A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

"Let’s bring out what I’ve learned. Let’s do it."

As soon as Enkrid resolved to move, his body responded instinctively.

He could see everything and react to it.

The countless days of training through the isolation technique supported him now.

"It works."

His body moved precisely as he intended. His swordsmanship adhered to a single style: Northern Broadblade Swordsmanship.

This style was based on the foundational elements of Precision, Stability, Aggression, Speed, and Fluidity, which had evolved across the continent into various forms.

For instance, Michi Hurrier’s swordsmanship combined Precision and Fluidity with a hint of Stability.

Ragna emphasized Stability with a touch of Speed, resulting in a sharp yet flexible style.

This was Northern Broadblade Swordsmanship.

Of course, what Enkrid had learned was just the basics—a simple technique. But that was enough.

Using this as a foundation, he polished his skills to perfection.

"I can see it."

He could "hear" the shape of the enemy’s attack with his eyes and "see" it with his ears. His senses intertwined, opening the gates of intuition.

Blades rained down on him, but he could classify and distinguish their order of arrival, analyzing them all individually.

His perception led to reaction speeds that could only be described as lightning-fast.

"Left from here."

He even had time to think.

At this moment, Enkrid was faster than the monsters and beasts surrounding him. He saw their movements in advance, and his body followed his vision.

He moved more, stepping ahead of his enemies, swinging his blade an extra time.

"The power..."

The Heart of Might could not be activated for long. Prolonged use would destroy his body. Instead, it had to be brief and instantaneous.

This wasn’t just a result of repeating today’s efforts—it was the culmination of dodging, evading, and honing his techniques over time.

His heart pounded heavily, and strength surged into his muscles.

"Three swings? No, I can manage four."

In one heartbeat, his sword unleashed four strikes infused with superhuman power.

Slash! Slash! Slash! Slash!

None of the strikes met resistance.

The heads of four gnolls were split in half—each cleaved perfectly down the middle of the crown.

His body moved as he wished. His sword followed his will.

His coordination amplified every reflex, and all his accumulated training unfolded seamlessly.

At that moment, Enkrid thought of Rem.

How does he charge into the heart of the battlefield alone and remain unscathed? How is such a feat possible?

With his current skills, Enkrid believed he could replicate it.

He slashed and cut, split and severed, carving his way forward through time itself.

"Ah."

He recalled the junior knight he had once seen, leaping forward alone to demonstrate unparalleled strength.

"Will" is necessary, they said. They said it was something far out of reach for Enkrid.

But was that a reason to give up?

Not even close.

In days filled with constant movement, there was no time for despair.

Enkrid did everything he could. He even mimicked the junior knight’s charge using his body, honed by the Heart of Might and the isolation technique.

He pushed and pushed, until his limbs trembled, and a dull pain radiated from his insides. At that moment, he leapt backward to retreat.

“Ahhh!”

Behind him, Lua Gharne let out a strange cry.

Enkrid’s energy had completely drained.

As if understanding his need for help, Lua Gharne wrapped her whip around his wrist and pulled him toward her. He collapsed into her arms and lost consciousness.

Displaying strength akin to a junior knight—without even the aid of Will—had taken its toll.

But for those watching...

The ones atop the walls...

Lua Gharne, Finn, Kraiss, and Esther...

In their hearts, an inexplicable flame ignited. Goosebumps ran across their skin, and their bodies trembled with awe.

"How can a human do such a thing?"

Even without being bards, they felt compelled to compose songs in this moment.

“Damn it. The wall’s name is decided,” muttered the mason, who had hit his head on a stone while moving rocks.

"Enkrid’s Wall." They would call it that, dropping the "Madman" title entirely.

“Damn it, why am I crying?”

Some of the militia shed tears.

Rather than the joy of survival, they were overwhelmed by the sight of the man who had fought so fiercely before them.

Moments like this are often described as impressive—when something is so extraordinary it etches itself into one’s heart.

At this moment, Enkrid was etched into their hearts.

“Ahhhhhh!”

Cheers and shouts erupted.

The monsters hadn’t fully retreated yet, but the soldiers fired arrows and hurled stones while chanting:

"Enkrid!"

Eventually, the horde withdrew a step.

“What about him?”

Having seen him collapse, everyone asked the same question:

I hope he isn’t hurt. I hope his body isn’t damaged. I hope he walks out unscathed. I want to see him smile.

Their feelings were unanimous. They wanted to cheer for him, to give him anything he needed.

Such was the feeling they shared.

Their hopes were fulfilled.

“Are they gone?”

Enkrid walked out, standing tall, and asked the question.

Deutsch Pullman descended from the ramparts. He glanced at his glaive, then tossed it aside as if dissatisfied.

To his subordinates, this would have been shocking—Deutsch valued his weapons like his own life, as any mercenary would.

Kneeling on one knee, Deutsch bowed his head and spoke.

“Thank you.”

The short, blunt words carried immense weight.

"It’s not over yet," Enkrid replied calmly.

There was no smile. But Deutsch neither sought his smile nor expected gratitude. He simply showed respect to the man who had stirred his spirit.

Seeing this, everyone else knelt—those on the wall and those on the ground.

Enkrid shrugged, but those who had known him for a long time recognized it: he was satisfied.

After the battle, he returned to his cabin and examined his body.

"I overdid it."

His muscles were sore, and his heart throbbed faintly.

"But this much..."

It was manageable. By tomorrow, he would recover.

The teachings of Audin came to mind:

"The isolation technique creates a 'Regenerative Body.' It’s not just about strengthening the skeleton—it builds a foundation for recovery."

Enkrid clenched and unclenched his fist, feeling the stiffness gradually fade.

“Damn, I was impressed,” Kraiss remarked nearby.

Finn added, “I think I’ve fallen for you all over again.”

Esther gazed silently at Enkrid. Her eyes carried a meaning that was impossible to discern.

Lua Gharne, however, spoke bluntly.

“When this is over, I’m leaving.”

It was simply a matter of time for her. Bound by an oath, she was not free in any sense.

“Do as you wish,” Enkrid replied.

“Don’t speak formally to me. Don’t use honorifics,” Lua Gharne added, her words laden with insistence.

Enkrid nodded. It didn’t matter to him. He was too busy preparing for the next day.

His whistle daggers were all used up. If their opponent—those damned cultists—weren’t complete fools, they wouldn’t simply retreat for good.

Judging by today’s withdrawal, they’d return. Instead of pressing on, they had pulled back to preserve their forces.

"We can rebuild the ladders if needed."

They had seen him overexert himself. It would make sense for them to attempt another attack.

"Shall we set a trap?"

Having displayed his capabilities, it felt feasible to lure them in.

“Shouldn’t we take down the cultists before leaving?” Enkrid asked Lua Gharne. It was his way of saying that leaving now would be problematic.

“Of course.”

Good. That settled it.

Kraiss sidled up to Enkrid, speaking in a low voice.

“They’ll probably come back tomorrow.”

Kraiss was sharp, his mind quick as ever. He had an uncanny knack for reading situations.

“Then let’s bait them,” Enkrid said.

“Ah, sounds good,” Kraiss replied.

With that brief exchange, Kraiss immediately started formulating a strategy. It seemed plausible. No, it felt almost certain. Kraiss’s quick thinking tore into the heart of the enemy’s intentions, crafting a plan with pinpoint precision.

They rested deeply that day. No one disturbed Enkrid.

Though some of the retreating monsters remained within sight, they didn’t let their guard down completely.

The one difference from the previous day was the swelling morale of the people.

“Are we going to let those monsters take our village?”

The people’s spirits were ablaze.

Whatever Enkrid had shown them, it had ignited a fire in their hearts.

Before that fire could wane, dawn arrived.

The horde returned, this time with makeshift ladders.

Now they had ropes with hooks attached at the ends.

The crude weapons seemed cobbled together from twisted tree trunks, but their potential danger was undeniable.

“Damn bastards,” Deutsch growled, grinding his teeth.

Enkrid opened the gates again.

And once more, he repeated the same chaos as before.

His body, enhanced by the isolation technique and what Audin had called a regenerative body, was holding up. He suffered no critical issues.

Another wave of battle ensued.

The name Beast-Slayer with Two Swords began to spread.

After a fierce but short-lived fight, Enkrid vomited blood.

“Ugh!”

Two days of relentless combat had taken a toll.

Beside him, Lua Gharne deliberately left an opening and had her left arm severed.

Her forearm, cut clean below the elbow, was snatched up by a gnoll, who bit into it triumphantly.

"Grrrrrr!"

The creature’s guttural cry sounded like a victorious roar.

Though the monsters and beasts retreated once more, Lua Gharne had lost an arm, and Enkrid coughed up more blood.

By the third day, the horde launched yet another attack.

“Don’t you ever get tired of this?” a mercenary shouted from atop the wall.

Once again, Enkrid stepped out beyond the gates.

Though still vomiting blood, Enkrid managed to hold out, albeit for a shorter duration than the previous day. The dark circles under his eyes grew deeper with every passing moment.

By now, the number of monsters had been halved.

Their forces had dwindled to fewer than 500.

That meant nearly 500 had fallen to Enkrid’s sword—slashed, severed, or impaled by his hand.

In just three days, this was an astonishing feat.

But in the end, Enkrid collapsed, his limbs limp as he was carried back by the militia.

Even the number of incoming arrows had lessened.

The wooden barricades held firm once more.

If they could endure another two or three days, they might just survive.

The following day, Enkrid stepped out again, the dark circles under his eyes even more pronounced, his complexion pale.

He looked utterly exhausted, but like a candle burning its life to light its surroundings, he set himself ablaze once more.

He delivered another ghost-like performance, defying belief.

“Uoohhh! Beast-Slayer!”

The deep voice of a militia soldier echoed.

Inspired by his feats, twenty militia members charged out of the gates to engage in close combat.

Their skirmish, conducted in preparation for a fallback, was a success.

No lives were lost.

Still, the situation was precarious. The barricades had sustained more damage, and now even without ladders, the walls seemed at risk.

On this day, Enkrid truly earned his title as Beast-Slayer.

He reduced the enemy’s numbers by another hundred.

The remaining horde numbered fewer than 300. There were no ghouls left, and the beasts had significantly thinned.

Only 200 gnolls and fewer than 100 hyena-beasts remained.

Thus, dawn of the fourth day broke.

***

The cultists knew how to wear a person down to death.

When they first saw Enkrid’s feats, they had nearly turned tail to flee.

"A knight! At least a junior knight!"

Knights were beings of unmatched strength—opponents that couldn’t be contended with. Running away was the natural choice.

But as they began to retreat, something didn’t quite add up.

Knights were not like ordinary humans. Even at a distance of over fifty paces, a junior knight could kill with a single arrow thrown by hand.

The cultists were well aware of their devastating power.

But this was the frontier.

What kind of junior knight would come to a place like this? What was there to gain?

Even in the entire kingdom, there were no more than thirty knights.

And among them, those who could truly be called knights were perhaps one or two.

Knights were strategic weapons, capable of altering the course of battles.

Junior knights made up most of the knighthood, and even they could shift the tides of war.

On the continent’s battlefields, elite, small-scale forces often held the key to victory.

"But this is the frontier. What knightly order would come all the way out here?"

The knighthood wasn’t idle enough to bother with such remote places.

In conclusion, their opponent wasn’t a knight or even a junior knight.

He displayed incredible power, but he retreated quickly.

Even the next day, though he repeated similar feats, it was akin to the frenzy of a mage who had sold their soul—desperation with no regard for his own life.

"And yet, he endures?"

Their opponent endured.

After days of harassment, he was left coughing up blood. A Frokk had lost an arm, and the villagers were battered with arrows and stones.

"Hah."

The cultist smiled in satisfaction. Now, with the monster horde at their command, they would crush, devour, and consume everything.

And through this, they would achieve the dream of unleashing a plague of monsters upon this land.

Thus, they would proclaim the will of their god.

Even if knights or reinforcements eventually came and brought the cultists down, they would have gained enough from this place by then.

“Let’s go.”

The cultist led the monsters.

On the fourth morning, the day of reckoning arrived.

Previously, they hadn’t charged straight toward the wooden barricades.

But now, it was time to end it.

The cultist drove the monsters forward to hammer against the barricades. On top of the wall, a leopard could be seen. It must be somewhere near there.

The leopard had always been by that madman’s side.

It was natural. Repeated situations created fixed assumptions.

"Show yourself, bastard."

As they pounded on the barricades, a voice rang out from behind.

"Kraiss was right."

Startled, every hair on the cultist’s body stood on end.

They whipped around to look behind them.

There stood a man with dark circles under his eyes and a pale complexion, alongside the one-armed Frokk.

“You were hard to get a look at,” the pale man said, brushing under his eyes with a finger.

Black smudges stained his hand.

This was the man who should have been coughing up blood and writhing on the ground. Yet somehow, his complexion looked unnaturally clear and healthy. Was it an illusion? Or perhaps... a nightmare?