Eternally Regressing Knight - Chapter 130: A Strike and a Cut

“What a load of nonsense.”

That guy—what was his name again? The one who reminded me that skill and character don’t always go hand in hand.

He smirked, his lips twisting mockingly.

“Want me to give you another hole, Enki?”

He took a step forward as he spoke.

Encrid decided to exchange words only once before killing him.

“What was your name again?”

The man froze mid-step, his posture poised with his right foot extended forward.

“…What a filthy bastard, running his mouth like that.”

He didn’t say his name. Oh well. It wasn’t something Encrid absolutely needed to know.

“Kill him.”

At his command, the nine men surrounding him moved.

What would you call this scene? Like corrupt border guards gone rogue, perhaps.

Each brandished a weapon, their stances suggesting they knew how to handle themselves. The scent of blood seemed to linger on their blades.

‘Thwip!’

One of them fired a slingshot. The motion was smooth—aim, pull, release—all in an instant.

The slingshot launched a small metal pellet.

Ragna tilted his head slightly, dodging the projectile aimed for his eyes.

“A slingshot.”

Ragna muttered. Encrid noticed a rare intensity in his usually composed gaze.

Well, then. Nothing to worry about.

“Alone?”

A voice came from behind. It was Benzense.

Encrid glanced at Benzense’s leg, noticing his limping gait. His eyes moved to the man’s thigh before he could even ask what had happened.

“It’s because he tried to save me from that filthy bastard.”

Behind Benzense stood a soldier, his expression a mix of worry and hatred.

No explanation was necessary. Encrid could already piece it together.

That bastard likely pulled his usual stunt—tormenting a soldier to draw Benzense out, exploiting the opening to stab his thigh.

Classic behavior for that scumbag.

On the other hand, Benzense probably got injured trying to save one of his own, fully aware of the risks.

What would’ve happened if Encrid hadn’t arrived? Benzense would’ve died. He was prepared to sacrifice himself.

If someone like Benzense existed, well, maybe they’d be worth befriending.

But that bastard? No way. Not even close.

“That guy’s sharp,” Benzense remarked again, snapping Encrid back to the present. He suddenly acted as though he had just remembered the guy’s name, clapping his right fist into his left palm.

“Ah, now I remember your name.”

The man smirked.

“Like hell you’d forget my name, you little punk.”

He unsheathed his weapon with a metallic ring. It was a flexible sword that bent under pressure—made of wrought iron.

The undulating blade caught Encrid’s eye.

“Your name was… bastard, wasn’t it?”

Yeah, bastard. That was probably it.

“…You’ll beg me to kill you.”

His eyes gleamed with malice. Was he angry? That wasn’t the intention, though.

Encrid shrugged.

The two traded barbs, each heating up the other’s temper.

Another shot from the slingshot came, aimed at Encrid this time. But Ragna, who had closed the distance without anyone noticing, deflected the projectile with his sheathed sword. The metal pellet sparkled in the mist as it shot into the air.

“You’ve got quick hands. It’d be fun to put a hole in them,” the slingshot user said.

Next to him was a man wielding dual axes, one in each hand, resembling Rem’s fighting style.

“Funny guy. Think you can take us all on by yourself?” the dual-axe wielder sneered at Ragna.

That wasn’t good. Encrid thought so too.

As expected, Ragna reacted.

“A cheap imitation of a savage.”

“…What?”

The axe wielder, a blond man with red eyes, stared at Ragna in confusion.

In Ragna’s crimson eyes, there was a clear, inexplicable hostility.

Dual axes? A bad choice of weapon, clearly.

Besides him, three others wielded swords with blood grooves carved deep into their blades. Their faces were eerily similar—triplets.

“This battle will mark our transition to Azpen’s ranks. Maybe we’ll even get knighted,” the bastard bragged, as though wanting to boast. His expression mirrored that of the time Encrid had saved him—arrogant satisfaction at revealing his intentions, smugness etched onto his face.

So that’s how it is.

Encrid didn’t bother responding.

‘Thunk.’

He advanced, swinging his sword downward. His opponent underestimated him, still wearing that mocking grin as he parried the attack.

‘Clang.’

The flexible blade bent under the impact, twisting downward to aim for Encrid’s wrist.

A masterpiece of swordsmanship—a technique from the East, or so he had claimed.

Maybe he had said something like that before.

Encrid watched the blade targeting his wrist, moving his sword up and down.

The opponent’s flexible blade bounced upward along his sword’s edge.

‘Thunk.’

‘What’s this guy?’

The bastard’s face twisted with confusion and surprise, but Encrid was uninterested.

He simply advanced, wielding his sword as he had trained.

Hadn’t he learned how to counter flexible swords too?

‘Start with a straightforward strike.’

Ragna’s advice rang clear.

‘Whoosh.’

The blade sliced through the air. Time slowed, every moment magnified in sharp focus.

Connecting points, layering strength upon them, Encrid executed a diagonal slash.

The bastard scrambled to retreat, raising his sword to block.

‘Whistle.’

The flexible blade sang through the air, aiming for Encrid’s neck.

It didn’t reach.

Encrid’s diagonal slash had already landed on his opponent.

Faster, stronger, and more precise.

One strike was enough.

‘Crunch.’

Resistance met his blade. Though his swing was precise, the sensation of cutting through armor and bone lingered.

Encrid’s longsword had cleaved through the bastard’s armor, ribs, and even the wrist holding his weapon.

The blade, curving as it aimed for Encrid’s neck, fell to the ground with a thud.

‘Clink.’

Encrid froze in the position of his swing, then smoothly swept his sword to the side.

‘Splatter.’

Blood scattered across the ground.

Before him lay the remnants of the past, dead with wide, startled eyes.

Encrid spoke inwardly to his fallen comrades.

“I avenged you.”

But there was no answer. The dead, after all, do not respond.

The same was true for his opponent, whose life had been severed with a single strike.

No cries, no last words. Just silence.

It was an inevitable outcome.

The mercenary, skilled in Eastern flexible swordsmanship, had been talented. But…

“Compared to Frok and Mitch Hurrier…”

He was lacking. Could he measure up to Encrid’s comrades? Not even close—so much so that the comparison felt absurd.

Still, if it hadn’t been Encrid here, this battlefield would have descended into chaos. Just as catastrophic as the one with the giant.

Relatively speaking, this was a fight against killers—people who honed their skills to kill as a profession, using their weapons as tools to become better murderers.

Against someone stronger, they could die quietly like this. But against weaker opponents? They were efficient and ruthless killers, guaranteed to go on a rampage.

“…What the hell is this?” one of the triplets with a sword muttered.

“What do you think it is?” Ragna replied, striding toward the slingshot wielder.

His steps alone were mesmerizing. Somehow, in just a few strides, he was at the side of the man with the slingshot.

“Tch!”

The man twisted his body to the side. And that was the end. His head flew into the air, leaving his surprised expression frozen in place.

When? When had Ragna drawn his sword? When had he swung it?

The speed and precision were terrifying.

Even to Encrid’s eyes, the blade’s curved trajectory left only an afterimage.

“Slingshot.”

Ragna muttered toward his fallen opponent and turned his attention.

“Three swords.”

He addressed the triplets, who drew their weapons. They didn’t seem inclined to go down without a fight.

Ragna saw the red bloodlust in their eyes.

Killers. Men who used their swords as tools for murder, taking lives repeatedly to hone their craft.

There were always some like this.

Idiots who didn’t know how to truly improve their skills.

Swords used to kill the weak—blades trained only to prey on the powerless.

Regardless of their opponent or the situation.

Ragna felt good. How often in his life had he felt this surge of enthusiasm?

Three times? Five times? Probably not five.

Even Ragna carried built-up frustration. That frustration had found an outlet in his spars with Encrid.

Something ignited in his eyes, a flame sparked from a small ember.

His crimson eyes gleamed with light—his ‘gaze’ burned.

Ragna swung his sword.

‘Whish, thunk, slash, chop, slice!’

The three killers fell. Their necks pierced, heads severed, and one split from chin to crown.

Ragna’s sword cut through everything—swords, armor, flesh, bone.

It was impressive.

“Pitchfork.”

Ragna moved on, targeting his next opponent.

This one wielded a pitchfork—a weapon seemingly chosen to inflict pain.

The man swallowed nervously.

He had clearly met the wrong opponent.

“All at once!” he shouted.

At his command, everyone moved. He, however, turned and fled in the confusion.

Encrid widened his eyes in surprise.

The usual Ragna wouldn’t even glance at a fleeing enemy.

But this time, Ragna—

‘Snap.’

He moved so quickly he seemed to vanish. Kicking off the ground, he swung his sword left and right with such speed that it seemed as though wings were spreading from his back.

Not from his shoulders, but from his hands. The wings were afterimages of his blade.

They cleaved through the spearman’s skull, severed the arms of the woman with the dagger, and shattered her blade mid-strike.

It was a terrifyingly overwhelming display of power.

“Aaaaaagh!”

The woman’s scream tore through the air.

Ragna pressed forward, chasing the fleeing man. The pitchfork-wielder twisted his body and raised his weapon defensively.

The pitchfork was solid iron.

Ragna swung his sword again, using a reverse-edge technique. The first strike cleaved halfway through the pitchfork, and the reverse slash took the man’s neck.

‘Slash.’

If he had applied more force, the pitchfork itself would’ve been cut clean through.

With his relentless movements, only one opponent remained.

“Damn it.”

The man with the dual axes.

“You’re the main course.”

What to say? Something about Ragna was utterly different than usual.

He walked straight toward the axe-wielder. Though he didn’t resemble Rem in appearance, that didn’t matter to Ragna.

“Let’s start with the legs.”

He followed through on his words. Ragna’s sword moved. The axe-wielder might have been skilled, but…

It was as if he faced a wall that couldn’t be overcome with mere effort or training.

“Aaaargh!”

The man’s desperate struggle amounted to nothing.

Ragna cut through his thigh first, then severed the tendons in both arms.

As the axes fell from the man’s grasp, Ragna placed his blade on the man’s head and realized something.

He was unusually excited.

‘Should I really be feeling this way?’

Still, it wasn’t a bad feeling.

“If you spare me, I’ll show you where—”

‘Crunch.’

Ragna didn’t listen. In the end, the last mercenary, one of the ten killers, fell with his head split in two.

Ragna inspected his sword, noticing its edge was dulled, and the hilt was loose. He discarded it.

Then he gathered the swords used by the triplets.

“Hm, three swords now.”

He strapped one to each hip and one across his back, similar to Encrid.

“Are you using three swords now?” Encrid asked.

“No,” Ragna shook his head. “I’ll use them one at a time.”

He added, “Do you know the technique I just used?”

His tone was faster than usual—an oddity.

Encrid thought back. It had been just slashing and cutting, simple yet effective.

But something stood out. No matter the obstacle, Ragna’s sword had cut through everything—daggers, armor, whatever was in its path.

Ragna spoke again, still unusually fast.

“I’ve named it ‘Severance.’”

A simple name.

But the technique’s power was undeniable.

Severance—it was a method of cutting, a technique refined into an art.

“I’ll teach it to you,” Ragna declared.

Encrid nodded.

Watching the fight, Benzense could only shake his head in disbelief.

“Monsters.”

That was the only word that came to mind.

Encrid picked up the two axes from the ground. Rem would need new weapons after breaking his old ones against the giant.

Other spoils included a handful of throwing daggers from the woman’s collection.

It was a shame the Whistle Daggers had all been used up.

‘I’ll have to craft more later.’

As the battle ended, they began regrouping.

From the front, a roar erupted.

“Audin! Audin!”

Cheers echoed.

Encrid turned his gaze ahead.

The mist was lifting as the sun rose, revealing their surroundings.

Beyond the fading mist, Audin stood alone.

Right in the heart of the enemy.