Eternally Regressing Knight - Chapter 149

Behind the podium, among the tall trees, petals in shades of red and pink danced in the air.

In the flowerbed at the edge of the parade ground, vibrant yellow blooms showed off their brilliance.

The mingling scent of sweat and steel was a stark contrast to the delicate blossoms. A flowerbed amidst a place of battle—an odd juxtaposition.

Was this not a remnant of the time when the Border Guard was still part of a bustling trade city?

It was said that maintaining the flowerbed was now part of the battalion commander’s duties, a symbol of the city’s safety.

Spring had arrived after a long winter.

Was this the first time seeing these flowers in a while?

“They’re a symbol that this city is safe.”

A florist had once said this.

A few florists from the city took on the responsibility of tending to the Border Guard’s flowerbed.

Looking at the flowers brought to mind an important lesson.

Letting go of tension was necessary.

Don’t let yourself grow too rigid.

Relax, but don’t let yourself fall apart.

While it might not suit him, sometimes even Encrid found value in letting his guard down while gazing at flowers.

As he loosened his shoulders, he noticed how the petals resembled straight, sharp blades.

What was the name of this flower again?

Its red, pointed petals… He remembered its nickname for certain.

‘Sword Flower.’

That was what they called it.

It was said to be a flower that only responded to the magic of spring.

Staring at its petals, a question surfaced in his mind: ‘“How can I make my vertical slashes cleaner?”’

The question sparked a journey of contemplation in his head.

That mustachioed man…

A man who had walked a path entirely different from his own.

The refined technique he wielded, something even Ragna’s swordsmanship couldn’t convey.

It was a blade forged through talent and relentless effort.

It left a lasting impression on him.

And so, he wanted it. He longed for it, to possess it, to absorb it completely.

His yearning and thirst remained as fierce as ever.

For Encrid, swords, knighthood, dreams, and skills were like water to a traveler crossing the desert.

“Slowly.”

Rushing forward would only cause him to stumble and fall.

And honestly, when had haste ever led to success for him?

Even without talent, there were things he could see by not succumbing to despair or frustration.

That was patience without idleness, and composure without apathy.

Somewhere between those opposing forces lay the middle ground.

To relax without crumbling apart.

It allowed him to run at his fastest pace, without overextending himself.

Deep in thought, Encrid climbed the podium.

The end of his reflections brought him to the stage.

There, Marcus stood.

They faced each other, their gazes meeting.

Marcus’ eyes crinkled in amusement, as though he were on the verge of some playful mischief.

The parade ground was silent.

Something about the atmosphere was different.

Warm sunlight streamed down, carried by a gentle breeze that rustled the petals.

The peaceful, quiet afternoon reminded Encrid of the serene warmth he felt when Audin’s divine power brushed against him.

Marcus spoke first.

“I’ve been thinking.”

His voice broke the silence, resonating, though not loud enough to carry across the entire parade ground.

Only those nearby could hear.

“About what?” Encrid responded, standing upright.

“What would satisfy you? What reward could I give to a soldier who achieved so much?”

The question brought a fleeting thought of fine swords and Krong to Encrid’s mind.

But would that be satisfying? Not likely.

It might bring some momentary joy.

But what about something more?

‘A magic armor?’

By now, he was aware of the limits of the enchanted leather armor he wore. Its value was gradually diminishing.

Magical items weren’t eternal.

He’d heard that often enough and experienced it firsthand.

His leather armor wouldn’t last much longer.

Even his gauntlets, which seemed almost magical, weren’t unbreakable. If not for those gauntlets, his wrist—or perhaps his entire hand—might’ve been lost in his battle with Frok.

‘Just the thought of it is horrifying.’

Losing a hand or wrist would’ve turned him into a one-armed swordsman.

While losing a wrist might’ve been preferable to losing an entire arm, both were terrible fates.

Reflecting on it now, there was so much he needed to be cautious of.

Dying? That would be painful, but perhaps welcome compared to the alternative.

Living with a critical injury, struggling through today to make it to tomorrow?

‘It’s a lot to think about.’

Not that Encrid was one to dwell on such thoughts for long.

He wasn’t the type to overanalyze things.

‘Pointless distractions.’

It wasn’t just about relaxing—it was an unwelcome mental intrusion.

He pushed those thoughts aside. It wasn’t enough to focus solely on swords and dreams.

Would he ever truly become a knight?

The question remained unanswered.

—

“I’ve thought about it,” Marcus continued. Encrid focused intently on his words, listening with care.

“I should give you a gift of real meaning. Something true. Expect great things, squad leader.”

The word “expect” stood out.

Knowing himself, he didn’t anticipate much.

Shortly after, Marcus presented Encrid with a bundle of Krong and a beautifully crafted dagger.

The dagger was said to be awarded only to those who had rendered great service to the royal family.

Upon holding it, Encrid immediately noted its poor balance. It wasn’t practical at all—merely a ceremonial blade to signify status.

“With this dagger, the royal family acknowledges your rank. Present it in the capital, and you shall be welcomed as a guest of the crown.”

To Encrid, it meant nothing.

Truly.

But the soldiers watching from below the podium felt differently.

“…Encrid.”

“Encrid.”

“Encrid.”

There were no cries of celebration, no boisterous cheers.

Just a chorus of soldiers repeating his name, quietly murmuring it like an everyday phrase.

But when hundreds of voices became one:

“Encrid.”

The sound struck like a roar.

“Ha, it seems like they’re happier than you are. Turn around and look,” Marcus said with a chuckle.

Encrid turned to look.

It was, indeed, a fascinating sight. (T/N: Damn, this is too heartwarming to read. )

—

The war had ended. They had returned to the city.

Ten days had passed.

It felt as if Encrid had grown closer to the soldiers in his unit.

Those who had once spat vulgar remarks about him, such as preferring death over following his command, now bowed their heads.

New faces greeted him with respect and admiration in their eyes.

He had already earned their recognition on the battlefield.

The cheers ordered by the previous commander had been for someone else.

That had been an interesting experience, but this—this was different.

The podium stood tall, just high enough to fit one man.

From that height, he could look down upon the entire assembly.

He could see the heat radiating from the gathered soldiers.

It was as though their collective energy took form, surrounding him.

Realizing that his actions had led to this moment, to him standing here, struck him with clarity.

—

“What makes a knight?”

Skill? He had been told that just being skilled with a sword didn’t make one a knight.

“If that’s all you wanted, you should’ve stuck to being a mercenary.”

Those words, spoken by a fencing instructor in some city, still echoed in his mind.

At the time, he had asked:

What makes a knight?

What does one need to be called a knight?

“Skill is a given.”

Beyond skill, it was honor and achievements that built a knight, someone who could prove themselves.

“Times have changed, but historically, when discussing legends, that was the standard.”

Did he simply want to be someone who wielded a sword well?

No. That wasn’t it.

While his childhood dream had begun that way, age had shown him the limits of his talent.

After being pierced through the gut by the blade of someone much younger.

After losing comrades.

After realizing that skill and character didn’t always align.

Even knowing his limitations, he had swung his sword with all his heart, as if each moment could be his last.

He lived each day as though tomorrow might never come.

He threw himself into the repetitive waves of time, allowing himself to be swept away, yet never forgetting his sword.

He carried his faded, tattered dream through it all.

What had supported him through those long years?

A knight, he believed, was someone who upheld the standards they set for themselves.

Encrid chose to walk forward without forgetting honor.

Perhaps that was why standing here, in this moment, brought him joy.

Standing before them, proving himself.

Feeling honor.

—

“This is fun.”

Encrid murmured softly, his voice devoid of clear emotion.

But behind him, Marcus sensed something strange in those words.

It was familiar.

Something he hadn’t felt in a long time.

A sword. Light.

‘Is it passion?’

Marcus smiled. He thought Encrid was truly an interesting man.

Which made him all the more curious about how the gift he had prepared would affect him.

“This concludes the ceremony,” Marcus announced.

Encrid turned and saluted before descending the podium.

—

“Encrid.”

The murmuring chorus of his name followed him as he walked through the parted ranks of soldiers.

“Lucky you,” Rem said, smirking as he greeted Encrid.

Grinning slyly, leaning lazily on one leg, stood Jaxson.

“You seemed like a divine avatar responding to a prayer, brother,” Audin added with his cryptic words.

“Are we done now?” Ragna, clearly bored with the ceremony, asked flatly.

“Not bad,” Krys said, indifferent as ever, his interest only waning when no Krong was involved.

Andrew and Mack, however, had excited expressions as they called out:

“Encrid.”

“Squad leader.”

It wasn’t just “not bad.” If this wasn’t enjoyable, it would be strange.

“Let’s go back.”

Despite the celebrations, nothing had truly changed.

Ten days had passed since their return. The Border Guard remained quiet, and with the ceremony now over, what else was there to do?

Training, of course. Encrid was already preoccupied with how to refine his swordsmanship further.

—

“Hey! Tonight, we’re partying! Let’s eat and drink until we drop!”

Marcus declared loudly from the podium, showing his true colors. Was this behavior even appropriate for a battalion commander?

Behind him, the gathered nobles frowned, their displeasure evident.

Encrid turned, catching sight of their sour expressions.

Why didn’t any of them step forward to object?

Had Marcus threatened to behead anyone who spoke up?

‘No, that’s something Rem would do.’

Marcus was a capital-born officer. There was no reason—or need—for him to act recklessly.

So, what was it?

Encrid dismissed the matter entirely. There was no point in delving into noble affairs. Knowing wouldn’t change anything.

—

“Party!”

“Cheers!”

“Let’s do this!”

The soldiers’ shouts were deafening, threatening to split Encrid’s eardrums.

—

“What’s even the point? If they only bring out cheap wine, I might feel like splitting that bastard’s head open with my axe,” Rem said, grinning mischievously.

Of course, his mood seemed suspiciously upbeat.

The problem with Rem was that when he got too cheerful, he wanted to split his superior’s head open.

‘I suppose I should be thankful it’s not my head.’

On second thought, Rem had never seriously threatened to split his head open. Though he had joked about wanting to crack it open to see what was inside.

At least those jokes weren’t genuine.

“This is such a hassle,” Ragna muttered honestly.

Encrid agreed silently. He, too, just wanted to train.

All he could think about was refining the mustachioed man’s sword techniques, imprinting them onto his body as soon as possible.

“With a hardened head, you’ll only see hardened things. Resting when it’s time to rest is just as important,” Jaxson said, seemingly reading his thoughts. His perceptive nature hadn’t failed him.

“Rest well, everyone. I’ll be back in a bit,” Krys said as his voice faded into the distance. He was running as he spoke.

When there was a party, gambling dens naturally sprang up.

That was Krys’ playground.

Not to gamble himself, but to expand the game and take a cut from the profits.

Krys could never understand why people threw Krong into the chaos of random chance.

“Seriously, why would you bet Krong on random hands? If you’re up against a real gambler, you’ll lose everything. Random chance? Not likely. They’ll take you for everything you’ve got.”

To him, gambling was senseless—a sentiment that wasn’t entirely wrong.

Krys disappeared into the crowd of soldiers.

Encrid watched his retreating back. It felt oddly out of place to think that the wide-eyed soldier had come up with such a clever strategy.

“At least no heads will need splitting today, barbaric brother,” Audin murmured from behind.

Ahead, Marcus could be seen boldly raising a bottle of liquor.

“This is some fine booze! Everyone drinks the same tonight! Any objections? If you’ve got a problem, step up and fight me!”

That man didn’t seem entirely normal either.

Marcus shouted for everyone to grab a drink and enjoy themselves.

As Encrid stared blankly at the scene, Finn approached him.

“Care for a drink?” she asked.

“Hm?”

It felt like ages since he had last tasted alcohol. He hadn’t had a reason to drink. He was too focused on training. Drinking dulled the senses and hindered physical control, making proper training impossible.

Enjoying a party and drinking were two entirely separate things.

He was about to politely decline when—

“No, human woman, that spot belongs to me. That’s my fiancée you’re talking to.”

A voice spoke from behind.

“Huh?”

“…Fiancée? Looks more like an elf to me,” Finn muttered, narrowing her eyes.

Encrid took a step back as the Elf Commander approached silently, her presence commanding attention.

“Drink with me.”

Was that an order or a suggestion?

The tension between Finn and the Elf Commander created an odd atmosphere.

“Phew,” came a sharp sound.

Before anything escalated further, Esther suddenly leaped into the mix, letting out a fierce cry before snuggling into Encrid’s arms.

What in the world was happening?

“…Damn seductive curse,” Rem muttered.

Before Encrid could even protest, the soldiers watching the scene erupted in cheers, but this time with a new nickname.

“Seductive Squad Leader!”

For the love of—just when he thought the “seduction” label had finally been forgotten, it had returned to haunt him.