Eternally Regressing Knight - Chapter 125: Today's Victory Doesn't Guarantee Tomorrow's (1)

“Shoot! Kill them!”

The commander of Azpen’s light-armored unit shouted as three of his soldiers raised their loaded crossbows and fired.

‘Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!’

At this range, dodging the bolts was said to be an impossible feat, a master’s trick that no ordinary fighter could even attempt.

Yet, with perfect timing, Rem rolled forward, avoiding the incoming bolts entirely.

‘Thunk.’

The bolts struck the ground where Rem had just been. Though it looked like a close call, nothing Rem did ever felt truly dangerous.

He kept rolling without slowing his sprint, using his axe to push himself back up and continuing to charge at full speed.

How does someone even move like that?

Watching from behind, Encrid couldn’t help but admire the sight.

“Just stay back and watch,” Ragna said, keeping Encrid in check whenever he showed a desire to join the fray.

There was no need for Encrid to intervene anyway.

By the time Rem reached the three soldiers, they hadn’t even managed to reload their crossbows. Rem’s hand was nearly upon them.

The enemy soldiers reflexively drew their shortswords.

Unlike spearmen, their equipment was less effective in formation.

Even if four or five spearmen formed a defensive phalanx, it would hardly deter Rem.

But three shortswords? They stood no chance.

The scene played out exactly as Encrid anticipated.

‘Slash!’ ‘Thwack!’ ‘Crack!’

The axe whistled through the air, decapitating one soldier. Rem moved like a whirlwind, his axe tracing shining arcs in the sunlight.

Every enemy caught within those arcs died instantly.

Rem’s axe struck so quickly and forcefully that it split one soldier’s head before the blood and brain matter spilled out moments later.

Another soldier, his head already cleaved, flailed his shortsword aimlessly into the air before collapsing forward, dead.

Blood pooled across the ground.

As the bodies fell, Rem continued his rampage.

Meanwhile, Jaxson—who had disappeared from view—positioned himself behind the enemy commander.

The commander, wide-eyed in horror at the destruction Rem was causing, never noticed Jaxson’s approach.

‘Slash!’

Jaxson’s dagger sliced cleanly across the commander’s neck, sending arterial blood spraying in a red mist.

The commander’s severed carotid artery ensured his swift death.

Without pause, Jaxson moved to his next target: the crossbowmen aiming for Encrid.

Silent and efficient, he eliminated each one with precise stabs to the throat or chest, leaving no chance for retaliation.

“Guhhh!”

One soldier, his neck slashed, locked eyes with Jaxson’s cold, brown irises glowing faintly with a reddish hue.

Killing was merely routine labor for Jaxson.

The soldier died staring into those terrifying, emotionless eyes.

Audin, meanwhile, struck down any enemy who dared charge forward.

He didn’t even need a weapon—his open palms sufficed.

‘Crack!’ ‘Thud!’

One slap sent an enemy flying sideways, his sword clattering to the ground and yellowed teeth scattering into the air.

What could the enemies possibly do? They couldn’t hold their ground against a man whose slaps launched them into the air.

Mack also joined the fight, proving himself a capable soldier. Standing back-to-back with Andrew, they guarded the center, while Enri continuously fired his shortbow, loosing arrow after arrow with precision.

As for Ragna, his method was simple and deadly.

He stepped forward, his sword cutting down anyone who crossed his path.

One enemy scout, dual-wielding shortswords, lunged at him but didn’t last more than two swings.

‘Clang!’

Ragna deflected the first attack, his sword recoiling like a bird in flight before slicing cleanly through the scout’s neck.

‘Splurt.’

The scout dropped, a second mouth opening where his neck once was.

Ragna swung his sword a few more times before shaking his head and flicking the blood from its blade.

He seemed displeased with the weapon, as if it didn’t meet his standards. And yet, he never sought a better one, solidifying his status as an enigma.

As for Encrid, he found himself with nothing to do.

There was no reason for him to step in, nor was there time to intervene—the fight ended so swiftly.

While Mack, Andrew, and Enri each managed to kill two enemies, the rest had been utterly massacred.

“Let’s pull back,” Encrid said calmly, choosing practicality over praise. Getting caught between the advancing armies would do no good.

They moved to the side and retreated, giving way to the larger forces.

Soon, the allied infantry collided with the enemy forces, their shields and weapons meeting in violent bursts.

It resembled a long-awaited reunion between lovers—except instead of love, tongues, and affection, they exchanged spears and blood.

‘Shunk! Shunk!’

Spears tore into flesh, and while both sides suffered casualties, the tide of battle had clearly turned.

This was the first major clash of the day.

Thanks to the Border Guard’s ambush and Rem’s wild rampage, the allies secured a resounding victory.

Where had the victory started?

Naturally, it began with the Misfit Squad.

From Encrid’s sharp words to Andrew’s first swings of his blade, they had set the tone.

“Get out of here!”

“We won!”

“Madmen!”

Though the cheers of “Madmen” echoed, it seemed a bit unnecessary to Encrid. Did they really have to embrace the madness so openly?

The allied soldiers’ gazes gravitated toward one spot.

Blood-covered fighters—Rem and the Misfit Squad—stood at the center of attention. While most bore visible marks of battle, Encrid alone appeared untouched.

He hadn’t even broken a sweat.

He hadn’t swung his sword once.

He hadn’t thrown a single dagger.

And that was precisely what his squad intended. They wanted him to focus on recovery.

“Misfit Squad!”

“Encrid! Enki! So handsome!”

“Good! Good! Good!”

The victorious soldiers’ cheers showered praise upon Encrid and his squad.

Though others had done most of the fighting, the Misfit Squad was his squad. Naturally, his name was called out alongside theirs.

Should he wave? Raise a hand? He wasn’t sure what to do.

After all, he hadn’t done much. Beyond the first verbal sparring match, he had stepped back, leaving the “real battle” to the infantry.

Still, their reaction seemed over the top.

“If a squad of fewer than ten left such a strong impression, I’d say the job is done,” Krys remarked.

“Where have you been hiding?” Krys suddenly appeared and joined the group.

“That aside, why is it that no one seems to be looking for me?” he said with mock indignation.

It was probably because of his past misdeeds.

Encrid chose not to respond, unwilling to spoil the mood. Instead, he patted Rem on the shoulder.

“Well done.”

Rem smirked. Meanwhile, Ragna, having recovered his chipped sword, inspected it and commented, “I need to find a new blade.”

He spoke as if he couldn’t care less about the cheers and celebrations around him.

The brief jubilation and victory-induced joy of the infantry soon faded as the troops were pulled back. The allied commander didn’t push to pursue the enemy.

With morale now on their side, the situation had flipped completely. Tomorrow, it would be the enemy who found the battlefield uncomfortable.

Krys silently observed the situation and contemplated potential twists in the enemy’s plans.

‘What could they be up to?’

If he wanted to survive and scavenge any spoils, he needed to consider every angle. This wasn’t difficult for him—analyzing possibilities was second nature.

The enemy’s strategy?

‘They used sorcery to play tricks in the previous battle.’

Would they resort to similar tactics?

“Let’s rest,” Encrid said after returning to the tent. It was time to relax.

“All personnel are exempt from guard duty,” a messenger announced. For a moment, Encrid wondered if the Elf Commander might make an appearance, but nothing of the sort occurred.

Would today’s victory guarantee another tomorrow?

No one could say. Holding the high ground didn’t mean the war was won.

Surely, the officers were already strategizing to maintain momentum.

Encrid’s guess was spot on.

Marcus wasn’t resting on his laurels.

—

“They’re retreating easily, but there’s something off. Didn’t they try some sorcery before? Are there any signs of that?”

“None.”

The officers stood in a circle around a large table as Marcus questioned his adjutant, who replied promptly.

Sorcery? They wouldn’t fall for it twice. They’d even hired a sorceress from the capital—a wizened old woman who couldn’t cast spells herself but could sense magical interference.

That was enough for Marcus.

The details of sorcery didn’t matter to him; he only needed the assurance that his forces wouldn’t be caught off guard.

“If Azpen deploys asymmetric forces, the Red Cloak Knights will respond immediately.”

If the enemy used knights or mages, the allies had contingencies in place.

Marcus nodded, his instincts attuned to the battlefield. Though capable of tactical thinking, he was a commander who often trusted his gut.

‘I didn’t like it.’

The enemy’s retreat felt like a taunt, as if daring him to follow. The unease prickling at the back of his neck reminded him of a banshee’s chilling breath.

It wasn’t a good omen.

Marcus decided to end the battle there.

“What are the Border Guard’s casualties?”

“Two dead.”

Even the best-trained soldiers succumbed to blades and arrows. Losing only two was an impressive outcome, especially given the devastation they inflicted.

The Border Guard had killed dozens, decimating the longbow unit in particular. It was a decisive victory.

Now, the enemy had two choices: retreat or deploy asymmetric forces.

Marcus’s priority was to keep his scouts active, monitoring the enemy’s movements.

The next day, there was no combat. Marcus doubled the number of scouts, but they found nothing.

The enemy had adopted a turtle-like strategy, much like Naurilia’s heavily armored units. They stayed within their fortified positions, showing no signs of aggression.

Were they inviting an attack?

The lingering unease kept Marcus from taking the bait.

“If we attack now, it’ll be a decisive victory. Even if they’ve prepared their defenses, we could bombard them with arrows first,” one officer suggested.

“Arrows aren’t even necessary. We could surround them, set fire to their tents, and finish them off with spears,” said another.

“What if we use the Border Guard to block their retreat?” another proposed.

But Marcus’s intuition gnawed at him.

“Hold,” he ordered.

It was a decision born from experience. His instincts, which had saved him countless times, told him the enemy still had a card to play.

—

The Azpen commander, meanwhile, had keenly observed the enemy’s tactics.

Naurilia’s methods hadn’t changed.

‘They use the Border Guard to disrupt and overturn the battlefield.’

Marcus’s strategy was also predictable—consolidate power and deliver a crushing blow. And it had worked; the unexpected attack had turned the tide.

But so what?

The Azpen commander had seen everything Naurilia had prepared.

Now it was time to see how they’d handle his response.

The Misfit Squad had been the spark that shifted the battlefield.

That smug squad leader with his sharp tongue.

The one who hurled “ghoul-faced” insults.

The axe-wielding barbarian.

The Azpen commander sneered inwardly at Naurilia, labeling them cowards hiding behind their skirts.

Victory was within reach.

The commander had devised a plan: a dagger aimed straight at the heart of the enemy.

But it wouldn’t end with a dagger. His “dagger” would transform into a warhammer, smashing the entire battlefield.

—

A single day of rest was enough for complete recovery.

No duties, a hearty meal, and a full night’s sleep—it was an indulgence Encrid hadn’t enjoyed in a long time.

That night, he had a fleeting dream but forgot it almost immediately.

The image of an old mercenary haunted his mind briefly, reminding him that skill and character didn’t always align. It wasn’t a pleasant memory, nor one worth dwelling on.

Still, with the combination of Audin’s divine blessings and the elf-crafted medicine, he wondered if he’d ever experience such luxury again.

“It must be thanks to the medicine I sent.”

The Elf Commander spoke as she arrived unannounced in the late morning.

Encrid, drenched in sweat, was in the middle of training.

‘The Isolation Technique.’

Specifically, Audin had declared it was time to strengthen his joints.

Encrid sometimes wondered if this training was going too far. But in the end, it always proved beneficial, forging his body to become stronger through rigorous discipline.

His own body bore witness to the results.

He was doing push-ups, supporting himself on the tips of his toes and palms, repeatedly bending and straightening his wrists.

At first, he thought it would be easy. But after a few repetitions, he realized how taxing it was.

It felt as though his wrists were carrying a heavy burden.

Watching him were a collection of eyes.

First, the piercing green gaze of the Elf Commander, arms folded as she scrutinized him.

Next, the sharp, feline-like stare of the panther, now rejuvenated and brimming with vitality.

Behind them was the looming presence of a hulking sadist, watching with a twisted sense of satisfaction.

Nearby, crouched in front of the barracks, the gleeful gaze of the mad barbarian.

Then there were the shadowy, reddish-brown eyes filled with a sinister gleam.

Off to the side, Big Eyes was busy scratching and erasing something in the dirt, lost in his own thoughts.

Finally, there was the lazy genius swordsman, prone to getting lost, standing idly with his sword in hand, waiting for his turn.

“Didn’t you have something to do?” Encrid asked, finishing his morning training and addressing the Elf Commander. She stared back at him with her green eyes and replied flatly.

“No.”

Then why was she still here? Encrid’s questioning gaze went unanswered.

“Are we starting now?” Ragna interjected. It was his turn, determined by a bet.

And so, Encrid agreed to spar.

He felt ready. His body was recovered enough to handle movement without strain.

Encrid turned his attention to Ragna, who looked like a child impatient for a toy.

Why was Ragna so eager for a sparring match?

He didn’t know. But it didn’t matter. After all, he’d never needed to know much about these people to face them.

Encrid gripped his sword.

One blade, held with both hands, its tip angled diagonally toward the sky.

Another sword hung at his waist.

Everyone noticed it, but no one said a word.

Encrid felt the burning desire to meet their expectations.

He wanted to show them what he was truly capable of.