Eternally Regressing Knight - Chapter 161

The foundation of Heavy Sword Style lies in weight and strength.

“Press down with power.”
“Break through with strength.”
“Close the distance and strike forcefully.”
“Put your weight into it.”
“Make it so your opponent has no chance to evade.”

These were words Ragna often repeated—whether facing a spear, confronting a shield, or encountering any other situation. The answer in most cases followed this pattern.

Proper Sword Style was slightly different.

“Refine your form and guide your opponent into your intended movements.”

Ruagarne taught from the core principles first, only adding details afterward. It was a highly efficient method.

There was an old saying: Sometimes, a Frok makes the best swordsmanship instructor.

‘What a contrast.’

The difference between the squad member teaching him and Ruagarne was stark. Not that his squadmate was bad—if anything, their teaching suited Encrid better. Rolling around in pain was difficult, but at least it was straightforward.

‘Rough, but direct.’

It was a moment of realization—he had become accustomed to learning in a brutal, unrefined manner.

Regardless, Ruagarne was a Frok who knew how to teach properly.

And Encrid was someone who knew how to learn.

He listened with all his focus.

The difference from before was—

‘I can keep up.’

There had been a time when no matter how desperately he struggled, he couldn’t bridge the gap. But now, those days were behind him.

The Isolation Technique was, in the end, a skill that allowed complete control over one’s own body. It was an art that demanded mastery down to the finest muscle fibers.

To that, he added Blade Awareness, a pinpointed focus on the edge of his sword.

The Heart of the Beast granted him boldness and composure.

It became clear.

‘These four define my talent.’

What he had gained through sheer effort.

What those beside him had provided as nourishment.

He had chewed, tasted, torn apart, and thoroughly digested that nourishment—leading to the present.

Because of the relentless repetition, he could now roughly follow Ruagarne’s instruction.

That didn’t mean he had become a genius.

It simply meant he had improved.

Ruagarne, having already recognized Encrid’s limited talent, neither grew frustrated nor showed surprise.

She was calm, patient. She simply taught.

And with her teachings came an abundance of knowledge and anecdotes about swordsmanship.

“There’s a saying: Swift Blade is the easiest for beginners to learn, but Proper Sword Style is the best when fighting a beginner.”

Speed-based swordplay was easy to pick up.

Against a weaker opponent, Proper Sword Style would secure victory ninety-eight times out of a hundred.

But what was the best style when facing a stronger opponent?

“Heavy Sword Style and Flowing Sword Style are advantageous. If your opponent is careless, Swift Blade works well. If they are paranoid and cautious, Proper Sword Style is effective. But if I had to pick the best, I’d say Illusion Sword Style.”

A sword that deceives the opponent’s sight and perception.

Ruagarne’s words implied that each of the five sword styles had its advantages, but no single one was the ultimate answer.

After all, in life, not everything had a fixed solution.

Her words reflected her experiences, temperament, and philosophy.

Swordsmanship was secondary—what mattered more was the individual wielding the blade.

The conclusion was simple:

“If you’re up against someone stronger than you, the one who is the most perceptive and fastest on their feet has the best chance of winning.”

Gurgle gurgle!

Ruagarne chuckled as she spoke.

Encrid was slowly adapting to Ruagarne’s peculiar laughter.

Knowing that someone puffed up their cheeks when expressing emotion was different from experiencing it firsthand over a long period.

Later, she continued:

“There’s a theory that Heavy Sword Style was originally developed for fighting monsters and beasts. Sounds plausible, doesn’t it?”

“Proper Sword Style pairs well with Flowing Sword Style, and Heavy Sword Style pairs well with Swift Blade. Only Illusion Sword Style stands alone.”

“If you keep training with one sword style, you naturally develop a grasp of the others. But the best approach is to round yourself out and learn all of them. Your strongest techniques will naturally improve on their own. But you… don’t seem suited for that. You’ll have to train even harder.”

She didn’t hesitate to share her personal opinions and advice.

“When you cut down that wolf-beast earlier, you should have struck horizontally instead of vertically. If you had, you wouldn’t have that mark on your left forearm right now. Your weight should have been on your right foot, guiding the attack with Flowing Sword Style. More precisely, like this—”

Even after combat, Ruagarne continued offering corrections and demonstrations.

“Now, try again. Block this as you go.”

The training continued.

Ruagarne wielded her sword, repeating the same scenario over and over.

Her lessons never ceased.

She fit instruction into every spare moment—during meals, at dawn, while standing night watch, even before sleep.

Encrid stayed fully focused.

He absorbed everything.

“Your reactions are slow. You saw it coming, didn’t you? You should have dodged. Or at least blocked with your sword first.”

Crack!

It was during a fight against three Hyena Beasts.

Though they were highly dangerous in packs, three alone weren’t much of a challenge.

The battle ended with only a minor scratch on his side.

But Ruagarne still pointed out his mistakes.

Encrid acknowledged them.

And as he reflected, a realization struck him—brought on by her repeated corrections.

When the same flaw was highlighted again and again, he had no choice but to confront it.

‘Perception of Evasion.’

Jaxson had taught him about it.

But he had yet to fully internalize it.

‘Coordination, was it?’

The more he learned, the more there was to master—skills to refine, techniques to drill, training to endure.

And among them, one remained unpolished:

Perception of Evasion.

His kinetic vision had sharpened tremendously, allowing him to track enemy movements far better than before.

For example—

Whoosh!

A Ghoul swung its massive arm.

Encrid could already tell its trajectory.

“Proper Sword Style shines when you predict your opponent’s movements.”

Since he could see it, he could anticipate it.

He swung his sword accordingly.

Just as planned, he lowered his blade to the right, drawing it upward in a long arc.

The ghoul’s forearm split apart with a sickening tear.

Without hesitation, he raised the sword above his head, twisted his wrist, and brought it down in a vertical slash.

The ghoul’s head was cleaved in half at a slight angle.

Encrid’s blade split its skull and carved through its clavicle.

The moment it reached that precise point—

He stopped his blade.

Deliberately.

It would be disrespectful to carve through the heart right in front of Ruagarne.

Thud.

Encrid kicked the ghoul away and withdrew his sword. The battle ended with just two strikes.

“Not bad.”

That was Ruagarne’s assessment.

From then on, Encrid immersed himself in honing Perception of Evasion and the fundamentals of Proper Sword Style.

As for Perception of Evasion—

‘I can’t grasp it yet.’

He understood the concept and knew the training methods. But simply knowing wasn’t enough to make it instinctive. That much was already obvious—just because one learned something didn’t mean it became second nature.

Was it similar to when he first learned Heart of the Beast?

Or perhaps when he first learned Blade Awareness?

How had he learned back then?

One, he grasped through the brink of death.

The other required not a genius’s approach, but the persistence of the dull-witted.

Would this require a similar experience?

When the desire to improve boiled over, some sought out barriers to push against.

Some hoped for a ferryman to guide them.

But Encrid never relied on such things.

As always, he simply did his best within the environment he was given.

That was who he was.

And the beasts and monsters that constantly appeared were excellent test subjects, so he welcomed them.

“Again?”

Finn muttered in frustration as they climbed over a bramble-covered hill.

It was right after spotting another pack of beasts ahead.

“This isn’t even a cursed land, is it? Huh? Why the hell do these damn monsters keep showing up?!”

Rage. Undeniable frustration.

It was natural that beasts and monsters couldn’t understand human speech.

So venting anger at them must have had another reason.

What kind of situation would make someone direct such fury at creatures that couldn’t comprehend it?

In short, Finn wasn’t actually angry at the monsters.

At first, Encrid had wondered why she was acting this way.

But he quickly understood.

He had been too absorbed in training to pay attention to his surroundings.

He had welcomed the frequent monster encounters as they provided good sparring partners.

But—

“She was bound to snap sooner or later,” Krys muttered from the side.

Gurgle.

Ruagarne puffed out her cheeks in agreement.

“Hngh!”

Esther sneezed.

Finn was a Ranger.

And what were Rangers?

Pathfinders found the way.

Map Makers charted new territories.

And Rangers led their party safely through dangerous paths.

Why were the Glacier Rangers, who guarded the icy expanses, so renowned across the continent?

Why were they considered exceptional?

Because they survived in deep forests, near cursed lands, and among monsters in freezing, inhospitable regions.

They were the best at detecting danger and ensuring the safety of their group.

Many hired Glacier Rangers to venture into the ice fields to harvest rare herbs and precious metals.

Finn wasn’t a Glacier Ranger.

But she still took pride in her profession.

Yet, despite her efforts, they kept running into monsters.

It was only natural that she would feel like her skills were being questioned.

“How many days has it been since we left?”

Encrid turned toward Finn, who was still fuming.

“Three days,” Krys answered quickly.

If they kept walking, it would take twenty days to reach the pioneer village. If they took a carriage along the main road, it would take six to seven days.

There were dangers along both paths, but with a Ranger guiding them, the journey was supposed to be both faster and safer.

Before they had set out, Finn had nudged Encrid and confidently declared:

“If we were in a carriage, we could just ignore slow-moving ghouls and pass right by. But since we’re traveling on foot, that’s not an option. Still! Having a Ranger like me around is honestly a huge stroke of luck, don’t you think?”

The Finn who had spoken so cheerfully back then and the Finn who was now visibly seething overlapped in Encrid’s mind.

She had every right to be upset.

“It’s not your fault.”

At Encrid’s words, Finn let out a deep sigh.

“Ugh… I know, but this is just ridiculous. I don’t even know what to say anymore.”

It was frustrating.

Even now, she was trying to rationalize the situation.

Why had she chosen to lead them through the bramble-covered hills?

Because monsters and beasts generally avoided difficult terrain.

That should have been the case here, too.

This route was full of thick, thorny brambles that obstructed the path. Anyone without exceptional navigation skills would have struggled to pass through.

Even with a hand axe, clearing a path through this area was no simple task.

Yet, now there were beasts standing right in front of them.

No matter how thick their hides were, it made no sense for them to charge through a thorn-filled terrain to get here.

They were spotted hyena beasts, commonly seen in this region.

One of them was even limping, and another was leaving a trail of blood as it moved.

“This… isn’t normal.”

Ruagarne muttered under her breath. To Finn, it sounded like a weak attempt at reassurance.

Encrid didn’t concern himself with any of that.

Instead, he focused on the beasts.

They weren’t immediately attacking.

They were observing.

They were heightening their vigilance before engaging.

Since they were preparing for battle, Encrid did the same.

He shrugged off his pack and drew his sword.

“I’ll handle this alone. Stay back.”

There were eight hyena beasts in total.

Not a small number. Even if one was injured, it was still a lot.

Fighting multiple beasts was inherently dangerous.

Yet, no one seemed worried.

They had seen Encrid fight over the past three days.

This was nothing special.

This time, he got scraped on the shoulder and nearly had his thigh bitten.

But with quick thinking, he used his shin guard to kick a hyena’s skull in, escaping danger with ease.

Two of the beasts had gone for the others—

One met Esther’s claws and ended up with three heads instead of one.

The other was kicked by Ruagarne, momentarily soaring through the air like a bird.

It was a brilliant technique.

Rather than simply crushing its ribs, she had precisely controlled her strength to send it flying.

Encrid dispatched the remaining hyenas.

And so, they continued onward.

“Ugh, seriously!”

Finn’s frustration grew.

This time, it was striped hyenas.

“They just keep coming. This is insane.”

Krys clicked his tongue.

There had been too many encounters in just three days.

Schwing.

Encrid once again drew his sword.

Twenty days had passed since they left the city.

The party had stopped by a stream to wash up.

That was when thirteen hyena beasts suddenly emerged.

But it wasn’t a crisis.

They had survived being surrounded by a pack of werewolves.

And compared to werewolves, hyena beasts weren’t even worth mentioning.

Slash!

Moreover, Ruagarne was there to support them.

Her whip cracked sharply against the ground.

“Can’t let myself get rusty. I need to loosen up, too,” Ruagarne remarked.

She was right.

At this level, it was nothing more than a warm-up.

Thud!

Esther struck the ground with her front paw.

It was as if she was asserting that she, too, was ready to fight.

Of course, no one had forgotten—

She was a Lake Panther, a cunning panther that could even understand human speech.

They had more than enough firepower to handle a few beasts.