Eternally Regressing Knight - Chapter 37: What Is the Conduit for Sorcery?

“Where did you learn that footwork?”

On the fifth iteration of today, Ragna suddenly asked this question.

Of course, you taught me that, Encrid thought, though he couldn’t exactly be honest about it.

“I’ve trained at over twenty different schools.”

Some were borderline scams, but quite a few had taught him properly.

“Hmm,” Ragna nodded in acknowledgment.

Encrid’s movements, based on what Ragna had taught him, seemed to bring a spark of life to Ragna’s face. He was enjoying the moment.

To be frank, Ragna wasn’t a particularly great teacher.

He simply couldn’t be.

A genius doesn’t see what lies beneath their feet.

Therefore, teaching the path they’ve taken becomes a challenge.

How can you explain something that just comes naturally?

When Ragna told someone to swing a sword, he expected them to simply do it. He didn’t explain the necessary footwork, shifts in weight, or other fundamentals. No, he couldn’t explain those things.

He was the worst type of person to run a swordsmanship school.

Encrid had realized this on the first iteration of today.

But that was fine.

If the teacher is lacking, the student must work harder.

And in that sense, Encrid was the best on the continent.

“Which way should my feet be pointing? Where should my toes go?”

“Do I have to spell that out for you?” Ragna’s tone wasn’t scolding; it was genuinely curious.

“Yes.”

Ragna gave him the directions, correcting his stance and showing him his own posture.

That posture was the epitome of basic form.

Anyone with a keen eye would be envious of such talent, and just observing Ragna’s stance was enough to help Encrid improve.

“What about the center of gravity?”

“Yes, if you time it like that, it’ll be perfect.”

Encrid asked, and Ragna answered.

Throughout twelve iterations of today, Ragna taught Encrid nothing but footwork and stances.

“Stance and footwork come first, then the fundamentals.”

“Sometimes, you manage to swing decently.”

“That last attempt couldn’t even chop wood.”

“If a soldier dies from that last swing, you should thank him three times for dying so easily.”

“So, was that a dance just now?”

“A dance, yes. Since you had a sword, it could be called a sword dance, but I’d rather not. Let’s call it a stick dance.”

Ragna’s critique was biting, delivered with calm precision.

‘Was this guy always like this?’ Encrid wondered.

Compared to him, Rem was a much gentler teacher.

Sometimes, Ragna’s comments were so blunt they bordered on insanity, but Encrid didn’t mind.

Every day felt like he was breaking out of an old shell and being reborn.

When they began practicing diagonal slashes, Ragna explained, “The line connecting you and your opponent is called the attack line. This line is usually the shortest distance between two people and is also the path along which your weapon travels during an attack.”

“Blocking your opponent’s attack line while extending your own is another fundamental. Do you understand? Probably not. Is this one of those cases where you understand it in your head but your body doesn’t follow?”

“Let me rephrase: you only understood it with your mouth.”

Ragna was a man who couldn’t teach without throwing in some sharp words.

So Encrid learned, and learned again.

After twenty repetitions of today, and then twenty-five, progress began to show.

“…I thought your fundamentals were terrible, but at least you can use your feet.”

This was what Ragna said on the thirty-fifth iteration.

By this point, Encrid’s behavior had changed slightly.

After the fog rolled in, he no longer died immediately.

He began avoiding the first spear thrust before charging in and meeting his end.

He often ended up with his body looking like a pincushion, but it was a reasonably effective tactic.

Sometimes, one of the spears would miss.

Charging in to be killed doesn’t give the enemy much time to pull their weapon back for another strike.

It’s understandable; suddenly rushing to your death can be quite disconcerting for your opponent.

However, when the spears missed, he would have to writhe in pain for an hour before dying.

That hour was filled with excruciating, unbearable pain, a series of horrific moments.

Each time, Ragna would call out or shout to Encrid.

“Squad Leader!”

“Damn it!”

“Hey!”

Eventually, he became so frantic that he’d just shout, “Hey!” without any other words.

Encrid filled each day to its fullest.

“Your posture is better than I expected.”

He improved bit by bit, and each time he did, Ragna would frown.

“Up until yesterday…”

He would mutter things like this.

“…Where did you learn this?”

By the hundredth iteration, Ragna asked, “Who are you?”

When Encrid looked at him, puzzled, Ragna continued, “Up until yesterday, you were a mess. How did you improve so much in just one day? Magic?”

Ragna was astonished, and Encrid burst out laughing at his reaction.

“What’s wrong? Surprised that my skills are better than you thought?”

“It’s not just a little better. It’s to the point where I’m questioning if you’re even the same squad leader.”

Ragna gave him a genuinely suspicious look.

This was a squad of misfits, and Ragna was a weirdo himself.

“So, are you going to stop teaching me?”

“No, I’ll keep going.”

With some hesitation, Ragna resumed the training.

They moved on to sparring with an imaginary opponent, practicing swings.

They covered concepts like attack lines, grip techniques, and how to use the sword for defense.

“If you have a good-quality sword, you can block with the flat side. If not, block with the blade.”

“Slashing, thrusting, cutting—these three are the basics. Your footwork and stance aren’t bad, so focus on honing these three fundamental sword techniques.”

Ragna taught him many different kinds of footwork.

Moving forward, passing by, closing in, dodging, sidestepping, turning around, making wide turns.

Just memorizing all these variations was mentally taxing, but as he continued practicing, they started to become second nature.

Even if you’re not naturally talented, when someone of Ragna’s caliber teaches you one-on-one, you’re bound to improve.

What might be imperceptible weakness to a genius like Ragna was a source of endless joy for Encrid.

“Visualize your opponent in your mind, then swing your sword.”

Clang!

Through countless iterations of today, Encrid learned.

Diagonal slashes, binding the blade in a bind, winding strikes, breaking cuts, horizontal slashes from above, side glances, top-down strikes, ripostes, half-sword fighting, parrying, deflecting, continuous strikes, closing in, slicing through.

As time went on, Ragna’s sharp words began to decrease.

“You’re better than I expected. Where did you learn the technique of binding swords?”

“One of my previous instructors drilled binding into me relentlessly.”

“Excellent.”

Ragna was satisfied with that.

He used the same approach when teaching other techniques.

“In a previous school, they always said my horizontal slashes were a mess. If you’re going to teach me swordsmanship, maybe we should start with that.”

“…I’m the one teaching you, but it seems like you’ve already decided what you want to learn.”

“It’s not exactly like that.”

When Encrid shrugged, Ragna would run a brief test.

And then, he would quickly agree with Encrid’s suggestion.

“Let’s do it that way.”

Ragna would never know, but by repeating today multiple times, after each lesson, Encrid would move on to the next skill once he had mastered the previous one.

Under the blazing sun, drenched in sweat, he repeated today over and over.

For someone else, it might have been monotonous to the point of nausea, but not for Encrid.

By the time two hundred iterations of today had passed…

“Hmm?”

He opened his eyes to see a black river.

What was this?

He saw a ferryman, blindfolded.

Though the ferryman’s mouth didn’t move, his voice clearly echoed in Encrid’s ears.

“Are you insane? You keep dying on purpose? You fool.”

The ferryman’s tone was casual, but his words were not. Before Encrid could respond, he woke from the dream.

Again, it was the familiar today.

Encrid opened his eyes but didn’t move, lost in thought.

“Did you have a wet dream or something? What’s up with you?” Rem muttered something that sounded like it came from a puppy.

Ignoring him, Encrid got up.

‘Let’s just say he wanted to call me crazy.’

Even if he wanted to ask why, it wasn’t as if he could. There was no point in dwelling on a question that wouldn’t yield an answer.

Encrid stood up.

“Do you know anything about sorcery?”

Rem immediately turned his head sharply.

“Sorcery?”

“If you know anything, tell me. I think it could be interesting.”

Usually, Encrid didn’t initiate conversations like this. Rem grinned and began to speak.

“What’s gotten you so curious all of a sudden? Alright, I’ll keep it simple. Do you know the difference between magic and sorcery?”

“Magic is more common.”

Rare as they were, mages could still be found from time to time.

But sorcery? Encrid had never encountered it, even in all his travels across the continent. It was that rare.

“Not entirely wrong.”

Rem spoke as he tidied up his bedding, roughly bundling up his blanket and shoving it to one side, then put on his boots and stepped outside.

Encrid followed him out.

It was the same today.

He didn’t find it tiresome. No matter what today brought, it was always an exciting day for Encrid.

Following Rem outside, he continued.

“Sorcery requires a conduit. Magic might sometimes need a medium, but for sorcery, sacrifices or conduits are extremely important. Without them, the sorcery can’t even begin.”

“Did your tribe use that kind of stuff?”

Rem was from the Western Frontier.

The reason the Frontier had become a frontier was because the Central Continent Empire had won the war. Before that, the West had been the land of various nomadic tribes.

That was more than a hundred years ago.

Now, it was firmly established as the Western Frontier, and the tribes had been absorbed as one ethnic group.

Even though they were still derogatorily called “barbarians” at times, sorcery originated from the West.

That was common knowledge.

“I’ve seen it a few times. But real sorcerers are incredibly rare, you know? Most of the ones you hear about are just charlatans, fakers.”

If Rem said so, it must be true.

Encrid nodded and then went back to his business.

“Where are you going?”

“Training.”

He was going to meet Ragna to continue refining his fundamentals.

Around the time two hundred and fifty iterations of today had passed, Ragna said, “Were your basics always this solid?”

He ran a hand through his blonde hair, his red pupils widening slightly.

“And it seems you were always meant to wield a longsword.”

Yeah, that sounds about right.

He had been training with this sword the entire time.

Although it still felt a bit awkward, the sword had become familiar in his hands. It was the first time the blade had responded to his touch, but this process had been repeated many times now.

It was the familiarity gained through the repetition of today.

“We’re at the point where you need some real combat experience.”

Ragna said this after their training session ended.

Encrid nodded in agreement.

“What are you guys doing? They’re calling for us.”

Rem called out to them. On the way back, Encrid grabbed some bread from Krys and started chewing.

He soaked the hard bread in water, slowly chewing it down, then ate some jerky.

After checking his gear, he returned to the battlefield.

As the longsword he had exchanged with Ragna swayed at his side, Rem asked, “Didn’t you say that the sword you used to have was expensive?”

“This one just feels better in my hand.”

“I’ve seen plenty of people switch weapons overnight and get themselves killed.”

Was that a warning or a curse?

“Take care of yourself.”

Encrid exhaled and steadied his mind.

The Heart of the Beast might grant him boldness, but he couldn’t rely solely on that.

If he was going to face real combat, it had better be something that would help him prepare for “tomorrow.”

Before the enemy came into view, Encrid pondered.

‘Sorcery requires a conduit.’

And that conduit is crucial.

At least, according to Rem.

What if the enemy had stayed in the tall grass not to ambush but to conceal something?

What if they had something they wanted to hide?

Encrid had seen it before.

Flags and flagpoles.

When he set fire to one of their tents, they had focused more on putting out the fire than killing the intruder.

Soon, the enemy came into view.

A soldier from the 3rd Squad, standing nearby with a spear, frowned and muttered, “What’s with that formation?”

Their formation was centered around those flagpoles, so there was no tactical advantage.

In that case, it must have been purely for the purpose of sorcery.

Six flagpoles, each with a flag, jutted out over the enemy ranks.

They were the conduits for the sorcery.

“Ah!”

The fog began to spread, obscuring his vision.

Well then, shall we swim through the sorcerous fog?

Encrid’s ears twitched.

The acute hearing he had gained from Jaxson was about to replace his eyes.