Eternally Regressing Knight - Chapter 114: Crawling Forward

The soldier guiding Encrid back to the barracks rubbed his eyes.

“Am I seeing this right?”

It didn’t feel real. He was starting to think something was wrong with his vision.

The moment Encrid entered, Ragna, who was seated, suddenly stood up.

“What’s he doing standing up?”

Ragna, known as the “Lazy Madman” of the Mad Platoon, rarely stood. No matter the urgency—whether it was a drill, an attack, or a shouted order—he never moved.

Yet now, he had risen in an instant.

Anyone familiar with him, especially those who had observed him recently, would have been dumbstruck at the sight.

“What’s going on with him?”

Just standing up, Ragna managed to shock everyone around him.

This was the man who wouldn’t budge even if enemies breached the walls or officers screamed orders until their voices cracked.

“You’re late,” Ragna muttered, grabbing his sword.

“I’d like to check if I’ve regressed in the meantime.”

Getting up wasn’t enough—he now wanted a sparring session? And he was the one to suggest it?

Ragna, who rarely reacted to anything and pretended not to hear insults or taunts, now bristled with excitement, itching to swing his sword.

“Are you insane?” Rem asked, stepping in to block him.

“You know I always get the first sparring match, don’t you?”

This, too, was unusual.

Rem, known simply as the “Madman,” was infamous for swinging his axes for no reason, for being the first to erupt when provoked.

But now, he was smiling.

And it wasn’t a mocking or menacing smile. It was a genuine, almost innocent smile—a stark contrast to his barbarian-like appearance.

“You hurt?”

And he was concerned. The man who normally solved problems by splitting heads with his axes was worried.

The soldier, one of the battalion commander’s aides, found the scene surreal.

He had been assigned to observe Encrid and understand what made him such a significant figure, but this felt otherworldly.

“Doesn’t seem broken,” Jaxson said, stepping forward.

This was another shock.

Jaxson, called the “Clear-Eyed Madman,” rarely spoke and often gave off an unsettling aura with his piercing gaze. His clear, unblinking stare could make anyone’s skin crawl.

Yet here he was, inspecting Encrid’s wrist like a concerned medic.

“Have you treated it?” he asked.

Hearing Jaxson speak was strange enough, but watching him examine Encrid’s injury felt like a dream.

Finally, the “Holy Madman” spoke.

This soldier was the most infamous of them all.

A massive figure with broad shoulders and a serene smile, Audin looked like he could crush an enemy platoon singlehandedly. Despite his kind demeanor, he was just as mad as the rest.

He only fought when he claimed to hear a divine call, and his prayers, always unanswered, were an endless source of confusion.

“Brother, your training has been lacking. Were you lazing around? That’s why you’re injured. Train harder,” Audin said, smiling gently as he scolded Encrid.

The soldier’s thoughts were a chaotic jumble.

“The Madman is laughing. The Clear-Eyed Madman is inspecting wounds. The Lazy Madman looks diligent. The Holy Madman is scolding people?”

It felt absurd.

All eyes turned to Encrid, expecting him to lash out at the chaotic state of his platoon. Surely, there were issues when they’d gone from being called troublemakers to being dubbed the Mad Platoon.

“What’s with Andrew’s face?” Encrid finally asked, pointing to the blue bruises covering one soldier’s face.

Andrew, standing off to the side, was clearly the victim of some internal mishap.

“Sparring. To help him improve,” Rem answered bluntly.

“Good job, then.”

Encrid’s acceptance of the explanation left the battalion aide dumbfounded.

Andrew’s face was swollen to the point where one could barely see his eyes, yet Encrid praised Rem’s actions.

“Still not leaving. I’m staying with the platoon leader,” Andrew muttered, his tone unusually defiant.

Encrid grinned.

“That’s why I like you. Want to spar? Wait your turn; I’m playing with the platoon leader first,” Rem said, his grin as wide as his axes were deadly. It was pure, joyful enthusiasm.

The battalion aide realized that whatever bizarre order or chaos existed here, it was driven by something deeper.

“Find out why he’s needed, why this lucky man is important,” the aide reminded himself.

He had been assigned to shadow Encrid under the battalion commander’s orders, to observe and report.

As Jaxson unwrapped Encrid’s bandages, a black panther with blue eyes appeared from nowhere, yawning.

“Mrow.”

Encrid stared at the aide, and the other soldiers followed his gaze.

“Not leaving?” Encrid asked. His tone didn’t invite casual loitering.

“Oh, right. I’ll leave. Rest well,” the aide stammered before retreating.

As the aide departed, Rem tilted his head.

“What’s his deal? Kept staring at us for days.”

“Staring?”

“Yeah. Thought he wanted me to kill him. Was planning to mount his head on my axe tomorrow.”

“You’re insane. That would be murder, not assault,” Encrid replied, chuckling.

“Really?” Rem feigned innocence, his sly grin betraying that he knew exactly what he was saying.

“Leave it. Don’t cause unnecessary trouble, especially with someone directly under the battalion commander,” Encrid said.

“If it comes to it, I’ll just quit,” Rem replied with a shrug.

Of course, quitting for Rem wouldn’t mean a formal discharge—it would likely involve a chaotic escape with his two axes carving his way out of the military.

As Encrid and Rem exchanged remarks, Jaxson knelt and applied an ointment to Encrid’s wrist, the cool sensation spreading across his skin. It was cold, refreshing, and slightly ticklish—a strange but pleasant feeling.

This wasn’t just any ordinary treatment. It was rare to see Jaxson so proactive about injuries, especially after so long.

Encrid broke the silence.

“Let’s try to match what the higher-ups want, at least a little.”

He’d already been briefed about the situation on his way here. The frontlines were nearing collapse, morale was plummeting, and chaos had seeped into the ranks.

The nickname “Mad Platoon” was evidence enough of their infamy.

The solution seemed simple: cut off the troublemakers’ heads to restore order, or tolerate them while dealing with their antics.

The Elf Commander had clearly opted for the latter, protecting the platoon while trying to keep them in check. Encrid figured this was why the commander had personally brought his men into this operation.

But despite his words of advice, it was clear his platoon wasn’t listening. His comments drifted past their ears, ignored without a hint of acknowledgment.

“What else can I do?” Encrid thought.

This was, after all, the Mad Platoon.

Jaxson, now rewrapping Encrid’s wrist, muttered without looking up, “Don’t push yourself too hard. You’ll regret it later.”

Encrid chuckled.

“Yeah, yeah. It’s my own burden to bear.”

It was at this point that Krys finally spoke up from behind.

“Am I invisible or something?”

“Huh? When did you get here?” Encrid replied nonchalantly.

“I saw you,” Rem added.

“Greetings, brother,” Audin said, while Jaxson gave a small nod.

Krys, knowing better than to expect much from them, accepted the acknowledgment with a wry smile.

Then came the sparring.

As the group moved outside the barracks, Enri finally spoke up.

“It’s intimidating to even approach them. In a way, Andrew deserves respect for stepping forward so boldly.”

Enri’s face was unblemished—a testament to his knack for avoiding trouble. Yet, his neutrality also meant he was neither close to nor alienated from the platoon.

Encrid didn’t judge him for it. He understood his platoon well enough to know that if no one trusted Enri, it meant they didn’t expect much from him.

But even so, Encrid wouldn’t tell him to quit. What right did he have to demand that when he himself had never given up?

He hadn’t quit—not once. He had crawled forward, inch by inch.

And here he was now, able to stand before his platoon and face even formidable opponents like Frok. His persistence had borne fruit.

“I’m going first,” Rem announced, swinging his axe with a grin. No formal declaration, no warning—he simply attacked.

Encrid met him with his sword.

Rem’s arm swung like a whip, the axe following in a fluid, unpredictable arc. Encrid’s blade mirrored the movement, curving as if in response. The clash left afterimages in the air as metal met metal.

Clang!

The first strike echoed, their blows exchanging power and intent.

Rem’s grin widened as he murmured, “Oh? Interesting.”

The smile deepened, genuine and unrestrained.

The sound of steel rang out, drawing the attention of nearby soldiers.

“What’s going on?”

“Is it the Mad Platoon again?”

“What are they up to now?”

As the word spread, soldiers began gathering to watch. This wasn’t just the platoon’s usual brawl; the sight of Encrid sparring with Rem added a layer of intrigue.

Some recognized Encrid—a familiar face from prior skirmishes, promotions, or even his infamous failures. Among them were Bensenze, Vel, and others who had fought alongside or against him.

Clang, clang, clang!

Steel struck steel, sparks flying in the dark. Onlookers were struck silent.

“Is this… is this real?” someone muttered, voicing the collective thought.

The Encrid they remembered had been ridiculed—a weakling, a laughingstock among commanders. And yet, here he was, keeping pace with Rem, whose fearsome reputation had only grown after cutting down scores of enemies.

The duel continued, their weapons moving too quickly for the eye to follow. Encrid wasn’t just surviving; he was matching Rem blow for blow.

And it didn’t end there.

“Let’s save the rest for later. Plenty of others are waiting,” Rem said, stepping back with a grin.

Next up was Ragna, then Audin.

Each took their turn sparring with Encrid, and each time, Encrid held his ground.

He wasn’t easily overwhelmed—not by any of them.