost.

In warfare, numbers were important, but so was having asymmetrical power.

Specialists who couldn't be considered mere soldiers.

Examples included Swordmasters, Archmages—people who could take down dozens with a single swing or devastate entire areas with powerful magic.

There were many variations: dagger wielders, spear users, those who fought barehanded.

Simply put, they were warriors capable of holding back a hundred on their own.

'The barbarians have two such units.'

While the enemy had two trump cards, we only had this one potential asymmetrical asset.

Since this person was hiding their identity, I needed to find a way to bring them to my side.

"Sigh..."

All I could rely on was my skill with words and my ability to make ruthless decisions.

That should be enough.

***

"Your name is Brok, right?"

"Yes, sir."

"Do you drink alcohol?"

"......"

He doesn't.

I brought two cups from the desk, poured warm water, and handed one to him.

Since it was cold outside, steam rose gently from the heated water.

Brok hesitantly accepted the cup, staring at the surface of the water before nodding slightly.

—Gulp

He drank about half of the water, then stood still, staring at me.

I gestured to the chair opposite me, signaling that this wasn't a command but a conversation.

"Take a seat. The chair is right there."

"Understood."

—Creak

As Brok sat down, he caught a whiff of something, and his face twisted slightly.

I tensed, wondering if there was a problem.

"Ugh..."

He had noticed the pile of liquor bottles stacked in the corner of the barracks.

The stench of alcohol was so strong that even holding one's nose wasn't enough to block it out.

The smell was so overpowering that I had almost become numb to it.

I was aware of the smell but saw no need to address it now.

I watched Brok calmly, deciding to open the conversation.

"What did you think of today's training?"

"It was... an unusual experience."

I was sure no one else trained like I did.

[Telepathy] was generally used on a single target.

The mana cost was high, and communicating with many people at once was like trying to draw different pictures with both hands simultaneously.

Holding the warm cup with both hands, I felt the warmth seep into my cold fingers.

"An unusual experience. Fair enough. By the way, what weapon do you usually use?"

"Uh... I mainly use a sword."

"...I see. May I see your hand for a moment?"

"Oh... um."

"Don't worry. I don't have any strange hobbies involving men."

"R-Right..."

His hands were surprisingly delicate for a man's, but the calluses told a different story—they were not soft by any means.

I examined his hand briefly before letting go.

Brok quickly pulled his hand back, a bit more defensively than expected.

"You've got quite a few calluses. Have you been on this front line for a long time?"

"You noticed. Yes, I have."

"I see. Though, most of your calluses are on the tip of your thumb?"

"Maybe from all my training—"

"Enough."

Cutting him off suddenly, a look of confusion crossed Brok’s face.

His expression was natural—too natural to be an act.

It was time to peel away the mask he wore.

"You've told me three lies. Do you know what they are?"

"Uh? What do you mean, sir?"

I took a sip from my water cup and spoke.

"First, you don't use a sword. The calluses on the tip of your thumb are a characteristic of those who wield daggers. The thumb often braces the handle’s end."

"......"

"Second, your claim of being on this front line for a long time is a lie. Your personnel file—while you tried to make it look old by using aged paper—the ink stains give away its recent nature."

"The third lie..."

"While the first two don't bother me much, the third is different."

—Gulp

At some point, Brok’s demeanor shifted from the slightly awkward man to something far more poised.

A moment ago, he seemed like a normal person, but now he exuded the eerie stillness of a predator.

"Your name isn't Brok, is it? Should I call you Litney? Or perhaps... Knife?"

—Swoosh

Before I could finish, a sharp sensation grazed my neck.

A dagger had appeared in his hand, its blade pressed against my throat.

Small beads of blood dotted the tiny cut.

As I swallowed, the blade lightly scraped against my throat.

—Drip

Litney, maintaining the knife at my neck, glared at me.

"How do you know that? Answer me."

"Ah, yes. I nearly forgot—would you like to hear the rest?"

"......What?"

"I also know you aren't a man."

—Rip

As soon as I finished speaking, Litney grabbed her face and pulled.

She peeled away the mask, revealing the smooth, pale skin of a young woman.

Her ruby-red eyes shone like polished jewels.

"Impressive."

Despite the mask being torn away, not a single drop of blood fell.

Her expression remained as cold as ever.

"...Any last words?"

"Last words? Of course. Could you fetch a small glass bottle from my desk drawer?"

"...Don't give me that nonsense."

"Nonsense? Do you think I'd try to run the moment you turned away to get it?"

I took off my coat.

Litney flinched but didn’t move further when I made no suspicious moves.

Her expression remained emotionless, her eyes unblinking.

"If I were planning to run, wouldn't that be quite a joke? With legs like mine?"

I tapped my cane against the floor.

The cane—evidence of my disability.

Litney hesitated, a hint of uncertainty crossing her face.

"Which drawer?"

"There's only one."

"...Alright."

She moved cautiously toward the desk, never fully taking her eyes off me.

Trying to run or shout for help would be the worst choice.

With [Accelerated Thought], I could perceive her movements, but my body wasn’t fast enough to react.

All I could do was hope my gamble paid off.

—Click

"...What's this?"

Litney opened my desk drawer and took out the glass vial, a look of confusion on her face.

The small glass bottle was half-empty, containing a clear liquid that she couldn’t possibly mistake.

This was no ordinary substance—it was Elizabeth, a potent and deadly poison known only to a select few.

An Easter egg that appeared only under specific conditions in the game, Elizabeth was a trademark tool of "Weapon," the most powerful organization in this world. As an assassin, Litney herself had likely used it often.

Elizabeth was a colorless, tasteless poison. It had been used in the assassination of Empress Elizabeth of the Empire. With a dormancy period of one month, detecting it before it was too late was nearly impossible.

To make matters worse, in the game, there was no antidote for this poison. Unless someone possessed the [Immunity to All Poisons] trait, they would inevitably succumb to it if exposed.

The only hint of its presence was the faint smell it emitted—something only a trained assassin like her could recognize.

—Smirk

Litney’s eyes darted between the vial and me. Her face turned red as realization struck.

Her hands began to tremble.

"You... What have you done...?"

On the table before her sat the glass of water, still half full.

—Gulp —Gulp

I lifted the glass, showing it to Litney, and then drank the rest in front of her.

She could no longer hide her shock.

"Ah... It tastes just like water."

"...Do you even know what that is?"

"Of course. I thought you were remarkably calm as you drank earlier. I suppose you didn't realize?"

"...!!"

—Crash!!

"Are you insane?"

"Fortunately, I'm quite sane. But thank you for your concern. I feel a warm spot in my heart now."

"No, that's not—ah..."

Litney covered her eyes with her hands, looking up at the ceiling. She sighed deeply before lowering her gaze again.

A deadly aura flickered in her red pupils, rage simmering beneath the surface.

For an assassin, her expressions were surprisingly vivid.

"......"

—Grip

The veins on her hand holding the dagger stood out, a clear sign that she was ready to act.

It seemed she had nothing to lose.

She knew there was no antidote in this world. Her expression told me she had already given up.

But had she, really?

"Do you want to live?"

"There's no antidote. What are you talking about?"

"The antidote—"

I tapped my head lightly a couple of times.

"—is right here."