A Knight Who Eternally Regresses-Chapter 347

Enkrid had declared his intent to escort Crang, but that wasn’t something that needed to happen immediately.

“We’ll stay here for ten days, maybe a week at the shortest, before moving,” Marcus said.

“Wouldn’t staying longer be dangerous?” Kraiss interjected with a question.

Marcus shook his head. “Do you really think we came all this way just to meet one person? That’s too much of a risk for something so simple.”

Kraiss immediately understood. So did Enkrid.

They had come to see him, but that wasn’t the only reason for their journey.

Coming to Border Guard itself was a gamble, which meant there had to be another purpose—one of practical importance.

And that made sense.

Count Molsen was a powerful figure, one whose influence reached even into the aristocratic circles of the capital.

Avoiding his watchful eyes and ears was already difficult enough.

And then there was the Queen, still firmly seated in the central court.

Whether she truly had no interest in the succession or was harboring hidden ambitions remained unknown.

Yet, in this climate, someone was attempting to seize the throne from her.

Would it be easy? Or difficult?

There was no established foundation, no secured position, no clear advantage.

All that existed was a claim to royal blood—though one through a bastard line.

‘No... he does have that peculiar charisma, too.’

For Kraiss, this was only the second time he had encountered someone whose very existence seemed to radiate light.

The first, of course, was Enkrid.

‘The commander is definitely unusual.’

To Kraiss, Crang was distinct in his own way.

He was someone who drew others in, used them as stepping stones, and continued pressing forward.

He was reminiscent of a great ship, carrying its passengers as it moved ahead.

Enkrid, however, was not a ship. He was a flag.

A lone figure standing tall, marching forward, sometimes serving as a landmark, sometimes as a goal, and at times as a shield that blocked the way.

‘And he’s ridiculously talented on top of that.’

At any rate, that great ship—no, Crang—was engaged in a battle against the odds.

And yet, the fact that he wasn’t just enduring but achieving something significant was proof of his and his people’s exceptional capabilities.

“Alright, so are we going or not?”

Rem, now thoroughly warmed up after shaking off the cold, was practically buzzing with energy.

Of course, he hadn’t understood a single word of the conversation.

Picking his nose, he demanded, “Just say it already.”

“Wait.”

Enkrid knew how to handle beasts. He raised his palm slightly and spoke to Rem in a firm but soothing tone.

“Not yet. Wait.”

It was almost as if he were talking to a dog.

“......”

Rem wordlessly picked up his axe. Actions spoke louder than words.

Of course, it was also half-intended mockery.

And so, they spent their remaining time sparring, training, and tempering themselves.

Digging multiple holes leads nowhere; digging one deep hole gets results.

That was the first lesson any novice heard when picking up a weapon, be it a sword or an axe.

The Four Principles: Straight, Heavy, Deceptive, Fast, and Fluid.

Which one would you dig into?

Ask ten seasoned warriors, and all ten would give the same answer.

If you dig too many wells at once, you’ll never reach water. In the end, you’ll die of thirst.

Of course, there was a caveat—one had to dig in the right place.

In other words, one had to choose the path best suited to them.

But that was a more nuanced discussion.

At its core, the lesson remained the same:

“Dig one well.”

Gather a hundred warriors and ask them—they’d all agree.

But Enkrid never did that.

He put his hands in every well. He dug into everything.

The Beast’s Heart, Sensory Arts, Isolation Technique, One-Point Focus.

He studied all forms of swordsmanship.

A hundred out of a hundred would call it foolish.

But none of Mad Platoon ever said anything about it.

They never questioned him.

Even if ten or a hundred men agreed on a so-called truth, among a thousand or ten thousand, there would always be some who had different answers.

“Why should it be that way?”

They would ask.

Or—

“Does it really matter? Just do what feels right.”

And sometimes, one would hear—

“Are all geniuses like you?”

People like that were often ostracized or envied.

It was understandable.

They did not take the usual paths yet still ran ahead of everyone else.

They did not run at the same pace as the rest.

And for those forced to watch their backs, it was a battle against frustration and despair.

Talent was unfair.

The world was not fair.

The Goddess of Fortune did not love everyone equally.

This was a fact that everyone knew.

Enkrid had heard the same lesson countless times.

“Just dig one well.”

Specialize in Valen-style mercenary swordsmanship.

“Focus on speed. That will make you stronger.”

It was sound advice.

Those who gave it respected Enkrid’s perseverance.

But he never followed it.

He didn’t dig just one well.

Or rather—he couldn’t.

Because if he did, he wouldn’t survive.

And ever since he received that blessing that felt like a curse, learning diverse techniques had come naturally to him.

Did he never consider the advice to dig one well?

Of course, he did. But he ignored it.

Because not all advice was absolute truth.

Enkrid trusted his own instincts.

More than anything else, he enjoyed it.

‘This is fun. And so is that.’

Repetition, which could have been agony, became a source of exhilaration.

By enjoying it, the debate between one well or many wells became meaningless.

Mad Platoon’s techniques stacked atop his swordsmanship.

And every part of it was thrilling.

Each day was new.

Every morning felt like a gift.

Growth, change, and progress—those things made him feel alive.

It was something only Enkrid could understand.

To crawl forward, no matter what—was that fun?

No. Not everyone could do it.

Only Enkrid could.

Enkrid found himself genuinely grateful for no longer being complacent. Every day, every moment felt new and exhilarating.

This relentless drive, this blessing that also felt like a curse, the Mad Platoon, who had started as a coincidence but remained as comrades through fate.

All of it combined, leading Enkrid to draw water from every well.

"The talents of swordsmanship, or rather, martial prowess, can be divided into two categories."

It was something an instructor from a major city had once told him—a man with firm principles and clear standards.

"One is this."

The man tapped his forehead with his index finger.

This translation is the intellectual property of Novelight.

"The ability to wield a sword with the mind. Observing, judging, thinking, and strategizing. The second is the body’s talent. Can your body execute what your mind envisions? When a sword flies toward you, do you instinctively close your eyes? No matter how much you steel yourself, if you can’t overcome that, it means your body isn't following your thoughts."

So, focus on one. If you intend to wield a sword, then strike first.

The same instructor had also advised him to hone a mercenary’s swift blade.

But no one in the Mad Platoon ever spoke like that.

They were outliers who shattered conventional wisdom. Even Shinar, rare among the fairyfolk, was an anomaly in his own right.

More than anything, even they could see that Enkrid’s techniques intertwined naturally.

There was no need to confine himself to just one well.

"That was a good one."

Just moments ago, Rem had recognized it.

Audin’s martial arts, layered upon the Isolation Technique, seeped into his swordplay.

The Unnamed Sword Form was now infused with Ragna’s heavy sword techniques.

Enkrid had just brought down the silver longsword in his right hand, resting his left palm atop Firebrand, shifting his left foot half a step forward.

Firebrand—a fast, straight thrusting blade.

Its momentum seemed ready to explode forth at any moment, forcing Rem to sweep his axe in response.

Deflect and redirect.

Thoughts raced and a conclusion formed in an instant.

But Firebrand never shot forward.

Even the descending sword from above carried no weight.

Just as Rem was about to curse this trickery, Enkrid closed the distance, using the two dominant sword strikes as bait.

He initiated close-quarters combat.

It was a technique adapted from the Valen mercenary sword style.

More than that, both of his feints carried the aura of something real.

It was the insight he had gained from the Crushing Blade.

"You’re crazy!"

Rem suddenly burst out laughing.

Before he knew it, Enkrid had seized Rem’s arm and twisted it in the opposite direction.

His arm was about to be wrenched out of its socket, but instead of resisting, Rem kicked off the ground, leaping into the air and twisting his entire body.

It was an acrobatic feat.

Since his arm was being bent, he simply rotated in the same direction.

At the same time, he struck Enkrid’s forearm with the edge of his hand, forcing him back.

Enkrid was knocked away, but as if he had calculated the movement beforehand, he smoothly caught the longsword he had just tossed upward.

And with that, he brought it down in a mighty slash.

It was the Crushing Blade, this time merged with the heavy downward slash of the Greatsword Technique.

The sheer absurdity of the maneuver made Rem even more excited.

As soon as his feet touched the ground after spinning midair, he pushed off with monstrous leg strength.

His body blurred.

A phantom image split off.

One Rem had stopped. The other had retreated.

Enkrid’s sword cleaved through the stationary Rem.

The retreating Rem bent backward, then lunged forward.

Every movement was rapid, aggressive, and unrelenting.

He straightened his back, then crouched forward, hurling the twin axes in his hands.

"Crazy."

Enkrid silently marveled.

Rem had pulled off a completely spontaneous move.

Hwoong!

With a deafening roar, the two axes spun through the air like discs.

Enkrid tilted his sword diagonally.

By doing so, he intercepted both axes precisely.

Clang!

The impact sent a shockwave through his entire body.

The sheer force behind them was staggering.

The axes, deflected by the sword, spun upward, tracing bizarre arcs in the air before embedding themselves into the ground.

Because of their weight, the blades struck first—there was no chance of them landing handle-first.

Enkrid lowered his stance, half-bending his knees. Both hands gripped the longsword in a diagonal guard.

"Let’s stop here."

Rem, watching Enkrid deflect the axes, decided to end it.

Any more, and something was bound to break—or worse, result in serious injury.

And after all of that, the first thing Rem said was, "That was good."

Enkrid caught his breath.

"You threw them on impulse, didn’t you?"

"You know it, so why ask?"

Rem grinned.

Enkrid’s method of throwing his sword had come after days of careful thought.

But Rem?

He had devised an entirely new move in the heat of the moment.

And yet, it was flawlessly executed.

"What next?" Enkrid asked.

"Sling, charge, close-quarters combat."

Rem was referring to what he would’ve done after throwing the axes—a technique too deadly to continue in a spar.

He would’ve launched a stone from his sling, dashed forward, and then relied on raw fists and kicks to finish the fight.

His hand-to-hand combat was just as refined.

But what made it truly terrifying was the relentless forward momentum—dodging the sling projectile while also defending against his charge would shatter an opponent’s rhythm and disrupt their breathing.

"Not bad."

Enkrid nodded.

He could already visualize Rem’s movements in his mind.

"That was good."

Rem nodded as well, genuinely pleased with Enkrid’s growth.

Of course, even he hadn’t learned everything in an instant. It was an unusual talent.

At times, Enkrid would suddenly master something, yet to those watching, his progress seemed frustratingly slow.

But he never hesitated, never stopped, and never held prejudices.

He simply admired and absorbed the techniques of others, processing them with a pure and open mind.

What an admirable mindset.

"Enjoying yourself?" Rem asked.

"Do I even need to say it?" Enkrid grinned.

Apart from Rem, he sometimes sparred with Ragna.

His training sessions with Audin continued as well.

And then—

"Take me with you!"

Someone chimed in, despite not even knowing what Dunbakel was.

They wanted to join the escort mission.

Enkrid nodded.

It was clear that assassins—or something worse—would be involved.

Would this be dangerous?

Was this a path littered with thorns?

Would it be a mission filled with nothing but peril?

It most certainly would.

And yet, despite knowing that, Enkrid felt a hint of anticipation.

"Why do you look so excited?"

His expression must have given him away, because King Eyeball, ever perceptive, pointed it out.

Enkrid, as always, answered honestly.

"What kind of bastards do you think will come for us?"

Several assassination groups flashed through Kraiss’s mind.

He had started his life in the back alleys.

There was much he knew.

No—now, he knew even more.

Running the Gilpin Guild like an information network had taught him plenty.

"Troublesome ones?"

Hearing that, Enkrid’s smile grew even brighter. It was almost like the warmth of spring sunlight, which made Kraiss frown.

"Is this something to smile about?"

"Why wouldn’t it be?"

Thud, thud.

Rem knocked on Kraiss’s head with his knuckles.

"Trying to understand how this guy thinks will make you just as crazy."

That remark made Enkrid a little annoyed.

The most insane person here had the nerve to call him crazy.

Wasn’t this what they called a ghoul accusing a hound-faced human of being a monster?

No—that wasn’t quite right.

That phrase was about similar people tearing each other down.

No, this was something else.

It was like a dog covered in filth mocking another dog for being dusty.

"Fine. Bring it on. Rem, I accept your challenge."

"...Where in my words did you hear a challenge?"

"In all of them."

"That was just teasing."

From Kraiss’s perspective, they were both the same.

Regardless, time passed in a flurry, and before they knew it, five days had flown by.

"The job wrapped up sooner than expected."

A formal request had come in from Marcus. A royal family’s house had requested an escort mission.

Officially, it was to protect a high-ranking member of a noble merchant family.

But internally, the real task was guarding a royal bastard.

The timeline was separate, making them the explicit targets of the request.

The route was from Border Guard to the capital.

They were set to depart in two days, and by the evening, the decision of who would go and who would stay had been finalized.

"...Son of a bitch. Just like a damn stray cat, sneaking in like that."

Enkrid had just returned after securing equipment and picking up some seasoned jerky.

He had also acquired a flask of brandy.

Because there might come a moment when a few sips of alcohol would be desperately needed.

Just as he stepped inside, he saw Rem looking at someone sitting inside the tent.

"Sneaking? More like you were too dull to notice."

Of course, when it came to hiding presence, this guy was second to none.

Sitting silently in the dark, without even a lamp lit, he looked more like an inanimate object blending into the bedding than a person.

"You’re back?"

Enkrid spoke [N O V E L I G H T] as he entered the tent.

Jaxon, having returned, nodded.

Updat𝓮d fr𝙤m ƒгeeweɓn૦vel.com.

"Yeah, I’m back. But I might have to leave again soon."

"Where to?"

"The capital. I have business there."

"...The capital, as in Naurillia, where the royal palace is?"

Jaxon blinked once before replying.

"Obviously."

Coincidence?

Or was this just a stroke of luck?

"That’s where we’re heading."

Jaxon blinked again.

Where?

"You’re bringing this deadweight along?"

Rem interjected from the side, looking incredulous. But Jaxon ignored him.

"You’re going to the capital?"

"Yeah."

"When?"

"Tomorrow."

Jaxon found the timing almost eerie.

He had been looking for an excuse to get to the capital—specifically, the royal palace.

And the sooner, the better.

Tomorrow was perfect.

It couldn’t have worked out any better.