A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

Whether the eldest shaman had awakened or not, Enkrid went about his business.

That business included beginning with the Isolation Technique—tightening his muscles, oiling his joints—and asking Lua Gharne to beat his body with a blunt club.

Thunk!

Even with a moderate blow, the breath was knocked out of him. Just the way he liked it.

Pain was good. If it didn’t hurt, it wouldn’t harden.

He’d been hit so many times it felt like the Will of Rejection was starting to activate in the struck areas.

He wasn’t certain yet, but if he repeated it steadily, he figured he’d find out.

Thus, his conditioning by striking continued.

“Do you have some kind of masochistic hobby?”

One of the twins came over and asked.

“I’m training the technique of side-body strikes,” Enkrid answered half-jokingly.

Both twins furrowed their brows at the same time.

Is that really a useful form of training?

They had reason to wonder.

“Anyone else trying that would end up crippled,” Lua Gharne gently warned them.

“So, what does the honorary warrior do exactly?”

Another Western warrior joined in—this one with three thick scars running from his forehead down across his left eye to his cheek.

He’d said before that he was tricked and wounded by a mimic monster as a child.

Since then, they’d called him Three Claws.

“I started with something soft like cotton, and gradually increased the hardness.”

Enkrid straightened his back as he spoke.

There was no secret to this sort of thing.

Even when Audin had taught him, he hadn’t called it a secret technique or anything.

And it couldn’t really be considered one, anyway.

Sure, they called it "cotton," but it was never actual cotton.

There was no way Audin’s fists could be described that way.

Thinking back on it, it really was a stupid method.

Would he do it again, if asked?

Of course. He’d gained something from it.

But if asked whether he wanted to do it again...

Even Enkrid would hesitate.

It hurt like hell, and it wasn’t clear what exactly you were gaining while doing it.

But after feeling the results, it had become... acceptable.

“Still looks like it would hurt.”

The twins made another dumb remark, and then followed it up with an even dumber one.

That Gennarae was their father.

That Enkrid had saved Gennarae.

“Truly, thank you.”

Despite looking like they could punch a bull to death with their bare hands, in that moment, the twins looked surprisingly earnest.

Enkrid didn’t know it, but they truly were grateful.

In fact, all the Westerners were.

If Rem hadn’t returned,

If Enkrid hadn’t come,

If Frokk and the beastkin hadn’t come with him—

In the worst-case scenario, Gennarae would have burned his life away to perform a final ritual.

He would’ve fought like a hero for a moment, and then died shriveled and mummified.

That was the price of defying the natural order.

There were even sayings that if you died that way, the pain would follow you into the afterlife.

They were grateful that their father hadn’t died like that,

Grateful that the West had been saved.

“Alright.”

Enkrid waved it off like it was no big deal.

There wasn’t really anything to say.

What, was he going to tell them to pay him back with their lives now that he’d saved them?

He hadn’t done it for that.

If anything, he was the one who had received help first.

After finishing his morning session of Isolation Technique, he trained in swordsmanship, spent time with Lua Gharne, and occasionally sparred with Dunbakel.

He even had a match with Gennarae.

His skills weren’t bad.

One hand held an axe, the other a spear—and he was proficient with both.

“Who do you think taught Rem?”

“I heard he taught himself.”

“That bastard.”

“Agreed, completely.”

Mid-sparring, they found common ground.

Complaining about Rem was oddly satisfying.

Gennarae was, at heart, a cheerful man—as most Westerners tended to be.

The battle was over.

Everyone had bowed their heads to him, calling him an honorary warrior.

The twins expressed their thanks.

Several women said they’d marry him on the spot if he asked.

Lua Gharne shook her head at them.

“Forget it.”

She told them there was already a black-haired beauty waiting for him back home—plus a fairy.

They all gave up.

Ziba, of course, still clung to her stubborn dreams,

but that didn’t really mean much.

Ever since the eldest shaman had awakened, Rem had vanished.

Enkrid had no particular task, so he returned to his training.

And now a crowd of Westerners had gathered around him.

Each was strengthening their bodies—some watched the training, others joined the sparring.

“Hya!”

“Chatt!”

“Yo-yiit!”

Among them were children, play-fighting with two wooden sticks.

Nearby, a group of girls were sitting together, doing something that resembled pretend play.

“Dear husband, where have you been all this time?”

One girl karate-chopped a gray-haired boy on the back.

Was that really pretend play?

Technically, yes.

It seemed like a reenactment of Rem and Owl’s story.

A tale that would likely become legend by oral tradition.

The husband who returned after eloping at night, survived it all, and went back to flirting with his wife.

Nice title, Enkrid thought.

He could turn it into a story, maybe.

If he were a bard, it would’ve been his masterpiece.

But he wasn’t.

So instead, he swung his sword.

Then paused.

A stray thought had entered his mind.

Enkrid planted Acker’s tip into the ground and let the fragments of memory surface.

What was that voice I heard?

It happened when he fought the apostle.

“You’re just going to slash at someone in Ethereal Form? You’re kind of an idiot.”

He’d heard something like that.

In battle, hallucinations and phantom voices were common.

He’d seen a comrade once run screaming “Mom!” and get skewered by an enemy spear.

Fear and panic could drive hallucinations—push you to do reckless things.

Even Dunbakel had shown something like that during the fight in the Grey Forest magic domain.

She’d run off, completely overtaken by terror.

So—was that voice just a hallucination too?

No.

Enkrid had never seen hallucinations. Never heard phantom voices.

He’d never lost his mind or broken down mentally.

His mental wall, grounded in pure willpower, had never cracked.

So unless it was some kind of magic, he wouldn’t fall for illusions.

Then what was that voice?

He didn’t know.

He hadn’t heard it again since.

So what should he do?

Ignore it. That was the decision.

Instead, he focused on the things he’d gathered after the battle.

Things the apostle had buried in the ground, and others that came from his body.

This translation is the intellectual property of Novelight.

One item stood out.

A silver goblet.

Its surface was carved with tree root patterns in high relief—so intricately detailed that it looked like an actual tree belonged on top of the cup.

But there was no tree.

Instead, the inside of the goblet was stained deep purple.

The same color as giant’s blood.

“Smells nasty.”

Dunbakel, standing beside him, said it too.

It had a musty stench. Something unpleasant.

But also—strangely memorable.

“Mind if I smell it again?”

Dunbakel asked that more than once.

Dunbakel had been dazed and dozing all day—and now, suddenly, she wanted another sniff.

That, or the silver goblet with the tree root engravings, or perhaps both... anyone could tell something was off.

“Have you lost your mind?”

Enkrid scolded her—gently, of course.

With his foot and his hand.

He kicked her shin with his left foot and slapped her forehead with his right palm.

It was a modified version of the Valen-style mercenary sword art—extending both arms at once.

Dunbakel dodged the kick but not the hand—her forehead took the hit, and she stepped back with a pained grunt.

Even she seemed to realize something wasn’t right.

“That thing’s weird. The smell keeps coming back to me. I feel like I have to sniff it again. Like I want to steal it and run.”

“Resist.”

“Uh, okay.”

Enkrid convinced her without needing to use his fists—and she surprisingly gave in easily.

The silver goblet with the tree root engravings had come from the apostle’s robes.

It looked like a cultist’s artifact, and though it had an air of dignity about it,

it clearly wasn’t something from the magic domain.

“You’d best find a proper priest to handle it. It’s not on the shamanic side. You should take it with you.”

Rem had said as much.

So naturally, Enkrid ended up carrying it.

It wasn’t that Dunbakel lacked self-control.

“There are items, on occasion, whose very existence is enough to seduce a person.

This looks like one of those.”

Even Lua Gharne, who had briefly lost herself after looking into the cultist’s eyes but then regained her composure, said the same.

A tainted relic, perhaps?

Maybe if he brought it back to the continent and handed it off to any temple, they’d deal with it properly.

Though maybe he’d have to find a “pure” priest.

A pure priest...

Now that wasn’t easy to find.

About as common as an honest thief, a kindhearted bandit, or a king who actually puts his people first.

A priest who could use divine power, though?

That he might be able to find.

Audin might know someone.

The guy prayed every day.

Sure, he always ducked and weaved whenever a priest came to town,

but still—he might know someone.

It would be good to ask him later.

There were other items, too—things that looked like magic tools.

Enkrid stuffed them all into his pack.

No doubt about it—he had more stuff now than when he left.

Some of it was from the city of Oara, and some were spoils from the battles in the West.

Spoils, maybe?

More like burdensome junk he’d picked up out of necessity.

Among them was the Carmen collection blade with a transparent edge—meant to be delivered to Jaxon.

If I keep traveling for another year like this, I’ll need a wagon instead of a pack.

It wasn’t an exaggeration.

“A long journey always needs a bit of luck.”

Ziba’s mother, along with several other women, handed him a bracelet made from leather, cloth, and hair.

It was a charm bracelet—meant to bring luck and ward off bugs.

Such tools only worked if they were made with sincerity.

Everyone who helped had offered their prayers wholeheartedly,

and it had become a spiritual item.

To the outsider, the honorary warrior—may fortune be with you.

A multicolored bracelet now adorned Enkrid’s forearm.

It was large enough to wrap around his upper forearm just above the elbow.

He also received a strangely dried fish.

How they’d dried it, he had no idea—but the flesh was rock hard.

The tail was crispy, and the eyes had been removed from the head.

It even looked like it could be swung like a blunt weapon.

Was that its purpose?

While he was pondering, the person who gave it explained.

“It’s a fish from the great lake, dried.

Looks weird, right? But it’s easier to carry this way.”

The man snapped off the head and tail,

tucked it neatly into a cloth pouch,

then split the body open and plucked out the dried spines with a few flicks of his fingers.

It was simple to prepare—and by looking at the inside, Enkrid could guess the method.

Remove the head, tail, and guts, ◈ Nоvеlіgһт ◈ (Continue reading) and dry the flesh.

Didn’t look smoked.

“Must be because of the steady breeze.”

It was wind-dried—air-cured.

If they were near the coast, they would’ve salted and dried it with the sea wind.

But here, they’d developed their own method.

Dried by desert wind, maybe?

He didn’t know and didn’t care.

“You tear it like this.”

The man demonstrated how to peel the flesh into strips—

a dried ration meant to be packed in a pouch.

“Toss it in water and boil it, and it makes a great stew.”

Despite being dried fish, it had almost no smell.

And what little scent it had wasn’t fishy at all.

“Smells good, right? We dust the surface with herbs. Makes your mouth water.”

The man rubbed his nose and grinned as he spoke.

Enkrid listened in silence.

They gave it to him, so he took a piece and tried it.

The taste was unique.

It softened as his saliva soaked into it.

Tough at first, but it grew tender with every chew until it practically melted away.

The more he chewed, the nuttier it tasted.

He later learned it was a rare food not just anyone could carry.

The kind of thing a traveling hunter in these parts might pack.

You could make a simple stew with it by just boiling it in water,

but to make it into portable food like this—

there were extra processes to prevent spoilage.

It could last for a year, even two.

That alone made it fascinating.

It was similar to pemmican, the dried meat common on the continent,

but milder and far easier to eat.

Pemmican stank.

Its taste was unspeakable.

Soldiers often said the combo of sand-covered black bread and old pemmican

was worse than facing the enemy.

And old pemmican?

Sure, you’d eat it if you were starving,

but even Enkrid would feel his tongue shrivel from it.

Of course, when rations were short, a true soldier ate what he was given.

That was the correct attitude for life on the battlefield.

“How is it? Haha!”

The man who gave him the food beamed brightly.

It was a high-nutrition, easy-to-carry meal favored by hunters in the region.

There were more traditions behind the food,

and the story was genuinely entertaining—

thanks in no small part to the lively way the man told it.