Eternally Regressing Knight - Chapter 147

“Why aren’t they here?”

The Azpen Duchy’s detachment, which included three knight-candidates, couldn’t find any trace of the enemy.

Shouldn’t there be a rear guard here? Or at least some signs of activity?

Weren’t they heading toward the Cross Guards? So why was there no one here?

Not even a reconnaissance team to monitor their movements.

Typically, before a real battle begins, reconnaissance teams from both sides would run into each other—exchanging insults, maybe even some arrows—before the actual clash.

For that reason, a portion of their forces had been split off.

Three knight-candidates.

A considerable detachment from the main force, including giants and other special units.

This detachment needed to engage in combat. They had to fight.

But all they found was gravel crunching under the commander’s boots.

No enemies. Only a few ghouls that had emerged near the riverbank.

And faint traces of an encampment from about three days ago.

“What about the hawk’s talon?”

“We’ve lost contact with him.”

To make matters worse, the guerrilla team assigned to monitor the area and link up with them had vanished.

“They’re dead, aren’t they?”

The knight-candidate commander asked, his tone casual.

The lieutenant hesitated before replying.

“Yes, it seems so.”

Seems so? What kind of answer was that?

They were all dead.

The commander thought to himself. Should they attack the rear as they were?

What would happen then?

Would the enemy panic like a horse with its tail set on fire?

He was curious to see Naurilia’s response.

At that moment.

“Signal fire spotted!”

A sharp-eyed messenger came running, his breath labored after crossing the mountain.

The commander turned to look back toward the direction of the main unit.

Signal fires—only lit when the main force was in peril.

So what did it mean that a signal fire was lit now?

“We’re going back.”

The commander didn’t hesitate. That decision was their saving grace.

By regrouping with the main force, they avoided annihilation.

—

After joining Marcus’ infantry unit, Encrid rarely spoke.

Soldiers cast sideways glances at the so-called “mad squad,” but no one dared to approach them.

“You’re back?”

Benzense was one of the few to speak to them, casually throwing out a greeting.

Encrid gave a slight nod and continued walking. His steps were slow, his thoughts heavy. He delved deeper into his mind, replaying the battle over and over.

‘I couldn’t use [Perception of Evasion].’

Drawing out the [Heart of Monstrous Strength] required too much preparation.

He had fought by piecing together everything he had at his disposal.

‘Plant the left hand on their head, slash with the right.’

The foundation was built on preemptive maneuvers and the [Heart of Monstrous Strength].

He had felt exhilaration during the battle. Some techniques, like wielding two swords, had proven effective.

So what came next?

Reflection. Revisiting the fight.

Even in victories, there were lessons to be learned—always.

Crunch, crunch.

The unit marched over a gravel field, heading toward the rear of the main force.

And so, the march continued.

For three days, they repeated the cycle of eating, walking, and sleeping until they finally reached the allied camp.

Of course, whether they reached the camp or not didn’t concern Encrid.

He was too preoccupied with reflecting on the battle.

He neither saw nor heard what was happening around him.

‘The fundamentals.’

What about the mustachioed swordsman’s blade? It was sharp and precise, heavy yet agile.

It adapted when necessary, to just the right degree.

It was a difference in mastery of the fundamentals.

Was winning or losing the issue here?

Of course, it was part of it. If they had lost, they would have died.

But losing a winnable fight held no meaning either.

Always do your best.

Advance, even if only by half a step.

For a better tomorrow.

Victory didn’t erase his hunger for improvement.

Did he think mastering the fundamentals once was enough?

‘Was I arrogant?’

Living through those desperate, scrappy days, he couldn’t have imagined himself acting like this.

Encrid reflected. Polishing the basics was something so obvious, so fundamental.

Take, for example, training the [Isolation Technique].

It was daily repetition—the same movements over and over.

Whether it was the Valaf-style martial arts, heavy swordsmanship, or light swordsmanship.

Precision, balance, fundamentals—it all came back to basics.

The moment that realization struck, he couldn’t hold himself back. His hands itched, his heart raced, his skin tingled.

Even in the middle of the march.

‘Shing.’

He drew his sword. Holding it upright and straight, he swung it with precision, as if crafting the stroke of a master artisan.

A clean downward slash, reminiscent of the mustachioed swordsman’s strikes.

Whoosh.

Right in the middle of the march, he started swinging his sword.

Anyone else might have drawn attention or scorn for such behavior, but not Encrid.

“What’s going on? Is it an ambush? Oh, it’s just Encrid, the squad leader.”

“Is he… a bit off?”

One soldier twirled a finger by his temple.

“Isn’t he part of the mad squad?”

“Yeah, let’s just keep moving.”

Everyone dismissed it as another oddity. It wasn’t the first time.

Besides, everyone had heard of the mad squad’s feats in the previous battle.

They were practically half-heroes at this point.

Some gazes carried a touch of awe and respect.

‘He trains like a man possessed,’ they thought.

Perhaps that’s why he fights so well?

Such thoughts lingered in the minds of the soldiers.

Even the officers in charge of other squads left them alone. Surely, they must have received special instructions from Marcus himself.

Anyone could tell the mad squad was being treated differently.

Exempt from all duties, including guard shifts and meal rotations.

For various reasons, no one questioned it.

The mad squad members, in turn, didn’t pay attention to the stares around them.

Ragna glanced at their squad leader suddenly swinging his sword and thought about the words he had intended to share.

Now, those words felt meaningless.

“Reinforce your fundamentals.”

He had demonstrated [Severance] but hadn’t even started teaching it.

There were so many things to build, so many things to explain.

Would he become a wall of despair or a guiding milestone?

He needed to teach and show him.

There was so much to say. So many things people forget as they grow stronger.

Ragna mulled over these thoughts deeply.

What does the squad leader need now?

After much deliberation, Ragna finally organized his thoughts.

‘Clatter.’

The gravel field came to an end, and Ragna stopped walking.

“Yes, that’s right.”

He muttered to himself.

The squad leader didn’t need nagging. He was someone who reflected on himself and filled in his own gaps. That’s just the kind of man he was.

As Ragna stood there muttering, he felt his entire body tingle.

The things he had easily forgotten, overlooked, and deemed unnecessary to revisit—those were what the squad leader constantly built upon, using each piece as a cornerstone.

Ragna felt an unbidden flame of motivation ignite within him.

It seemed absurd, but…

Whenever he looked at his squad leader, he felt an irresistible urge to swing his sword.

“Have I lost it? What’s so right?”

The voice belonged to Rem, the mad barbarian, who tilted his head in confusion.

“Hoho, are you offering prayers on your own? Did the Lord answer?”

On the other side, Audin, the massive devout soldier, joined in.

Ragna didn’t want to respond. He didn’t want to ruin this good mood.

But Rem was persistent.

And Audin was diligent.

“Hey, what’s so right? Did some ghost crawl into your head? Hey, big guy, shouldn’t you do something about this? Don’t you have a ghost-busting punch or something?”

“Hoho, brother, possession doesn’t happen so easily. Especially not in a disciplined unit like this. I think he was just offering prayers. So, what did the Lord say?”

He wished they would just leave him alone.

Ragna’s desperation quickly turned into murderous intent.

‘Should I just cut them down?’

As soon as the thought crossed his mind, a palpable wave of killing intent radiated from him, causing both Rem and Audin to react simultaneously.

“Hey, you wanna leave that head here? Want me to help?”

“Brother, are you upset because the Lord didn’t answer? If so, sweating it out isn’t a bad idea.”

In this squad, killing intent usually led to sparring—it was an unspoken rule of the mad squad.

Unless Encrid stopped them, that is, but he was too absorbed in his own world.

‘Shing.’

Ragna unsheathed his sword and swung it.

Rem responded immediately.

‘Clang!’

The axe and sword collided, sparks flying as killing intent crackled between Ragna and Rem.

Audin, standing nearby, couldn’t remain uninvolved. Ragna didn’t hesitate.

Using the rebound from clashing with Rem’s axe, Ragna slashed at Audin’s chest.

Audin stepped back, slapping the flat of the blade with his palm to deflect the attack.

It was a display of skill—no, it was a masterful performance.

Rem, Ragna, and Audin.

It was astonishing how effortlessly they performed such feats, as if it were second nature.

Soon, the three of them were completely engrossed in their sparring.

Jaxson, observing from the sidelines, thought they were all idiots.

His gaze drifted from the trio to his squad leader.

He couldn’t help but feel a twinge of dissatisfaction.

He felt he had explained [Perception of Evasion] well enough.

Was it that hard to improve bodily coordination?

It wasn’t easy, of course—not at all.

But wasn’t this unfair treatment?

Why had Encrid mastered the [Heart of Monstrous Strength] so quickly, yet lagged with [Perception of Evasion]?

Was it neglect? Was his technique less of a priority?

“It’s irritating.”

Jaxson muttered, but no one answered him.

The trio was busy fighting.

Andrew and Mack, not wanting to get dragged into it, quietly slipped away.

Finn was too busy questioning whether this squad was even functioning properly.

Only Krys, accustomed to this chaos, focused on his duties.

Receiving orders through the Elf commander in Encrid’s stead, Krys addressed him.

“Why you?”

The commander, visibly annoyed, asked.

“If you interfere now, the squad leader will hate it, the squad members will hate it, and it’ll turn into an even bigger mess.”

“Bigger than this?”

Encrid continued walking, swinging his sword in solitude.

The trio kept fighting, and Jaxson maintained his stoic expression. Finn suspected provoking him wouldn’t end well.

Yes, it was already chaotic enough.

“Yes, even bigger,” Krys replied confidently.

Stopping them would only escalate things—that much he knew from experience.

“Understood. The main force will proceed as planned.”

The commander didn’t bother with jokes or small talk, getting straight to the point.

Krys, feeling a bit mischievous, asked, “You want our squad leader, don’t you?”

The commander turned to look at Krys. The Elf’s green eyes gleamed like gemstones, enhancing his inhuman beauty.

Their gem-like quality made them unreadable. Krys couldn’t discern any emotions behind them.

But he had a hunch.

“Of course I do.”

The words weren’t about desire in a romantic sense, and Krys understood that.

The commander turned and left. Krys, feeling a chill run down his spine, rubbed his arms instinctively.

Then he turned his attention back to his squad leader, waiting for him to return to normal.

It wasn’t until nearly a whole day had passed—when the squad stopped to prepare for camp—that Encrid finally halted.

Does swinging a sword while walking even help?

Krys had no idea.

The fight between the trio, including Rem, ended surprisingly quickly.

Perhaps they all knew it wouldn’t truly end here.

Or maybe, without the squad leader stepping in, it just wasn’t as fun.

Who could say? Krys didn’t particularly care to know.

“Captain.”

Sweat drenched Encrid turned his gaze toward Krys.

“We’re retreating to the city.”

“Hm?”

Krys knew his captain didn’t like lengthy explanations. Though his mouth itched to elaborate, he kept it simple.

“The plan worked. When the enemy diverted some of their forces to cover the flanking route, the main unit launched an assault.”

The gist of the plan Krys had devised was simple.

The mad squad would strike from behind.

The hawk’s talon unit—or whatever they were called—would be drawn in and eliminated.

Meanwhile, Marcus’ battalion would pretend to march toward the Cross Guards. The pretense alone was sufficient.

‘A battlefield already in retreat.’

If he were the enemy commander, what would he think?

Would he bear the humiliation of letting the city be attacked?

Maybe. Maybe not.

Either way, there was no downside.

Even by merely pretending, much could be gained.

Krys’ objective was ensuring safety.

Feigning an attack provided Marcus’ battalion a perfect excuse to return to their original base.

The idea was to view moving away from the enemy as a constant—something that would undoubtedly occur.

As time passed, variables decreased, and things fell perfectly in line with Krys’ calculations.

Of course, not everything went as Krys had anticipated.

Take the mad squad’s combat power, for instance.

‘I knew they fought well.’

But this was beyond his imagination. They didn’t just fight well—they fought insanely well.

As an independent squad and an elite force, they seemed even more impressive than some of the infamous slayers stationed on the frontier.

Afterward, they regrouped with Marcus’ battalion.

Meanwhile, a portion of their forces, including knights stationed in the Green Pearl Plains, advanced.

This part deviated slightly from Krys’ expectations.

‘They’re really advancing?’

Even without pressing further, they had already expanded their territory and dealt a devastating blow to Azpen.

But pushing forward and seizing the momentum resulted in catastrophic damage to the enemy.

The relentless charge followed by close combat.

The difference in power between the two forces had grown significantly.

The reports described it as an overwhelming victory.

As a result, Marcus’ battalion and the Border Guard’s standing forces were ordered to return to the city.

Perhaps they wanted troops stationed there in case some deranged enemies attempted a counterattack.

Or maybe it was a way to reward a unit that had accomplished so much.

Krys conveyed all this in a short, straightforward message.

“We’re heading home.”

“Not bad,” Encrid, the squad leader, replied.

Had he grasped the full extent of what Krys meant?

It didn’t matter. He could explain it all slowly later.

For now, returning was all that mattered.

Krys found immense satisfaction in this.

Above all, the map tucked in his chest made him feel even warmer.

It was one of the treasures the enemy had hidden, and Krys instinctively knew.

‘This is the real deal.’

Encrid, too, had no complaints about returning.

In fact, he was pleased.

This battlefield and the fights had taught him much. He wanted to reflect on everything he had learned and imprint it on his body.

He needed time.

A dullard must struggle and push forward to improve.

Encrid resolved to do just that.

Yearning and thirst.

Those emotions burned in his chest, leaving him unable to stay idle.

‘But why does that guy…’

Encrid turned his gaze toward the occasional prickle of killing intent. It was Jaxson.

Whenever he was about to forget, those sharp stares would return.

Jaxson seemed to harbor some dissatisfaction, though Encrid doubted he’d get a straight answer even if he asked.

What else could he do?

Just let it be. It wasn’t as if this was the first time his squad had grievances.

“We’re heading back? Too bad. Upset you didn’t get to see a knight fight?” Rem’s teasing voice broke through.

Encrid nodded as if to acknowledge it.

“It is a little disappointing.”

But, at the same time, he didn’t care.

‘Crunch.’

With each step, Encrid glanced down at his hands.

Calloused palms.

The weight of the two swords hanging at his hips.

The armor strapped to his body.

“Nya-ah.”

At some point, a panther began walking alongside him, as well as his squadmates.

Encrid, too, was walking.

And.

When you have conviction in the path you walk, there’s no need to confirm the destination.

“It’s fine.”

Encrid replied, raising his head. The magic of spring spread around him, and the gentle sunlight settled on his shoulders.