Eternally Regressing Knight - Chapter 115: Are You Not Sleeping?

The sparring concluded as follows:

– With Rem, a rapid exchange of slashes and strikes.
– With Ragna, a measured series of soft clashes to test sword techniques.
– With Audin, a barehanded session trading strikes and joint locks.

When it was over, Rem commented, “You’re finally walking now.”

Though it sounded dismissive, it wasn’t intended that way. The faint smile on Rem’s face told a different story—a look of satisfaction, as if he were pleased with Encrid’s growth.

“You’re wasting less movement,” Ragna added.

Another backhanded compliment, but Ragna’s eyes, usually half-lidded with disinterest, shone with a rare intensity. He had clearly been satisfied with the duel.

There was a cold fire in Ragna’s gaze, a reflection of his newfound respect.

“You’ve kept up with your sensory training,” Jaxson said matter-of-factly.

“You’ve taken another step toward the divine,” Audin remarked cryptically.

Encrid frowned at Audin’s peculiar comment, but before he could respond, Rem quipped, “Isn’t that just a prayer for death?”

“No, brother. It’s a blessing,” Audin replied earnestly.

A dubious blessing, perhaps. Regardless, the sparring was over.

—

The murmurs of onlookers filled the air:

“Is that the infamous troublemaker platoon leader?”

“Not anymore—he’s the Mad Platoon leader now!”

“What the hell was that?”

“Is he the one everyone talks about?”

“A madman obsessed with training, huh?”

The spectators, who had been silent in shock moments before, were now animated.

Meanwhile, Encrid’s chest heaved as he caught his breath. His wrist throbbed, and his fatigued limbs felt heavy, but he wasn’t in a bad mood.

Though…

“It’s frustrating,” he thought.

His injured wrist had led his opponents to hold back. That restraint irked him, though it didn’t diminish the valuable lessons learned from the experience.

From the Border Guard patrols to his battle with Frok, all his accumulated experiences had converged here. And today, he had discovered even more to reflect on.

He wanted to continue.

“Rest,” Rem said, reading his expression. “Push further, and you’ll ruin your wrist completely.”

Encrid nodded, knowing Rem was right. Resting was part of the process—something he had learned time and again.

As the spectators dispersed, a few acquaintances approached Encrid.

“Back already?” asked Benzense, now an equal in rank to Encrid.

“Yeah,” Encrid replied, his tone naturally casual since he was a few years older.

“Good to see you.”

For some reason, Benzense seemed shy, though Encrid didn’t press further.

After exchanging nods and greetings with others—Vel, the sewing expert, and a few others—Encrid returned to the barracks.

—

Inside, Rem spoke up immediately.

“So, what’s your story? What’ve you been up to?”

Rem’s curiosity wasn’t idle. Encrid’s newfound skill had impressed him enough to ask. Referring to someone’s progress as “learning to walk” was high praise from Rem, especially after noticing the transformation in Encrid.

Ragna sat down to listen, and Jaxson and Audin followed suit. Even Andrew, Mack, and Enri leaned in.

“I feel like a storyteller,” Encrid muttered, surveying his gathered platoon. Telling a story wasn’t hard—so he began.

He recounted everything honestly: falling into traps, being surrounded by spearmen in front and archers behind, and relying on Ranger Finn’s sharp instincts. He described facing lycanthropes, dealing with a mage atop a wall, and his fight with Frok. The only detail omitted was the day’s repetition.

He even admitted how much luck had played a role.

His calm tone stood in stark contrast to the chaos and danger of his tales.

“Is that some kind of curse—getting stronger every time you almost die?” Rem asked with a smirk.

It certainly seemed that way. Encrid’s growth often coincided with brushes with death. Was he secretly a genius? Rem doubted it, having taught Encrid himself. But the phenomenon intrigued him nonetheless.

“Anyway, it was fun to hear,” Rem concluded.

The others nodded in agreement, though Andrew looked utterly drained as he asked, “You survived all that?”

It seemed impossible to chalk everything up to luck. And then there was the sparring earlier.

Andrew had once thought he could keep up with Encrid. Now the gap between them felt insurmountable. Had he been slacking in his own training? No, he was sure he hadn’t.

Mack had even said it himself: “As much as I hate it, you get better rolling with Rem.”

Andrew had trained tirelessly, but the gap had widened nonetheless.

“Just lucky,” Encrid replied simply, his standard answer.

Andrew had nothing more to say.

As Encrid suggested they call it a night, he checked his wrist again. It seemed worse than after his fight with Frok.

“I’ll stay in the barracks tomorrow,” he announced.

“It’s not bad enough for the medical tent, but yeah, no fighting for now,” Jaxson agreed.

“Obviously,” Ragna chimed in. “I’d like to rest too.”

Jaxson, Krys, Rem, and Ragna echoed the sentiment.

Encrid had expected this reaction. If questioned by superiors, Rem would likely say, “It’s a platoon tradition, didn’t you know?”

Regardless, rest was necessary. Pushing further could permanently damage his wrist.

When Ragna asked about the shield, Encrid replied, “It’s more comfortable this way,” showing his Guard Sword. Though it bore nicks and dents, it was still usable.

—

As night fell, the platoon lay on their bunks. From the darkness, Rem spoke.

“Let’s not let someone like Frok overwhelm us.”

It felt odd to hear him dismiss Frok so casually, but the sentiment was genuine.

“Agreed. We need to train harder,” Ragna added.

Jaxson’s cold gaze offered silent agreement.

“With enough training, everything is possible,” Audin said.

“If we face him again, we’ll win,” Encrid added confidently, eliciting laughter from the others.

“Love the confidence,” Rem said with a grin.

As they settled in for the night, their voices cut through the quiet.

“When your wrist heals, we’ll do it properly.”

“I’ve got a lot to teach you when it’s better. Gotta fix those bad habits.”

“Training never ends, brother.”

“There’s always more to learn,” Rem concluded.

With that, they drifted to sleep, ready to walk forward again tomorrow.

It was exactly what Encrid had wanted—time to reflect and recover. Though his wrist felt stiff and reluctant to cooperate, rest was a necessity.

*”Seems like they’re trying to keep me off the battlefield,”* he mused. The thought stirred mixed feelings.

What stood out to him most was the peculiar nature of the people who now cared for him. Their concern was earnest, if unorthodox. He wondered: would Rem and the others fight harder tomorrow, knowing he wouldn’t join them?

He didn’t know. He still couldn’t quite understand why these people followed him so loyally. All he had were guesses, and he had no desire to unravel the mystery fully. Some things were better left unprobed—disturbing them might cause more trouble than it was worth.

*”They’ll speak up if it matters,”* he concluded, as he always did. Until then, he would treat them as he always had.

“Alright, let’s call it a night,” he said, turning to finally get some rest. But then…

“Anyway, Frok was nothing,” Rem began, sitting halfway up in his bunk and slicing the air with his hand.

“You block like this, and strike faster. Get your wrist healed up, and I’ll drill it into your bones—how to kill frogs for good.”

“Instead of heavy swordsmanship, try mastering the basics and letting them become second nature,” Jaxson advised.

“Focus on isolation techniques. Even without your right hand, you can maintain form, brother,” Audin added.

“And never lower your guard,” Ragna said quietly.

They wouldn’t stop. Every one of them chimed in, seemingly intent on turning the night into a strategy meeting.

“Don’t you guys sleep?” Encrid asked, exasperated. (TL Note: Damn. I really love the dynamics of the group. )

If he let them, they’d keep talking until dawn. Was it excitement from reuniting with him, or had they simply lacked anyone to torment in his absence? Whatever the reason, their energy was relentless—even Andrew’s bruised eyes couldn’t silence them.

“Alright, alright. I was already tired,” Rem finally said, letting the conversation die down. One by one, the others quieted and settled in.

In the corner, Esther emerged from her hiding spot, climbing into Encrid’s arms with a soft purr.

Encrid lay back, stroking Esther’s fur with his left hand—his right hand too immobilized to move. The warmth of the small creature on his chest and the soothing sound of her purring mingled with his thoughts of his fight with Frok and the day’s sparring matches.

Though incomplete, the sparring had left his blood boiling. It felt like validation for all he’d endured, and yet, it also revealed new paths forward. There was still so much to learn, so much to refine.

Amidst this reflection, sleep came easily.

Not long after, a quiet lament broke the silence.

“They said my talent could get me anywhere,” Andrew whispered bitterly.

Mack, lying nearby, had no response. By any normal standard, Andrew was exceptional. His rapid growth and adaptability were undeniable. But in this platoon?

*”This is… something else,”* Mack thought. He had never encountered anything like this—a group of individuals so preternaturally skilled.

Even Encrid had changed dramatically. What had once been a respectable but limited ability had now crossed into uncharted territory, leaving Mack at a loss for words.

Finally, he muttered, “Instead of comparing yourself to others, just swing your sword one more time.”

It was advice rooted in the Mad Platoon’s philosophy. Andrew sighed, the sound heavy with resignation.

By morning, sunlight streamed through the cracks between the barracks, waking Encrid.

*”Overslept?”* he thought, sitting up. Esther stretched and rubbed her face against his chest, her soft fur tickling his fingers. When he instinctively moved his right hand to pet her, the splint on his wrist reminded him to switch hands.

“Morning,” Krys greeted, entering the barracks.

“I overslept,” Encrid admitted.

“Understandable. After what you’ve been through, a day or two of rest wouldn’t even scratch the surface of your exhaustion,” Krys replied, gesturing for Encrid to follow him.

They shared a simple but satisfying breakfast: roasted potatoes and thin slices of salted bacon.

“The food’s decent,” Encrid remarked.

“They’re showing us some favoritism. Oh, and the rest of the platoon’s already at the front,” Krys said, motioning with his head.

Encrid’s thoughts turned to his men. Were they moving ahead because of their own initiative, or had they been ordered to? Perhaps they were trying to give him the time he needed to recover. But would they really follow their commander’s intentions so obediently?

*”Hard to say,”* he thought. His platoon wasn’t exactly known for conforming to orders. They might fight harder today, perhaps out of a sense of duty to him. But beyond that?

*”Who knows.”*

Finishing his meal, Encrid began light training to avoid straining his wrist. His routine of reflection and repetition continued—a methodical review of his successes and failures, seeking to ensure he didn’t repeat past mistakes.

*”Every lesson learned in battle is a treasure,”* he reminded himself. It was advice from an old mentor he had met in a fishing village long ago, and it had stayed with him.

But as he stood lost in thought, he felt restless. His body itched to move, to fight. He couldn’t simply sit still, not while his blood burned with anticipation.

Without thinking, he drew his sword.

“That lunatic’s at it again,” someone muttered, watching from a distance.

Even with his right hand out of commission, Encrid wielded his blade in his left. Though clumsy at first, he pressed on, determined.

*”It feels like starting over,”* he thought. Yet, anything was better than inaction. He had to channel his energy, his desire, his drive.

As he practiced, his movements grew sharper, more focused. The sword in his left hand began tracing the same paths his right hand once had.

He wasn’t just swinging blindly—he was reliving each fight, from sparring with Audin, Ragna, and Rem, to his battles with Frok, mages, and lycanthropes.

*”Luck,”* he thought. Much of his survival could be attributed to it, though he’d worked to manipulate fortune in his favor. Repeating the same day had allowed him to seize opportunity like never before.

As he swung his sword again, he found clarity. Each movement revealed the mistakes he had made, the opportunities he had missed.

*”They called me a madman obsessed with training,”* he recalled.

It wasn’t far off.

Gripping his blade tighter, Encrid smiled faintly. The nickname suited him perfectly.