Eternally Regressing Knight - Chapter 119: Dogfight

‘It’s an even match now.’

Encrid didn’t think he could win against Mitch Hurrier at full strength.

Even with newfound talent and the progress he had made retracing his path with his left hand, it wasn’t enough to match his right.

Could his left hand alone withstand the full force of Mitch’s two-handed strikes?

‘Not a chance.’

He’d experienced this reality numerous times already.

To make matters worse, Mitch had no bad habits to exploit. His movements were polished, his patterns difficult to read, and he adapted fluidly in every situation.

Though Mitch’s fundamentals seemed rooted in precise and fluid swordsmanship, Encrid’s style leaned heavily on the weight and power of mid-sword techniques. With one hand, this put him at a disadvantage.

Even with Mitch’s thumb injured, he could still wield his sword with both hands, enduring the pain to swing it several more times if necessary.

‘There’s no helping it.’

Encrid wanted a clean, decisive victory, slicing Mitch’s neck with a single stroke.

But since that wasn’t possible, there was only one path left.

Valen-Style mercenary swordsmanship—a dirty dogfight.

“Sorry about this,” Encrid said.

“What nonsense are you spouting?” Mitch replied, confused.

Encrid meant it. He felt a slight pang of guilt.

To Mitch, Encrid was a rival and obstacle. He saw him as an equal opponent, a challenge.

Even from a few brief words, Encrid could tell. Mitch remembered his name, greeted him warmly as if he’d been waiting for this rematch.

What Mitch wanted was clear—he sought to confirm his strength and skill, forged through countless battles, against Encrid’s blade.

‘But I really am sorry,’ Encrid thought.

He had already confirmed Mitch’s abilities, his hard-earned skill, and his fighting spirit.

And he knew victory could only come from a dirty fight.

Should he waste an unknown number of today’s cycles honing his left hand and swordsmanship until he could defeat Mitch cleanly?

No, that wasn’t it.

Encrid knew there was no point in staying trapped in this iteration. To progress with his left hand, he needed a new breakthrough.

Mitch was an excellent opponent, but…

‘I’ve taken everything I can from him.’

While Mitch’s patterns were difficult to read, Encrid had memorized a few of his tendencies.

For instance—

“You’re still a weirdo,” Encrid muttered, noticing Mitch’s left eyebrow twitch. That meant an attack was imminent.

Mitch lunged forward just as Encrid expected, his foot striking the ground with a sharp *thud.*

Encrid kicked a pebble with the tip of his foot, sending it flying toward Mitch’s face.

*Thwack!*

Mitch deflected the pebble with the flat of his blade, hesitating momentarily before pressing on.

His reactions were as sharp as ever.

Encrid planted his sword in the ground, flicked his left hand toward his waist, and threw a Whistle Dagger.

*Whistle!*

“You little—!”

Mitch growled, twisting his sword to deflect the dagger with unnerving precision. The dagger fell harmlessly to the ground.

Before Mitch could close the distance completely, Encrid retrieved his sword and thrust it forward.

Mitch twisted his body and swung diagonally with such speed that his blade seemed to bend through the air.

Encrid followed the trajectory with his eyes, pulling his sword aside.

*Clang! Scrape!*

As their blades clashed, Encrid felt his strength waning. He shifted his blade downward to target Mitch’s hand.

But Mitch’s grip remained firm. With both hands on his sword, he pushed back against Encrid’s one-handed effort.

Realizing he couldn’t overpower Mitch, Encrid let go of his sword again and tried to close the gap to exploit an opening.

*Thud, thud!*

Anticipating the move, Mitch stepped back, his body flickering momentarily before reappearing at a safe distance.

He wasn’t someone who would fall for the same trick twice.

Encrid had expected as much.

Mitch swung his sword downward once more, and Encrid kicked his fallen blade forward.

*Tap.*

The sword flew from his foot, the blade aimed for Mitch’s neck.

Normally, a fighter is taught never to let go of their weapon. It’s a basic principle of swordsmanship.

But unconventional situations call for unconventional methods.

Mitch caught the flying sword with a gauntleted hand, blocking the blade’s edge.

*Clink.*

Even so, Encrid wasn’t surprised—this was all part of his plan.

The real aim was the opening created as Mitch’s two-handed slash lost strength and speed, turning into a one-handed defense.

Encrid dashed forward as soon as the sword left his foot.

In the blink of an eye, he was upon Mitch, whose downward slash left him slightly off-balance. Encrid’s shoulder bore the brunt of Mitch’s blade.

*Thud!*

Pain shot through Encrid as Mitch’s sword sliced through his shoulder, the leather armor underneath absorbing some of the impact but still leaving a searing wound.

‘Not great,’ Encrid thought as he clenched his teeth.

Ignoring the pain, he reached out with his left hand, aiming to grab Mitch’s neck. Mitch leaned back sharply, opening a gap between them.

Encrid silently thanked Torres for the training that had refined his left-hand skills. It had prepared him for this moment.

Twisting his wrist, he activated the mechanism hidden beneath. A small dagger slid into his palm.

In that moment, Encrid locked eyes with Mitch.

He saw Mitch’s pupils dilate, his gaze trembling.

Encrid slashed at those eyes without hesitation.

*Shhhlk!*

The blade tore through flesh, cutting from Mitch’s cheek to his brow.

“Arghhh!”

A guttural scream escaped Mitch as he reeled from the pain.

“Ugh,” Encrid grunted softly, feeling the toll of the fight on his own body.

The dagger had blinded Mitch in one eye, slicing from his cheek to his forehead.

Yet Mitch retaliated, kicking Encrid in the stomach and yanking his sword inward. The blade, still lodged in Encrid’s shoulder, tore through leather and flesh.

It was a fiery, searing pain.

‘This is bad,’ Encrid thought, quickly assessing his worsening condition.

He threw the dagger without hesitation.

*Whoosh!*

Despite his injury, Mitch tried to deflect the flying blade, but it struck his forearm.

With one eye gone, his depth perception was impaired, leaving him vulnerable.

Valen-Style mercenary swordsmanship—dogfighting.

It was about using everything you had, resorting to the dirtiest tricks if necessary.

Encrid didn’t hesitate.

He threw himself at Mitch once more, ignoring the pain in his stomach and shoulder.

This wasn’t a time for composure but boldness.

“Arghhh!” Mitch roared, swinging his sword wildly.

‘I see it.’

Encrid could now predict Mitch’s movements, just like he had dodged flying daggers in the past.

He stepped in close, taking a calculated hit to his forehead from Mitch’s fist rather than the blade.

His training with Audin had taught him to take blows strategically—to endure in order to create an opening.

“Got you,” Encrid muttered as he closed the distance.

“Bring it on! This is what I wanted!” Mitch shouted, dropping his sword to grab Encrid by the shoulder.

Pain flared as Mitch’s grip opened Encrid’s wound further, but it was manageable—better than dying.

The leather armor beneath had done its job, minimizing the damage despite the cut.

Now was the moment to strike.

Their hands tangled as they grappled.

Two men gasping for air rolled across the gravel-strewn ground.

Mitch, seething with rage, broke the silence first.

“You filthy bastard! Did you think you could win with wrestling?”

‘I did.’

Encrid had no doubt.

After trading blows and testing each other, he knew he had the upper hand.

Valaf-style martial arts combined with Aile Carraz grappling had taught him one thing: mastering these techniques wasn’t just about talent—it required immense dedication.

You had to practice until the movements were ingrained in your body, even haunting your dreams.

Encrid was confident.

As long as he could get close, victory was within his grasp.

That was why he embraced the dirty tactics of a dogfight.

*Crunch.*

As Mitch struggled to overpower him, Encrid suddenly bit down on Mitch’s ear.

“Argh!” Mitch screamed in pain.

Without hesitation, Encrid grabbed Mitch’s ankle.

Pulling Mitch’s leg against his side, Encrid pressed his palm against the top of Mitch’s foot and locked his opponent’s leg with his own, coiling around it like a snake. He wrenched downward with brutal force.

The description is long, but the action was instantaneous.

*Snap. Crack!*

A sickening sound followed—a sound that only those who’ve experienced such pain could understand.

Even if the bone wasn’t broken, the agony would be excruciating.

He wasn’t finished.

Switching to Mitch’s other leg, Encrid executed another lock, twisting his body in a vicious spiral.

*Pop. Crack!*

This time, Mitch’s knee bent unnaturally, his joint snapping under the pressure.

“Arghhhh!” Mitch’s scream was guttural, filled with agony.

Drooling and bloodshot, Mitch somehow managed to draw a hidden dagger and stab it toward Encrid’s neck.

Encrid twisted his body, letting the blade sink into his arm instead. Blood spurted as the dagger pulled free.

Releasing Mitch’s leg, Encrid rolled backward, disengaging.

That was it.

Mitch was no longer capable of fighting.

“Hoo…” Encrid exhaled deeply. He wasn’t in great shape himself. The strain from executing grappling techniques took a toll on his body.

His arm was slashed, his shoulder bore a deep cut, and his clothes were soaked with blood.

Most of it was his own.

Even so, he was in far better condition than Mitch.

“Krys, my sword.”

Though not a combatant, Krys had stayed nearby instead of fleeing. He quickly brought Encrid’s sword to him.

Encrid took the weapon in his left hand, and blood immediately dripped from his injured forearm.

The wound was deeper than he had thought.

“Damn it, Captain. I thought you were done for,” Krys muttered.

Encrid didn’t have the strength to respond. Sword in hand, he approached Mitch.

His legs were still intact despite his wounds.

“Platoon leader!”

Several of Mitch’s soldiers reacted to their leader’s defeat and charged Encrid.

It was too late.

None of them had believed Mitch Hurrier would lose. He was a genius—a man born with natural talent.

A genius who had once been called lazy.

No one knew what he had experienced on the battlefield, but upon his return, he had practiced day and night.

He was someone who should not have fallen so easily.

But here he was—his legs shattered in a fight that wasn’t even a proper duel.

This wasn’t what his subordinates had wanted. They had expected a fair, honorable fight—sword against sword.

“This… This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

Mitch’s soldiers were not alone in their dismay.

“This wasn’t what I wanted either,” Mitch muttered, glaring at Encrid.

Their eyes met as Encrid drove his sword downward.

*Thunk.*

The blade pierced the back of Mitch’s neck, driving through to the front and scraping against gravel as it emerged.

Blood gushed as Mitch’s body collapsed, his head jerking to the side.

The once-proud warrior now lay lifeless, with Encrid’s sword protruding from his neck like a grotesque decoration.

“Kill him!” one of Mitch’s enraged soldiers shouted, charging at Encrid.

“Idiots,” Encrid muttered under his breath.

After repeating today countless times, one thought had crystallized in his mind: this ambush had been expected.

The commanders of his side weren’t fools. They had anticipated this attack.

In fact, they had been waiting for it.

Perhaps Mitch’s forces had known this as well, yet they came anyway—because war was always a game of deception and counters.

The key was to stall for time.

*Clang, clang!*

None of Mitch’s soldiers matched his skill. Encrid yanked his sword from Mitch’s neck and deftly deflected their weapons.

His movements combined the weight of mid-sword techniques with the fluidity of quick and precise strikes, blending styles seamlessly.

“Reinforcements! Wipe them out!” a familiar voice roared from behind.

Benzense was alive and shouting orders.

Despite their elite status, the enemy soldiers couldn’t overcome their numerical disadvantage—especially with archers in the mix.

“Fire!”

A unit of forty crossbowmen began raining bolts upon the remaining enemy soldiers, turning them into pincushions.

Someone had rallied the archers, and with that, the battle was effectively over.

Encrid knew this better than anyone.

He had seen firsthand how no one could block or dodge a rain of arrows.

Satisfied, Encrid finally allowed himself to sit down.

His body felt utterly wrecked.

‘What a damn nightmare.’

But he smiled faintly, pride welling up in his chest.

His left hand had proven itself.

He had survived this dogfight, overcome the day, and inched closer to a new path forward.

In the middle of the battlefield, amidst the warm spring breeze and the remnants of the skirmish, Encrid felt a sense of accomplishment—like a poorly stitched wound, raw and painful, yet holding together.