A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

“One more hit and you might actually die. Want to keep going?”

It wasn’t quite time to sleep yet, but as the sun had set and it was getting dark, Rem scratched his toes and asked.

Such a lackadaisical attitude.

Encrid was cleaning his sword and checking his equipment before washing up.

Next to him, Krais was polishing his dagger with flaxseed oil.

It wasn’t a particularly gentle touch, but it was a skillful one.

A jack-of-all-trades, with big eyes.

Encrid replied nonchalantly, “I won’t die.”

To be precise, even if he did die, he’d come back to life.

He almost died fighting a mixed-blood Giant.

He narrowly escaped death against the Swift Blade.

Even sparring with Edin Molsen’s guards was no joke. It was a match with real swords. Naturally, if things went wrong, it wasn’t uncommon to get stabbed somewhere.

From an ordinary person’s perspective, it might have seemed like he was desperately trying to die.

It was a sparring match where letting one’s guard down could lead to death. Normally, you might think to intervene, but their Commander was a genuine madman who enjoyed this sort of thing.

But is it really right to confront that ‘Intimidation’?

If you don’t have the strength to peel it off and overcome it immediately, it’s like falling off a cliff with your bare body or jumping onto a rock-sharpened blade.

“It’s no different from charging a heavily armored cavalry with just a quill pen.”

Ragna chimed in, speaking while his hair was still wet from a wash, now in casual clothes.

It meant it was as pointless as that.

Would Audin and Jaxon’s opinions be any different?

Both said similar things while taking care of their own business.

“It’s fine.”

Only Encrid thought differently. Because he saw a path? Because he had a way to counter it?

That wasn’t it.

It was just that, whatever appeared before him, he knew retreating meant he could never advance again.

The Heart of the Beast, Focus Point, Blade of Sensation, and the Isolation Technique may have given him talent. But they didn’t make Encrid an unprecedented genius.

So, did anything change?

No. There was much to learn, to master, and to gain. So why avoid it?

Ragna felt a kind of stimulus seeing Encrid not giving up.

‘Will.’

Though he didn’t perfectly master it, he could at least handle it.

Only, he couldn’t use the technique of Intimidation.

Even if he could use it, controlling it freely was another matter entirely.

In other words, it meant there was no way to practice or train it in advance.

A thrilling sensation stabbed at his heart.

And it was a desire he had never felt before. Something akin to thirst, which others might call ambition if they knew.

‘Higher.’

Ragna quietly immersed himself.

It was a time for rest and relaxation for everyone. It was also the evening when Esther turned human.

Now, once or twice a month, though only briefly, she had to stay in human form.

Esther’s eyes were on Encrid. No, she had been looking at him for a while. It was only now that Encrid noticed her gaze.

Her enchanting eyes were like a blue lake, or a bright blue moon.

With those eyes fixed on Encrid, Esther spoke.

“Foolish.”

Encrid was familiar with that word. In some ways, he acted shrewd and perceptive, but when it came to his sword and his dreams, he was more than just stubborn—he was foolish.

Encrid knew this well, so it wasn’t an insult to him.

“Can you turn human once a month?”

In response to Encrid’s question, Esther dismissed it as none of his business.

In truth, she could turn human as many times as she wanted in a month, but for now, it was more comfortable to stay as a panther.

However, there were many things Esther had to do in her human form.

She hadn’t forgotten but had postponed the maintenance of her enchanted world and the adjustment of the flash golem Bonehead she acquired earlier.

If the enchanted world isn’t frequently checked, its power fades like a dull blade.

“Foolish indeed, it’s broken.”

Rem said with a laugh, tapping his head with the hand that was scratching his toes.

Encrid ignored him neatly. It was that kind of evening. Audin was meditating, Ragna was already in bed like a vacation, and then Bell came by.

“Someone’s come looking to spar. What should we do?”

For Bell to come himself at night meant the challenger’s skill was quite exceptional.

“Those who come at night are always up to no good.”

From behind, Krais spoke while rummaging through his stuff. He seemed to be looking for something after finishing his dagger maintenance.

“I’ll go take a look.”

Whether it was shady or not, a breakthrough was needed immediately.

For Encrid, sparring with a new opponent was that breakthrough.

The rapier swordsman did not acknowledge it, but Encrid felt that he had improved by facing the mixed-blood Giant, the Swift Blade, Count Molsen’s guards, and the rapier swordsman.

To others, it might seem minor and insignificant, but he had indeed improved.

In the process of honing and reflecting on his sword skills, they had been helpful.

This time too, he believed it would be helpful and set off.

Bell asked if he was going alone, and Encrid nodded nonchalantly.

Nothing was likely to happen immediately.

The others, including Rem, didn’t show much interest.

And rightly so. There had been quite a few who had requested sparring matches in the middle of the night.

Some came secretly, fearing their reputation would be damaged if they lost in front of spectators.

Others claimed they couldn’t show their skills publicly.

Both were valid reasons.

Encrid generally respected his opponents.

After all, being sought out was enjoyable in itself.

But that didn’t mean he accepted just anyone.

It was only natural to meet opponents whose skills were somewhat proven. Bell served as that benchmark.

In other words, if Bell called, it meant the opponent was worth facing.

“What kind of technique did he use?”

“Even though he had a sword, he used only his fists and hands, hitting like this with his palm—‘smack’—and it hurt.”

Bell mimicked the opponent’s technique. It was awkward and hard to gauge.

By the time they reached the gate, they saw a man whose hair, appearing red in the torchlight, would likely be closer to brown in daylight.

His face was youthful, and his arms were long.

Encrid assessed his opponent’s skill through the perspective learned from the Isolation Technique.

‘Long arms and a good center of gravity.’

A well-balanced body and long arms were advantageous for handling a sword.

“I am the former soldier.”

Encrid stepped forward and spoke.

Whoosh.

A gust of wind from behind bent the torch flames to one side.

As a result, the shadows between them tangled and then separated.

“Oh, it’s you?”

The opponent’s eyes widened. While not exactly bright or clear, they held no particular malice or murderous intent.

He appeared to be someone who had killed but had clear standards, a conviction or something similar.

Of course, it was just a guess.

One couldn’t judge a person by appearances alone.

There was a playful look on his face. If Rem’s playful expression had a demonic slyness, this one felt more like innocent childlike mischief.

“Sorry about this. For coming at such a late hour.”

The opponent apologized first, bowing his head halfway.

He also scrutinized Encrid with his eyes. It was a good posture.

“It’s fine.”

The man’s eyes scanned Encrid’s entire body, from chest to feet and back up.

Speaking without hiding his gaze.

“A well-trained body.”

Was it an exaggeration to say that the emotion in his voice could be felt? Probably not.

“Where are you from?”

Encrid asked, not hiding his anticipation.

“Shepherds of the Wilderness.”

It wasn’t a long conversation. Honestly, it was trivial.

Encrid had grown accustomed to the embarrassing nickname of the former soldier.

This meant there had been many challengers seeking him out.

But he hadn’t expected someone like this.

The Shepherds of the Wilderness, as the name implies, were a group with unbelievable combat prowess, herding sheep in the wilderness.

If you trace back their history and traditions, some say they date back to before the beginning of the Empire, a nomadic tribe.

Not that it changed anything. If anything, his anticipation grew even more.

The wilderness is a land overrun with monsters and beasts.

Herding sheep there? They were certainly no ordinary people.

“Let’s do it.”

At Encrid’s words, the person moved.

His speed was astonishing.

Just before the opponent’s sword was drawn, Encrid’s sword sliced through the darkness first.

Clang! Whoosh!

Drawing and slashing in one motion. A Middle Sword Technique, upward slash.

Through the blade cutting the wind, he saw the opponent’s eyes.

He also saw that the opponent had somehow already drawn a dagger.

And Encrid felt as though a line had been drawn between him and the opponent.

Ping.

A sharp, low sound filled the air.

The speed of the dagger was incredibly fast.

The moment he realized it, it was already right in front of him.

Encrid shifted his weight onto his left foot and twisted his body, leaning back.

A reflexive response.

The Sense of Evasion activated.

The dagger then angled sharply. A jagged trajectory.

In that moment, Encrid switched his grip on his sword from both hands to a single grip.

He used his free left hand to retrieve a black-bladed dagger from his waist, blocking the opponent’s dagger. A weapon he had acquired after defeating the Black Blade Bandits.

Clang!

The daggers collided, sparks flying.

In that brief moment, Encrid pulled back the sword in his right hand.

Instead of a swing, it was more of a drawing cut.

The opponent didn’t retreat but rather maintained the proper distance, a distance where a short weapon like a dagger could be effective.

The drawing blade was blocked by the opponent’s dagger held at an angle.

Scrrrape!

Sparks flew at close range, but neither of them flinched.

Neither could catch their breath properly. They had entered an intense moment.

As if they were the only two in the world, where not killing the other meant death.

They broke through the moonlight, scattering dirt, fighting isolated from everything around them.

The opponent’s hands moved faster. Encrid’s hands and feet also moved busily in response.

The Shepherds of the Wilderness were skilled in martial arts.

Encrid didn’t back down either.

Neither could gain the upper hand, and Encrid momentarily forgot many things.

The place, the weather, the situation, even his opponent.

His heart pounded, craving short breaths. Amidst such exchanges, Encrid was immersed. Engulfed. Drawn in.

A sensation similar to when he faced Mitch Hurrier took over him.

At one moment, he grabbed the opponent’s outstretched elbow and unleashed the Heart of Great Strength.

Encrid wasn’t calculating or understanding his own movements.

It was purely instinctive, within the realm of senses.

He grabbed the elbow, pushed it to his right side, then moved his foot to get behind the opponent. Simultaneously, he raised his sword horizontally to the opponent’s neck.

With the opponent’s back to him, he pressed the opponent’s neck between his blade and his body.

It was a guillotine cut technique, where the elbow was locked, twisted behind the opponent, and then the neck was slashed.

Encrid pulled the blade. Without hesitation. He was on the verge of victory, about to sever the neck.

Thump!

He felt resistance in the pulling blade.

Encrid knew his sword was no ordinary weapon.

Yet it was blocked.

The opponent’s sword, still in its scabbard, was somehow wedged between the shepherd’s neck and Encrid’s blade.

A weapon that, in hindsight, looked like an ordinary black stick.

“Hah!”

The shepherd let out a sigh. Simultaneously, he rocked his body back and forth and then pushed Encrid’s chest with his back. Despite unleashing the Heart of Great Strength, Encrid was pushed back.

The opponent’s strength was formidable.

The shepherd turned around. Now, his eyes held a murderous intent.

Encrid couldn’t afford to be pushed back, so he too filled himself with killing intent.

From below to above, he stepped his left foot outward and performed another middle sword upward slash.

Strength, weight, rotation, and timing.

Everything aligned, and Encrid felt a thrill.

At the same time, his upward-slashing sword met the opponent’s black staff.

Bang!

A sound similar to an explosion erupted. Along with it, the sheath shattered as if bursting, and the blade inside sprang out.

Encrid reacted, but he couldn’t prevent the blade from grazing his forehead.

Immediately after being cut, the opponent mumbled and abruptly retreated.

In other words, his immersion was broken.

“Ah, I wasn’t supposed to use this.”

His mumbling reached Encrid’s ears a beat later.

“Damn it. Sorry.”

He said.

“Well…”

Encrid found it hard to finish his sentence.

What is this?

Something was seeping into his body from his forehead.

Poison?

No, it was something different.

Something other than that.

“Is there a priest nearby? If you go quickly, you might survive, though it might already be too late.”

The shepherd seemed flustered, his words disjointed.

A horrific pain started from his forehead and spread through his entire body. At the same time, a scream echoed from somewhere.

“You see, you shouldn’t recklessly cut people with this… This sword cuts a person’s soul. If you can withstand it the moment you’re cut, you might survive, but it seems it’s too late.”

It was an unnecessarily long explanation.

Encrid couldn’t even comprehend it as he felt something constricting his heart.

The shepherd was right.

He couldn’t understand everything, but he caught the last part about it being too late.

Something he had learned all along couldn’t overcome the thing that was now consuming his mind.

His vision gradually darkened.

He had thought he had experienced countless things, but this kind of death was a first.

Something was tearing through and slicing his head.

It was also something physical.

Indeed, there was a black smudge pulsating on Encrid’s forehead.

But he didn’t feel resentful.

Immersion and focus.

It had been a truly meaningful time.

It was hard to distinguish the skills between the opponent and himself.

The shepherd had fought well.

The advantage of the weapon? If this was a fight to the death, it was only right to use it.

Of course, it had been a sparring match, and they had become so engrossed in the fight that it ended up like this.

It wasn’t an intentional cut, but a reflexive response. Encrid liked that. He had done the same.

Encrid couldn’t bring himself to resent the opponent.

During the final guillotine cut, he had also intended to sever the opponent’s neck.

Stopping his hand there would have meant defeat for him.

What can I say?

There are moments when you’d rather die than lose.

He felt something similar from his opponent right now.

‘Why?’

He wasn’t obsessed with victory, but if he could learn, on a day like today, he wouldn’t put much weight on defeat.

If it wasn’t for that, he would have fought the Swift Blade or anyone else to the death.

Encrid was used to reflection and contemplation.

Thus, it was easy to understand his complex emotions.

‘Ah.’

A brief realization came to him.

The opponent before him resembled that kid he had met when he first wandered the continent.

The one who, after only six months of holding a sword, managed to wound him in the stomach.

Of course, that kid hadn’t grown up and come back, but this opponent brought that moment to mind.

The location, the time, the weather—all of it. Even the purity on the opponent’s face.

That’s why he didn’t want to lose.

Because he was reminded of the kid who had shattered his beginnings.

He had even considered that kid his goal for a while.

“Anyway, sorry for killing you.”

The shepherd’s attitude was similar. He bowed his head roughly.

Damn it.

It was an attitude of being sorry but having no other choice. The shepherd turned his body. As he did, he added a word.

“If you come back to life, consider it a debt I owe. I’m Pel of the Shepherds.”

He then took off. As if knowing it would be problematic to stay any longer.

Encrid fell forward.

As he collapsed, his mind was filled with thoughts of what it could be if it wasn’t poison.

Then darkness, dying from just a graze on the forehead. Death.

Just before dying, he heard a woman’s bizarre scream and the wailing of what seemed like souls rising from the depths of hell.

It was a strange thing.

When he closed and opened his eyes, the familiar black river appeared.

The ferryman held a purple lamp and smiled.

“Do you think you can overcome it?”

The ferryman asked.

Encrid answered calmly.

“It doesn’t matter if I can’t.”

If being cut by the sword meant death, then he just needed to avoid being cut.

Or even if he was cut.

‘One more time.’

He wanted to experience that immersion, that moment again.

He wanted to fight that shepherd again.

Regardless of winning or losing, the act of fighting itself filled his body with exhilaration.

Encrid was sincere about it.

“…Should I fix my broken head first?”

With those words, Encrid lost consciousness again.

Anyway, could the ferryman hear outside sounds?

Rem’s shouted ‘broken head’ had reached even here.

In any case, Rem was the problem.

It was a new day again.

“One more time and you might really die.”

It was the same evening again.

“I don’t care. Rem, just teach Dunbachel properly.”

“…Why do you seem harsher than usual?”

Rem expressed his doubt, but Encrid didn’t answer.

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