Eternally Regressing Knight - Chapter 144

The mustached commander of the Gray Dogs, now with fewer than twenty men remaining, furrowed his brow.

‘“They just charge in like this?”’

He had laid a trap—a tempting one at that.

But he hadn’t expected them to fall for it so easily.

In fact, his plan had been to use this trap against them.

By setting up similar traps in random locations, the enemy would struggle to discern what was real and what wasn’t.

If uncertainty made them hesitate, that would already count as a partial victory.

“If that happens, they’ll retreat. They won’t dare attack so recklessly,” one of his advisors, someone with a favorable view of him, had assured.

Now, the Gray Dogs—a once-proud independent unit—were reduced to shadows of their former selves.

Defeat after defeat on the battlefield and the death of Mitch Hurrier had taken their toll.

This mission was supposed to be his way of shouldering that responsibility.

The mustached man was tasked with disrupting the Naurilian forces in the rear, limiting their mobility.

He had made thorough preparations, but now…

‘“It feels like everything’s already gone to hell before it even began.”’

The enemy hadn’t hesitated. They had charged in immediately, cutting down his men without pause, their blades swinging relentlessly before asking, ‘“Shall we fight?”’

Even without words, their bodies, actions, and presence said it all.

‘‘Of course.’’

This was a disaster.

With the Naurilian main force now mobilizing in the rear, his superiors must already be grappling with the consequences.

What to do now?

Should he abandon everything?

The death of Mitch Hurrier? That was tolerable—his family used their children as disposable tools anyway.

But where did that leave him?

The mustached man shook off his doubts, realizing they would only cloud his focus.

He steeled himself and drew his sword.

‘Shing.’

With a swift motion, he unsheathed his blade and held it upright.

‘“I just have to kill them all.”’

The enemy’s guerrilla unit had broken through his trap.

Was that something to panic about? No, this was an opportunity.

‘“I’ll start by killing him.”’

The one who had put a hole in Mitch Hurrier.

Then the blonde swordsman next to him. Then the axe-wielder.

He planned to conserve his strength, taking them down one by one while accounting for any potential counterattacks.

As his thoughts solidified, he focused on his opponent ahead.

But something was off.

‘Was he always this good?’

Even just by observing his stance, the mustached man could sense it—his presence was overwhelming.

This was the same man who had stabbed Mitch Hurrier and escaped. That much was clear. He wasn’t someone you could forget easily.

Back then, he had barely survived.

Even after enduring threats from assassins, he had lived.

But was he this skilled before? It didn’t seem like it.

Had his abilities improved? Even if they had, it didn’t change the fact that he needed to be cut down.

The others behind him were no different.

The mustached man’s eyes glinted with resolve.

Watching this, Krys couldn’t shake a sense of unease.

‘“He doesn’t seem ordinary.”’

Krys lacked the ability to judge a fighter’s skill. That’s why he felt nervous.

The enemy had laid traps, and Krys had read their intentions.

That’s why he had suggested breaking through with sheer force.

He trusted in the misfit platoon’s strength.

But that didn’t completely dispel his anxiety—it was just his nature.

He always anticipated the worst-case scenario.

What would the outcome be?

For now, it would start with a duel between the platoon leader and the mustached man.

Krys’s eyes were fixed on the two of them.

The air felt heavier, as if time itself had slowed.

Spring sunlight filtered through the gap between them, piercing the tension.

Neither moved, swords in hand, completely still.

The dust that had been kicked up earlier was carried away by the wind.

In Krys’s vision, the two figures blurred slightly.

‘Clang!’

The sound of steel shattered the silence.

—

Ragna stood to the side, observing like a spectator.

‘“Not bad.”’

The mustached man’s sword was sharp, refined through years of dedicated training.

It was like a finely crafted table, its rough edges smoothed by countless hours of work.

A weapon honed by a craftsman.

On the other hand, Encrid was rough.

No matter how many times he refined himself, there were still parts of him that were incomplete.

He was like an unfinished vessel.

One side was nearing perfection.

The other was a work in progress.

“What is this, some kind of duel? Boring,” muttered Rem.

Ragna didn’t bother replying. Surprisingly, it was Jaxson who answered.

“If you’re bored, start cleaning up.”

His tone was calm and indifferent.

“To see so many people eager to stand by my side, today must be a blessed day,” another voice chimed in—the fanatic’s, no less.

Apart from the mustached man in front of Encrid, the enemy had encircled them with spears.

At a glance, the enemy outnumbered them three to one.

There were close to fifty opponents.

Even soldiers hidden in the supply wagons had emerged, all armed to the teeth.

They weren’t fully armored infantry, but among them were at least three wearing chainmail.

Yet, despite this, the misfit platoon seemed unconcerned.

They either had nerves of steel or were too reckless to care.

‘Clink.’

“Shall we start once that duel ends?” one of the chainmail-clad soldiers asked, nodding toward Encrid and the mustached man.

Confident, wasn’t he?

Even with their comrades lying dead on the ground, slain by Ragna’s sword, they remained assured.

“Sure,” Krys replied.

It was an accepted fact—winning the duel would give them the upper hand.

Steel clashed again as sparks flew between Encrid and the mustached man.

Ragna tuned out the surrounding noise, his eyes following Encrid’s hands, feet, and sword movements.

Between completion and incompletion, which would prevail?

‘Clang!’

The sound of blades crashing echoed again.

‘‘Completion.’’

Of course, completion should win. But what happens when the vessel itself is on a different level?

‘‘It’s over.’’

Ragna silently concluded.

The difference wasn’t just in skill but in mindset.

Victory was impossible with an attitude like that.

—

Blades clashed. Feet shuffled. Swords sang through the air. Dust and heat swirled around the combatants.

Yet none of it registered in Encrid’s mind.

He was wholly focused on his sword.

“Hah!”

The mustached man roared, bringing his sword down in a powerful strike.

It was a calculated blow, following the fundamentals of the heavy sword style.

Encrid gripped his sword with both hands, tilting it horizontally to deflect the force. His knees bent to absorb the impact, and with a twist, he let the force slide past.

‘Ki-ki-ki-ki-ing!’

The clash of steel sent sparks flying.

The mustached man pressed with raw strength; Encrid countered with finesse.

When the exchange reversed, Encrid struck with force, and the mustached man smoothly deflected.

His movements were polished—sharp and precise, even more so than Mitch Hurrier’s had been.

Not that Mitch Hurrier crossed Encrid’s mind.

Every ounce of Encrid’s attention was on the fight: his eyes, ears, hands, feet, and instincts, all tuned to his opponent.

He connected dots into lines.

With those lines, he read his opponent’s movements—parrying, dodging, and countering.

Ten exchanges passed.

Twice, Encrid faced danger.

Once, when the mustached man nearly slashed his wrist. Encrid barely blocked with his sword’s guard, deflecting the blow.

The second time, his opponent feinted with a horizontal slash before transitioning into a sudden thrust aimed at his stomach. Encrid had to raise the flat of his blade to deflect the piercing tip just in time.

The maneuver was almost acrobatic.

A fraction of a second slower, and the thrust would’ve left a gaping hole in his leather armor.

“Tch.”

The mustached man clicked his tongue as his sneak attack failed, a subtle sign of frustration.

But it was also a declaration: ‘Next time, I’ll kill you.’

Encrid ignored him.

After the second close call, Encrid shifted his footing, stepping to the left.

Not to be outdone, the mustached man mirrored him, refusing to give up a favorable position.

They circled each other, their blades within striking distance.

Encrid purposefully adjusted his stance, obscuring his left hand behind his right shoulder.

He switched his grip to his right hand alone, his left hand reaching for his waist.

The mustached man read the move immediately.

Years of experience and countless duels had honed his instincts.

His thoughts raced. ‘The left hand…’

He knew Encrid carried another sword.

The moment Encrid’s left hand dropped, the mustached man acted, swinging his blade from high right to low left in a diagonal slash.

A powerful blow with his heavy sword—it was the deciding strike, his assured victory.

But Encrid didn’t draw his second sword.

He only feigned the motion.

What followed was an attack he had been preparing for.

‘The Heart of Monstrous Strength.’

‘Thump!’

His heart surged, pumping blood through his veins like an explosion.

Strength coursed through his muscles, doubling his usual power.

No war cry escaped his lips. Only his bloodshot eyes locked onto his opponent’s.

The duel came down to a single decisive strike.

As the mustached man’s blade descended, Encrid swung his own horizontally, wielding it with just his right hand.

‘Clang!’ ‘Ting!’ ‘Thunk!’

Three distinct sounds erupted in rapid succession.

Their blades met, sparks flew, and both fighters shifted positions.

With their backs now turned to each other, the mustached man asked, “…Did you plan this?”

“From the start,” Encrid replied.

The mustached man’s blade remained clean, free of blood.

But it was broken—split cleanly in two.

Meanwhile, Encrid’s sword, crafted from a blend of Valerian steel and Noir iron, remained intact.

‘A fine blade,’ Encrid thought. At least, for now, it was perfect for him.

The mustached man collapsed forward.

Blood poured from a massive wound in his chest, where his ribs had been cleaved apart, leaving his heart unprotected.

Even Frok wouldn’t survive with a shattered heart.

The mustached man’s death was inevitable.

What Encrid didn’t realize was that this man had been the last hope of the Gray Dogs.

With his death, the name of the Gray Dogs faded into history.

“Phew.”

Encrid exhaled, wiping his blade clean.

His opponent had fixated on his left hand.

And that was the point.

It was a deliberate tactic—using Valen-style mercenary swordsmanship to implant an attack pattern in his opponent’s mind, sowing confusion.

‘‘It worked.’’

He had moved his sword exactly as planned.

The joy of winning wasn’t what filled Encrid’s chest—it was the satisfaction of execution.

‘‘It worked.’’

That exhilaration came first.

Using dual swords didn’t have to be his focus.

He just needed to wield the right weapon at the right time.

‘‘Even spears, shields, or other weapons.’’

Even those he had once abandoned now seemed within reach.

Trying them wouldn’t be a bad idea. Even if they didn’t feel as natural as a sword, the experience itself would hold value.

‘“Not bad,”’ Encrid muttered after killing his opponent.

“I don’t know why watching you fight excites me so much,” Rem said, grinning from ear to ear. His excitement was almost contagious as his lips curled into a playful smirk.

The chainmail-clad trio of enemy soldiers remained unfazed.

“Hmm, he wasn’t someone who should’ve died like that,” one remarked.

“What a shame,” another added.

“You should face full strength with full strength. Anything less is a mistake,” the third concluded.

‘At least they’re perceptive,’ Rem thought, nodding to himself.

They were right.

Encrid had fought with his full power, but his opponent had hesitated, worrying about what came next.

When an inferior fighter starts overthinking, defeat is inevitable.

“Shall we end this all at once?” Rem asked, stepping forward.

‘Thud.’

A hand, large and heavy like a bear’s paw, landed on his shoulder.

“You’re getting greedy, brother,” Audin said, shaking his head.

“Are you going to move your hand or not?”

Rem’s words carried as much menace as his excited grin, his eyes gleaming dangerously.

Audin, still chuckling softly, shook his head.

“You’re being too greedy, my barbaric brother.”

“What did you just say?”

‘Shing. Thud.’

Rem’s axe moved, slicing down in a perfectly vertical line.

Audin, surprisingly nimble for his size, stepped back.

A cold tension hung between them.

Audin’s smile, once warm and easy, now seemed frozen, as though carved into stone.

The chainmail-clad trio watching this exchange was dumbfounded.

‘What are these guys doing? Are they fighting each other?’

‘And over what—deciding who gets to fight us?’

It was insulting. It was outright mockery.

“These lunatics…” one of them muttered.

Finally, one of the three stepped forward.

He wielded a rounded steel war hammer, its head heavy and menacing.

As he lunged forward, his path was blocked by a sword.

“You’re mine,” came a voice.

It belonged to the blonde swordsman with fiery red eyes, eyes that seemed to burn with intensity.

A fiery clash of blades ensued.

The hammer-wielding soldier swung a massive round shield with brutal efficiency, using it for both offense and defense.

‘Thunk!’

Ragna’s blade struck the shield and recoiled like a swallow skimming the water’s surface, returning effortlessly to a ready position.

“Cutting in, are we?”

Seeing this, Rem launched himself forward.

“You’re breaking the order! The Lord will not approve, brother!” Audin declared, stepping into the fray.

And so, the battle continued.