A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

"One more of those, and you might actually die. Are you really going back for more?"

The sun had set, casting the barracks in shadows, but it wasn’t quite time to sleep yet.

Rem idly scratched his toes as he spoke, his tone dripping with disinterest.

Nearby, Enkrid was busy cleaning his sword and inspecting his equipment before washing up.

Next to him, Kraiss was oiling his daggers with flaxseed oil. Though his movements lacked any reverence, they were efficient and practiced.

Kraiss, the ever-diligent “Big Eyes,” had a knack for such tasks.

Without looking up, Enkrid answered simply, "I won’t die."

Technically, he would—only to come back again.

Fighting the half-blood giant had nearly killed him.

Battling Swiftblade had pushed him to the brink.

Even sparring with the Molsen guard had been no small challenge. Their duels were real, with blades that would pierce flesh if either slipped up.

From an outsider’s perspective, it probably looked like Enkrid had a death wish.

These sparring sessions were dangerous enough that most would have stopped him for his own good. But Enkrid wasn’t like most. He reveled in these fights—a true lunatic.

Still, was it wise to face Intimidation again without the strength to overcome it?

To fight it without preparation was like leaping off a cliff without a rope or diving onto jagged rocks headfirst.

"It’s like charging a fully armored cavalryman with just a quill," Ragna said, stepping into the room.

Her hair was still damp from a bath, and she wore plain clothes.

Her point was clear: it was a pointless endeavor.

Audin and Jaxon echoed similar sentiments from their respective corners of the barracks.

But Enkrid, undeterred, shook his head.

"It’s fine," he said.

Was it because he had a plan? Because he saw a path forward?

No, it was none of that.

He simply knew that if he turned back now, he’d never move forward again.

The Beast’s Heart, One Point Focus, The Edge of Perception, and Isolation Technique—all these tools had given him some semblance of talent.

But they hadn’t turned him into a genius overnight.

So what did it change?

Nothing. He could still learn, adapt, and grow. Why should he run away now?

Watching Enkrid’s unwavering determination, Ragna felt something stir within her.

Will.

Though she understood it and could wield it to a degree, she couldn’t fully master it.

She couldn’t teach Enkrid to master it either.

Still, the faint, electrifying sensation of ambition pricked at her heart—something akin to thirst.

Perhaps others might call it the desire to improve.

Higher, further.

Ragna closed her eyes, retreating into her thoughts.

It was a quiet evening.

Audin was meditating.

Ragna had already gone to bed, treating the night like a rare vacation.

And Esther, now in her human form, sat silently nearby.

Esther’s gaze had been fixed on Enkrid for a while now.

Only when Enkrid finally looked at her did their eyes meet.

Her gaze was enchanting—blue as a serene lake or a sapphire moon.

She finally broke the silence, speaking bluntly.

"You’re stubborn."

Enkrid didn’t mind. He knew this about himself.

In many ways, he was clever and quick to act, but when it came to his sword and his dreams, he was obstinate to the point of foolishness.

"Can you turn human once a month, or is it more often?"

Esther dismissed the question with a shrug.

She could shift into her human form more frequently if she wished, but she found her leopard form more comfortable.

Still, she had responsibilities in her human form—tasks she’d been putting off, like maintaining her spellworld and modifying the Flash Golem Bonehead she’d acquired.

A neglected spellworld, like an unused blade, would dull over time.

"Stubbornness? No. You’re just broken," Rem teased, tapping his temple with the same hand he’d been scratching his toes with.

Enkrid ignored him entirely.

It was that kind of evening—a blend of banter and routine.

Audin meditated, Ragna rested, and the air was still.

Then Bell arrived.

"Someone’s here to spar with you. What do you want to do?"

For Bell to personally deliver the message, the challenger’s skill must have been impressive.

"Night visitors always seem shady," Kraiss muttered, rummaging through his belongings.

He’d finished tending to his daggers and now seemed to be looking for something else.

"I’ll check it out," Enkrid said, standing up.

Whether shady or not, this was an opportunity for him.

A new sparring partner meant a new chance to grow.

Bell watched him leave, surprised but unsurprised.

Others showed little interest. Nighttime challenges had become routine.

Many challengers came at night, avoiding the eyes of the crowd.

Some feared losing their reputations in public.

Others preferred to keep their techniques secret.

Both were valid reasons.

Enkrid, for his part, respected anyone who came seeking him.

Though not just anyone could gain an audience; Bell served as the gatekeeper.

If Bell summoned him, it meant the opponent was worth his time.

"What happened this time?" Enkrid asked.

"He had a sword but fought me barehanded. Hit me here," Bell explained, gesturing to his stomach.

His attempt to mimic the stranger’s technique was clumsy at best.

When Enkrid arrived at the gate, the torchlight revealed the challenger—a young man with reddish-brown hair that seemed almost red in the flickering firelight.

He had a lean build with long arms and an air of balance about him—ideal for swordsmanship.

"I’m the soldier you’re looking for," Enkrid announced.

The wind shifted, bending the torch’s flame sideways and casting a tangled shadow between them.

The man opened his eyes wide.

"So, it’s you?"

His gaze wasn’t bright or clear, but neither was it malicious.

If anything, it carried a sense of principle—perhaps even conviction.

Still, appearances could be deceiving.

His face bore a mischievous, childlike quality, like someone prone to playful tricks.

"Apologies for visiting so late," the man said, bowing slightly.

While bowing, he subtly assessed Enkrid, a habit of someone well-versed in combat.

"It’s fine," Enkrid replied.

The man’s eyes roved over Enkrid’s body from head to toe.

"Well-trained," the man remarked, his voice carrying an unmistakable hint of admiration.

"Where are you from?" Enkrid asked.

Enkrid could hardly hide his anticipation as he asked, "Who are you?"

“The Shepherds of the Wasteland,” the man replied.

It wasn’t a long exchange. If anything, it was a trivial one.

Enkrid had grown used to his nickname, the Veteran Soldier, as well as the countless visitors who sought him out.

But he hadn’t expected someone like this.

The Shepherds of the Wasteland—a group famed for their incredible combat prowess. Their name wasn’t mere metaphor; they literally herded sheep in the monster-infested wastelands.

The group’s history was said to predate even the founding of the empire itself, rooted in nomadic traditions.

Knowing this only heightened Enkrid’s excitement.

After all, herding sheep in a place overrun with beasts and monsters required extraordinary skill.

“Let’s do it,” Enkrid said, his voice brimming with enthusiasm.

The Shepherd moved first.

His steps were swift and precise, closing the distance in the blink of an eye.

Enkrid reacted just as quickly, his sword slicing through the darkness before the Shepherd could even draw his own weapon.

Ching! Whoosh!

The blade came out and slashed upward in one fluid motion—a draw-cut, a signature technique of the Middle Sword Style.

Through the slicing wind, Enkrid caught the Shepherd’s gaze.

In that brief moment, he also noticed the daggers that had appeared in the Shepherd’s hands.

And then, he felt it—a line drawn between them, like an invisible boundary that neither could cross without consequences.

Ping!

A piercing sound rang out as the Shepherd’s dagger blurred toward Enkrid, its speed breathtaking.

The moment Enkrid registered its trajectory, it was already near his face.

His instincts took over, and his left foot dug into the ground as he twisted his body, bending backward.

This reflexive movement triggered his Sense of Evasion, narrowly dodging the attack.

But the dagger wasn’t finished.

It abruptly changed direction, angling sharply mid-air.

During this split-second exchange, Enkrid adjusted his grip on his sword, switching to a single-handed hold.

With his now-free left hand, he reached to his waist and drew a black dagger—a weapon he’d claimed from the Black Blade bandits.

Clang!

The two daggers clashed, sparks flying from the collision.

In the brief pause created by the clash, Enkrid pulled his sword back, aiming to drag its edge across the Shepherd’s body.

But the Shepherd, instead of retreating, maintained a close distance—ideal for short weapons like daggers.

He deflected Enkrid’s blade with a diagonal parry of his own dagger.

Kakakakak!

More sparks flew as the two exchanged rapid blows, neither flinching.

They didn’t have time to breathe.

The intensity of their duel seemed to isolate them from the world, as though nothing else existed.

The moonlight fractured, dirt scattered, and time itself felt suspended.

The Shepherd’s hands moved faster, and Enkrid’s body responded instinctively.

The Shepherds of the Wasteland were skilled in unarmed combat as well, and their movements reflected that versatility.

Yet Enkrid didn’t back down.

Amid the relentless back-and-forth, Enkrid’s focus sharpened.

The world faded away—the place, the weather, the circumstances, even the opponent—all of it disappeared.

His heart pounded, his breathing shallow. He was fully immersed, much like the time he’d faced Michi Hurrier.

In a sudden burst of instinct, Enkrid grabbed the Shepherd’s elbow and activated his Beast’s Heart, unleashing a surge of strength.

He didn’t plan or calculate this move; it was pure reflex and intuition.

Using his newfound strength, Enkrid pushed the Shepherd’s arm aside and pivoted behind him.

As he moved, his sword came up horizontally, positioning the blade against the Shepherd’s neck.

It was a guillotine cut—a technique designed to end fights decisively by severing the enemy’s neck.

Enkrid didn’t hesitate. He pulled the blade toward him, ready to finish the fight.

Clink!

Resistance stopped his blade.

Enkrid’s eyes widened slightly.

His sword, which had never failed him before, was blocked.

The Shepherd had used the sheath of his own sword, wedging it between Enkrid’s blade and his neck at the last possible moment.

It was a simple weapon, appearing more like a black stick than a scabbard.

“Hah!”

The Shepherd shouted as he pushed backward, slamming his back into Enkrid’s chest and breaking free of the hold.

Despite the strength Enkrid had unleashed with his Beast’s Heart, the Shepherd’s raw power matched his own.

The Shepherd spun around, his eyes now brimming with murderous intent.

Enkrid, undeterred, met him with his own killing intent.

From below, he swung his sword upward in another Middle Sword Style draw-cut, stepping his left foot outward for balance.

The clash of power, weight, and timing continued as the battle intensified.

As everything fell into place, Enkrid felt a surge of exhilaration.

The upward swing of his blade collided with the Shepherd’s black scabbard.

Boom!

The impact reverberated like an explosion.

At the same time, the scabbard splintered apart, revealing a blade within.

Enkrid reacted instinctively, but the Shepherd’s blade grazed his forehead.

The moment the blade touched him, the Shepherd muttered something under his breath and abruptly retreated.

The flow of their battle broke.

“Ah, I shouldn’t have used that,” the Shepherd muttered, his voice tinged with regret.

The words reached Enkrid a beat too late.

“Damn it. My apologies,” the Shepherd added.

“What...” Enkrid struggled to finish his sentence.

What was this?

From his forehead, something strange began to seep into him.

Was it poison?

No. It was something else entirely.

“Um... is there a priest nearby? You might survive if you get to one quickly. Although... it might already be too late,” the Shepherd said, his words jumbled with panic.

The pain radiating from Enkrid’s forehead was indescribable, spreading through his body like wildfire.

Somewhere in the distance, a piercing scream tore through the air.

“This blade...” the Shepherd stammered, “It doesn’t just cut flesh—it severs the soul. If the victim withstands it, they survive, but... ha, it seems too late.”

The explanation felt excessive, almost unnecessary, as if the Shepherd were speaking to himself.

Enkrid couldn’t fully grasp the words. All he could feel was something tightening around his heart.

The Shepherd was right—whatever this was, it was beyond him.

Darkness crept into his vision.

Enkrid had faced countless battles, endured numerous deaths.

But this... this was a first.

It felt as though his mind was being torn apart, stabbed, and sliced all at once.

The effects weren’t purely psychological.

A black scorch mark writhed ominously on Enkrid’s forehead.

Yet, strangely, he felt no regret.

The moments of immersion and focus he had just experienced—those were profound.

The Shepherd had fought well, using every advantage his weapon offered.

It wasn’t unfair; in a fight to the death, using every available tool was the right choice.

This hadn’t been a duel driven by malice, but by the sheer intensity of their shared experience.

Even the Shepherd’s reactive strike felt genuine.

Enkrid couldn’t bring himself to resent the man.

After all, hadn’t he intended to take the Shepherd’s life during his final guillotine cut?

It was a fight neither could have stepped away from.

At that moment, clarity struck him.

The Shepherd reminded him of someone—a boy he had encountered early in his wandering days.

The boy had wielded a sword for just six months yet had managed to pierce Enkrid’s abdomen.

Though this Shepherd wasn’t the same person, he evoked the same raw, untamed spirit.

“I’m sorry I killed you,” the Shepherd muttered, bowing his head slightly.

Enkrid’s thoughts spiraled.

The Shepherd turned to leave, his tone unapologetic yet sincere.

“If you somehow survive, consider it my debt to you. My name is Pell, of the Shepherds.”

With that, he disappeared into the night.

Enkrid collapsed forward, his thoughts muddled.

Was this poison?

No... it was something far worse.

Darkness enveloped him.

With just a graze on his forehead, he succumbed.

As he fell, the echo of a woman’s tortured scream and the roars of what seemed like hell’s denizens filled his ears.

Then, the black river came into view.

The ferryman stood there, his violet lamp casting an eerie glow as he smiled.

“Even if you understand it, can you overcome it?” the ferryman asked.

Enkrid’s reply was calm.

“I don’t need to understand it.”

If a blade killed him, then the solution was simple—don’t get cut.

And even if he did...

One more time.

He yearned for that moment of immersion, that unparalleled focus.

He wanted to fight Pell again.

Not to win or lose, but simply to experience the sheer exhilaration of battle.

Enkrid’s resolve was genuine.

“Should I fix my broken head first?” he muttered before losing consciousness.

Somewhere, the ferryman seemed to hear the outside world.

“Broken head?”

That must’ve been Rem’s words, somehow reaching even here.

That damn Rem.

When Enkrid awoke, it was another new day.

“Do it again, and you might actually die this time,” Rem warned, scratching his toe absentmindedly.

“Not my problem,” Enkrid shot back, brushing him off. “You, Rem, focus on teaching Dunbakel properly.”

“...Why do I feel like you’re being ruder than usual today?” Rem asked, furrowing his brow.

Enkrid didn’t bother answering.