Eternally Regressing Knight - Chapter 148

Ten days had passed since the retreat.

It was a day when even flowers began to bloom within the Border Guard’s territory. Spring had arrived in full.

During that time, there had been a single rainfall, news of ongoing battlefield cleanups, and a continuous stream of victory reports.

Word soon spread that the Azpen Duchy had requested peace.

Naurilia had claimed part of Azpen’s territory, specifically the Green Pearl Plains.

Though the land had been barren for years and would require considerable effort to develop, a victory was still a victory—an overwhelming one at that.

The end of the battlefield was marked with cheers, and as spring arrived, people indulged in its magical allure.

In this buoyant atmosphere, Encrid’s past ten days remained unchanging.

Nothing had shifted for him, nor did he expect it to.

‘Wham!’ He swung his sword.

“Brother, not yet. Hold your stance, sit down fully, keep your back straight, inhale deeply, and feel the pressure in your abdomen. If you lose that pressure, your back will break!” Audin chuckled as he barked instructions.

Encrid continued his training, performing what could only be described as a bizarre exercise—squatting with Audin perched on his back.

Sword practice, physical conditioning, sparring.

These three things consumed his days.

It didn’t matter how excited others were; none of it affected Encrid.

While Krys roamed around restlessly, Encrid stayed rooted in his routine.

As the squad leader of an independent unit, acknowledged for his role in the previous battlefield, he wasn’t assigned any duties.

It had been ten days of pure rest.

For Encrid, though, it was ten days of intense training.

Yet, something had changed.

“Huff!”

Nearby, soldiers who knew Encrid or had fought alongside him began behaving differently.

From early morning, they trained tirelessly with their spears. What had started as a small trend was now widespread; many soldiers were devoting themselves to rigorous training.

They swung their weapons, pouring sweat into their efforts.

Their commitment to physical conditioning and mastery of their weapons was serious.

But there was an even more significant change.

“Sir, could I trouble you for some guidance?”

A soldier approached Encrid.

“Me?”

Encrid paused, wiping sweat from his brow, his sword resting at his side. He pointed to himself with a questioning look.

It made sense—this was an unexpected scene.

Him, teaching someone? Guiding or mentoring?

Such a concept felt alien to Encrid.

He had never focused on anything other than learning, mastering, and advancing on his own path.

Teaching, of all things, felt like the least fitting role for him.

“Why not give it a try?” Rem, who had been idly watching, suddenly chimed in. He had seemed half-asleep but had apparently been paying attention.

Encrid nodded.

He had already considered it.

The soldier’s eyes, full of earnestness, reflected the same longing and thirst that burned within himself.

‘Ping.’

Encrid lightly tapped the soldier’s spearhead with his sword.

The soldier flinched, his shoulders trembling slightly.

What was his skill level?

From what Encrid had learned from Audin, one could gauge a soldier’s discipline and physical conditioning from their stance.

This one appeared fairly well-trained.

“Private Paul,” the soldier introduced himself.

Encrid listened absentmindedly, letting the words flow in one ear and out the other.

All his focus was on observing the soldier, not neglecting a single detail.

This was the best he could do—the only thing he believed he could offer.

Paul swallowed nervously and assumed his stance.

His left hand extended forward while his right hand pulled back. His legs shifted into a cross-step position as he shouted, “Hup!” and thrust his spear.

‘Whoosh.’

It was a refined move for a soldier.

Encrid watched the spearhead’s trajectory carefully, his body moving instinctively to react.

Seeing and responding, his body moved naturally. Though not yet perfected, the technique of [Perception of Evasion] flowed from him.

Twisting to the side, Encrid reached out with his left hand, catching the spear’s shaft by pressing his palm underneath it and lifting it upward.

“Gah!”

Paul reflexively pulled back on his spear, veins bulging in his neck as he used all his strength.

Encrid rotated his body, pivoting on his left foot while pulling the spear shaft inward with his left hand.

His movements were fluid, his right foot planted firmly as his left hand dragged the spear with ease. There was no need for the [Heart of Monstrous Strength].

Just a bit of technique and moderate strength sufficed.

‘Tap.’

With a simple motion, Encrid brought his sword down lightly, tapping the soldier on the head.

Of course, it was the flat of the blade, not the edge.

Feeling the weight of the sword on his hair, Paul stammered in surprise.

“Oh.”

“It’s over.”

“Ah, yes.”

Encrid released the spear shaft, and Paul quickly gathered his weapon, standing there awkwardly.

“Um, could you tell me what I’m lacking?”

A seasoned soldier like Paul asking this question meant one thing.

It meant he had confidence in his own skills but recognized room for improvement.

Yet he was seeking advice from Encrid?

What would the old Encrid have thought—the Encrid who had once been the subject of ridicule when the mad squad was seen as a band of troublemakers?

And now, someone was asking him for guidance?

On closer inspection, the soldier’s face wasn’t unfamiliar. They had crossed paths a few times before. Considering the intensity of past battles, Paul was likely a veteran.

He even wore the insignia of a squad leader.

Why? What brought this change?

Encrid stared at him, puzzled.

Paul endured the awkwardness, standing there with determination in his eyes.

Earnestness, yearning, and thirst.

The desire for something just out of reach. It was the same as what coiled within Encrid himself.

He couldn’t ignore it.

Truthfully, a single sparring match had already revealed what Paul needed to improve.

“You need to build more strength.”

A spear, after all, was a heavy weapon—not as light as it seemed. Paul lacked the strength needed to handle it effectively.

“Yes, thank you.”

Paul saluted, and Encrid nodded in return.

From that day forward, Paul dedicated himself to strength training, focusing on lifting heavier loads to build his power.

The same was true for the soldiers under his command.

A wave of training and strength conditioning swept through the unit.

Wasn’t this the same unit that had just returned from the battlefield?

Shouldn’t this be a time to celebrate their victory?

Of course, many soldiers took the chance to head into the city to relax.

Some drank themselves senseless from morning until night.

For some, spending the day at the red-light district seemed far more appealing than preparing for the future through training.

Encrid didn’t reprimand them.

What did it matter to him?

He was just a squad leader, leading an independent unit.

At present, he couldn’t even set foot on a battlefield dominated by knight-candidates.

Would he have liked to see their battles? To say otherwise would be a lie.

Yet his perspective remained the same.

If the destination was clear, there was no need to be distracted by the scenery along the way.

Had it been a fight involving Sir Cypress, it might have been different.

What if it were a real knight—someone whose name was renowned across the entire continent?

He would probably want to watch.

But who could say? Life only reveals its truths when the time comes.

“Having fun?”

Rem, who had been watching silently, grinned instead of laughing as he asked.

Fun? He wasn’t sure.

“I don’t know.”

As always, he gave an honest answer.

Rem finally laughed at that.

Encrid returned to his training, immersing himself once more.

—

In the midst of his focused training:

“Could I have a turn?”

Another soldier approached, requesting a spar. After easily besting them, Encrid offered a single piece of advice.

“Your feet are too stiff.”

Not long after, another approached for a spar.

“You should relax your shoulders.”

More advice followed.

After several sparring matches:

“Uh… could I… uh, try?”

Someone else asked, their nervousness evident, though the meaning was clear without further elaboration.

Their youthful face suggested they were about Andrew’s age—or perhaps even younger.

“Fine,” Encrid said with a sigh.

None of his squadmates stepped in to stop him.

In the past, hadn’t they always found a reason to interfere whenever someone approached him? Sometimes even picking fights themselves?

Why weren’t they doing so now?

Most soldiers in the unit were armed with spears.

Using a different weapon typically signified someone belonged to a specialized unit.

This soldier carried a short-handled war hammer. The rounded head shone, suggesting it had seen plenty of use.

It didn’t look particularly heavy, but it was undoubtedly an efficient and powerful weapon.

The way they casually spun the hammer in their wrist spoke of practiced familiarity.

“I’m with the frontier garrison,” they said.

As expected, Encrid nodded absently.

‘Whirl.’

The soldier twirled the hammer, their eyes glinting.

To Encrid, their intent was transparent.

Was he too accustomed to the Valen-style mercenary swordsmanship?

The soldier’s movements and tricks were plainly obvious.

‘Thud! Thud! Thud!’

The garrison soldier gripped the hammer in one hand and swung it downward with all their strength.

Rather than block, Encrid sidestepped the hammer’s trajectory, evading it entirely.

As expected, the soldier reached for their waist with their other hand, attempting to draw something.

Before their elbow fully extended, Encrid grabbed their wrist.

“I can see it.”

He spoke plainly.

The technique was simple and straightforward.

Draw attention with the hammer, then throw a short-range dagger.

It was a technique strikingly similar to Valen-style swordsmanship.

“Valen-style mercenary swordsmanship?”

He asked, and the soldier nodded.

“You should refine your hammer technique further.”

Encrid instinctively pointed out the flaw.

At the same moment, he realized something.

The advice he had just given was something he needed to hear as well.

Improving their hammer technique would allow them to conceal their dagger better.

Avoid drawing attention to the dual-weapon tactic from the start.

Their talent was undeniable—so much so that Encrid was reminded of a certain kid who had once put a hole in his stomach.

Back then, he hadn’t even been able to fight back properly.

And now?

He recalled something one of his instructors had once said:

“Improvement starts with knowing where you stand.”

Awareness.

Revisiting self-awareness.

To move forward onto a new path, one must first understand their current position.

—

Through each sparring session and moment of teaching, more soldiers came to him for guidance.

With each encounter, Encrid realized something new and moved forward.

Whether the steps were slow or deliberate didn’t matter.

One lesson came from observing a soldier thrusting their spear too hastily.

Haste was of no benefit.

Another lesson came from observing an opponent who maintained composure while delivering precise and efficient movements.

“Ruth,” the garrison soldier said, introducing themselves.

They were from the western frontier garrison.

Ruth glanced briefly at Rem, who didn’t seem to care.

Encrid defeated Ruth without much trouble. Though they were a tricky opponent, Encrid’s experiences were so deeply ingrained that he handled them effortlessly.

“You’re strong.”

Ruth muttered in admiration before leaving, their gaze fixed only on Encrid.

—

As more and more soldiers sought him out over the ten days, Krys stepped in to impose some order.

“There are too many of you. Maybe you should organize yourselves before coming here? You all know what happens if you disrupt our captain’s work, right?”

Krys’ words carried more weight now.

Behind him stood Rem, Jaxson, Audin, and Ragna.

The four quietly nodded as they watched their squad leader.

Awareness. To truly see where you stand, you must look in all directions—up, down, left, and right.

Only then can you understand your place.

Each of them had faced that moment once before.

In a way, Encrid was late to reach this point.

Spring had come, and at thirty-one, he was considered an old mercenary by the continent’s standards.

Though there were plenty of swordsmen well into their forties who still made a living, none had achieved what Encrid had.

Perhaps that was why they felt satisfied just watching him.

Audin found the answer to his prayers in his squad leader.

Rem retrieved fragments of memories from his past.

Jaxson watched Encrid, pondering what it would mean to live like him, why he chose to live that way, and how that might shape the future.

Ragna reflected on swords and people, ambition and life, knights and the power wielded by knights. In doing so, he came to a realization.

He, too, was on that path.

And he would continue walking it.

With a newfound sense of conviction, Ragna realized just how much value his squad leader held for him.

A late-blooming genius.

That was perhaps the most fitting way to describe Encrid now.

The way he influenced the soldiers around him, however, wasn’t just about being a “genius.”

To the soldiers—particularly those who refused to stagnate in the present and instead aspired toward the future—Encrid had become a symbol of change.

He had become an idol, someone they wanted to emulate.

All of this was confirmed when the time came.

—

“Form ranks!”

The time had arrived to distribute rewards and recognition.

Usually a boisterous affair, the parade ground was packed with soldiers. All had gathered, save for those currently on duty.

It was time to evaluate and honor those who had distinguished themselves in the recent battle.

Who would be the hero of the day?

Everyone already knew.

Marcus, unlike his predecessor, was different.

Flanked by a few nobles at the rear, Marcus stepped up to the podium and began his speech.

“In the last battle, if you don’t already know who the biggest contributor was, then your brain isn’t even good enough to use as a helmet stand.”

His voice boomed across the parade ground, harsh and forceful, hitting the soldiers like a hammer.

The coarse tone and crude language drew frowns from some of the nobles.

It lacked refinement.

But to the soldiers, the recipients of his words, it sounded entirely different.

They could feel the sincerity behind his words.

Marcus, having made up his mind, spoke with genuine conviction.

“I’ll call the one who deserves the greatest honor. Squad leader of the Ma—no, leader of the independent squad, Encrid.”

Everyone knew what the word “mad” would have been, left hanging behind “Ma.”

As the name rang out, a figure began walking toward the podium.

Drenched in sweat, a man approached with nothing but his bare hands, drawing the eyes of the gathered soldiers.

Even with the warming spring weather, no one sweated like that without a reason.

But no one questioned it.

It was obvious. He had been swinging his sword countless times before coming here.

That’s who Encrid was.

A man who proved himself through endless swordsmanship.

A man who showed his worth by embodying all that he had learned.

A man of authenticity who never treated anything lightly.

The mad squad leader, Encrid, walked toward the podium.

And no one gathered in the parade ground dared to speak.

A strange silence hung in the air, thick with intensity.

Among those who had experienced the battle’s victory firsthand, Encrid was not just a man—he was a presence.

To some, he had become an idol.

To others, a hero.

That was who he was on the battlefield.

And Marcus had not forgotten that.

On the podium, two men stood face to face, a soldier and his commander.