Eternally Regressing Knight

“Throw it.”

As soon as Enkrid spoke, Jaxen’s hand moved.

There was no time to concern himself with the whistling sound of the projectile.

The sly stray cat with reddish-brown hair, standing seven steps ahead, hurled a stone. The tiny speck in the distance quickly expanded before his eyes.

As Enkrid’s focus heightened, he perceived the stone’s trajectory.

In the instant he twisted his body to evade, he noticed another stone where he was dodging.

It was a throwing technique designed to occupy space with timed intervals.

Enkrid’s body moved instinctively, twisting out of the way.

Using his left foot as a pivot, he stepped back to the right, his torso rotating in the opposite direction.

His movement was grotesque, contorting his body unnaturally.

He used the torque from his twisting waist to roll forward, dodging all the stones.

“Weren’t you supposed to evade without leaving your spot?”

The detached tone reached his ears.

“I will, eventually.”

Though not yet, Enkrid knew it was something he’d achieve with repetition. It was a matter of practice and persistence, not foresight.

Steady walking leads to milestones, which, in turn, bring you to your destination—a truth he had proven with his body and learned through life.

Enkrid answered calmly, standing up and brushing the dust off his clothes.

The blue light heralding dawn was being crushed by the rising sun, transforming into hues of orange and yellow.

It was the early hours of the day, the time when everyone began to wake.

As if by unspoken agreement, all the company members were outside, watching Enkrid and Jaxen.

Their gazes varied.

Rem, wrapped tightly in his warm fur coat, glared as if questioning what backwater custom compelled such madness at this freezing hour.

Audin wore a satisfied smile.

Ragna observed indifferently, twirling his wrist.

Teresa was absent, being on duty. Dunbakel glanced between Rem and Enkrid before shaking her head to herself.

She seemed tempted to imitate Enkrid but feared that asking Rem to do so would result in a boulder smashing her skull.

Unbothered by their stares, Enkrid immersed himself in thought.

It was the same idea he had been mulling over for two months while walking, running, and fighting.

“The sense of evasion operates within the unconscious realm, as a reflex.”

Seeing, hearing, feeling, tasting, and smelling are the five senses.

When these senses merge, leading to conclusions before the process is fully understood, it’s called intuition.

The sense of evasion is a skill forged from the intuitive realm, honed by reflexes.

Until now, he thought that was enough.

“No, it isn’t.”

Pondering was Enkrid’s habit and his everything.

He pondered and saw the path he must take.

It was, as always, a thorny one—rugged, treacherous, like climbing a sheer cliff.

But he would enjoy every step of the way.

“In the conscious realm.”

He would fully read the trajectories of incoming stones, evade them, and incorporate deliberate movements.

This would serve as “preparation” for his next action.

It was a conclusion derived from what he had learned through Nameless Swordsmanship, gained through experience, and realized by observing Jaxen’s techniques.

“Again.”

The goal was to evade every stone hurled at close range without moving from his spot while achieving intentional reaction speeds.

Of course, that wasn’t the only part of his training.

After this came Audin’s turn.

“You enjoy hardship, brother.”

“Why are you saying that with such a bright smile?”

“Because, as the Lord has said, one cannot discuss hardship without first walking the path of penance.”

Enkrid interpreted the hulking religious fanatic’s words in his own way.

Essentially, he thought, Audin was ecstatic at the prospect of half-killing him through training.

Enkrid smiled back.

Walking the path of penance, if there was fruit at its end, he would be satisfied whether it was ripe or withered.

For a man who never stopped moving, even while standing still, any fruit of his efforts was priceless.

Whether sweet or bitter, fruit was fruit.

And that seemed to please Audin greatly.

Even as he hinted at half-killing Enkrid, he laughed.

“Let’s do it.”

Audin introduced Enkrid to partial strengthening training.

It was an advanced technique even among Isolation techniques—a path of true hardship.

Previously, he had trained flexibility by breaking his body down to its joints and stretching them.

This time, it was about isolating and training individual parts of the body.

Dividing the day into three, mornings were for the upper body, afternoons for the lower body, and evenings for discovering and straining hidden muscles.

“There are visible muscles you can easily feel, but there are also unseen ones. In Isolation techniques, we call these inner muscles. For example, here.”

As he spoke, Audin jabbed his fingers into Enkrid’s lower back.

An excruciating pain, like being stabbed all over with knives, shot from his lower back through his entire body.

“Ugh.”

A groan escaped him despite himself.

“Exactly. We’ll train those muscles.”

This would follow regeneration training.

“It’s the Steel Body.”

From inner muscles to outer muscles, he trained himself to the point of abuse. He rolled and rolled again.

“Normally, this would take years of effort, but the Company Commander might just be a genius when it comes to body conditioning. Physical training is also a realm of talent. Many don’t realize this. To add, it’s fascinating—your physical aptitude was insignificant at first, but to reach this point, you must have an unseen gift.”

Audin’s stream of words barely reached his ears.

When you’re balancing on one leg, repeatedly sitting and standing with three boulders tied to your back, the world around you tends to fade away.

Sweat poured down his face.

Winter weather was no match for the fervor of training.

“Well done,” Audin said with a grin. Enkrid returned the smile. Just because something was grueling didn’t mean it wasn’t worthwhile.

In its own way, this was enjoyable.

Every exercise was extreme.

For instance, he walked on all fours like a beast while carrying either a boulder or Audin on his back.

To improve ankle flexibility, he stood on one leg with a stone strapped to his back, picking up objects scattered on the ground.

He repeated such routines dozens, even hundreds of times.

It was grueling, exhausting, and difficult. He couldn’t afford a lapse in focus. Since these efforts didn’t yield results overnight, monotony was inevitable.

Yet, he continued. Without perseverance, what would be left of Enkrid?

For him, this wasn’t monotonous at all.

“I’ll do it too!”

Nearby, Dunbakel tried to join in, training her muscles with Isolation techniques—crawling on all fours and walking like a beast. However, after 50 round trips, her face turned pale.

Still, even as sweat poured onto the ground, Dunbakel persisted.

Her occasional glances at Enkrid, filled with an odd intensity, were strange but ultimately unimportant.

Enkrid was too preoccupied refining and reinforcing his training methods.

Breaking his body down and building it back up became routine.

Naturally, he didn’t neglect his swordsmanship amid this regimen.

The first rule of his Nameless Swordsmanship: just because a strike is soft doesn’t mean it isn’t a blade.

Ultimately, he honed a style he loosely named Serpent Swordsmanship.

After that came Nameless Straight Sword Technique.

He would then revisit the Middle Sword Technique, before contemplating speed and precision.

He polished, sought, and refined his skills, repeating the process endlessly.

“Rem!”

He didn’t forget to test what he’d learned on Rem.

“Damn it! Do you think I’m some sort of combat puppet, summoned whenever you call? You’re treating me like a human golem!”

Enkrid was taken aback. Internally, he did see Rem as something close to that.

Does he read minds?

“If you don’t want to, leave.”

Ragna, who had been idly watching, spoke while sharpening his blade.

Shiiing, ting!

Watching him maintain his sword, unlike before, gave the impression of a maturing child.

“Get lost, you lazy weasel, before I crack your skull with an axe,” Rem retorted immediately, glaring at Ragna. Just another day.

“Sure, with my blade freshly sharpened, it wouldn’t hurt to stain it with a savage’s blood,” Ragna replied, standing as though ready to escalate matters.

“Both of you can come at me,” Enkrid taunted them.

This shifted both their gazes back to him.

Rem blinked, while Ragna sat back down.

Shiiing. He resumed sharpening his blade.

It was a single sentence, but it was an effective way to diffuse a fight.

“You’d lose,” Ragna said from where he sat.

“Fine.”

Rem slapped the back of his axe against his palm as he approached.

Ragna rose and moved to a spot in the training yard, where he began swinging his sword—sometimes slowly, sometimes quickly.

Enkrid observed briefly, then gripped his sword with both hands, focusing on reading Rem’s movements.

Blades and blades. Steel met steel.

The cold air sliced between them. Their first sparring session had been nothing more than Rem’s whim, not even a proper pastime.

Later, it was playful, full of antics with an axe.

But now?

Even Rem couldn’t take Enkrid lightly anymore.

“A monster, a real monster.”

Rem thought to himself. If breaking through the limits of talent with effort made someone a monster, then no word suited Enkrid better.

And that made it all the more entertaining.

At first, Rem only intended to watch until he faltered, but before he knew it, he had become this man’s subordinate, truly a part of his company.

“The folks back home would be horrified.”

For a moment, Rem recalled the past, the home and people he had left behind. Then he dismissed the thought, casting it from his mind.

What did it matter?

He crossed his axes in both hands.

The blades met with a soft clang, as if greeting one another.

Thunk.

At the sound of the crossed axes, Enkrid moved.

Bending his upper body forward, he kicked off the ground, charging in an instant.

Rem’s eyes caught everything. The boldness surged from deep within his chest, forcing him to face his opponent squarely. His dynamic vision was leagues beyond that of an ordinary person.

Twisting his left foot, Rem swung his axe.

Whoosh!

Ordinarily, even if blocked, the sheer force of the blow would cut through sword, forearm, and torso like a streak of light.

With weight and speed combined, it was a devastating strike, yet Enkrid deflected it with his sword.

However, unable to advance even half a step further, he couldn’t follow up with a counter despite redirecting the axe.

The Serpent Sword was halted.

Rem swung his second axe.

A double strike.

A technique Rem was confident in.

Enkrid blocked the second swing as well.

At that moment, realizing this, Rem couldn’t help but feel thrilled.

“Excellent!”

The heated fur draped over his shoulders flew off with a swoosh.

Exposing his muscular arms, Rem bared his fangs in a wide grin.

Enkrid, having parried two strikes, raised his sword again to face him.

Naturally, he smiled as well.

From an outsider’s perspective, they might look insane—laughing while fighting as though to kill each other.

Regardless, this had become Enkrid’s daily routine of late.

Since his return, he focused solely on training, sparring, and conditioning.

He neglected even his duties as the Training Commander.

Before he could offer the excuse of being busy, additional scout units had to be assembled, and the number of troops deployed to active duty doubled.

The situation around them was too dire.

It wasn’t the time to venture outside for training runs or hunts against magical beasts.

Naturally, commissions came to a halt.

However, they couldn’t stop merchants or large trade caravans from passing through.

Their territory was becoming a hub of commerce, despite the tension.

While all this could be swept away in one blaze, for now, it was the best they could manage.

It was around this time that Marcus, dealing with the aftermath of an explosion, came to speak with Enkrid.

Neither the black sword nor Viscount Tarnin concerned Enkrid.

He had decided what to do and acted accordingly. When the time came to step forward, he would. But not now.

Marcus would have found it absurd, but truthfully, there wasn’t much Enkrid could change by intervening. This was the right course of action.

Thus, about a fortnight passed.

“You haven’t changed,” Marcus remarked.

He sought out Enkrid at the independent company barracks, inside their private training ground.

Snow was falling heavily, eliciting curses from the soldiers.

Left unchecked, the snow would freeze over, creating an icy ground that would be harder to clear. They sighed deeply as they watched the flakes pile up.

A makeshift roof and columns had been set up in part of the training yard.

Leaning halfway against a central pillar, Marcus offered a bitter smile.

“I’ve been had.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m heading back.”

Puzzled, Enkrid stared at him as Marcus exhaled deeply and continued.

“To the capital, the central city.”

Out of the blue?

Enkrid had ears. He knew the surrounding situation had turned into chaos.

They were like a flickering candle in the wind, with no reinforcements to support them.

Of course, that fragile flame wouldn’t be extinguished so easily.

But for Marcus to withdraw now? No, it wasn’t a retreat. He had said he was forced, which meant someone had exerted pressure.

“I’ll hand over the position of successor lord to the First Company Commander.”

Blowing out a puff of breath, Enkrid set down the iron cudgel—equivalent in weight to ten swords—that he had custom-made by the blacksmith.

It was an excellent training tool, strengthening not just forearms and shoulders but core muscles as well. It also helped refine swordsmanship through precise training methods.

The dull thud it made drew Marcus’s gaze downward.

The blunt sword tip was lodged firmly in the frozen dirt at an angle.

What was that? Marcus was reminded once again of how monstrous this man was.

Just then, Krais peeked his head out from the barracks.

“Oh, the Battalion Commander is here?”

Opening the door, Kraiss gave a sort of salute.

Though it was far from formal, it was clearly intended as a gesture of respect.

“Clear off.”

Marcus waved dismissively.

Enkrid clasped his hands over the grip of his sword.

“Smoke?” Marcus asked.

“I don’t smoke.”

Marcus bit down on a cigarette. Just as he wondered about striking flint, Krais hurried over and offered a small flame.

Lighting the cigarette, Marcus took a deep drag, exhaling smoke that mixed with his frosty breath, the acrid scent stinging their noses.

It was a simple cigarette rolled from dried leaves—not exactly pleasant smelling.

What followed was straightforward and clear.