Eternally Regressing Knight

“Why are you acting like this?”

Oh, he’s still here.

Krais was standing right in front of him, waving his hand in the air like he was swatting at something.

“Can you see this? Ah, can you even hear me?”

“What are you doing?”

“Oh, you can hear me now.”

“My ears are fine.”

“Not so sure about your head, though.”

Is he trying to provoke me into hitting him?

With Rem out somewhere, maybe Krais thought it was his time to act out. But before I could react, Krais spoke again.

“If it’s about the weird question earlier, why not just ask Esther? And by the way, you do realize we have a mountain of urgent tasks to handle right now, don’t you?”

“Handle them yourself. I’m giving you full authority.”

“Ah, hell no! If you do that, I’ll just run away!”

“Except for that.”

Krais muttered a curse under his breath, one that I couldn’t quite catch, and turned to leave.

“Why is my life like this…”

His lamentation sounded oddly comforting. At least he wasn’t running away for now.

Enkrid placed a hand on Esther’s head again. Even if she couldn’t be fully human, the knowledge she held wasn’t going anywhere.

So far, Esther had proven to be no ordinary mage. Among those who wove spells to manifest mysteries, she stood out as exceptional.

Perhaps she knew something.

He wasn’t hoping for much when he asked her a question.

“Esther, you heard that, right?”

It was a simple comment, thrown out casually.

Slowly, Esther rose to her feet. If she had been human, her joints might have cracked noisily, but her supple, feline body stretched like a bow, fluid and silent.

With a clawed finger, Esther began drawing something on the dirt floor.

Scratch, scratch.

It was a simple sketch: a geometric shape followed by three straight lines.

What could it mean? The crude artistry made it difficult to decipher.

Is this abstract art?

Then Esther drew something long and sharp a little further away from the first shape.

Definitely abstract.

Enkrid took a moment to appreciate Esther’s attempt at art.

She’s never been taught drawing, clearly. Magic and art must be unrelated. There was once a mage who claimed magic was a form of art—what nonsense.

Esther slapped her palm on the long, sharp shape she had drawn, then pressed her hand on the geometric shape.

The dirt floor quickly returned to its original state, erasing her canvas.

Enkrid, sharp as always and a good listener, understood her intentions despite the abstract presentation.

“Attack it before it activates?”

Esther let out a low growl, almost like a purr, then curled up into a ball. The chill in the air seemed to bother her, prompting her to seek warmth and sleep again.

Seeing this, Enkrid picked her up and carried her back inside the tent.

He laid the leopard-like creature near the fire and began stretching, loosening his muscles. Soon, Audin walked in.

Krais was probably busy running around, trying to fix something. Ragna, for once, seemed motivated and was likely practicing swordsmanship nearby. As for Jaxen? Who knows—he’d manage somehow.

That left just him and Audin.

“Brother,” Audin called out.

Even before he spoke further, Enkrid already knew what he was going to say.

It was about healing.

Audin possessed divine power, which could theoretically heal the injuries still lingering in his body. If only his right arm and left leg could fully recover…

‘That would make things so much easier.’

But is it the right thing to do? Would that truly be the correct path?

Enkrid, ever perceptive, had pieced together a lot about Audin.

Though Audin hadn’t shared his full past, his actions, demeanor, and past words painted a picture that wasn’t hard to decipher.

‘Exiled, bound by restrictions, or otherwise unable to fully use his divine power.’

When Audin had healed him before, he had acted calm, but Enkrid could tell there was a toll.

“I can’t completely heal you, but I can reduce the pain,” Audin offered.

“No need.”

The refusal was quick. There was no point in it.

Partial healing wouldn’t solve anything, and dulling the pain wouldn’t help either.

Pain was a sign of being alive.

Now, more than ever.

When that scroll—or whatever it was—had detonated around the child’s body, he had felt every bit of his own body being torn apart.

But it must have been far worse for the child.

Thinking about it made his blood boil.

Whoever had devised such a thing…

He had no intention of letting them get what they wanted.

Running away wasn’t an option.

He wanted to face them head-on—cut, pierce, slash, and crush them with his own hands.

“Just strike first.”

Simple. Almost too easy—it felt anticlimactic.

Enkrid pulled a piece of seasoned jerky from his pocket and placed it in Esther’s mouth. The leopard-like creature bit down on it with sharp precision, chewing contentedly.

“Brother, as you wish,” Audin said, turning to leave.

‘What an interesting brother,’ he thought, sensing that Enkrid had pieced things together about his condition—the restraints on his divine power and other limitations.

Not that Enkrid could know for sure; Audin had never explained it outright. His understanding was based purely on intuition.

And yet, even with such insights, Enkrid showed consideration in this situation.

He wasn’t running away, nor was he trying to avoid the fight. Despite his injuries, he showed no signs of seeking a way out.

Audin found it fascinating.

‘Oh Lord, my Father in Heaven, what tempers this man’s resolve?’

Of course, there was no answer. But Audin didn’t need one. He prayed silently:

‘Dear and precious brother, if it is your wish, I shall lend my strength on this battlefield.’

He knew exactly who their enemy was. For Audin, crushing the skull of the wolf-beast leading the pack was a divine mission bestowed upon him.

After Audin left, Enkrid contemplated swift strikes. His ability to review, refine, and prepare was one of his key strengths, and now he applied it again.

‘A faster sword.’

He reflected on past encounters: Martai’s Zimmer, Rem, Ragna—all were quick.

“Through pain, I shall advance. I shall not pray to forget the suffering, but embrace the pain granted by the Lord and move forward,” he murmured.

Even that prayer-spouting oaf outside the barracks was quick. Everyone was fast. The most recent and perhaps fastest blade he had witnessed was that of Lykanos.

‘Too fast.’

By far, Lykanos had been the fastest.

Speed. That’s what mattered now—absolute speed.

Immersing himself in this realization, Enkrid wielded his sword, pushing forward through another day of relentless practice.

“Pain that cannot kill me…”

“…only makes me stronger!”

Amid the roaring chants of soldiers, Enkrid stood resolutely.

His path was clear, carved by lessons learned.

‘The last time, the blast was here.’

This time, he’d reach it first.

“Hey!”

The startled cry of a nearby soldier reached his ears as Enkrid suddenly bolted past the front lines.

He ignored it, picking up speed despite the dull ache in his left shin. It was manageable.

Ahead, the child’s eyes widened in shock as Enkrid closed in.

The scroll was visible now—a drab, reddish parchment wrapped around the boy.

Striking just the scroll wasn’t a challenge anymore. Once impossible, it was now a simple task.

He swung his sword.

But just as his blade was about to slice through, there was a flash of light. The spell triggered again.

It was faster this time. Despite his earlier action, the scroll’s activation had been adjusted by someone from the rear.

The explosion incinerated the child’s eyes, tearing flesh and shattering bones, sending fragments of viscera flying in every direction.

The searing heat reached Enkrid’s head and stung his own eyes. His heightened focus forced him to witness every gruesome detail.

He saw it all, endured it all. And once again, Enkrid died.

‘What the hell.’

Even as a new day began, the vision burned into his retinas refused to fade.

Still, he had learned enough now, after just one more cycle.

The third morning dawned.

“Yes, I’ll do it that way,” he muttered.

“What? Wait, seriously?”

Without waiting for Krais’s inevitable protests, Enkrid grabbed his sword and got up. Esther growled softly in discontent from her spot, curling back into her sleeping place.

Sighing, Enkrid stepped out of the barracks.

“What’s going on now?” Krais asked, watching in bafflement.

“What does it look like? Training,” Dunbakel answered, stepping forward.

She had decided to follow Enkrid, reading his intent from his actions. She grabbed her scimitar, eager for a vigorous workout. With Rem away, her body practically itched for activity.

As Enkrid moved toward the training grounds, he shook off the lingering visions and cleared his mind. The path ahead was clearer than ever.

“What’s wrong with him?”

Krais muttered in exasperation behind him, but Enkrid paid no attention, his usual indifference intact.

Sword in hand, he stretched it forward.

It was madness, perhaps, but it was also his routine.

The training began anew.

Enkrid approached each new day with unwavering commitment, often unintentionally so.

What began with contemplation always transitioned into action—thoughts made tangible through effort.

Audin, as usual, offered to heal his wounds.

“No,” came the curt refusal, as always.

It was a part of their daily rhythm now. While some things changed, others remained constant.

Audin’s demeanor was one of them.

Every rejection was met with a solemn prayer or a shift in posture that suggested he was about to cause trouble. Yet, despite appearances, he spent his days in relative calm.

“Healing?”

“Enough.”

It was a repeating day.

Audin never asked for the reason each time and let it pass.

Enkrid, too, accepted it as a part of daily life without digging too deeply.

“Transform.”

On some days, he would grab Esther and lightly toss her against a wall, shouting what sounded like an incantation.

He thought that maybe provoking her anger would trigger a transformation, but all it did was leave more scratch marks on his face.

Honestly, he didn’t expect much to begin with.

Sometimes, he wandered across the battlefield, poking around aimlessly.

Other times, he approached an exceptionally skilled archer.

“Do you think you could hit just the edge of the cloth draped around someone’s body from this distance?”

If done well, he could manage it—shooting an arrow that would pierce only the very tip of the cloth without harming the target.

“Is that even possible?”

The soldier’s incredulous response was enough to make him give up the idea.

That left only one option—he had to get up close to deal with it directly.

What if he infiltrated the courier’s route before they departed?

What if he rescued her before everything started?

“Where’s Jaxen?”

“No idea. Haven’t seen him since last night.”

Krais’s reply revealed that Jaxen hadn’t been around since the previous evening.

Now that he thought about it, in all the repeated days, Jaxen alone had been absent.

Throwing Esther or snooping around elsewhere—it was all just a habit by now.

The wall that kept today repeating had its cracks.

Hadn’t he used those cracks several times before?

That’s why he checked.

He even tried asking around to see if there was a magician within the unit.

But where could one find a magician so easily?

‘Though, for something so rare, it feels like I’ve encountered them rather frequently.’

Scratching his chin, he mulled over the thought idly.

Aside from a brief midday inspection of his surroundings, he spent his time wholly immersed in sword practice.

At times, he forgot about the passing hours, forgot today, and even forgot his purpose.

‘Ah.’

In thrusting and slashing, he lost himself in a state of no-mind but never achieved success, not even once.

And so, nine iterations of today had passed.

Not a single one of those days allowed for complacency.

Yet every attempt ended in failure.

Close but not quite.

‘Why?’

He questioned himself, searching for an answer. There had to be a way—there was no wall that could not be overcome.

Enkrid reviewed what he’d learned so far.

Thanks to nine repeated days, he had both confirmed and solidified a few truths.

First, the scroll was indeed the trigger for the spell.

Second, Esther would emit a warning sound just before it activated.

Third, someone was observing and detonating it remotely.

Fourth, even if he ran straight for her, he couldn’t outrun the spell’s activation.

These were the known factors.

However, some things remained unclear.

Was it truly possible to nullify the spell simply by slicing through the scroll?

Was this the right path to take?

On the fifth iteration of today, doubt and distrust began to rise, but Enkrid brushed them aside.

Right or wrong, if this was the only course of action available, then he had to follow it.

“Stop wasting time thinking and run. If you lack talent, at least build stamina.”

This was something a fencing instructor from a minor trading estate had once told him.

That man was the first proper teacher Enkrid had ever met.

It was only natural that stamina formed the foundation of everything.

It was equally natural that the body that executed those actions had to be in top condition.

“Don’t get hurt. Neglecting your body’s maintenance means you’ll flail helplessly in critical moments. And when you flail, you die.”

That instructor had taught him mercenary-style combat based on countless real battles.

One of the merchant’s sons who had listened alongside him had remarked dismissively:

“Stop with the obvious advice and teach us properly.”

But Enkrid had paid close attention to the mercenary instructor’s words.

Even if he had paid only a few kronas for the lessons, he didn’t disregard them.

Unlike the merchant’s son, who scorned the advice as mere clichés, Enkrid had chosen a different path.

He listened and acted.

Instead of wasting time deliberating, he wielded his sword.

He internalized their words, their advice, and the lessons forged through swinging a sword.

‘Never neglect your body’s upkeep.’

That advice, too, he had faithfully adhered to.

Even with injuries to his shin and right arm, he was fine.

Ever since circumstance forced him to rely on his left hand, Enkrid had been punishing it just as much. He never ceased his training.

If he struck a hundred times with his right hand, he struck a hundred and fifty times with his left.

Because of that, his left hand no longer felt awkward.

“In case you lose a leg, train for it.”

This was something he’d learned from Rem. In combat, anything could happen. What would you do if one leg suddenly stopped working?

“Then you fight like this.”

It was a nameless footwork technique—a skill that involved shifting stance and position by flexing and releasing a single foot.

The move was absurdly difficult, and perfecting it felt like it would kill him, but the effort hadn’t been in vain.

“It’s a good way to kill time.”

Jaxen had praised it in his dry way as he observed him practicing.

If he had truly thought it useless, he would have told him to practice dodging with a dagger instead.

After mastering the technique, Enkrid had even given it a name.

“Let’s call it the Limping Step.”

What he learned, he hammered into his body, refining it again and again.

Through nine iterations of today, Enkrid was now honing a sword strike faster with his left hand than his right.

It wasn’t easy.

Failures were plentiful. On some occasions, his blade came dangerously close to touching the child’s body, but that was when the scroll would immediately detonate.

Whoever was observing and triggering the spell had impeccable timing.

Enkrid envisioned countless hypothetical scenarios in his mind.

‘Preparation is key.’

Drawing upon what he’d learned from Jaxen, he contemplated the fastest way to draw his blade.

Could he block the observer’s gaze somehow?

By the fifteenth iteration of today, he faced a seemingly insurmountable wall—one that might evoke despair in anyone.

“I pity you, so I will teach you the way. You have two paths before you.”

It was the boatman who spoke.

Pity? That word didn’t suit the boatman at all.