Eternally Regressing Knight - Chapter 101: Just Because Luck Isn’t On Your Side (3)

The third method—disguising themselves as merchants to infiltrate Cross Guard at dawn two days later—wasn’t a difficult plan to sell.

“I don’t like the feel of this,” someone muttered.

It was the same reason given when they had suggested scaling the walls.

Torres supported the idea, while Finn nodded nonchalantly.

“So, what? We’re spending another night here?”

It was at their makeshift campsite, where they had already dug out a small cave for shelter.

Upon hearing the news, the squad’s designated cook grinned and asked, “Shall I bring out the special side dish for dinner?”

This forward reconnaissance squad, led by Finn, typically spent an average of six months in the field for each mission. Sometimes they returned after only a month or two if something urgent arose, but this time they had already been stationed here for eight months.

During that time, they had tried just about everything to pass the time, including salting the meat of captured animals to make ham.

“How about we have a drink to go with it?” Finn said excitedly.

For a unit that should have been more on edge than those on the front lines, their nerves seemed oddly dulled—or perhaps just thick-skinned.

Or maybe they were sharper than usual, precisely because of days like these.

They kept careful watch over their improvised dining area, ensuring that the smoke from their fire wasn’t noticeable. They also maintained a strict patrol rotation, with two sharp-eyed members always watching the perimeter.

Watching the reconnaissance unit in action reminded Encrid of a piece of advice he’d once heard.

“Rigidity leads to breakage. You need to learn when to bend and yield.”

Who had said that? It wasn’t a drill instructor.

No, it had been a paladin from a traveling order who passed through a provincial city. Short on time, he had taught by sparring instead of lecturing. His wild, unkempt beard and booming laughter made him look more like a bandit than a cleric, yet he was a respected warrior and man of faith.

“Flexibility doesn’t mean weakness. If your core remains firm, you won’t break easily. Let me simplify it for you: stop screaming every time you swing.”

He had said Encrid’s sword swings sounded like cries of desperation, as if refusing to break under pressure.

“Relax your muscles, and your sword will respond more naturally.”

The memory of the paladin’s face overlapped with that of Rem during their countless sparring sessions. Rem’s movements, fluid and confident, reflected his belief that he wouldn’t lose—not out of arrogance, but due to mastery. His muscles, like a coiled whip, delivered powerful strikes while maintaining an air of calm control.

Ragna was the same. Despite his seemingly effortless gestures, his swordsmanship was on an entirely different level.

Jaxson and Audin, too, moved with a subtle, practiced ease that belied their rigid postures. Jaxson’s movements were deceptively efficient, and Audin often bent Encrid’s arms in mockery, only to follow up with a helpful tip.

And what about himself? Encrid fought with tension coursing through his entire body, his movements stiff and overly forceful.

He always thought anything less than his absolute best was meaningless. That was why his shoulders and body were perpetually tense.

Encrid swung his sword through the air. Unlike before, this time, his swing lacked tension and felt almost weak.

But this wasn’t just letting go of strength. He began to glimpse a path forward—a technique, a method, a signpost.

Understanding something didn’t mean mastering it immediately. Encrid knew that all too well. His lack of natural talent was painfully evident.

But simply realizing he needed to relax his shoulders made his heart race with excitement.

This was the kind of joy that came from recognizing the way forward. To Encrid, the sword was life itself, and life was inseparable from his dreams. The sword was his companion on that journey.

With exhilaration filling him, a question emerged.

“Is struggle the only answer?”

He had always resolved never to waste today in preparation for tomorrow. Countless times, he had steeled his heart and struggled on. Enduring and clawing his way forward was no longer a burden—it had become second nature.

“But maybe that’s not the only way.”

With that thought, he swung his sword again.

*Whoosh.*

The sound of the blade slicing the air was different from before. Hearing it, a faint smile appeared on Encrid’s face.

That last swing—just a simple downward stroke—filled him with nostalgia.

When had it been? Back in the tall grass fields with Andrew and Enri, perhaps.

It was the kind of effortless strike that geniuses performed repeatedly. No tangible feeling, no resistance—just a perfect cut.

He had once achieved that kind of swing, but countless repetitions had never let him recapture it.

“Yet now…”

He had done it again. In this moment, that same strike had come from his hands.

How could he not be elated?

“That last swing was… different,” Torres remarked, sitting beside Finn.

“Yeah. That was a rare slash,” Finn agreed, adding, “But seriously, is he okay? Why does he keep swinging alone like that?”

“Don’t ask me. I’ve only met him a few times. He’s already famous in the main camp for being, well, a little off.”

Encrid barely registered their chatter. He just wanted to keep swinging his sword.

His thoughts continued as he moved.

“Struggle—but without tension.”

He realized that flailing about wasn’t the only way forward. Screaming in defiance wasn’t the only path.

What mattered was moving forward toward tomorrow, maintaining resolve, and seizing every opportunity for growth.

With these realizations, a smile spread across his face.

“I’ll say this—he’s got the looks to pull off that smile,” Finn commented, sipping his drink. “Anyone else would look like a lunatic.”

“What about me?” Torres interjected.

He was promptly ignored, much to the amusement of his comrades, who patted his shoulder while laughing.

While Encrid swung his sword with vigor, Finn, Torres, and a few others shared what little alcohol they had. It wasn’t much—cheap fruit wine, the kind you could find in any city.

Alongside it, they cut pieces of salted, smoked ham from their supplies.

“You should open a restaurant,” someone said to the cook, who dreamed of running one someday.

Encrid didn’t drink that night. He didn’t plan to, and even if he had wanted to, the others finished it all while he was training and washing up.

“Why? That face of yours wants to drink too?” Torres teased.

The group spent the evening relaxed, though a few, like Finn, remained alert. As the leader, it was his responsibility to stay sharp.

Night fell, and the group returned to their burrowed shelter.

The original plan had been to abandon this spot entirely. Once Finn left, the unit was supposed to regroup closer to the main force. But their decision to disguise themselves as merchants had changed everything, creating a night that shouldn’t have existed.

Two moons rose, casting a blue glow over the surroundings. Before entering the cave, Encrid tilted his head back to gaze at them.

One moon, always there, round and bright.

The second moon, only visible when it isn’t a full moon, hung in the sky.

*Bright.*

The surroundings were well lit. Even if one stayed up all night, today would repeat itself regardless. This had already been learned through countless experiences, such as tunneling under the cobbler’s shop in the city.

Struggling to stay awake served no purpose anymore.

Better to rest and avoid unnecessary fatigue.

The deep night had only just begun. Compared to yesterday’s timeline, this would have been the moment they arrived at the base of the fortress wall.

*Howl!*

A piercing sound echoed from nearby.

Encrid had started to piece together why his sixth sense hadn’t activated before the mage had killed him.

The reason there had been no sense of foreboding.

*When magic tricks are at play.*

The mage with the rose vines—or thorns—had been perched above them as they climbed the wall. Her interference had prevented him from sensing the danger above.

No sound, no foreboding—no warning.

But what about now?

“Shit! Everyone up! Emergency!”

The call came from one of the reconnaissance soldiers on night watch.

A wolf’s howl, followed by the soldier’s warning, was soon accompanied by the sound of pounding feet.

*Tap-tap-tap!*

Something was rushing toward them.

Then, under the moonlight, a monster appeared.

On the far eastern edge of the continent, there existed a race known as beastkin, creatures that combined human and animal traits. But what emerged now were the failed creations, often referred to as beastkin’s rejects.

As products of a creator’s failure, these monsters always craved blood and harbored hatred for humans.

*Howl!*

The source of the howl revealed itself.

Its ankles jutted backward unnaturally, giving the impression it stood on its toes. Covered in gray fur, the creature’s yellow animalistic eyes glowed eerily.

Its protruding snout gleamed with sharp fangs.

The creature, silhouetted by the moonlight, was called a *lycanthrope*—a werewolf.

Naturally, they weren’t part of the beastkin race, and like most monsters, they couldn’t speak.

The one leading the pack was scarred, with a jagged line slashing diagonally across its left eye, leaving it blind on that side. Its lone remaining yellow eye scanned its surroundings before it opened its mouth wide.

*Kaah!*

The monstrous cry erupted. To Encrid’s ears, it sounded like a call to charge.

“Stay sharp!” he shouted instinctively.

How would this day end?

It was a toss-up: either a day where nothing happened because no challenges were made, or one where something significant occurred.

It was clearly the latter.

It wasn’t just one or two werewolves—it was an entire pack.

Aside from the scarred leader, the others scattered in all directions. Despite the bright moonlight, it was difficult to spot them all.

*Tap-tap-tap!* Their feet beat against the ground as shadows darted through the darkness.

Amid the trees, in the patches of moonlight that couldn’t reach, glowing yellow eyes traced lines of light.

Those emerging under the moonlight circled the clustered humans, running so fast that their movements left afterimages.

“Shit,” Encrid muttered.

A realization struck him: why hadn’t he felt any foreboding earlier? Why had even Finn, a seasoned veteran, failed to notice the lycanthropes’ approach?

*Someone must’ve interfered.*

Which meant a mage was likely involved here, too.

It was odd enough that such a large group of lycanthropes had gathered.

While he couldn’t know what magic was in play, the results were clear.

There were more than ten of them.

“Over ten. That’s bad,” Torres said as he pressed his back against Encrid’s. Encrid drew his sword.

*Shing.*

Standing back-to-back with Torres, he decided to think later. For now, he resolved to fight.

Struggling aimlessly was no option. But that didn’t mean surrendering to death without a fight.

*Not today.*

As always, he would take a step forward for tomorrow.

Encrid steadied his blade.

The monsters were lycanthropes—creatures with magic embedded in their hearts.

Far stronger than ghouls, they were extremely difficult adversaries.

Typically, it took an entire trained squad to take down a single lycanthrope. Attempting to hunt them with fewer numbers wasn’t advisable, as it almost always led to injuries or death.

And when lycanthropes formed packs? Even platoon-sized forces were cautioned against engaging them.

But now…

“There’s more than twenty,” Encrid muttered grimly.

Their numbers had grown.

Their side had ten members, including Torres and himself, while the lycanthropes numbered over twenty.

As if to confirm Encrid’s suspicion of magical interference, the pack had surrounded them and began their assault.

Lycanthropes were formidable even when frenzied by their natural instincts. On nights of dual moons, they became even stronger.

Adding a coordinated attack to the mix?

How could one describe this?

“We’re screwed,” Torres said with a bitter laugh.

There was no escape.

Encrid fought valiantly. He killed three lycanthropes and severed the arm of a fourth.

Amid the chaos, he hurled his whistle dagger and managed to wound the scarred leader, the supposed pack leader, creating two new gashes on its body.

It was a fierce battle, leaving clear evidence of his efforts against the pack.

Torres fought similarly, slaying two lycanthropes before falling.

Finn killed one but was struck down while fighting a second.

As for the rest of the unit, their fate was sealed.

Encrid, his arm torn and bleeding, staggered. As he prepared for one final strike, his foot struck something.

A head.

It belonged to the cook who had dreamed of opening a restaurant.

“Annoying,” Encrid muttered.

Even knowing he’d wake up and repeat the day didn’t make such sights easier to bear.

*Roar!*

Six lycanthropes pounced on him at once.

There was no surviving it.

For the first time, Encrid experienced the agony of being mauled to death.

It was, unsurprisingly, excruciating.

As time dragged on, pain consumed him. How much time passed was unclear.

Eventually, as he closed and reopened his eyes, the pain vanished.

Before him stretched a silent black river, with a solitary boat and its oarsman floating upon it.