Eternally Regressing Knight - Chapter 41: Singular Focus

*Thud, thud, thud.*

Encrid thrust forward, aiming for the eyes, then slashed downward to the shoulder. After slicing through the shoulder, he lowered his sword and aimed for the thigh, driving his blade with all his strength.

With eyes wide open, Encrid watched every movement—his opponent’s body, hands, and footwork—anticipating what would come next.

He defended against all of the predicted strikes, matching each one with a counter.

Sparks flew between them, briefly clearing some of the mist that enveloped the battlefield.

Through the clearing, two eyes gleamed.

‘The shoulder.’

Again, his opponent’s attack trajectory aimed for Encrid’s shoulder. Encrid pulled back his left foot, which had been positioned slightly forward.

His left shoulder dipped back just in time, narrowly dodging the fierce thrust aimed at it.

Pivoting on his right foot, he spun sideways, his left foot moving behind his right.

*Whish.*

The blade barely grazed his shoulder.

Sensing an opportunity, Encrid lifted his sword from his modified middle stance, the blade angled slightly downward.

When a sword is raised, the edge facing the opponent is called the front edge, while the edge facing oneself is the back edge. Lifting the sword from a lowered position turns the strike into a back-edge cut.

The back edge of Encrid’s sword aimed straight for his opponent’s chin.

He expected his opponent to dodge.

‘Even if they dodge, it’ll create an opening.’

Then he could dictate the next attack line to his advantage.

This was a tactic he had honed through countless battles. A single step followed by a swift attack to seize the upper hand.

“You arrogant bastard!”

His opponent, furious, swung his sword horizontally without hesitation, abandoning the thrust aimed at the shoulder.

Encrid had to quickly duck his head to avoid the blow, which also meant that his upward strike failed to land.

*Thud—thud!*

Encrid pulled his sword close to his body, then swiftly raised it overhead to block the incoming attack.

His opponent had faked a horizontal swing, only to bring his sword up and then down in a slashing motion aimed at Encrid’s head.

Barely managing to block the attack, their swords collided and stuck together, freezing both of them in place.

“You thought you could take me down with a single step?”

His opponent snarled, pressing down with his sword from above.

“Why, is that not allowed?”

Encrid retorted casually. The soldier who introduced himself as Mitch Hurrier showed his anger through his eyes and expression. He was remarkably skilled at showing his rage on his face.

“You don’t want to die a painless death, do you?”

“No, actually, I wish to die of old age.”

Encrid could be just as sharp-tongued as Rem. In fact, he might even be better at it than Rem.

A thick vein bulged on Mitch’s forehead.

“Fine, then I’ll cut off all your limbs and shove you into a garbage pit until you die of old age.”

“No, I plan to live a long life and die beside my great-grandchildren, fully intact.”

“You little bastard!”

*Smack!*

Mitch lifted his foot and kicked forward, but Encrid blocked it with his own foot. This created a gap of more than two steps between them.

As soon as the distance widened, Encrid swung his sword, while Mitch, in contrast, used his footwork to rush forward.

Mitch charged at a terrifying speed, leaving a faint trail, as if his body had left a long afterimage.

Watching this, Encrid adjusted his sword’s path to swing it downward.

*Clang!*

Their swords met again. The clash of blades produced a grinding, metallic sound.

Encrid tried to force Mitch back with brute strength, but Mitch’s sword followed as if it were glued to his.

Mitch kept their swords locked together and suddenly twisted his wrist upward. With that single motion, his sword’s tip moved towards Encrid’s head, leveling out parallel to the ground.

Mitch’s sword wrapped around the tip of Encrid’s blade with the stronger part near the hilt.

Mitch then pushed his sword straight forward.

Despite his anger and heavy breathing, Mitch’s swordplay remained precise.

*Clang, clang, clang.*

Their blades collided repeatedly, producing a cacophony of noise.

If this continued, Encrid’s throat would soon be punctured.

Encrid mimicked Mitch’s move, twisting his wrist and lifting his sword.

*Ping!*

Sparks flew between them once more. Mitch quickly deflected the sword away.

No time to catch a breath; the next strike came immediately.

This time, Encrid moved first.

From the upper right to the lower left.

A diagonal slash. He had trained and refined this move countless times, grinding it down in real battles.

A graceful arc was drawn in the air. The slash aimed directly at Mitch’s body.

Footwork, timing, posture, sword technique.

A perfect textbook slash without a single misstep.

Mitch countered by catching Encrid’s sword with his own.

To Encrid, it felt as though he wasn’t cutting through a body but slicing through a soft wad of cotton.

Mitch’s sword curved gently, deflecting Encrid’s strike, then twisted in the opposite direction. The back edge of his blade descended toward Encrid’s head.

Mitch spun his wrist, drawing a small circle with his sword.

“Hup!”

Encrid inhaled sharply, unable to even think of blocking. Instead, he twisted his body sideways.

*Whoosh.*

Mitch’s sword cut through the air where Encrid’s head had just been.

Encrid avoided the strike, but his stance faltered. Mitch’s blade grazed Encrid’s right forearm as it fell.

The wound wasn’t deep, but blood trickled down.

There was no more time for words.

‘The abdomen.’

He had to deflect the thrust aimed at his stomach, then dodge the downward diagonal slash targeting his thigh.

Dodge, block, and look for an opening to swing his sword. He tried to force Mitch back with a horizontal slash aimed at his upper body, but his opponent was relentless.

Instead of retreating, Mitch raised his sword, closed the gap, and continued to press forward.

The distance where swords conversed.

Encrid was being pushed into a defensive stance, focused only on blocking and dodging.

‘High attack, diagonal, thrust.’

He poured every basic move he had mastered and honed in combat into this fight. Thrust, slash, pull back, block, and when a gap appeared, he used his feet as well.

Mitch read all of his attacks, blocking what needed to be blocked and dodging what needed to be dodged.

All the while, Mitch gradually inflicted more wounds on Encrid.

First his forearm, then his shoulder, his thigh—small wounds accumulated.

Encrid barely dodged, just barely.

One strike had nearly sent his helmet flying and split his forehead open, an attack he only managed to avoid by sheer luck.

Blood streamed from his forehead, spraying everywhere due to their fierce movements.

‘Next is the shoulder.’

No time to breathe. No time to think. All he could do was block, dodge, and counter when possible.

Even amidst this, he managed to launch a few counterattacks. Out of three or four slashes, he managed to land one, but Encrid remained focused because he could still keep attacking.

It felt like a single wrong breath could mean death.

The same went for Mitch.

When he first saw this crazy bastard who had raided their camp, his skills had been abysmal.

Even without exchanging many blows, Mitch could clearly see Encrid’s limits. He had noticed that right away.

But now, something had changed.

In just a few days, his skills had improved so drastically that Mitch wondered if he was facing the same person.

He could almost believe this was a twin.

‘Is he a twin?’

The moment Mitch let his mind wander, a sword sought his opening without fail.

A moment ago, a thrust grazed his cheek, nearly piercing his throat.

‘Damn it.’

Mitch focused. He had no time to think about what was happening around him or where he was. None of that mattered.

All his concentration was directed at killing his opponent.

Encrid felt the same.

Dodge and block. Block and dodge. Even when he saw openings, he hesitated to exploit them; several of them seemed like traps.

If he hesitated when there was a gap to thrust his sword through, he’d soon find himself on the boat prepared by the ferryman of the river of swords.

Even though he would repeat today if he died.

Encrid had no intention of wasting any day.

He gave it his all. That’s why repeating today made sense.

‘Chest, no, stomach.’

He dodged a feint thrust.

He blocked and parried a downward slash that fell like an eagle descending from above.

His parrying skill was clumsy since he hadn’t properly learned it. It was more akin to blocking rather than parrying.

Encrid’s heavy sword style primarily focused on overpowering the opponent with sheer strength.

In contrast, Mitch combined techniques from both the orthodox and flowing sword styles.

The orthodox sword style pushed opponents with a set path before countering.

The flowing sword style deflected the opponent’s attacks, creating openings.

*Clang.*

Their swords met, radiating intense heat.

Encrid fought with all his might, not letting a single nerve go lax.

Even a blink could cost him the fight.

And as they exchanged blows, Encrid’s mind was free from thoughts of banners, victories, or sword techniques. All that mattered was the opponent before him—cutting, thrusting, and swinging his sword.

Everything around him faded away, leaving only one focus.

The sword and me, me and the sword.

His opponent’s sword, the sword and his opponent.

And again, me holding the sword and the opponent holding theirs.

Eventually, he forgot even himself and his opponent.

In a state of *mang-a* (forgetting oneself), all that remained was the sword.

Swinging, slashing, thrusting, blocking, and dodging filled Encrid’s entire being.

An endless exhilaration surged through him, while an opposite yearning boiled within.

*Ching! Tang! Ping! Clang! Chirr!*

Metal met metal through various paths, producing all sorts of sounds.

But nothing lasts forever.

Knowing this, Encrid silently hoped.

‘Just a little longer.’

He wished this moment would continue just a bit longer.

Encrid instinctively knew that this was not a moment he could easily achieve, even if he repeated today endlessly.

He had experienced something similar once before.

There was a time he had slashed through an opponent with no resistance at all.

A clean cut, a perfect strike.

How much had he worked to replicate that experience again?

It wasn’t easy. He hadn’t succeeded even once since that day.

The same was true now.

Because he had forgotten himself, only the sword remained, and he wished this could last forever.

But everything had to end.

*Thud!*

Mitch perfectly deflected a downward strike containing the essence of a heavy sword technique. The force was redirected outward, creating an opening in Encrid’s chest.

*Puk!*

Mitch didn’t miss the gap.

The blade, now like a hot skewer, pierced Encrid’s chest.

“Puuuh.”

With the sword embedded in his chest, Encrid’s arms stopped moving. His limbs trembled uncontrollably.

He had fought with full concentration and all his strength, putting a heavy load on his muscles.

With trembling arms, Encrid lowered his sword and lifted his head. His opponent, drenched in sweat, was in front of him.

“I remember now.”

Encrid spoke, blood trickling from his mouth.

“Finally?”

“You were the one holding the torch, weren’t you?”

As the sword pierced him, memories slowly returned. The encounter had left quite an impression.

“Mitch Hurrier. Lieutenant of the Duchy of Azpen.”

“Encrid, squad leader of the Kingdom of Naurilia.”

Encrid, too, was soaked in blood and sweat. Blood and sweat streamed down his forehead, dripping incessantly.

Both were drenched, as if caught in a downpour. Mitch was in the same state.

The two gazed silently at each other.

For the first time, Encrid felt an unfamiliar sensation. As he looked at the opponent who had just killed him, he bore no ill will.

He only felt an intense desire to fight again.

Mitch Hurrier’s face was expressionless. But his eyes spoke volumes. His gaze had changed.

The anger had subsided, replaced by an indescribable emotion.

“The dream is over.”

Dream? Oh.

“I lied. What kind of swordsman dreams of dying peacefully of old age?”

“Yeah, now die already.”

Mitch spoke and pulled out his sword.

The hot iron skewer twisted in his chest once more.

The pain came rushing in, clouding Encrid’s mind with a blinding white.

Encrid endured the agony, falling to one knee. Blood gurgled up from his throat and spilled out of his mouth.

He didn’t even need to cough up the blood; it flowed out in a torrent.

“What is it? Is it an enemy attack?”

By now, the two were surrounded by a group of Azpen soldiers. One of them stepped forward and spoke.

‘Didn’t even see them.’

Encrid glanced around. They were surrounded by enemies.

“Yes. He managed to sneak up here. Seems he’s good at surprise attacks.”

“You seem disappointed, Lieutenant.”

“…No, I’m not.”

Mitch replied, staring intently at Encrid. To be honest, he was disappointed. It wasn’t often he met an opponent like this.

He felt as if he had stepped into a new realm after a life-or-death struggle.

Naturally, this brought about a sense of regret.

However, Encrid’s face showed no trace of such feelings.

He looked somewhat relieved, as if he were a child receiving a wooden sword for the first time, excited.

“What the hell are you?”

Mitch asked, bewildered, but Encrid was no longer listening.

He was dying, his mind dominated by a single thought.

‘Ragna, you crazy bastard. It’s not the fear of death that matters.’

The necessary condition for achieving singular focus was not the intense concentration at the moment of death.

It was the need for an opponent with whom he could spar, risking their lives and spending long hours together to enhance their skills, emotions, and everything else.

An opponent with whom one must pour everything into surviving a fight.

A fight filled with a sense of exhilaration where a single moment of distraction could end it all.

He needed a worthy rival.

In that regard, Mitch Hurrier was perfect. He was a true rival.

Encrid realized this as he lay dying.

The sensation and experience he felt earlier were precisely what Ragna had referred to as singular focus.

He also realized that he had achieved it.

And that, by repeating today, he had another opportunity to recall that sensation and experience.

To consciously create that moment he wished had lasted a little longer.

That was singular focus.

Could it be achieved easily? Probably not. But he would keep trying until he succeeded. Mitch Hurrier’s existence would make it possible.

Encrid understood that.

How could he not feel thrilled?

Seeing a new path forward, Encrid smiled as he died.

“Was he a madman?”

Mitch watched Encrid die with a smile and could only tilt his head in confusion.