Eternally Regressing Knight - Chapter 43: Mitch Hurrier
The Duchy of Azpen was governed by three prominent families, with the Hurrier family representing martial prowess.
Regardless of gender, every child born into the Hurrier family learned martial arts. The family evaluated their talents and selected those who showed promise for further training.
Talent was biased, and the whims of the goddess of fortune were always unpredictable. To gather this biased talent, the Hurrier family recruited people indiscriminately, whether they were from the main line or a branch.
Mitch Hurrier was one such individual.
Born into a branch family with a different surname, he eventually became a member of the Hurrier family.
Mitch Hurrier displayed exceptional talent from a young age.
At fifteen, he could already handle a couple of adult soldiers.
By the following year, he had far surpassed the level of an average soldier.
At eighteen, he proved his prowess by defeating a swordsman capable of representing an entire village in a one-on-one duel.
By the age of twenty-two, he could spar with those renowned across entire cities without being significantly outmatched.
There were few who could match his swordsmanship.
Among his peers, such individuals were even rarer.
Such an environment bred arrogance in him.
‘Why bother with something I can learn in a few tries?’
Why train until his thighs were swollen?
Why swing a sword until his palms were torn?
He didn’t want to do any of that.
He was content with his current state and didn’t put in the effort as he had when he first picked up a sword.
Even so, his talent alone made him one of the top three fighters in the Grey Dogs.
For Mitch, this was the first time he encountered something like this.
*Thud, thud!*
He deflected an incoming strike from below to above.
He was momentarily distracted, and the blade grazed his shoulder. Mitch thrust his sword forward and kicked his opponent in the shin.
It was a move he often used against opponents weaker than himself.
When one’s focus is on the sword, it’s not easy to block a kick aimed at the legs.
Even if the kick was blocked, at the very least, it would create an opening.
But the opponent seemed familiar with this pattern. He dodged the thrust by twisting his shoulder and blocked the kick with one foot, all without losing his balance. His fundamentals were solid.
‘He wasn’t at this level before.’
Mitch recalled the moment he had recently faced this guy.
The guy had approached him abruptly and casually spoke.
“Hello, nice to meet you. How about we have a life-or-death duel since we’ve met?”
It was a familiar face. Definitely that guy.
The enemy soldier who had launched a surprise night attack.
How had he made it here, despite the fog that obscured vision?
There was no time to dwell on the mystery.
His opponent extended his sword first.
*Clang!*
Blocking the attack, Mitch thought.
This could be another diversion tactic.
So he instructed the others that he would hold the line here while they guarded the rear.
If the banner fell, the strategy would be severely compromised. That was the reason he was here.
If the company commander leading the Grey Dogs was in charge of cutting off the enemy’s retreat and creating chaos, Mitch’s role was to hold this position.
The enemy soldier swung his sword down, aiming for Mitch’s crown.
Mitch blocked and deflected the attack, making a cross shape with their swords.
*Ting, ting, ting!*
The blades crossed, grazing each other at an angle. At the last moment, they both exerted force and pushed each other away.
A distance of more than five steps opened between them. Before resuming the attack, Mitch spoke.
“Were you hiding your skills?”
“It just happened that way.”
“What’s your name?”
“Encrid.”
He was someone Mitch had wanted to meet. He felt he wouldn’t be satisfied until he had killed him.
And this guy had come to him willingly.
Mitch licked his lips.
“Alright, Encrid. I’ll remember your name.”
“You don’t have to. If you forget, I’ll remind you again.”
“You mad bastard, you’re going to die here.”
Mitch raised his sword over his left shoulder.
After crossing swords a few times, he could gauge his opponent’s skill. It was time to show his true ability.
At most, five strikes. Mitch believed he could sever Encrid’s neck in that time.
And five strikes passed.
Mitch’s brow furrowed. He frowned. This was a first.
If his opponent were vastly superior, that would be one thing, but that wasn’t the case either.
It felt like the opponent was barely keeping up with him.
Yet, it was as if the opponent knew all his habits—blocking, enduring, and countering.
Mitch increased his speed and mixed in some feints. Still, the fight wasn’t ending.
After exchanging a few more blows, Mitch’s focus narrowed solely on his opponent.
The sword and the opponent, the blade and himself, himself and the blade.
Mitch Hurrier felt as if he were back to the moment he first held a sword.
Back then, when he first held a sword, it was as if only he and his blade existed under the sky.
It felt like every swing of the sword would cut through his opponent, every thrust would pierce them, every pullback would land a blow.
Mitch did just that.
He struck downward, swung sideways, extended, thrust, and spun to strike.
And his opponent did the same.
—
Encrid summoned the focused state. In that state, he exchanged blows with Mitch.
Thanks to the countless repeated days, his opponent’s habits were clear in his mind.
He blocked the kicks and parried the sword strikes.
Then, in an instant, his opponent’s swordplay changed.
It was fiercer and sharper than before.
Thrusting, twisting, slashing, and rotating with the blade.
*Clang! Clang! Thud, thud, thud!*
As they collided with full force, sparks flew from their blades. A few strikes grazed Encrid’s shoulder and slashed his side.
The wounds weren’t deep, but droplets of blood splattered in the air. At least three times, his life had been in danger.
In those moments, Encrid’s focus deepened even further.
Deeper.
Encrid deliberately pushed himself into a more intense state.
He blocked out his surroundings, entering a world where only he and his sword remained.
*Singular Focus* was fully activated.
All he could see was Mitch Hurrier’s sword.
And Mitch Hurrier could see only Encrid’s sword.
The two fought like madmen.
They were fighting for their lives.
Even those watching were left breathless by the intensity of the exchange.
*Swish.*
Both attempted to slice each other’s necks but missed, causing both to bleed from their necks.
Still in a state of concentration, Mitch unleashed his most lethal pattern.
He pulled his left foot back and stepped forward with his right, creating a new distance, unfamiliar to the opponent.
He lowered his sword tip behind his buttocks.
“Hup.”
With a short intake of breath, his muscles tensed.
Orthodox and flowing sword techniques.
Both were styles that emphasized counterattacks.
Mitch had mastered a technique that reversed this—*Charyun Beki*—a large circular slash that moved from below to above.
He changed his stance, hiding his sword behind his body to conceal the attack’s starting point, creating an unblockable strike.
Adjusting his foot position and altering the distance had all been for this one move.
As Mitch prepared his *Charyun Beki*, Encrid delved deeper into his concentrated state. His experience had taught him more than just swordsmanship.
‘I can see it.’
Though not visible to the eyes, his opponent’s movements were vividly outlined in his mind.
In his focused state, his hearing had become incredibly sharp.
The sound of footsteps, the sound of controlled breathing as the sword was pulled back.
All the sounds entering his ears compiled into information that formed an image in his mind.
He had died to this *Charyun Beki* more than ten times.
Given his extensive experience facing this move, the image in Encrid’s mind was crystal clear.
It felt as if he could see the hidden sword; he could hear his opponent’s breath.
Combining all of this, he read the timing of the *Charyun Beki*.
*Whoosh.*
The sound of the blade cutting through the wind pierced his ears. The blade soon soared upward from below in a sweeping arc.
Entranced in his state, Encrid reflexively swung his sword downward.
His sword followed a precise trajectory to block the *Charyun Beki*.
*Clang!*
The sword coming up from below met the one coming down from above.
Both exerted so much force that a crack appeared in Encrid’s sword.
The moment the swords collided, Mitch was startled that his strike had been blocked, causing his focused state to break halfway.
But Encrid wasn’t shaken.
Encrid’s cracked sword slid along the opponent’s blade as if gliding smoothly.
*Screech!*
The grinding of the blades created an odd noise.
Mitch reflexively raised his sword. Normally, the sword should have been lifted, but Encrid pressed down with sheer force.
Naturally, it was more advantageous to press down from above than to lift from below.
Moreover, Encrid had been training daily, so his strength surpassed Mitch’s.
In a contest of strength, Mitch couldn’t compete.
Encrid pressed down with his sword and extended his left foot forward, adding more force. He pushed the sword downward, almost flicking it away.
*Ki-ing!*
Mitch’s sword was deflected downward.
From that position, Encrid extended his left foot and twisted his waist. The sword in his hand thrust forward like a point.
The tip of his sword pierced Mitch’s chest.
Despite wearing armor, the force behind the sword was tremendous.
Mitch’s chest was punctured.
However, the sword didn’t fully penetrate. Encrid pulled the sword back immediately.
*Swoosh.* The blood-stained blade withdrew.
“Huff, huff.”
Encrid retrieved his sword and took a deep breath.
He had exerted all his strength in that brief moment. His limbs trembled.
Blood gushed from Mitch’s chest.
He staggered back several steps like a drunken man, then planted his feet firmly and stopped.
For a moment, it seemed like Mitch’s pupils would lose focus, but he soon widened his eyes and tensed up.
“I should have aimed for a counter.”
Mitch spoke. Blood was still flowing from his chest—a significant amount. The blood quickly soaked his clothes.
“If I had parried and deflected, creating an opening, it would have been an advantageous fight for me. Don’t you agree?”
“Isn’t it the result that decides victory or defeat?”
Encrid responded with a question.
“You’re not wrong, but I feel a bit resentful. No, I should have kept training. In the end, I was simply overpowered.”
Mitch’s eyes began to blur. Left alone, he would die. The blood flowing from his wound increased.
Encrid stepped forward with his sword, taking two steps.
“Stop him!”
Just as he was about to thrust his sword again, someone shouted and charged at him.
*Whoosh!* A heavy sound accompanied the shout as Encrid tilted his sword to cover his upper body halfway.
*Thud!*
A heavy impact hit his sword.
Encrid stepped back two steps and looked at his opponent.
It was a man with a mustache who had stepped in front of Mitch.
“Protect Mitch!”
The man shouted. Encrid looked around. Three or four more soldiers appeared, blocking the way in front of Mitch.
Then, they sprinkled a powdered medicine on Mitch’s chest.
The bleeding from his chest quickly stopped.
“You bastard. Do you know where you are, thinking you can take us on alone?”
The mustached man glared at him.
He looked furious. His eyes briefly glanced at Mitch.
Was that guy someone important?
Encrid caught his breath and observed his opponent.
His shoulders were heaving, indicating heavy breathing.
Yet, his stance showed no openings.
The mustached man had just returned from checking the banner.
He had assumed Mitch would win. After all, Encrid’s skills didn’t seem impressive.
But the outcome was the opposite.
Encrid didn’t get excited just because he had defeated Mitch.
He still had a job to do.
This was a battlefield, and they were in the middle of a fight.
It wasn’t about a romantic one-on-one duel or sparring match.
Encrid knew exactly what he had to do.
“They say the larger the conduit for a spell, the more unstable it becomes. Is that true?”
Encrid said, watching the two soldiers carry Mitch away.
The mustached man blocking his way narrowed his eyes.
“You bastard, you know something, don’t you?”
More than you think.
Encrid stomped the ground with his toe and suddenly kicked upward.
*Poof!* Dust and short weeds flew up, covering the mustached man’s face.
The man quickly raised his hand to block and shouted.
“Get him! Don’t let him reach the banner!”
Seizing the moment when his opponent’s vision was obstructed, Encrid sprinted.
*Whoosh!*
A quarrel flew at him from behind. He quickly veered to the left, but one bolt struck the back of his right shoulder.
‘This much is manageable.’
Encrid sprinted in a straight line toward the banner.
An enemy soldier stood in his way, wielding a spear.
Charging like a rhinoceros with steam pouring from his nostrils, Encrid pounded the ground five steps away and suddenly swerved to the right.
A quarrel aimed at Encrid flew past him and hit the soldier holding the spear.
“Agh! My eye!”
An unlucky enemy soldier got hit in the eye by the quarrel. More than three soldiers were hit in their arms or torsos.
“Stop shooting! Stop shooting!”
The commander among the crossbowmen shouted. Although Encrid wasn’t in a state of complete focus, he maintained a half-focused state.
He combined the *Singular Focus* with his sword’s sensitivity. By listening, he could determine the enemy’s positions and situations in his mind.
He reversed his body, sword in hand, and dashed into the ranks of the crossbowmen.
“Ugh!”
A startled soldier raised his head just as Encrid brought his blade down, cracking the soldier’s skull with a *thud.*
Because he swung his sword with a chopping motion, the recoil caused his sword to rise.
He swung his sword in a circle around him.
*Whoosh!*
The surprised enemy soldiers retreated.
“Grey Dogs! After him!”
The mustached man chasing after Encrid barked. Encrid charged through the ranks of the crossbowmen, then dashed to the opposite side.
*Thunk!*
As he dashed, he stabbed one enemy soldier in the neck.
He picked up a fallen quarrel from the ground and threw it to the side.
*Ping!* The quarrel flew and bounced harmlessly off the enemy soldier’s armor, falling to the ground.
The hit soldier, who had drawn his shortsword instead of a crossbow, rushed at him, but Encrid followed up immediately by throwing a knife that lodged itself into the soldier’s forehead.
The soldier had let his guard down after blocking the quarrel.
“Huff!”
Letting out short breaths, Encrid moved through the enemy camp as if it were his own.
He had two objectives in mind.
One was to destroy the banner.
The other was to hope that his commanders wouldn’t do anything stupid and would cover his rear.
“You bastard!”
The mustached man snorted, his anger boiling over.
Encrid dodged here and there until he finally reached the vicinity of the banner.
He threw all the throwing knives in his hand.
*Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh!*
Five knives flew through the air.
All five throwing knives struck the flapping banner.
The fabric of the banner was thick, so it didn’t tear easily.
When Encrid threw the knives, the enemy soldiers were startled.
“Damn it!”
More enemy soldiers cursed.
“Stop him! Stop him now!”
A figure, presumably a spellcaster standing right under the banner, shouted.
Everyone turned their attention to the banner, wondering if the knives would pierce it, giving Encrid a chance to roll on the ground.
It wasn’t like the enemy had shot a quarrel or an arrow; there was no threat. Still, he suddenly rolled forward. No one paid attention to it.
Because of this distraction, the mustached soldier closed the distance.
Got you, you bastard.
Just as the mustached soldier was sure of his catch—
Encrid was rising, gripping a spear that had fallen to the ground.
“Stop him!”
“No!”
The mustached man and the spellcaster shouted.
Encrid answered with his actions. He planted his left foot firmly on the ground, using his whole body’s momentum to throw the spear.
*Whump!* The spear flew and struck the banner.
*Rip!*
The banner tore, creating a hole.
A conduit for a spell becomes a mess if damaged. There was no need to bring down the banner pole itself.
Tearing the banner alone would suffice.
He didn’t need to go all the way up to it.
Seeing the fog around him dissipate, Encrid exhaled a deep breath—a sigh of relief.
“You crazy bastard, do you think you can get out of here alive?”
Seeing this, the mustached man’s eyes blazed with fury.
Encrid raised his sword, aligning it with his centerline, and nodded.
“Maybe?”
The odds were fifty-fifty. A fifty percent chance of survival, a fifty percent chance of death.
For most people, those were grim odds.
But not for Encrid.
If he failed, he would just try again.