A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

The knights' exclusive dining hall also doubled as a reception room, and naturally, it was located right next to the training grounds.

From the start, the entire layout had been designed for Enkrid, by Enkrid.

Thus, every path centered around the training grounds.

The old man who stepped outside gripped the handle of his staff and pulled. Srrk — the blade gleamed as it was drawn, reflecting the light.

Facing him, Enkrid drew his Valerisian steel sword.

Srrrung.

The crisp sound of the blade scraping against the scabbard rang out.

Enkrid had discarded all other weapons, holding only the one sword. Without a word, they stood face to face, both wielding real blades.

Though it was called a spar, if things went wrong, it could very well turn into a battle for life and death.

There had been no promises made, no agreements.

Then, the old man clicked his tongue inside his mouth.

Tack!

The sound rippled outward like a wave. Thanks to what he had learned through Jaxon — keen senses, also called sensory technique — Enkrid could perceive the sound spreading like waves.

Some of the waves spread out without resistance, while others bounced back against his body.

Through these sonic waves, the old man received information.

It was a technique called echolocation.

Using sound to determine the distance and shape of surrounding objects.

The old man brought the sword's handle up next to his face, pointing the tip forward, his eyes closed. The milky-white blindness in his eyes was no longer visible.

The old man opened his mouth.

"Careful."

With that word, he moved. This time, there was no sound, no wave. Only a blade dropping straight down from above.

The speed of a knight was so fast that an ordinary person’s eyes wouldn’t even catch it. It would seem mystical and wondrous.

Of course, no one here failed to catch the old man's movement — they all saw his strike clearly.

Lua Gharne involuntarily puffed her cheeks and rolled her eyes.

She had been training hard to develop dynamic visual acuity, just like when she first picked up a sword.

Now, she was seeing the results.

The old man's strike — folding the space and flying downward — appeared even to Lua Gharne’s eyes.

Of course, that wasn’t all the old man had — but seeing even that much was proof her training had borne fruit.

A slash — a blade falling from above.

If Lua Gharne barely saw that strike, then Shinar and Jaxon, standing a step back, saw the old man's movements much more precisely.

Crossing his feet to add speed, kicking up dust without a sound — it was a silent, stealthy step.

And at a glance, his slash didn’t seem to carry any Will.

With everyone watching, Enkrid moved too. He reacted with instantaneous speed to the old man’s sword.

Lowering the tip of his sword slightly from a middle stance.

Muscles tightened, strength transmitted to the blade, and like an eagle snatching its prey, blue light surged upward from below.

The Valerisian steel sword, swinging upward, met the sword stick’s blade.

Ting!

Because the old man’s blade bent like a snake, the collision sounded oddly soft — not the heavy clash of metal on metal one would expect.

The thin blade running along Enkrid’s steel sword resembled the snake sword Enkrid sometimes used.

In a split moment, Enkrid judged and acted.

The snake-like blade tip — one would normally retreat to avoid it, but instead, Enkrid stepped forward.

And the blade that seemed about to slice his arm vanished — the old man had leapt backward to widen the distance.

Then.

Tack!

The tongue clicked again.

Even though he was blind,

the old man’s sword was in no way defensive — it was aggressively offensive.

He changed his stance again while retreating.

Crossing his feet, bringing his hand and sword close to his cheek — that was the old man’s attacking posture.

As soon as he used echolocation to grasp Enkrid’s position, the old man began to move sideways.

Swish, swish — dragging his soles across the ground, then lifting his feet quickly to walk faster.

Each step planted as if memorizing the ground’s texture with his soles.

He moved in a circle around Enkrid. With his steps, his image multiplied, creating afterimages.

It was a technique that deceived the eye through delicate control of speed.

"Shuffle Drive,"

Jaxon murmured.

It was a high-level assassin technique.

Shinar recognized it too — she had faced assassins before.

As the old man cast the technique, neither Jaxon nor Shinar blinked — fully focused.

Shuffle Drive wasn’t uncommon — but polishing it to this level was incredibly rare.

The afterimages multiplied.

The old man, slashing with his sword.

The old man, retreating into a defensive posture.

The old man, lowering his blade sideways.

The old man, thrusting forward.

The blind old man threatened every part of Enkrid’s body with dozens of postures.

Normally, it would be overwhelming — but Enkrid was used to such tricks.

Hadn’t he learned from the wraith trapped inside Acker?

Techniques that called forth illusions to deceive the opponent — Enkrid could use them too.

Not merely similarly — he could go beyond.

When the old man unleashed his technique, Enkrid felt it instinctively.

He would gain something here — move forward.

Enkrid’s blue eyes seemed to shine brighter than ever.

Even though real light couldn’t emerge from human eyes, at that moment, it looked as if it did.

At least, to the old man’s perception — Enkrid was doing something extraordinary.

And indeed, he was.

Enkrid was a madman who enjoyed training close to torture.

What did that imply?

What did one need when the moment of growth arrived?

Talent? Effort?

Both were important — but above all, it was about whether one was prepared when that moment came.

In that regard, Enkrid’s body was prepared every single day.

'Acker’s Spider Web.'

Will was determination.

Pressuring an opponent purely with Will? That was oppression.

If one slightly twisted that oppression, it could be used differently.

Enkrid had already ingrained that method into his body — when he built an iron wall behind himself.

Thus — he realized something again here.

It was a chance that came to the prepared — and he seized it.

Facing the old man with multiplied images, Enkrid subtly shifted his shoulders, his toes, the tip of his sword.

Movements so slight they were invisible without close observation, and bolder swings of the sword as well.

All those actions mirrored the old man’s steps — it was delicate control of speed.

"Hmm."

Jaxon let out a soft groan — that’s how surprising it was.

If you faced Enkrid’s sword now — what would you see?

Even watching from afar couldn’t tell you everything.

"It would feel suffocating,"

Shinar’s comment hit the mark.

It was like a wall of Will blocking an army — but now it was hundreds of actions pressing down on the opponent.

It was just as they saw. The old man perceived a wave of sword strikes crashing toward him.

He truly faced the man who had stopped an army.

The old man halted his steps, retreated, and clicked his tongue again.

Tack!

'What else do I have left to show?'

The old man wondered, drawing his sword back near his cheek.

Seeing the old man retreat, Enkrid stepped in.

Having seized the momentum, there was no reason to back off.

Thud!

Their blades collided properly for the first time.

Enkrid struck with the Heart of Might — and the old man’s body was flung sideways.

No — he deliberately threw himself in that direction, absorbing the impact.

Thanks to his ripened sensory technique, he had sensed it, but Enkrid chased him down again — rotating his ankle softly, his sword strikes flowing like water.

He aimed for the old man’s neck once more.

Thud!

Another collision sparked fire in the air.

Blue veins bulged on the old man's hand — he was using his full strength.

In fighting the old man, Enkrid found three surprising points.

First.

'No presence, no Will.'

He couldn’t even guess how — but no trace of Will was visible from the old man.

Yet he moved at the speed of a knight — clearly, he was using Will.

Second, his ability to suppress sound and presence was exceptional.

If you lost track of him for even a moment, you'd be struck.

The old man persistently pulled such tricks — his strange footwork, his sudden acceleration trying to slip beyond Enkrid’s vision.

Of course, Enkrid didn’t allow it.

Finally, third — the opponent was weaker than expected.

Though the old man had reached the level of a knight, not all knights were the same.

It was almost disappointing.

Enkrid caught the timing, pushed aside the old man’s blade with a horizontal slash, and stopped his sword at the old man’s throat.

"Is this your best?"

The old man, despite losing, smiled and said,

"If it comes to strength, I can't endure even one strike. I’ve lost."

"One more round?"

"Trying to kill an old man now?"

Still, for someone who fought at knight level, those were big words.

Yet the strength Enkrid felt from the old man seemed different. Similar to Jaxon’s type.

"What’s your name?"

Finally, he asked.

"I forgot."

It didn’t sound like he was refusing — he truly meant it.

Did one need to clash swords to feel joy?

No — for Enkrid, anything done with a sword was a source of joy.

"How strange, how strange. You find this fun?"

Though he couldn't see, or perhaps because he couldn't, the old man pierced through Enkrid’s state of mind.

Truth be told, anyone could tell.

With sparkling eyes, a face practically shouting with excitement while fighting — who wouldn’t notice?

"Yes,"

Enkrid answered, lifting his sword again.

The second bout ended just as decisively.

While fighting, Enkrid thought — even if they fought ten times, he would win ten times.

Meanwhile, Jaxon, watching from the side, thought the opposite.

He sensed the danger the old man possessed.

'Terrifying.'

From the movements, the judgment, the trajectory of the blade — everything.

If the old man ever demanded a different kind of battle instead of a direct fight — few would survive.

Compared to himself?

He'd have to find out through a real fight.

It had been a very long time since he had felt this kind of tension, raising his heartbeat.

'When was the last time I felt this?'

It seemed to be the first time since he had taken responsibility for Geor Dagger.

That old man — he was the same type as him.

***

Tack!

"Oh, then by hearing the sound, can you also see the position and grasp things roughly?"

Rem, sitting across from the old man demonstrating echolocation, asked.

"That’s right."

"Really?"

"That’s how I know you just secretly rolled a die."

"Wow, it was a test, a test. You really can see, huh."

Even after the duel with Enkrid, the old man stayed naturally around the city.

He didn’t live or eat inside the barracks, but stayed at a city inn, occasionally dropping by.

At first, the soldiers at the barracks tried to block him, but afterward, once they realized Enkrid had allowed it, they stopped interfering.

No one told him to leave, and no one scolded him.

Some of the mad platoon didn’t even care who came or went.

And some others thought it was better to have the old man within their detection range anyway.

"He's not a new member, right?"

Kraiss came by at some point and asked, and the old man shook his head.

"I’ve forgotten my name, but I have things to do. I can't stay here long."

In other words, even if they offered, he wouldn’t join the knights.

Knight-level skill, they said?

Then what exactly was he?

Kraiss looked at him with suspicion.

They said 'knight-level', but how many people like that existed on the continent?

Absolutely not common.

Even if you turned the whole continent upside down, there wouldn’t be a hundred.

And Azpen, the neighboring country, likely had none left by now.

Wasn't it strange that such a figure suddenly hung around Border Guard?

It was very strange.

But since Enkrid let it be, Kraiss left it alone too.

'Even Gilpin couldn’t find out anything about him.'

Being knight-level meant some level of fame should exist.

Gathering enough information usually revealed identities.

But this old man — there wasn't even a rumor.

A blind man with a sword stick should have been famous enough.

"Yeah, yeah,"

Kraiss answered vaguely and let it go.

It was something beyond his control anyway.

Still, he wasn’t idle.

He had people working here and there to try to figure out the old man's identity.

The old man smiled with his milky-white eyes at Kraiss, as if saying,

'No matter what you try, you won’t find out.'

"What was it that you were doing?"

Kraiss tried asking directly.

Digging out someone's hidden truth with words was one of Kraiss’s specialties.

Hadn’t he once shown great talent in uncovering noble ladies’ secrets in his youth?

"I can’t tell you."

"Then your affiliation?"

"A secret."

The old man even winked.

Blind and yet still capable of doing such things.

Asked outright, he refused outright.

If he clamped his mouth shut like that, there was no way to pry it open.

"Leave him be,"

Enkrid stepped in at just the right moment and pulled Kraiss away.

It was as if he were saying he would take responsibility for the old man.

Kraiss nodded.

After that, the old man mingled moderately with the platoon.

Ragna wasn’t interested at all, and Rem often fooled around with him, playing dice games — though the blind old man always caught Rem’s cheating.

Finding it fun, Rem played with him for days.

Jaxon always kept a similar distance from the old man.

No matter where they were — eating, sleeping, even relieving himself — Jaxon kept the old man within /N_o_v_e_l_i_g_h_t/ his field of vision.

Enkrid, watching that, found it fascinating.

The fact that Jaxon could do that meant he had aligned his entire time and pattern with the old man — and it wasn’t forced.

It was extremely natural.

Unless you were paying close attention, you wouldn’t even notice.

"Still haven’t left?"

Shinar, when she bumped into him sometimes, would grumble at the old man, but he would only smile.

Going back and forth between the city inn and the barracks became his routine, and Enkrid didn't pay much mind, focusing on his usual training.

Because he knew well — today’s strength came from never wasting a single day.

So Enkrid always gave it his all.

From the outside, he looked like a lunatic obsessed with training — but that was just Enkrid’s everyday life.

On a night about ten days after the old man's arrival — it was a night when the moon was bright.

The ground glowed under the moonlight, and the temperature dropped enough to feel chilly once night fell.

The cool wind made the moonlight feel even colder.

Enkrid was on his way back to his quarters.

By the side of the training ground, Jaxon stood quietly, polishing a dagger, and across from him, the old man was sitting on a log bench.

It was quite late, yet the old man still hadn’t returned to the inn.

Well, for him, night and day probably didn’t matter.

All he would ever see was darkness anyway.

As Enkrid walked across the stone-paved ground next to the training ground, the old man’s voice called out.

"May I ask what you plan to do from now on?"

It was sudden — but the weight in his voice grabbed Enkrid's steps.

The moonlight fell behind the old man, casting a shadow in front of him.

Though he sat in darkness, an even darker shadow was drawn on the ground.

The darkness within darkness — a shadow blacker than black.

That shadow’s head moved — turning toward Enkrid.