Eternally Regressing Knight - Chapter 83: The Heat

As the ferryman of the Black River once said, Encrid’s days were much like living in a repeating loop.

Every day was filled with nothing but training.

“Control. Control. Get control of yourself.”

His sparring with Rem focused on perfecting the control over his body and sword.
Meanwhile, the spine-chilling killing intent came from somewhere unseen—Jaxson’s gaze. It was an eerie trick of his, that with just a look, he could make Encrid’s body tense, as if death itself were looming nearby.

Jaxson could make a person feel as though their life was hanging by a thread just by looking at them.

It was enough to drive anyone crazy—knowing that Jaxson didn’t actually do anything, yet still feeling on the verge of death from his gaze alone.

Seeking out that killing intent was part of Encrid’s training. He tried to broaden the range of his senses, expanding his hearing and every other faculty. But every attempt ended in failure.

The concept of the *Gate of the Sixth Sense* still eluded him.

“It doesn’t come easily,” Jaxson said, repeating the same exercises over and over with relentless patience.

And little by little, Encrid began to shed weight.

It was exhausting, brutal training, but no one ever told him to stop.

“Cut it out, you sneaky alley cat. You’re seriously getting on my nerves,” Rem grumbled at Jaxson.

“Oh? Did the barbarian finally sense my killing intent? I must have been too obvious.”

“You did that on purpose, and now you’re trying to talk your way out of it. Where’s my axe? I’m gonna split that sneaky cat’s head wide open!”

Watching Encrid grow thinner, Rem would often throw in sharp remarks, which inevitably led to squabbles between the two. Encrid would usually step in, trying to stop Rem from chasing down his axe.

“I’m doing this because I want to,” Encrid insisted.

“Damn it, I’m just saying, know your limits.”

But the irony was, despite saying that, Encrid himself never went easy. There wasn’t a single day when his body wasn’t bruised from Rem’s fists and axe.

In truth, neither Rem nor Encrid understood the concept of moderation.

If not for the strength he built through the *Isolation Technique*, Encrid likely wouldn’t have lasted this long.

Whenever there was a break, Audin would offer, “You can rest if it’s too much, Brother.”

Audin was starting to seem less like a priest of God and more like one of a devil’s disciples.

He would constantly suggest, *Rest if you’re tired. It’s fine to stop.*

It was the voice of temptation, sweet and dangerous.

And if Encrid even hinted at considering it…

“Well, then, we’ll have to train your mental strength too,” Audin would say, pouncing on the opportunity.

“Mental strength comes from physical strength, you know. Here’s a secret just for you, Brother—willpower comes from muscles.”

A single playful comment would result in even harsher sessions. Wrestling exercises became more intense, and every bit of isolation training grew more brutal.

Audin wasn’t just a priest—he was a madman, tormenting others for fun.

Still, Encrid didn’t really mind.

Sometimes—just sometimes—when the training became too overwhelming, and the thought of resting flickered in his mind, Audin’s taunts served as a necessary reminder to stay focused.

On rare occasions, Encrid would test him deliberately. “I feel like resting today.”

Knowing full well what response it would provoke.

And sure enough, Audin’s grin would spread across his face. “You must be making progress if you’re thinking that.”

It was an endless cycle—provocation followed by even harsher training.

No one would say it wasn’t exhausting.

But the results were undeniable. The progress Encrid made felt deeply satisfying, with each day building on the last.

He still couldn’t perfectly block Rem’s axe when it moved like a streak of light. But now, two out of three strikes were met without him losing his balance.

He also became better at reading Ragna’s moves during their duels. In the past, he could only react to what was directly in front of him, but now he could see through layers of feints and start to guide his opponent where he wanted.

Ragna and Rem were vastly different, but both pushed Encrid to improve.

As for sensing Jaxson’s killing intent… that was still a work in progress.

The *Gate of the Sixth Sense* remained closed.

How many times had he felt that cold shiver run down his spine?

The thought of enduring that killing intent every day was terrifying—just as dreadful as the idea of repeatedly facing death itself.

Encrid had encountered assassins twice so far. Both times, he had been forced to repeat the day to survive, but neither assassin radiated the same kind of lethal intent that Jaxson did.

A well-trained assassin, it seemed, wouldn’t exude killing intent at all.

Encrid thought back to those encounters.

The first had been in the medical tent.

‘It wasn’t killing intent—I heard a sound first.’

Maybe that assassin had been a novice.

The second was when he fought the half-blood faerie who threw whistling knives. He had needed to keep his eyes wide open, watching every movement, every flick of the faerie’s fingertips.

Neither encounter had relied on the sixth sense.

Meanwhile, the harsh winter was beginning to loosen its grip. The cold still lingered, but signs of change were in the air.

Rain began to fall instead of snow, hinting at the arrival of spring.

Though it would still be some time before the chill fully lifted—this region was known for its long winters.

As he mulled over the assassins he had faced, a thought struck him.

‘Persistent, but… they haven’t come after me again.’

The *Grey Dogs*, the infamous special forces unit from Azpen, were relentless.

Encrid knew that firsthand.

‘Sending assassins after a mere soldier…’

He remained wary, but there hadn’t been any signs of another attack.

Honestly, he wasn’t sure he could respond even if they did come for him again. Between training with Rem, Ragna, Audin, and Jaxson, his hands were already full.

‘It’ll work out somehow.’

There was no point worrying about the *Grey Dogs*—or grey cats—just yet.

‘What I give to myself today is a gift for tomorrow.’

Every hour spent training, every bit of effort poured into his body, was a gift to his future self.

Tomorrow’s Encrid would accept today’s pain as joy.

—

Meanwhile, Mitch Hurrier stood in the middle of the training ground, blowing away the chill of winter with the heat from his exertion.

Steam rose from his body as he moved, his sword slicing through the air with precision.

The cold no longer registered in his mind.

There was only the sword, himself, and his opponent.

He swung, again and again.

Ever since he had recovered from his injuries, Mitch Hurrier had thrown himself into sword training like a madman.

He wielded a heavy practice sword, thicker than usual, with added weight to build his strength.

The sword cut through the air in precise arcs before stopping perfectly upright, its point aimed at the sky.

His muscles strained as he lowered the blade in a controlled motion, carving a vertical line in the air—sharp, unwavering, and flawless.

To anyone with an eye for swordsmanship, the sight would have been chilling.

Despite using a sword three times heavier than a standard longsword, Mitch showed no signs of fatigue, maintaining perfect technique after hours of practice.

Mitch Hurrier had become a tree that grew stronger from defeat.

‘That’s why you can’t die so easily.’

When he heard that assassins had been sent to kill the soldier who defeated him while he was bedridden, it enraged him.

But when he learned the assassination had failed, he couldn’t help but feel… satisfied.

‘You need to die by my hand.’

On the battlefield.

Since his defeat at the hands of Encrid, surpassing that soldier had become Mitch’s reason for living—his ultimate goal.

“It’s impressive, but also disappointing,” his father had scolded him. To the head of the family, Mitch’s obsession with the sword made him a disgrace.

But Mitch didn’t care.

After all, sending assassins under the *Grey Dogs’* banner to kill a mere soldier was far more shameful.

‘I’m the one walking the righteous path.’

Mitch smirked.

He eagerly awaited the day he would face that soldier again, knowing it was not a futile hope.

With Azpen gathering its forces for a large-scale campaign, a rematch on the battlefield seemed inevitable.

‘I’ll see you there.’

The soldier’s face was etched into Mitch’s memory. He would never forget it.

His loss had turned him into a training addict for the first time in his life.

Even the *Grey Dogs* had called off further assassinations after seeing Mitch’s determination.

“When the time comes, you’ll catch him, right?” the unit commander had asked.

“I will,” Mitch had replied. “And I’ll kill him.”

The commander had accepted that answer, ending the matter. There would be no more assassins sent after that soldier.

—

Back at the barracks, Rem spoke after finishing a sparring session with Encrid.

“I take it back—you haven’t really changed, after all.”

He sighed. “You’re stuck.”

The sharp-tongued barbarian rarely continued with such blunt criticism toward Encrid.

“You grow stronger, but then you stop. Is that a habit of yours?”

Encrid didn’t bother arguing. He knew where Rem was coming from.

It was a common frustration for teachers—watching someone grow, only for them to plateau just when things started to get exciting.

It wasn’t just Rem who felt that way.

“You’ve got the basics down faster than anyone I’ve seen,” Ragna added with his usual sharpness. “Most people would call that talent. But with you… it’s more like stubborn persistence. It’s strange—your skills increase rapidly, then suddenly hit a wall.”

Even Ragna, who rarely cared enough to give input, was echoing Rem’s sentiment.

Audin had similar thoughts.

“Brother, training is about getting your body to follow your mind’s intent. It takes repetition. Usually, that’s all it takes… but with you, well, you’re a bit slow in that regard.”

It was a long-winded way of saying that Encrid wasn’t progressing fast enough.

Jaxson, as usual, had little to say on the matter. After all, the *Gate of the Sixth Sense* remained as elusive as ever for Encrid, and there was no clear solution in sight.

—

It was mid-morning, the regular training period for the standing army. Soldiers trained relentlessly—it was part of their profession. This wasn’t some hobby. These men and women lived to hone their bodies and skills.

Rem, who had been at the center of the hall, suddenly stopped mid-training.

“That’s enough for today.”

“Fine.”

Rem headed back toward the barracks, leaving Encrid standing there.

It wasn’t a sign of giving up—just recognition that simple sparring wouldn’t help anymore.

“Time for the real thing,” Rem muttered as he entered the barracks.

Esther lifted her head slightly at his words, her bright eyes glinting with curiosity.

The rest of the squad exchanged glances.

For the first time since joining forces, they all seemed to be on the same page.

When Encrid finally walked inside, Jaxson grabbed his arm with surprising decisiveness.

“You’re taking the next mission.”

“Huh?”

“It’s time for some real combat. What we need is a proper fight,” Jaxson said. “We’d throw you into a battlefield if we could, but since that’s not possible right now, this will have to do.”

Rem nodded in agreement. The rest of the squad mirrored his sentiment.

Encrid was taken aback by their sudden unity.

‘I didn’t think they’d be this aligned.’

Even Ragna, who was usually lazy and indifferent, was fully onboard.

Seeing them all in agreement—working toward the same goal—was surreal. Encrid had never imagined such a scene.

“Nyaa.”

Esther meowed at his feet. Encrid bent down and scooped her up.

“I was thinking the same thing,” he admitted.

It wasn’t about recklessly throwing himself into danger or repeating the day until he survived.

But real combat had always been where Encrid honed his skills. No amount of training could replace the experience of a life-or-death battle.

Those with talent could break through their plateaus effortlessly. But for Encrid, without that gift, the only way forward was to throw himself into the fray.

‘If I’m stuck, if I’ve hit a wall…’

He had to do something—anything. Whether it meant thrashing about or seizing any opportunity, he would find a way forward.

That had always been his way of living.

“First thing tomorrow morning, we’re taking a mission,” Rem declared. “A monster hunt, if we’re lucky.”

“I heard there’s one available,” Encrid replied. He had already done some research in advance.

“So you’ve been thinking about this too,” Jaxson remarked, raising an eyebrow. Encrid scratched Esther’s head, nodding slightly.

“Yeah.”

Jaxson had said it before: opening the *Gate of the Sixth Sense* required getting in touch with instinct.

“True instincts aren’t some mystical thing. When a predator hunts, or when prey senses danger—it’s a split-second decision. That’s where it comes from,” Jaxson had explained. “Think about how prey animals detect predators. It’s not just sight or sound—it’s a gut feeling.”

Jaxson’s definition of the *Sixth Sense* was clear: it wasn’t limited to the five traditional senses. It involved equilibrium, spatial awareness, kinesthetic sense, and even temperature sensitivity.

Through constant repetition and combat, a person could hone all those senses into something sharper, something primal—allowing them to react to danger without conscious thought.

“When you reach that level, you’ll be able to dodge even a knife thrown at the back of your head.”

“That’s the kind of training knights go through,” Jaxson had added, almost as if offering encouragement.

It was an uncharacteristically supportive gesture from Jaxson, but it felt genuine.

“I get it,” Encrid had responded.

If knights trained that way, then so would he. There was no giving up.

He would find monsters—predators whose instincts rivaled his own—and push himself beyond his limits.

The raw, unfiltered killing intent of those creatures would surpass anything Jaxson could emit.

Of course, nothing ever went according to plan.

—

“The mission? Could you handle this one first? We’re short on people right now,” another squad leader asked the next morning.

The request interrupted Encrid’s attempt to secure the monster-hunting job.

It was a strange mission—a shoemaker had reported strange noises coming from beneath his workshop every night.

Apparently, it sounded like something undead lurking beneath the floorboards.

“If there was an undead in the city, there’d already be panic,” Encrid replied skeptically.

“I know, but what choice do we have? Finish this mission quickly, and it’ll count toward your credit. It’s a simple task. Come on, I helped you out with stitching once, remember?”

It was the same squad leader who had helped patch his gear during one of the early loops. The one who loved to drink.

In the end, Encrid agreed with a nod.

He planned to quickly check the place out, reassure the shoemaker, and move on to the real mission.

As he finished preparing at the barracks, Jaxson shot him a glance.

“You’re not taking the monster hunt?”

“I am. Right after this.”

Satisfied with the answer, Jaxson let the matter drop.

This real combat opportunity was bound to be valuable.

‘Fighting monsters will sharpen my senses—my sword, my instincts, my understanding of how to move my body.’

It felt like the key to a breakthrough.

With that thought in mind, Encrid arrived at the shoemaker’s workshop.

“Look at this! When I checked under the floor, I found this!” the shoemaker exclaimed, his voice brimming with anxiety.

Encrid was surprised to find a gaping hole beneath the shop.

It wasn’t just a hole—it led to what appeared to be an artificially-made tunnel.

“Hold on, I’ll go in first and take a look.”

Encrid listened carefully, but no sounds came from the tunnel.

He cautiously lowered himself into the opening, feeling the rough stone beneath his boots.

‘A torch would be useful.’

The tunnel wasn’t entirely dark—some light trickled in through cracks above, enough to make out his surroundings.

It sloped gently downward, making the descent manageable.

As he walked deeper into the tunnel, it began to feel less like a natural formation and more like a dungeon crafted by magic—or by something worse.

He hadn’t gone far. The faint light from the shoemaker’s candles still reached him.

Then, he encountered a six-way junction.

“Who the hell built this?”

The layout felt deliberately confusing.

Encrid chose the leftmost path and proceeded cautiously.

He detected no immediate threats. Step by step, he advanced into the passage.

The only sound was the faint rustling of air.

But then—

*Vmm—*

A soft vibration reached his ears.

Before Encrid could react, a burst of light exploded before his eyes.

*Boom!*

The sound of the explosion filled his ears. Something hot and metallic invaded his lungs, tearing at his insides.

And then everything went black.

When he opened his eyes again, it was morning.

Of course, he knew what had happened.

‘I died.’

The last sensation he remembered was heat.

Blistering, searing heat.

Now, it was time to figure out what had killed him.