A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

‘Has he gone mad?’

That was the only thought running through the Rapier Swordsman’s mind.

Perhaps all the relentless training and strokes of fortune that had elevated Enkrid’s mastery in such a short time had finally broken his mind.

Rem was thinking along similar lines.

‘Have you lost it, brother?’

Instinctively, his hand trembled. There was a vast difference between resisting pressure and submitting to it.

Ragna gripped his sword tightly.

He judged that the situation was untenable and prepared to charge forward, intending to use Severance to slice through the oppressive aura emanating from the Rapier Swordsman.

Audin, on the other hand, began to prepare divine magic.

As long as Enkrid didn’t die, Audin would ensure he could recover.

Behind the Rapier Swordsman, Jaxon silently drew a stiletto.

He planned to strike and kill, regardless of what tricks the opponent was using.

Jaxon was confident. Whether the opponent was a knight, a semi-knight, or anyone else didn’t matter.

Just before anyone could act, as the invisible blade of pressure was about to strike Enkrid, he directed his will toward the intangible force within himself.

‘I reject this.’

The intent carried by the blade was clear: to cut.

And the oppressive will behind the aura demanded: stand down.

Enkrid rejected it all. The invisible pressure bearing down on his shoulders, the blade threatening to cut him—he denied it outright.

‘Will’ was the external projection of one’s intent, manifesting as an intangible force.

If pressure could embody that concept, then rejection could as well.

What once felt like an overwhelming force that inflicted near-physical pain now seemed no different from an invisible, fleeting breeze.

Enkrid dismissed it entirely.

Overcoming the cutting intent in Pel’s sword had been far more grueling than this.

Thus, there was no doubt that this action wasn’t reckless.

Enkrid proved as much with his next move.

The intangible blade flying toward him disintegrated like dust in the wind. The blade that had existed only in his mind’s eye was now gone.

Step.

Taking a deliberate step forward, Enkrid spoke casually.

“What’s the matter, Ragna? Jaxon?”

To his side stood Ragna, holding his sword upright as if ready to strike. Behind the Rapier Swordsman, Jaxon stood with his stiletto drawn.

Both froze, blinking in surprise.

Jaxon reacted first, retreating soundlessly.

The Rapier Swordsman likely hadn’t even realized Jaxon had been behind him.

Ragna, still holding his sword, seemed to come up with a weak excuse.

“It’s a good day to hold a sword,” he said.

Enkrid’s earlier remark about the day being a good one must have left quite the impression.

As if to mock the timing, a thunderclap rumbled through the sky, followed by the pitter-patter of rain.

Drip. Drip-drip.

“...Huh?”

The Rapier Swordsman, seemingly oblivious to the rain, continued to stare at Enkrid, mouth agape and speechless.

He looked as if he had fallen into a trance.

“Huh?”

The only sound escaping his lips was a bewildered exclamation.

Enkrid tilted his head, puzzled.

“Do you have something to say?”

“Huh?”

The swordsman continued to repeat the same word. Enkrid had seen people struck dumb with surprise before, but this was a first.

His opponent’s mouth hung open, words failing to form.

Enkrid decided to speak carefully.

“I think we need to find a healer.”

Mental damage was not something easily treated. Even with a healer, the outcome might be grim.

“It seems your head’s broken,” he added.

At that, Rem burst into laughter. That hadn’t been Enkrid’s intention, as his remark had been sincere.

“Huh?”

The Rapier Swordsman continued to repeat the same sound, seemingly in shock.

“Your sword’s going to rust if it keeps getting wet. Are you sure this is a good day to be holding it?” Enkrid asked Ragna, turning to him.

Ragna, having committed to his earlier statement, kept holding his sword but eventually nodded.

“Yes. Today will suffice.”

“Then oil your blade later.”

If left unattended, it would surely rust.

“Of course.”

Ragna sheathed his sword and stepped back, revealing three other figures just as shocked as the Rapier Swordsman.

All stared at Enkrid with their mouths open.

“How?”

It was the half-giant who finally managed to speak.

“Skillfully.”

Enkrid responded with characteristic brevity. There wasn’t much else to say.

‘Will’ wasn’t something that could be easily explained.

“Will?”

Swiftblade murmured the word, not exactly a question but enough for Enkrid to respond.

“Yes.”

The guardsman furrowed his brows, finding the situation difficult to comprehend or accept.

Rain poured down harder now, soaking his hair and the others’.

“We should probably take shelter from the rain,” Enkrid suggested.

“Huh?”

The Rapier Swordsman answered again, still looking lost.

“Someone, look after him,” Enkrid said, turning away. Behind him, Rem and the others followed.

No matter how accustomed they were to their captain’s changes, this was something entirely different.

“What was that? Will?”

Ragna, whose Severance was a form of Will, asked in a voice higher and faster than usual—a sign of his shock.

Rainwater dripped from his blond hair, obscuring his vision.

“You need a haircut,” Enkrid replied nonchalantly.

While he took pleasure in his newfound understanding, he knew this wasn’t the end.

This wasn’t the pinnacle.

True Will, as displayed by knights, wasn’t just about rejection. It was the natural projection of one’s intent—dominating an opponent’s spirit, refusing their power, or slicing through their resistance with sheer willpower.

With newfound clarity, Enkrid realized the essence of Will.

Eisia’s aura, the Rapier Swordsman’s pressure—these were simply specialized forms of Will.

From this perspective, Ragna’s Severance was the same.

Even if one reached mastery in techniques like Lion’s Slash or Iron Cleave, they couldn’t replicate Ragna’s Severance.

Ultimately, it was a matter of Will.

“What’s the deal? Did you train to death in your dreams or something?” Rem asked, his curiosity piqued.

Enkrid replied with a grin.

“In my dreams? No, there’s usually just a perverted ferryman.”

“Huh? A perverted ferryman? What’s that supposed to mean?”

Enkrid ignored the question. He knew Rem would treat it as a joke anyway.

Audin muttered softly, “It’s like you’re living on a different timeline, brother.”

As a devout man with keen perception, Audin’s words hit the mark.

“You’ve been training somewhere while time stands still, haven’t you?”

For someone who seemed dull, Audin was surprisingly sharp. Enkrid thought as much and gave a simple answer:

“Something like that.”

Audin didn’t respond to Enkrid’s comment. Instead, he quietly began to recite a scripture.

He assumed Enkrid’s words were merely a joke.

And who could doubt that?

Jaxon, as usual, remained silent. However, his sharp gaze lingered, scanning Enkrid’s body over and over again.

“I’ve trained properly. No drugs involved,” Enkrid said.

Jaxon flinched ever so slightly—a rare reaction from him.

“How did you know I suspected drugs?” Jaxon asked.

“Your eyes are filled with suspicion,” Enkrid replied.

It wasn’t surprising that Jaxon, skilled in handling poisons, might entertain such suspicions.

“Hmm, have you learned mind-reading too?”

It wasn’t mind-reading. Enkrid’s heightened senses, sharpened through Jaxon’s blade training, allowed him to read intentions and emotions with uncanny accuracy.

Especially hidden ones.

Take Swiftblade, for example. While he had smiled and said:

“I’m good. No point in fighting when it’s clear I’ll get thrashed.”

Enkrid had seen what lay behind his eyes: murderous intent and malice.

The opposite was true for the half-giant. Outwardly fierce and eager to fight, her eyes betrayed a sense of regret and frustration.

Of course, those feelings weren’t directed at Enkrid—they were self-reflective.

‘Well, it’s just a feeling,’ Enkrid thought as he entered the barracks.

He paused, stripping off his gear and setting it neatly beneath the eaves to dry. At that moment, Kraiss emerged.

“Dry and clean the equipment,” Enkrid instructed, as others piled their gear atop his.

“This is too much, isn’t it?” Kraiss grumbled.

Rem tossed a pouch at him.

“Consider it a service fee.”

“Come back anytime! Kraiss’s Equipment Maintenance, at your service!” Kraiss’s attitude shifted instantly.

The pouch, likely stuffed with plenty of krona, had that effect.

“Entering the barracks wet will make a mess. Let’s head straight to the bathhouse,” Enkrid suggested.

The Border Guard barracks were well-equipped. Among the amenities was the exclusive bathhouse for the Independent Company.

A large wooden tub held steaming water, constantly replenished and heated.

Steam filled the air, creating a humid warmth that made it a haven after a long day.

“Let’s go,” Enkrid said.

They arrived, quickly stripping off their clothes. The bathhouse attendants, accustomed to such scenes, burst into laughter.

“Wow, after looking at my husband all day, this feels like heaven!” one of the boisterous attendants joked.

Rem grinned. “You should treat your husband well. It can’t be easy living with someone bigger than himself.”

The attendant retaliated by splashing cold water at him.

“Ah, that’s cold,” Rem said, unfazed, still smiling.

“Your sharp tongue matches that gray hair of yours,” the attendant quipped.

They clearly knew each other.

Later, in the bath, Enkrid asked how they were acquainted.

“Dunbakel keeps passing out and rolling around in the dirt, so I often dragged her here to get cleaned up. She’s a hearty woman,” Rem explained casually.

Enkrid reflected, ‘This guy...’

Rem was noticeably kinder to women. He rarely picked fights with them and never resorted to violence.

“And Dunbakel?”

“Dunbakel’s a warrior, not a woman,” Rem replied matter-of-factly.

Changing the subject, Rem leaned back, submerging himself in the hot water up to his neck.

“I think I’ll have to go all out if I’m going to fight you now, Captain.”

Enkrid turned to meet Rem’s gray eyes, which now burned with an unfamiliar intensity—competitiveness and determination.

Before, no matter how wild Enkrid’s antics were, Rem had never displayed this kind of energy.

“Go all out?”

Splashing the water with his hand, Rem replied with a grin:

“It’ll be fun.”

Enkrid chuckled, their gazes locking. The training-obsessed madman and the crazed axe wielder were finally on the same wavelength.

Watching from the side, Jaxon muttered, “You’re all insane.”

Audin smiled serenely, as usual, while Ragna remained silent, his thoughts visibly racing.

“Is it really Will? Truly? No lies or tricks?” Kraiss asked, bursting in as he undressed and joined the bath.

Despite his joking demeanor, Kraiss was in excellent shape, his physique marked with scars and discipline.

Some of the attendants, giggling in the background, whispered about their preferences, pointing at Kraiss.

“If you’re going to look, it’s one coin per glance!” Kraiss teased, earning laughter from the attendants.

The steam-filled room turned its attention to Enkrid.

They all knew the story by now—how he had overcome the Rapier Swordsman’s pressure.

Enkrid decided to tell the truth first.

“I’ve been reliving the same day. Over and over.”

“Save the fairy tales for later,” Jaxon interrupted.

Scratching his head, Enkrid offered a simpler explanation:

“I got lucky.”

The group fell silent. Was that supposed to be an excuse?

“Has he always been a genius?” they wondered silently.

Rem broke the silence with a murmur.

“Maybe he spent the night with the Goddess of Fortune.”

As the group digested this, another figure entered the bathhouse.

“Will? Is it true?”

It was Marcus, still dressed in his damp civilian clothes, his face flushed from the rain.

“You’re here—join us for a soak,” Enkrid said nonchalantly.

Without hesitation, Marcus stripped and plunged into the bath.

His body bore fewer scars than Enkrid’s but was still well-defined and weathered.

“Is it true?” Marcus asked again, his eyes sparkling with curiosity.

“Yes,” Enkrid confirmed simply.

Marcus had always believed in Enkrid’s potential, but hearing this confirmation made the reality hard to grasp.

“Damn,” Marcus muttered, sinking deeper into the bath.

Just then, the Fairy Company Commander barged in.

“Fiancée?” she called out, looking around.

“This is a men’s bathhouse,” Kraiss greeted her with a playful grin. “Confident enough to join us?”

Shaking her head, the commander quipped:

“If anyone other than my fiancé sees me naked, I’ll have to pluck out their eyes. Are you ready for that?”

Her fairy-style joke sent ripples of laughter through the bathhouse.