Eternally Regressing Knight - Chapter 143: Into the Trap with Strength (1)

Encrid was well-acquainted with leading small-scale reconnaissance missions.

Added to that was his accumulated experience.

There had been days crossing through tall grassy fields.
Days when he and his platoon had attacked the Gilpin Guild.
And nights fighting werewolves, mages, and ambush units.

What was the most critical factor in all of it?

As a commander, what must be prioritized above all else?

‘‘Perception.’’

It starts with knowing. Knowing what you’re doing, understanding the consequences of your actions.

You couldn’t know everything.

Nor could you put it all into words.

But there was a sense, a deeply ingrained understanding from experience rather than instinct.

“Let’s go further in,” Encrid said.

At his words, Finn adjusted their course. She followed her leader’s orders faithfully.

Krys blinked and looked at his commander, curious about what he was thinking. As usual, Encrid’s expression was unreadable—calm and detached.

Everyone quickened their pace.

Getting caught by the enemy wasn’t an option.

“Can’t we just fight them? If we kill enough, they might stop chasing us,” Rem grumbled.

“No,” Encrid shot back, his tone sharp, almost a command.

What was surprising wasn’t the answer itself, but how readily Rem complied.

Ragna followed his commander’s instructions without hesitation as well.

“Ragna, just focus on the back of the person in front of you. Don’t look anywhere else,” Encrid said.

Audin and Jaxson needed no additional orders.

Audin chuckled, breaking the silence. “Well now, you’re sounding more like a proper commander, brother.”

“Am I?” Encrid responded indifferently, his tone unchanged.

His attitude, actions, and words remained the same.

Perhaps that consistency was why they followed him.

Even Krys, who typically analyzed every detail and questioned every situation, found himself swept along.

If someone like him, always so careful, could feel this way, it was no wonder the other platoon members followed suit.

Even Jaxson, who prided himself on his stoic demeanor, couldn’t entirely hide his emotions.

Occasionally, glimpses of frustration, pity, or concern would surface.

Krys couldn’t help but laugh.

Even now, in a situation that wasn’t exactly funny.

‘‘Why does this feel so stable?’’

Though Krys had weighed every factor before proposing this plan, experiencing it firsthand felt different.

This platoon exceeded his expectations.

If the enemy had claws as sharp as hawks,

This platoon was the countermeasure—a band of maniacs.

Highly mobile, their combat prowess was such that only knights could hope to stop them.

That was Krys’s assessment.

Could they be used as a guerrilla unit? Surely, if someone suggested otherwise, they’d be lying.

But there was a problem.

“Will they even listen to orders?”

It was great that they fought well, but their unpredictability made them difficult to control.

What was needed?

A central figure, someone to unify and guide them.

And that could only be one person.

Krys knew, having observed Encrid up close.

That duel…

If Encrid hadn’t appeared on the battlefield, sparred with them, and rolled in the dirt under the guise of training, the misfit platoon might have collapsed long ago.

And if that had happened, this battle would’ve been a disaster.

At least, that’s how Krys saw it.

It all changed because of Encrid.

One duel turned the tides of the battlefield.

‘‘As long as there’s a central figure.’’

A fast, focused, chaotic strike mission? The misfit platoon could handle it.

Krys didn’t have the expertise to judge their individual combat abilities.

He was no good with swords or weapons, so that was to be expected.

But he could evaluate what they were capable of based on facts and reality.

Knowing these people as well as he did made it clear.

Thus, his first attempt at a strategy was this:

If the enemy struck with arrows,

They’d strike back with their feet.

While Krys hadn’t intended it, Encrid seemed to have grasped part of his idea.

When Encrid ordered them further in, it made Krys wonder—had he understood the plan?

Just as Krys was about to ask, Encrid spoke first.

“Hit and run. The enemy will be too focused on our main force to notice, and along the way, we’ll run into their guerrilla units.”

What did it mean for Encrid to be experienced with small-scale operations?

What kind of perspective had his experiences given him?

‘‘He sees the intent.’’

Krys’s intent.

The enemy’s intent.

And what needed to be done in between.

There was something only their platoon, the misfit platoon, could do.

And so they would do it.

Would this ultimately influence the course of the war? The main battle?

‘‘Unlikely.’’

Then again, Krys’s perspective might differ.

With his sharp eyes, knack for scheming, and oddly specific dream of running a ladies’ salon until his dying days, Krys often thought differently from others.

“Is opening that salon still your dream?” Encrid asked out of nowhere.

Why he felt curious, even Encrid didn’t know. He simply wanted to ask.

He had no intention of mocking him.

Who was he to ridicule anyone’s dream?

“Of course. Why do you ask? It’s obvious,” Krys replied matter-of-factly.

A man with such a dream devising a strategy like this? Truly an enigma.

The platoon picked up their pace, their mobility reaching its peak.

They climbed and climbed again.

Even Finn, a seasoned ranger, was left speechless.

Andrew and Mack’s breathing grew labored.

Krys had to be half-carried by Audin to keep up.

Even Encrid was starting to feel the strain.

According to Finn, this was an intense forced march, even by ranger standards.

They crossed ridge after ridge, eventually descending onto flatter terrain.

They had now reached the enemy’s rear.

A small, elite force utilizing the terrain to their advantage.

Of course, this was a tactic the enemy’s guerrilla units had employed first.

“Let’s go.”

Rem moved with excitement, seemingly tireless.

The entire platoon appeared invigorated, almost thrilled by the grueling pace and the prospect of battle.

Encrid felt the same.

What follows a harsh march?

Combat.

The kind of battle where blood sprays, flesh is torn, and bones are revealed.

“Attack!” Encrid shouted as he charged.

The enemy’s rear was riddled with openings.

Though their sentries had increased to three, it made no difference.

‘Piii!’

The whistle blew as soon as the enemy spotted Encrid’s group.

At the same moment, Jaxson sidestepped with a quick, fluid motion.

‘Ting.’

With a single step forward, his blade was unsheathed and thrust.

‘Thud.’

One down.

He pulled the sword free and thrust again.

‘Thud.’

Two down.

After dispatching the pair, Jaxson positioned his sword vertically in front of him, preparing to defend.

‘Clang!’

Watching Jaxson fight, it seemed almost too easy for him to kill.

The two soldiers with gaping holes in their necks collapsed to the ground.

Encrid’s platoon had taken out six enemies in total before retreating once again.

They descended a ridge, only to spot a crossbow unit lying in wait. Without hesitation, they backed off.

When pursued by a small reconnaissance team, they doubled back and wiped them out entirely.

As night fell, they hid deep in the mountains, setting up camp to rest.

Proper rest was essential.

“The stream nearby is nice, but it’s a shame we can’t light a fire,” Finn remarked as she removed her boots, shaking off dirt.

It was spring—warm weather, often called the ‘Season of Mana.’

Though their meals were meager, at least they didn’t have to shiver in the cold.

Still…

“See? I knew it’d be like this,” Rem said, smugly pulling out a heated leather cloak.

The barbarian hated the cold and had come prepared.

Ragna, on the other hand, simply lay down and fell asleep wherever he pleased.

Jaxson climbed a tree and slept perched on a sturdy branch.

The night watch was rotated, excluding Krys.

“I’ll take first watch,” Andrew volunteered, his gaze thoughtful and contemplative.

No one opposed him. Carrying the burden of unresolved thoughts would only hinder him in battle.

There was still danger looming in this mission, and ignoring it would be unwise.

Even Mack didn’t object.

By the next day, Krys was certain Encrid had understood his intentions.

“Is it time?”

After crossing several ridges, Encrid asked the question while scouting the enemy’s position again.

Krys had identified a trap—a location ideal for an ambush and quick strikes.

There, among the uneven terrain nestled between hills, they found an enemy supply unit.

A few supply wagons sat on the flat land between the ridges.

If they entered and blocked the rear, the enemy would have no escape.

Everything about it screamed “trap.”

The lack of a crossbow unit made the bait even more enticing.

It was an opportunity—a chance to confuse and disrupt the enemy’s plans.

“Let’s go,” Encrid said firmly, readying himself.

No matter how carefully they planned, battlefields were inherently unpredictable.

Like flames, they could flare up unexpectedly, consuming everything in their path.

Was this like carrying dry straw into a fire?

‘Probably not.’

Encrid understood something the enemy didn’t.

They underestimated him.

The “soldier who killed a giant”? That was all they saw him as.

It wasn’t enough.

Encrid led the charge, sprinting toward the supply wagons nestled in the hollow.

The enemy soldiers, fumbling with food and supplies, reacted sluggishly.

To lay an effective trap, the enemy should have hidden their troops or at least armed them more heavily.

Instead, they were exposed.

Among them, Encrid noticed a familiar face.

“You.”

The soldier had a mustache and bore the insignia of the Gray Dogs.

Encrid met his gaze as the enemy thrust a spear toward him.

‘Ching! Ching!’

Two distinct sounds rang out as Encrid drew his swords.

‘Clang! Thud!’

Deflecting the spear with his left-hand blade, he drove his right-hand sword into the soldier’s heart.

‘Frok would be horrified.’

As the blade pierced through the padded gambeson, blood stained the fabric, mixing with bits of cloth and cotton stuffing.

There was no need to worry about cleaning the blade—there were plenty more to kill.

‘Ting.’

Encrid sheathed his left-hand sword at his waist. He’d draw it again when the moment called for it.

For now, he gripped his remaining sword with both hands, standing firm.

His presence, his confidence, his aura—it all held the enemy at bay.

“Good! This is great!” Rem exclaimed, energized, as he swung his axe.

Audin joined in with a grin, wielding his club.

Jaxson kept to himself, calmly cutting down enemies with precision as they charged.

But the ones who drew the most attention were Encrid and Ragna.

“Hmm.”

Standing beside Encrid, Ragna began swinging his swords with relentless force.

Despite carrying multiple blades at his waist, his movements were unimpeded.

Ragna’s sword carved menacing lines through the air.

‘Whoosh.’

His heavy sword style was brutal.

With a downward slash, he split an enemy’s skull.

Pulling the blade free, he swung horizontally, severing the neck of another soldier who had tried to retreat.

Ragna’s footwork was relentless.

In a clash between spears and swords, the advantage belonged to the spears.

But Ragna’s agile steps erased that advantage, rendering it meaningless.

As he moved deftly, enemy soldiers began falling one by one.

The trap the enemy had set cast a shadow over their faces.

What was this?

How could such skilled fighters be mere guerrillas?

Something felt off.

This wasn’t what they had anticipated.

Was this right?

The enemy’s numbers were over forty.

And they weren’t entirely unskilled, either.

“Form up!”

The mustached soldier shouted, his voice booming over the chaos.

The once overconfident enemy soldiers, who had underestimated Encrid and his platoon, suddenly shifted into formation.

The mustached man stepped directly in front of Encrid.

“You… you bastard.”

Seeing the man’s seething anger, Encrid nodded lightly.

Since the man was acknowledging him, there was no reason not to return the gesture.

“Well, uh… been doing well, I hope?”

Encrid’s lighthearted and familiar tone caused the mustached man’s pupils to quiver violently.

His gaze burned with rising fury.

He looked ready to attack at any moment.

Encrid prepared himself, but the mustached man let out a deep breath, visibly calming himself.

‘As expected.’

This wasn’t an amateur. He didn’t let his emotions dictate his actions. Instead of succumbing to his anger, he steadied his breathing.

And so…

‘This makes the test all the more meaningful.’

A duel wielding two swords—would it hold up against a skilled opponent?

It was time to find out.