A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

Ten whistle daggers lay neatly arranged, along with a wide leather armor whose inner lining was padded with a thin fabric to avoid chafing.

The armor itself was decent—quite satisfactory, in fact. While it didn’t offer any magical protection, it was formidable against physical attacks. For now, that would suffice.

Granted, wearing it in the summer heat might be torturous.

But if necessary, one must endure. What choice is there?

Between the layers of leather was an interwoven grid of finely hammered metal chains. Though it added weight, the defensive capability it offered more than made up for it.

“It’s my masterpiece,” the blacksmith declared with pride.

It was no exaggeration. Even with the price reduced by half, the armor was still expensive.

Repairing the leather and crafting the delicate chains from scratch was no small feat.

The blacksmith had spent nearly a year crafting it.

“Use it well,” he said.

His face was reddened, perhaps from years of toiling near a forge. This armor was a gift.

Yet it didn’t feel right to simply accept it. Enkrid had pestered Kraiss relentlessly until they managed to pay the full price for it.

The blacksmith silently accepted the pouch of krona.

Along with the armor, Enkrid now carried two daggers strapped to his ankles, a guard sword slung behind his waist, and eight throwing knives tucked into his thighs and sides.

The whistle daggers crossed his chest in an X-shaped sheath.

He had already tested the angle for drawing them, ensuring it wouldn’t hinder him during combat. Experience had taught him well.

From past experience, he also knew the value of carrying at least one utility knife for miscellaneous tasks. He tucked one into his pack.

Should he take a short sword as well?

It could serve as a backup weapon if his primary blade broke.

By the time he finished packing, it was quite a load.

A thick blanket for sleeping outdoors was a necessity, as was at least one pot. The latter, he decided, Kraiss could carry. But there were many other items still to prepare.

Charcoal for keeping warm through the night, a thick cloth, a wooden spoon and fork, and a thin iron plate mixed with copper—perfect for cooking over a fire.

Embarking on a journey required a sturdy backpack, and the weight was quickly piling up.

If there was one thing that had kept Enkrid alive despite his mediocre swordsmanship, it was this meticulous preparation.

Old habits die hard.

Even if it was just the four of them embarking on this journey—and, admittedly, all four were formidable in their own right—Enkrid couldn’t take any chances.

He knew too well the dangers that lurked on the road.

Preparedness brought peace of mind.

“Are you really taking all of that?”

Lua Gharne’s voice carried a note of exasperation—or perhaps it was simply awe.

Enkrid didn’t care either way. His peace of mind came first.

“Yes, though I regret not being able to bring more.”

From gauntlets to shin guards, his armor was methodically prepared. Each knife had been sharpened, and the blades meticulously polished with fat-rendered oil.

The polished blades gleamed in the sunlight.

“Planning to blind your enemies with sunlight during the day?”

Frokk quipped, watching him from nearby.

“Sharp observation,” Enkrid replied nonchalantly.

It was almost like a comedy routine.

“Why do I feel like my spot’s been taken?”

Rem grumbled from the side, his tone tinged with mock indignation.

Enkrid ignored him.

“Why won’t you answer me?”

Rem’s voice turned petulant.

This wouldn’t do. If left unchecked, Rem might escalate into a full-blown tantrum. Enkrid finally opened his mouth.

“I did.”

“When?”

“With silence.”

What kind of crazy nonsense was this? Rem’s face twisted into an odd expression.

Enkrid casually swallowed his reaction, effectively dismissing him.

“Damn it.”

Rem let it go. He knew from experience that arguing with Enkrid would only end in his own defeat. It was a truth he’d learned the hard way, time and again.

Mission or no mission, this was their daily routine.

Enkrid continued as usual.

Morning training was relentless, bordering on madness. By evening, he meticulously prepared for deployments. Equipment maintenance and tool packing were all part of the process. Frokk, watching him, could barely suppress his incredulity.

‘Is this guy hardcore or just plain dense?’

No hesitation. No complaints.

He trained and prepared with the same stoic efficiency, day after day.

Occasionally, during isolation training, he showed signs of strain. Yet even then, a faint smile would flicker across his face.

‘Is he...a masochist?’

Perhaps.

Despite being told he couldn’t become a knight, Enkrid showed neither despair nor frustration.

Three months of observation revealed no pretense in his actions.

Thus, Frokk concluded, Enkrid was simply... bizarre. Utterly bizarre.

A low growl escaped Frokk’s throat.

How could he not be intrigued?

Enkrid’s exceptional appearance only made him more fascinating to watch.

Where had such a person even come from?

“He’s mine.”

Lua Gharne muttered, squatting under the shade of the training ground, watching Enkrid.

Nearby, a fairy captain approached, its shadow spilling slightly beyond the shade.

“Did anyone say otherwise?”

Lua Gharne’s tone was indifferent.

“Rawr.”

From the opposite shade, Esther bared her fangs, hissing.

There it goes again.

Lua Gharne ignored it. Frokk’s focus was on desires and instincts—his own. As long as his curiosity was piqued, he wouldn’t lash out recklessly.

Although, if someone brushed too close to his heart, he might strike back—halfway, at least.

***

Between training sessions, Enkrid didn’t forget his responsibilities.

“You’re heading out? With only four people? Including Frokk?”

When Enkrid reported to the battalion commander, the man repeated the question but soon gave his approval.

“Well, that’s unusual.”

That was all he said, with no further commentary.

“And what do you think about being told you’ll never become a knight?” the commander asked, stopping Enkrid as he was about to leave.

Before saluting, Enkrid replied indifferently, “I appreciate the gift.”

Was there malice in the commander’s words?

No, there wasn’t.

Even if there were, it didn’t matter. It had served as an opportunity for Enkrid.

A dream he could never achieve? That didn’t apply to him. He was simply stitching together a shredded dream he had pursued to this point, nothing more.

“Gratitude?” the commander repeated.

“Yes.”

“I see.”

After the short and perfunctory exchange, Enkrid saluted and stepped outside, only to find the fairy captain following him.

Lately, it seemed he ran into the fairy captain more often than usual.

Did she have nothing better to do?

Enkrid looked at her with a hint of suspicion.

“Have you fallen for me again?” she teased.

Ignoring her, Enkrid turned back toward his personal preparations.

“You’re overly excited about this trip, aren’t you? You seem thrilled,” Rem muttered provocatively.

“If you’re that restless, care for a sparring match?” Enkrid countered effortlessly.

“Sounds good!” Rem’s enthusiasm was evident.

The sparring was sharp and refreshing, with each strike resonating clearly.

Clang! Clang!

What stood out this time was the different expression on Rem’s face—something resembling satisfaction.

As Enkrid activated the Heart of Might and brought his blade crashing down on Rem’s axe, Rem fluidly shifted his footing, redirecting the force.

It was the first time Enkrid had seen Rem employ a technique resembling Flowing Defense.

“Flowing Defense?” Enkrid remarked.

“What? Am I not allowed to use something like this?”

“No,” Enkrid replied. “It’s fine.”

Still, the match ended with a decisive axe strike shattering the Heart of Might, and Enkrid admitted defeat.

He sparred next with Audin, then Ragna, and even Jaxon, who had apparently found some free time.

Jaxon offered pointed advice after their match. “You’re undertrained.”

Translation: Jaxon had volunteered to help him train further.

The focus of the training? Sharpening visual acuity, reflexes, and the instinct for evasion.

“You’ve still got a long way to go,” Jaxon said.

The results were still lacking, but progress came through repetition.

When his personal preparations were nearly complete, Enkrid dedicated himself to relentless training until the day before departure.

“With more tools at your disposal, you must organize yourself properly,” Ragna commented unexpectedly.

It was sound advice, and Enkrid nodded. “You’re right.”

Between sessions, he began incorporating more meditation into his routine. Lua Gharne occasionally offered pointers, wielding her whip or correcting his stances when the mood struck her. Most of the time, though, she simply watched.

Enkrid didn’t mind. He was too focused on methodically honing his skills.

The Basics.

The basics of swordsmanship. The fundamentals of training.

These principles formed the foundation of the northern-style heavy swordsmanship and the Isolation Technique.

What tied it all together was his sensitivity to the blade.

The ability to open the Gate of Intuition and glimpse the immediate future.

Of course, such feats required singular concentration.

“I’m no genius,” Enkrid thought to himself.

He was simply a frog trapped in the well of today, striving toward the light of tomorrow.

And so, he clawed and crawled forward, inch by inch.

Unwavering. Unchanging.

Like a pilgrim chasing the faded shadow of a dream, he walked and walked, refining himself with every step.

Through repetition, he gained a deeper understanding of Heavy Swordsmanship, growing more accustomed to the Heart of Might.

The day before departure arrived.

“There’s been a lot of monster activity lately. I heard merchants who used to travel in groups of ten now refuse to set out with fewer than twenty. Is it safe to go out like this? Well, I guess it’ll be fine,” Kraiss remarked as he surveyed the group.

As Enkrid prepared for yet another sparring match, Kraiss’s words echoed in his mind. This time, his opponent was Rem.

They squared off, maintaining a careful distance. Enkrid drew his sword, pointing it toward Rem, who twirled his axes casually.

How many times had they sparred recently?

They had faced each other often these days.

“Make it worth my while today,” Rem said, a sly grin crossing his face.

He seemed to be nursing some grievance, though Enkrid didn’t know what. This match was as much about appeasing Rem as it was about training.

By now, summer was in full swing.

Enkrid could feel the subtle changes in temperature, the shifting direction of the breeze.

The change in the air was fleeting, as was the moment when the distance between them narrowed.

In that instant, everything Enkrid had learned through repetition came rushing back, settling into his body.

Years of training condensed into this one moment.

He saw the dots connecting into lines, the lines forming circles—his sphere of control, the range of his sword.

Rhythm, or tempo, dictated the timing of attack, defense, and counters.

Through his opponent’s movements and breathing, he glimpsed the next moment.

Enkrid lowered his hand slightly. It was instinctive, a reaction to what he foresaw.

The tip of his sword tilted forward.

Between the rays of sunlight, the two axes stopped.

He could see Rem’s nose, his eyes, and the sweat trickling down his forehead.

Enkrid, forgetting himself, focused entirely on his opponent, finding the most rational and efficient path to victory.

The overlap of their ranges. The tempo and timing that worked in his favor.

Following the rhythm, his feet left the ground.

His sword cleaved through the sunlight, falling from above.

The axes moved as well.

And with them, their wielder.

For a brief moment, Enkrid saw a pale figure—like a ghost or a specter.

An apparition’s axe seemed to swing toward him.

Slice!

Before the phantom could reach him, Enkrid’s sword descended with the full weight of Heavy Swordsmanship, accelerating toward its target.

The strike landed.

Yet nothing was cut.

No neck severed, no blood spilled. The axe that should have struck was merely an illusion.

“...You’ve learned how to take things seriously, huh?” Rem muttered, breaking the silence.

“You dodged, didn’t you?”

Enkrid’s calm reply came as he turned around. A thin cut marked Rem’s cheek.

There had been no sensation, yet the blade had connected.

It was a minor scratch, but it was there.

A faint thrill coursed through Enkrid’s body, like the rumble of a beast’s roar resonating from within.

Thinking back, this was a first.

Not once had he managed to leave a mark on Rem, Ragna, Audin, or Jaxon.

“Good.”

Lua Gharne, watching from the sidelines, clapped her hands together and stood.

The dull sound of her palms meeting carried an unexpected sense of satisfaction.

“Now then...” Enkrid murmured, struggling to articulate his thoughts. Was this a new experience? No, he had felt this before.

The mustachioed man.

When he first faced that opponent, when he became absorbed in the focus taught by Michi Hurrier—those were the moments he had felt something similar.

The sensation of breaking through a limit with concentration.

But now, it was more refined.

He had learned more. Gained more.

You see as much as you know.

And in that moment, Enkrid saw. Everything he had learned became clear.