Eternally Regressing Knight - Chapter 60: Only Ten Times
“Interesting? You’re not the only one who finds this fun.”
The half-elf assassin, covered in rags, licked his lips with his tongue, letting his arms hang loose at his sides. His pale hands emerged from beneath the rags.
It was obvious what this meant: he was getting ready.
The moment his hand moved, the terrifying whistling sound of the Whistle Daggers would follow.
“Don’t wait to dodge until you see the projectile. Watch the hands.”
This was Jaxson’s advice on how to counter the Whistle Dagger, a technique for dealing with thrown weapons.
Trying to catch an arrow with your eyes alone was nearly impossible.
“Unless you’re truly a knight, it’s difficult. But even without being a knight, there’s a way to avoid incoming projectiles.”
You need to mask what you see, using *Senteuan*, the technique of choosing where to focus.
Even if the hand is hidden, the full motion of the arm can’t be concealed.
Keep your eyes on your enemy.
Watch the hands and arms, then observe the entire body.
That’s the core of it.
Jaxson’s instructions were soft-spoken, but they left a lasting impact.
When Rem taught something, he always relied on physical demonstration—actions spoke louder than words for him.
Jaxson was the opposite. He would explain everything carefully, letting you understand it first in your mind before you even attempted it with your body.
Ragna was lazy until his interest was piqued. Once it was, he’d combine physical demonstrations with explanations, flowing with the moment.
And Audin? He was similar to Rem but had a speech pattern as uplifting as a god of optimism. Sometimes, that made him the most unbearable of them all.
“You can do it, brother.”
“It’s fine, brother, you’re nowhere near death’s door yet.”
“Is it painful? That means it’s working.”
Learning the exercises from Audin hadn’t been easy.
But they had paid off handsomely.
Encrid stood in the shadows beneath the city wall, far from the sunlight. The cold air was much more intense here.
Yet, warmth still coursed through his body.
His muscles hadn’t stiffened up. He owed that to the exercises Audin had taught him.
Even while he entertained these thoughts, Encrid’s gaze never left the half-elf assassin.
The way to avoid the Whistle Daggers was to watch the fingertips.
Hands move faster than the eyes, but there’s no way to hide the movement of an arm. If you can see the trajectory, you can dodge.
He had done it countless times already.
All he needed to do now was stay focused, eyes locked on his opponent.
Encrid’s own hand remained hanging by his side, mirroring the half-elf’s posture. His throwing technique wasn’t on the level of the Whistle Dagger, but it wasn’t to be underestimated either.
‘How can I land a hit?’ he wondered.
The half-elf was enjoying himself.
What had been a mundane and boring job—an order to kill a mere soldier—had suddenly turned into something exciting.
The half-elf assassin had two peculiar obsessions.
One was stabbing the heart by exploiting his target’s carelessness.
The other was killing first-rate warriors in a face-to-face fight.
Both of these were things he relished.
Initially, he hadn’t expected to get any satisfaction from the first option, so he had focused on it.
But now…
‘This is going to be fun.’
He had shifted to the second obsession.
The half-elf licked his lips repeatedly. It was a habit of his when he was intensely focused.
His eyes scanned for any openings in his opponent, but none appeared easily.
A clear realization struck him: no matter how well he threw his Whistle Daggers, his opponent would dodge them.
But that was fine.
‘So, he’s expecting me to throw a dagger, huh?’
Somehow, his opponent had anticipated his move and was prepared to counter it.
And he had done so in the simplest way: by changing the location.
That had thrown everything off.
Three people were dead already, and despite the commotion, no one was coming.
The original assassination spot had been the bustling market square, where the chaos would distract everyone.
There, Jack and Bo were supposed to approach the target with harmless banter to catch him off guard.
That wasn’t all.
He had hidden a crossbowman on a nearby rooftop and had Roton secretly follow.
But everything was ruined because they had changed the location.
There were no buildings nearby for cover.
Two fools were dead before they could even start, and the crossbowman was killed by a surprise dagger throw.
‘Did he calculate all this?’
Once again, the half-elf licked his lips.
His focus was at its peak, causing his lips to dry out.
The half-elf began to piece together what had happened leading up to this moment.
‘He planned it all.’
Somehow, Encrid had known everything in advance.
‘Someone leaked information.’
It didn’t matter where it had come from. What mattered were the results.
Encrid had killed Jack and Bo, then immediately dealt with the crossbowman.
‘Clean work.’
The half-elf had to admit, Encrid had calculated everything, right down to the last detail.
From the timing to his use of the *Bullet Knife Technique*.
Everything pointed to a clear conclusion.
‘He’s in the same line of work.’
This was a mistake.
But it wasn’t hard to see why.
Encrid had recognized the assassination techniques and countered them head-on.
Even if the information had been leaked, no ordinary person would have reacted this way. Only someone with experience in such matters would.
‘So, what tools do I have left?’
The half-elf still had a few options.
Three poisons were hidden in his belt.
He also had a specialized weapon attached to the back of his waist.
A long stiletto-like needle. It was called a *Needle*, one of the favored weapons of the elven kind.
One stab was all it took to end things.
Only one person had ever survived his use of this technique—a frog-like creature known as a *Froc*.
That damn Froc bastard.
“Why are you so ugly?”
The mad Froc had insulted the half-elf’s appearance without hesitation.
The half-elf had always been self-conscious about his looks.
Elves were supposed to be beautiful, but as a half-breed, he had missed out on that blessing.
After meeting that damned Froc, he had made it a habit to always aim for the heart, to destroy it.
It had become a compulsion.
‘The poison would be a waste.’
Thinking of that Froc made him want to tear Encrid’s heart apart.
It didn’t seem like it would be difficult.
‘Close the distance and stab him with the Needle.’
Sure, Encrid was skilled in swordsmanship, but that only mattered in a frontal fight.
The half-elf was confident in his ace technique.
But how to close the distance?
As he contemplated his next move, he sensed Roton fidgeting.
‘Stupid fool.’
“Don’t move, idiot,” the half-elf muttered.
Roton swallowed hard.
He had just tried to step away, overwhelmed by the pressure. The air was thick with danger, and every instinct screamed at him to flee.
Having worked with the Thieves’ Guild for years, Roton knew what death smelled like.
It was a gut feeling, a ringing alarm.
“How many do you have left?”
The half-elf held Roton in place with his voice before raising it slightly, speaking to Encrid ahead.
Encrid shrugged in response.
The assassin was probably asking how many daggers Encrid had left.
“I’ve got two.”
The half-elf lied. By now, his lips were slick with saliva from licking them so much.
“I’ve got one,” Encrid replied honestly, though he knew the game well.
“Seems like I have the upper hand.”
“That’s what you think,” Encrid shot back.
The dagger Encrid had thrown earlier was a special weapon he had begged Krys to find for him from early morning.
He had asked for something light and thin, and Krys had delivered.
In exchange, a soldier had lost the knife he used to carve meat.
Encrid had ended up with a throwing knife, worn down from too much sharpening, with a blade as short as a finger.
“You’re really fun,” the half-elf muttered.
If things got too rough, Whistle Daggers would come flying. Yet, despite the danger, Encrid agreed with the assassin.
Adrenaline surged through his body, heating him up.
A single mistake—a blink at the wrong moment—and death would grip his throat.
And yet, it was thrilling. The chance to measure his skills against this enemy.
To match his strategies against those of his opponent.
It was a feeling of competitive spirit, the desire to win, swelling within him. A feeling he had rarely experienced before.
When had he ever been in a position to *want* to win?
Survival had always been a struggle, leaving little room for aspirations beyond that.
But now?
After repeating today countless times and meeting death in various ways.
It wasn’t just his swordsmanship that had changed.
Encrid’s will, which had once been about survival, was now focused on victory.
Previously, facing an opponent of this caliber, victory wouldn’t have even crossed his mind.
But now?
‘I can win.’
He wanted to win, and he believed he could.
It was a change in mindset.
“Pick up the body and use it as a shield,” the half-elf instructed Roton, not caring that Encrid could hear.
“If he throws at you, you’ll be fine. He won’t risk a kill shot. Also, grab the crossbow.”
The half-elf had considered several options and chosen the most practical one.
Take advantage of numbers. They were two against one.
Roton hesitated, and the half-elf calmly explained the situation. He had to.
“We’re still inside the city. Patrols will be here soon.”
It was a reasonable point. Encrid’s situation would improve if he could stall for time.
Eventually, more soldiers would arrive.
That would be the end.
Once they encountered the patrol, Roton knew his cover would be blown, and his chance of survival would be slim.
“Damn it,” Roton cursed under his breath, frustrated by the turn of events.
Reluctantly, he bent down and picked up the corpse of the crossbowman who had been killed earlier. His back was drenched in sweat.
‘How did he get so strong?’ Roton wondered as he stared daggers at Encrid.
Roton moved awkwardly, slowly, as he reached for the crossbow. He grabbed it and slung it over his shoulder before hoisting the dead body.
It was heavy, and he struggled under the weight, knowing one wrong move could be his last.
Sweat dripped from his forehead, landing on the body he was using as a shield.
‘Move carefully. That guy can’t throw knives properly,’ Roton reassured himself.
Just as he raised the body to protect himself—
*Whoosh! Thud!*
Encrid’s arm moved, and the knife flew.
Roton hadn’t fully raised the body yet. Desperately, he twisted his body, but the knife still embedded itself in his shoulder.
“Argh.”
Roton stifled his scream.
At the moment Roton was struck, the half-elf assassin moved as well.
With both hands, he threw four Whistle Daggers, all aimed precisely.
*Whiiiiiist!*
The shrill sound of the daggers filled the air. Four of them flew in unison.
Even as he threw his knife at Roton, Encrid’s eyes never left the half-elf.
He hadn’t blinked once.
He read the trajectory of the Whistle Daggers, immediately spreading his legs apart and lowering himself to the ground.
His torso bent low, and both hands pressed against the dirt.
The four Whistle Daggers flew right through the space where his head and chest had been.
All of this happened in the span of a half breath—the moment after Encrid had thrown his knife.
And in the second half of that breath, the half-elf moved again.
After a brief pause following the first wave of daggers, he launched two more, aiming for Encrid’s head and thighs.
Reflexively, Encrid rolled to the side.
*Thud!*
The daggers embedded themselves in the ground. Encrid, now flat on the ground, lifted his head to locate his opponent.
If he missed seeing the dagger being thrown, it would be over. His eyes darted left and right.
But there was no sign of his enemy.
He spotted Roton, clutching his arm where a dagger had hit, and saw the half-elf’s rags fluttering in the wind.
Encrid’s gaze cut through the gap in the rags.
The assassin was nowhere to be seen.
He had been too focused on where the next dagger might come from.
In that time, the half-elf had lowered himself and was already sprinting toward him.
He was just within Encrid’s wide field of vision.
His ears perked up, catching the sound of footsteps pounding against the ground.
Encrid’s eyes finally locked onto the half-elf.
The distance had closed rapidly. They were now only a few steps apart.
—
The assassin had used the rags to distract Encrid and closed the gap.
Encrid hadn’t expected him to close the distance so quickly.
It had been a clever move.
And the half-elf’s prediction had been spot on.
Encrid’s expression was one of clear surprise.
But even so, he moved.
*Ping!*
‘Damn it.’
The half-elf cursed inwardly. He hadn’t anticipated Encrid’s lie.
There was a third throwing knife in his hand.
But it wasn’t aimed at the half-elf.
The assassin had assumed that strength in numbers was always an advantage.
He had counted on Roton’s crossbow as a backup weapon.
The flying knife wasn’t meant for the half-elf. It struck Roton in the forehead, right between his eyes.
Of course, the half-elf didn’t see that happen.
He was too focused, running toward Encrid with everything he had.
Now just two steps away.
His hand reached for the weapon at his waist. He saw Encrid, desperately gripping his longsword, ready to draw it.
Before Encrid could slash, the half-elf’s stiletto-like Needle pierced straight for his heart.
*Clang! Ting!*
‘Blocked?’
The half-elf was stunned. Completely blindsided.
This shouldn’t have been blocked.
It was his trump card, his finishing blow.
It was impossible to block, or at least, that’s what he had thought.
But it had been blocked. It felt utterly unfair.
Encrid had already seen the stiletto, Needle, during his ninth death.
Instead of drawing his longsword, Encrid used the knife he had been holding to parry the Needle, deflecting it with the blade of his Guard Sword.
It wasn’t a perfect sword technique, but it was close enough. Rather than piercing through, the stiletto was diverted to the side.
The broken fragments of the blade scattered like sparks across his chest.
As the broken blade fell, Encrid dropped the Guard Sword and drew his longsword.
All of this happened in a single breath. Parry, drop, draw. No hesitation. It was a series of smooth movements. And with that, Encrid brought the longsword down with all his might, the motion flowing as naturally as water.
The longsword descended just as the broken fragments of the blade hit the ground.
The half-elf, despite his shock, raised the Needle to block.
There wasn’t time to dodge, so it was the best defense he could muster.
But Encrid’s technique with the longsword, the basic northern swordsmanship, was to break and crush whatever stood in its path.
*Clang!*
The Needle snapped like a twig as sparks flew, and the longsword fell, fulfilling its duty as a weapon.
*Thud, crack!*
The half-elf, whose grotesque face had once been ridiculed by a passing Froc, could no longer be recognized.
His face was split in two.
The longsword Encrid held had cleaved the half-elf’s chin down the middle.
The assassin died without uttering a final cry, blood pouring from his shattered face as he collapsed face-first onto the ground.
“Phew.”
Encrid exhaled the breath he had been holding.
Retrieving his sword, he reflected on what had just happened.
Ten times—it had only taken ten attempts.
Only ten repetitions of today had been enough to bring it to a close.
It was the shortest cycle of repeated days he had ever experienced.