Eternally Regressing Knight - Chapter 116: Why Is Someone Else’s Death More Unsettling?

“The way to grip a sword.”

The third-rate mercenary in the village where Encrid was born didn’t even know how to properly hold a sword.

So the first lesson he learned from his instructor was this:

The method of gripping the blade by pressing it with the thumb.

How to place the right hand forward and the left hand behind on the grip.

How to hold the pommel and utilize the ricasso.

Although most of the time, the sword was wielded with both hands.

‘But with one hand too.’

It seemed possible.

Using the Isolation Technique, Encrid’s originally strong grip had grown even stronger.

He grasped the longsword with his left hand alone and swung it.

*Whir.*

The sword traced an arc, though it didn’t quite feel satisfactory.

Still, it was doable.

He tried thrusting, slashing, thrusting and slashing again.

He slashed diagonally, then horizontally.

Even mimicked a bind.

In his mind, he pictured an opponent, but against someone like Rem or his platoon members, he wouldn’t last even one exchange.

The problem wasn’t the one-handed technique but his unfamiliarity with using his left hand.

He switched opponents. This time, it was an imaginary figure, faceless but competent with a sword.

As he envisioned his opponents, he began conjuring foes resembling his past self.

Even scoundrels from his mercenary days—those whose skill didn’t match their vile personalities—appeared in his imagination.

One was a thug who shot thin swords like arrows.

Drawing these images, he swung his sword.

*Slash.*

Dragging his foot across the ground, he swung the blade wide.

Sweat trickled down his body, scattering drops in all directions.

A pebble caught underfoot was flicked upward with a sharp crack.

Instinctively, Encrid struck the airborne pebble with the flat of his blade.

*Clink!*

The imprecise hit caused the pebble to ricochet off the tip of his boot.

“If you’re holding it right, you should be able to cut as you intend.”

His instructor’s words echoed in his mind.

Even cutting down a stationary scarecrow wasn’t an easy task.

But at least that much, Encrid could manage.

With his left hand, it was much harder.

‘Things never go as planned.’

He resolved to start anew. Retracing the path he had walked with his right hand, this time with his left. The process of repeatedly swinging the sword to find his rhythm was necessary.

For Encrid, what might seem dull to others was anything but.

In fact, he found it exhilarating.

As he retraced his right-hand progress with his left, he revisited what he had overlooked before.

At some point, Encrid closed his eyes.

What he saw wasn’t the present but the past—his past self.

Deeper, and even deeper.

He recalled himself wandering in his memories.

‘What if I had done it that way back then?’

Countless reenactments he had performed in his mind.

Battles, skirmishes, monsters, beasts, humans.

Swords swung at all those, at everything.

Stumbling, smashing his head.

Barely surviving against monsters.

Living as though he had two lives.

Encrid walked again.

His focus narrowed to a singular point, naturally blocking out everything except himself. Yet, with the Heart of the Beast anchoring him, he didn’t make mistakes out of excitement.

Boldness and composure—among the most valuable weapons Encrid possessed—felt like companions supplementing his willpower.

Swinging his sword again.

And again, repeating and re-examining the process.

It felt like he was mastering it twice as quickly as with his right hand.

*Snap.*

Sweat poured from him. The leather strap wound around the grip snapped.

His strength drained, and his arm dropped, the sword’s tip clinking against the ground.

It wasn’t exhaustion but the strain of using muscles he didn’t usually engage. His left arm felt slightly numb.

“You really are a lunatic.”

Encrid’s hazy gaze focused on the voice beside him.

“Not headed to the battlefield?”

As Encrid’s eyes regained focus, he tilted his head and asked.

“Our platoon’s on defensive duty. Hand it over.”

It was Benzense, the 3rd Platoon Commander of the 2nd Company.

Encrid had sensed his presence long before but chose to ignore it.

Benzense approached and took Encrid’s sword, tightening the leather strap on the grip.

He worked deftly, pulling both sides taut and securing it inside the grip.

“It just looked too difficult to do one-handed, so I fixed it for you.”

Since when had Benzense become this considerate? Perhaps since he saved him from the fire?

Curious, Encrid asked.

“Why did you dislike me?”

At that, Benzense chewed on his lips before answering.

“Jenny.”

“Jenny?”

Who was Jenny? Encrid blinked. His memory wasn’t poor, so the name not ringing a bell meant one of two things:

Someone not worth remembering.

Or someone unknown.

In this case, it was the former.

As he continued to look blankly, Benzense’s voice grew louder.

“Jenny, the herb seller!”

The herb seller Jenny?

Even then, his expression remained clueless.

Benzense muttered a curse under his breath, then yelled at the top of his lungs.

“Because I didn’t like your face, alright?!”

His personality was as unpredictable as ever.

He’d just helped repair his sword and now this.

“Anyway, that shiny face of yours just pissed me off.”

Growling, Benzense abruptly stood up.

“Take care of your sword.”

Complaining while worrying?

As Benzense turned and stomped off, Encrid chuckled and propped his chin on his hand.

“I didn’t care about her. You did. I was only interested in the herbs.”

There’s no way he wouldn’t remember at this point.

Encrid frequented the city enough to encounter women who claimed to like him at first sight. What could one call it?

A mere fantasy spun by girls in a remote town.

Thinking about the herb seller Jenny did jog his memory.

He was only teasing Benzense by pretending not to know.

Seeing his reaction made it amusing.

No wonder Rem enjoyed teasing the other soldiers.

“Mind your business!”

Benzense shouted again.

Oddly enough, he had a cute side.

But calling him simply cute would be wrong. Quick-witted, skilled, and caring for his subordinates.

‘If luck doesn’t betray him, he won’t die easily.’

*Meow.*

Lost in thought, Encrid heard Esther’s cry.

“What’s wrong? Hungry?”

*Hiss.*

At his question, Esther squinted her eyes, almost glaring.

“Are you sick?”

He stroked her fur gently, and she purred, closing her eyes.

The reason for Esther’s fatigue was simple.

By absorbing Encrid’s exhaustion overnight, she had become tired herself.

‘Foolish human.’

Though she cursed him inwardly, Esther didn’t dislike him.

His relentless drive for self-improvement.

It mirrored her own.

Though her pursuit of magical worlds had left her in this form, her determination was no less fierce than his.

As she bowed her head and dozed off, exhaustion took over.

Today, the magician rested. She had no energy left.

Drawing magic from this body had always been a shortcut.

*Beep!*

Just as she was about to fall asleep, a sharp sound jolted her awake.

Encrid’s hand, scratching his head, also froze.

Esther looked up to see Encrid’s jawline as he turned his head, then stood.

“Captain!”

Encrid set Esther down as Krys came running from one direction.

A sharp whistle pierced the air.

*Beep!*

It was a long tone.

In Naurilia’s signaling system, the long whistle signaled one thing.

An enemy attack.

“Which direction…”

Before he could finish, Encrid’s question trailed off.

The voices of allies, shouting in alarm, reached their ears before the whistle had faded.

“Ambush! Enemy! Enemy!”

“Counterattack!”

“Don’t retreat!”

“Damn it, we’re screwed!”

A cacophony born of panic and urgency.

*Ratatatat!*

Amid the chaos, the clamor of metal rang out.

Blood splattered.

“Aaaargh!”

Screams of death mixed with the din.

Encrid’s eyes fell on the attackers.

Their steps were neither rushed nor slow.

*Crunch.*

The sound of gravel underfoot revealed their presence.

Their movements seemed as though they existed in a different timeline altogether.

The spring rain had stopped, and a warm breeze blew. The sunlight bathed the gravel ground with warmth.

Through the scattered light, the attackers stood.

Broad shoulders, thin yet firm leather armor, and the distinctive helmets of the Azpen Duchy, covering from head to brow, leaving only the ears visible.

Water dripped from the faded brown hair spilling from beneath their helmets.

The trail behind him was marked by two enemy soldiers wielding spears with notable skill.

*Bang.*

*Thud! Stab!*

From the sequence of blocking, striking, and stabbing alone, it was evident.

These were elite soldiers, refined through rigorous training.

Encrid had encountered their level of skill before.

The “Gray Dogs,” a special forces unit of Azpen, also called the “Relentless Lovers.”

They were perfectly suited for ambushes like this.

And so, they executed one, utilizing the unit’s specialized tactics.

Leading the charge, their commander approached Encrid step by step.

*Grrrr!*

Esther, half-asleep, bared her fangs.

“Esther, stay back.”

Encrid shielded Esther with his body as he spoke.

“You’re still alive, I see.”

The figure was someone he recognized.

The platoon commander of Azpen’s Gray Dogs.

He was impulsive, and once, Encrid had driven his sword into this man’s chest.

His name was Mitch Hurrier.

A platoon commander of the Azpen Duchy.

Judging by his drenched body, he must have crossed the river. His condition was far from normal—he had likely forced a night march to cut travel time, crossed the river, and launched an ambush, all at the cost of depleting his stamina.

Still, Encrid’s condition was worse.

‘Will my wrist hold up?’

He didn’t know. Mitch Hurrier steadied his breath and tilted his chin slightly, gazing at the sky as he murmured.

“A prayer of thanks.”

A tribute to the gods, perhaps.

“I wanted to meet you again, Encrid.”

Lowering his gaze, he continued.

“It’s an honor that you remembered my name.”

“Of course.”

*Clink.*

He drew his sword. The moment Mitch’s blade left its sheath, Encrid felt death looming.

Even without his injured wrist, this was a formidable opponent.

His growing skills had granted him the insight to gauge Mitch’s strength.

“Thanks to you, I’ve awakened.”

There was no need to understand what Mitch meant.

Even Mitch wasn’t expecting Encrid to comprehend. It was merely an expression of his current joy.

The enemy commander had come to crush what remained of the allied forces’ morale in this chaotic ambush.

And here, he had encountered his prize.

The adversary he longed to face.

The opponent he yearned to defeat.

Meeting again, he had to prove himself.

To cut down Encrid and move forward.

Mitch Hurrier’s sword moved—a vertical slash from above.

*Bang!*

Encrid switched his grip to his right hand and blocked the attack.

*Snap.*

The splint reinforcing his injured wrist broke, and his strength gave out. His wrist throbbed with a dull ache.

His fingers trembled.

“You’re injured.”

Would Mitch show mercy?

Not a chance.

Encrid wouldn’t have either.

What did an opponent’s injury matter?

This wasn’t a duel of honor—it was war.

Even in a duel, targeting an opponent’s weakness was encouraged.

“Unlucky bastard.”

Mitch showed a bitter smile. He might have preferred a fair fight, but under the circumstances…

*Bang.*

Encrid barely managed to parry Mitch’s blade.

‘I’m going to die.’

That thought crossed his mind as he realized he couldn’t block the next attack.

“You bastard!”

Benzense, his entire body drenched in blood, charged in and stabbed a spear at Mitch Hurrier’s back.

*Thud!*

The spear’s tip was sharp.

Without even looking, Mitch shifted his footing. Using his left foot as a pivot, he twisted his body to evade the spear and brought his sword down diagonally.

*Crack!*

His blade struck the middle of the spear shaft.

Yet Benzense held on, lifting the spear in an attempt to strike Mitch’s chest.

It was a futile resistance.

As the spear shaft was struck, Mitch moved his foot again.

In one fluid motion, Mitch, who had been halfway turned, was now fully facing his opponent. His sword sliced through the air.

The blade, freed from the spear, moved horizontally, leveling with the ground.

*Shlick.*

Benzense’s neck was cut.

Sensing danger, Benzense tried to retreat, but it was too late.

His neck was already half-severed.

Dropping his spear, he clutched his neck.

Ah, fool. He could have run away.

Benzense fell to his knees.

Standing beside him, Mitch Hurrier looked at Encrid and spoke.

“I’ll sever your neck the same way.”

*Slash.*

He cut through the half-severed neck again. Benzense’s head rolled to the ground.

Why was it?

Even knowing that dying would only reset the day…

It felt utterly vile.

Wretched. Miserable.

*Hiss.*

The blue-eyed leopard that had been watching prepared to pounce.

But even Esther was stopped by the soldiers wielding spears.

“Just an animal.”

One muttered as they subdued her. If she didn’t retreat, she too would die soon.

“Go, Esther.”

Encrid spoke as Mitch Hurrier, who had closed the distance, raised his sword high.

Mitch Hurrier was a liar. He claimed he would cut Encrid’s neck, but instead, he drove his blade into his chest.

“Come to think of it, this is where you stabbed me.”

His voice was calm as his sword pierced Encrid’s heart.

There was no chance to throw his hidden Whistle Dagger.

With his wrist in this state, it was impossible.

“I regret not having a proper fight with you, but farewell.”

With those words, Mitch pulled his sword from Encrid’s chest.

*Shlick. Crunch.*

As the blade tore through his chest, a torrent of red life spilled onto the ground.

*Gurgle.*

Collapsing forward, blood foaming in his mouth, Encrid saw Benzense’s severed head and Esther flung to one side.

*Hiss!*

‘This feeling…’

Wretched.

It was strange. Watching someone else die felt worse than dying himself.

As death closed in, something he had experienced countless times before, he should have grown used to it by now.

But familiarity never came. Instead, the abyss carved pain, terror, and dread into his mind.

Wandering the abyss, he knew that when he rose again, the morning would come once more.

Yet that darkness made him wish not to die.

There were no dreams.

No ferryman awaited him.

Encrid opened his eyes once more.

*Meow.*

Esther rubbed her face against his chest.

It was a late morning, the start of a day without his platoon.

And.

‘Damn it.’

Encrid sincerely thought the situation was utterly cursed.

His right wrist was ruined, and his platoon was gone. By the afternoon, elite enemies would ambush the camp.

Among them was that bastard Mitch Hurrier.

‘Running won’t solve anything.’

It wouldn’t. Even if he survived, the same day would repeat.

Unless he overcame the wall, he couldn’t escape today.

How to overcome it?

Encrid’s gaze dropped to Esther, rubbing her face against his chest.

More precisely, to his left hand stroking Esther’s fur.