Eternally Regressing Knight - Chapter 124: Madman Andrew

Encrid naturally intended to step forward himself.

Wasn’t that the point of coming out here?

He felt the urge to move his body. While dual-wielding swords might still be too much, and his right hand needed rest for recovery, it didn’t matter.

He assessed the enemy’s posture, steps, and gestures and felt confident.

Even his left hand would suffice. His opponent was no Mitch Hurrier.

Thunk.

Before Encrid could take another step, the flat of an axe was pressed against his stomach.

Simultaneously, Jaxson grabbed his sleeve, Audin placed a hand on his shoulder, and Ragna stepped in front of him entirely.

“I’ll handle this,” Ragna declared.

“Stay back and focus on recovering,” Rem added, his gaze firm with an unspoken determination. It was clear—they wouldn’t let Encrid step forward.

Their collective will was palpable.

So, if not him, who would step in?

Krys had mentioned earlier that it was best if Rem and the others avoided fighting directly. But if it couldn’t be helped…

“Looks like this one’s for the rookie,” Rem said, holding his axe with a grin that betrayed how much he was enjoying the situation.

Then he turned to their “rookie.”

“Andrew?”

Encrid spoke up, and Andrew tilted his head in confusion.

Why was he being called?

“Go out there and kill him,” Rem said.

He made it sound so simple, so obvious, as though it was the easiest thing in the world.

Andrew blinked for a moment before recalling the anger he had felt earlier.

That guy—the one who mocked him for being “incomplete”—was right there.

His opponent wielded a spear. The infantry of the Azpen Kingdom primarily relied on short spear formations.

With his spear raised and aimed, the enemy stood in readiness. Among infantry weapons, the spear was arguably the most effective.

“Come on out, cowards!” the enemy shouted.

Throughout history, few words have been as universally insulting as “coward.”

Andrew’s anger, momentarily forgotten, surged back.

“Fine.”

As Andrew took a step forward, so did his opponent.

They edged closer, both watching each other intently.

From behind, Mack looked on with concern, not about whether Andrew would win or lose, but whether he’d be riddled with arrows and left a pincushion.

The squad leader was as ruthless as ever with his words.

‘If it goes south…’

Mack gripped the handle of the large buckler he had brought with him. It was larger than the one he usually used. Skilled in sword and shield combat, Mack had crafted this specifically for protection.

‘I’ll hold out and buy time.’

Surely, if arrows started flying, their side wouldn’t just sit back. The soldiers at the front, all wielding large shields, wouldn’t let an arrow barrage be a fatal blow.

‘If I can just pull Andrew back in time…’

His concern was brief. On second thought, the people here weren’t the type to die so easily.

For now, all Mack needed to do was focus on getting Andrew out safely.

Reassured, Mack decided to watch the fight unfold.

Apart from arrows, there was little else to worry about.

He had seen Andrew’s progress. Over the past few months, Andrew had grown significantly. His focus on swordsmanship had deepened.

The gazes from their own side were mixed.

If Encrid or the others had stepped in, victory would have been assured.

But instead, another soldier had stepped forward.

Andrew Gardner.

A noble by birth, once a squad leader, he had voluntarily joined Encrid’s squad.

Some considered him an oddity.

Others worried whether this young man could even handle his weapon properly.

The atmosphere grew uneasy.

Many soldiers who confidently stepped forward before had been defeated.

Naturally, they wished Encrid or someone else would handle this instead.

Andrew, however, locked eyes with his opponent, his anger seething.

The enemy mirrored that intensity.

“Hah, hiding behind your men and leaving them to fight, are you?”

That wasn’t it at all. Andrew had never seen Encrid shy away from a fight.

And besides, the gap in skill was vast. Even injured, there was no way that scum could pose a threat to his squad leader.

To Andrew, Encrid was a genius—a real one. The kind who soared in skill with astonishing speed. Someone entirely different from himself.

He truly believed that.

“Incomplete? What are you talking about?”

“Bring me the ghoul-faced bastard who mouthed off!”

The two hurled words at each other, neither truly listening, only venting their rage.

Soon, their fury transformed into weapons—spears and swords.

On the sunlit, gravelly ground where mist had just lifted, the two clashed, exchanging their “opinions.”

Watching the spearhead flying toward him, Andrew’s mind flashed back to the past few months.

It wasn’t even a long time, but…

‘Crazy barbarian bastard.’

After facing off against Rem’s axe, this enemy soldier’s spear felt like a child’s toy.

Of course, a spear could still pierce flesh if it struck. There was no denying its lethality.

The incoming strike wasn’t something he could carelessly parry either.

“If you hesitate when you see an opening, you deserve to die, kid.”

Rem’s words had been drilled into him over time.

Even Mack admitted that Andrew had talent. Rem had seen it too.

Unlike Encrid, Andrew had a different kind of potential—a satisfying one to nurture.

Of course, Rem had only trained him to a certain extent. He never shared skills like the Heart of the Beast. Those were not techniques to be taught lightly.

But even so, it was enough for Andrew.

He had genuine talent—remarkable talent, in fact.

As the spear lunged toward him, Andrew swung his sword from top to bottom.

The blade struck the spearhead, not the shaft.

Clang!

While spears excel in direct attacks, swords had the advantage in lateral combat.

In the brief moment the spear was deflected to the side, Andrew stepped forward, his boots crunching on the gravel.

Crunch.

He closed the gap. The start and end of a fight lay in the footwork.

“Hik!”

The enemy soldier swung his elbow as he tried to retract his spear.

Andrew, maintaining his momentum, swung his sword upward.

The blade sliced halfway through the soldier’s forearm.

Splurt.

Blood spurted from the arm of the soldier, who had been wearing a gambeson.

Amid the splattering droplets of blood, Andrew’s eyes gleamed.

Was there a need to end it with a single strike?

No. This was a fight, and a war.

Andrew’s foot moved again, stepping to the left. With a deliberate motion, he swung his sword once more, striking the spear shaft with a sharp crack.

He then calmly repositioned his sword and thrust forward.

The strike wasn’t overly fast or slow, but for the enemy soldier—distracted by the pain in his injured arm—it was more than fast enough.

‘Schlurk.’

Andrew felt the subtle resistance of flesh through the grip of his sword.

The blade had found its mark, slipping into the gap between the soldier’s armor and helmet. As Andrew withdrew his sword, now buried about half a palm’s length, blood gushed out in a rush.

“Gurgh.”

The enemy soldier staggered and collapsed to his knees. He clutched at his neck in a futile attempt to stop the bleeding, but what use was that?

The difference in skill was undeniable.

This wasn’t because the enemy soldier was untrained. He was a seasoned, disciplined soldier who had bested his fair share of opponents.

But he wasn’t a match for Andrew—a man full of raw talent who had endured Rem’s grueling tutelage.

The kneeling soldier’s hands flailed weakly as he collapsed further, life ebbing away. He was on death’s door and would succumb soon enough.

Still, Andrew, standing behind his opponent, drove his sword vertically down.

‘Shunk.’

The blade pierced through the back of the soldier’s neck, ending the last of his breaths with cold precision.

Silence reigned, broken only by the sunlight filtering through the quiet battlefield.

Krys, watching from just a step behind, realized that this was a better outcome than if Encrid had taken the fight himself.

It was an unexpected display.

“Madman Andrew!”

The name, which had once felt like an insult that sapped their morale, now rang out like the stuff of legends, becoming a nightmare for the enemy instead.

Andrew, who had just slain one of the enemy’s trained soldiers, became the rallying cry for his allies.

“Uwoooooh! Madman!”

“Andrewuuuuu!”

What was this?

Even Encrid, hearing the cheers, shrugged his shoulders.

It was surprisingly effective.

It almost felt like he was the one being celebrated as the hero who killed the “ghoul-faced” enemy.

Rem, laughing, quipped, “See? That’s good enough for the rookie.”

When had Andrew become the rookie?

“Andrew, pull back!” Mack called out to him. It was time to retreat.

Andrew took a few steps back, but his gaze remained locked on the enemy, unyielding.

“I’m no rookie anymore, you bastards!” he shouted.

What now? Mack was baffled.

“Pfft.”

Even Encrid couldn’t hold back a laugh this time. Perhaps the teasing had left a lingering grudge.

“Come back, Andrew,” Encrid said, signaling his retreat.

Amidst the cheers and shouts, Andrew returned after claiming victory over an enemy soldier.

As the atmosphere shifted, Krys realized that the moment he had been waiting for was finally here.

The time for Marcus’s battalion to act had arrived.

—

Marcus was growing impatient.

“Something needs to break through.”

In his assessment, the numbers were evenly matched, and the training of both sides was comparable. However, the Azpen forces had cleverly played up their strengths.

They had sent out skilled soldiers to engage in duels, as if to mimic knights’ combat, giving off an air of superiority.

As a result, morale had hit rock bottom.

Still, it wasn’t over. A shift in momentum was all they needed.

He had placed his hopes on the Misfit Squad to create such a shift.

When Rem, the barbarian, stepped forward, though…

“Why does the atmosphere feel even more ghoul-like?”

It became dirty, grim, and oppressive—a festering mire of tension.

Even the reaction among allies and enemies had grown colder.

Was it time to try and shift the mood elsewhere?

As Marcus pondered, something unexpected happened.

A no-name soldier from the Misfit Squad—a replacement soldier, likely sent just to fill numbers—had not just defeated an enemy but utterly dominated him.

This was the moment.

“Send them!”

At Marcus’s command, both the messenger and his adjutant moved quickly.

Soon, a small flag was hoisted atop the battalion commander’s tent.

The signal reached a unit positioned near the rocky area by the river.

If Azpen had the Gray Dogs, then Naurilia had its own elite force—the Border Executioners.

They were soldiers who each fought like ten men.

“Fools.”

Marcus welcomed the enemy commander’s clumsy tactics. On the battlefield, morale could shift in an instant. When it surged from its lowest point, the momentum would be even greater.

Marcus believed firmly that in war, the side that killed more won. And so:

“Kill them all.”

His muttered words reached no one’s ears.

But his orders had already been carried out.

The Border Guard, Naurilia’s elite independent company, moved as one to strike the enemy’s flank.

From the riverbank, where rocks and shallow water concealed their presence, they appeared fewer in number than they truly were.

Once they charged into the enemy, it was a devastating surprise.

For the Azpen commander, it was entirely unexpected.

“Wipe them out.”

The Border Guard captain gave the order, and his troops executed it seamlessly.

Torres was among them.

When an enemy soldier thrust his spear toward him, Torres grabbed the spear shaft with one hand and yanked. The soldier resisted, but Torres used that momentum to step in close and drive a dagger under the man’s chin.

‘Thunk.’

With a brief sound, the enemy soldier, adorned with a metal chin guard, fell sideways.

Torres didn’t even have time to retrieve his dagger before moving on to the next foe.

Other members of the Border Guard were equally busy.

Among them was Hyoun, a Northern soldier renowned for his skill with a longsword.

His blade danced, slicing through two enemy soldiers with swift, clean strokes. Spinning mid-swing, his sword crashed into another enemy’s shield.

‘Wham!’

The force of his strike sent the shield-bearer stumbling back.

The soldier was quickly finished off by Eisen, whose weapon of choice was a trident.

A former fisherman, Eisen wielded his trident with deadly precision. The center prong pierced through the gambeson of an enemy soldier, punching out through the front of his armor.

And then there was Barney, whose speed was her greatest weapon.

Despite being a woman, she was in no way disadvantaged. Barney darted through the battlefield, throwing daggers and then retreating to hurl stones from her sling.

‘Thwack! Whoosh! Crack!’

One enemy soldier, struck squarely on the head by a flying rock, collapsed sideways.

A leather helmet was no match for the impact of a sling-fired projectile. Though carving stones into ammunition was time-intensive and resource-consuming, the results were extraordinary.

The Border Guard was comprised of uniquely skilled individuals.

They specialized in guerrilla warfare, not mass combat.

And they demonstrated that specialty.

Slashing, killing, and advancing as they tore through the enemy lines.

Torres led his squad, pushing through on one flank. Beside him, Hyoun wielded his sword deftly, cutting down enemy soldiers to clear the path.

Their target was the group of longbowmen.

More precisely, it was the commander of the archers—they aimed to slit his throat.

Each platoon of the Border Guard moved toward its assigned target.

Their movements caused the battlefield to heave and shift like a living organism.

The enemy commander, recognizing the unraveling chaos, chose not to overextend himself to salvage the situation.

“Retreat.”

The Border Guard held back the Gray Dogs to cover their advance.

The rest of the enemy forces began to withdraw.

—

If it were a wind, it was a storm.

If it were an earthquake, it was a major tremor.

If it were a wave, it was a tsunami.

The flow of the battlefield was always bound to shift violently.

The prolonged stalemate had been the anomaly.

Encrid sensed the change in the air.

Even if he hadn’t seen the Border Guard’s movements, he knew something had begun.

If not, then…

“Fire!”

The allied archers wouldn’t have acted as they did.

‘Thwip! Thwip!’

Arrows curved through the air in a volley over Encrid and the Misfit Squad’s heads.

The enemy’s counterfire, however, was pitiful—only a few arrows flew back in return.

Instead, a quick reconnaissance unit equipped with crossbows and light gear began to pursue Encrid’s group.

“Kill them all! Leave none alive!”

The lightly armed pursuers charged forward, crossbows at the ready.

Encrid assessed the situation.

“Pivot and flank them. Cut them down.”

He issued his orders swiftly.

The pursuing unit numbered no more than twenty.

There was no need to run.

Two squads’ worth of enemies? They could handle that.

“We’re on it!” Rem shouted enthusiastically, swinging his axe wildly.

His excitement was so palpable that he began flailing the axe left and right, forcing Enri to leap aside to avoid being hit.

“They’re armed with crossbows!” Enri called out as he glanced back.

Would that be a problem?

It wouldn’t.

Encrid himself had dodged plenty of arrows in the past. Surely his squad members could do the same.

The more he saw and the more he learned, the more he realized: his squad was strong.

Soon, with Rem at the lead, the Misfit Squad stopped and turned back, charging along the path they had come.

They inadvertently became the vanguard of the allied forces. And at the forefront of that vanguard was Rem.