Eternally Regressing Knight - Chapter 88: Bonehead

Having closed the distance, Encrid planned to end the fight with a single strike.

As he swung his sword upward, something hit him square in the face.

It was a heavy blow—like getting punched by Rem.

Encrid lost his footing, falling flat on his back. Then, another crushing impact slammed into his head from above.

Reacting instinctively, Encrid tucked his chin and rolled to the side.

*Thud.*

An invisible force slammed into the spot where he had just been.

It struck the dry dirt beside him, sending clumps of mud flying into his face.

Wincing with one eye shut, Encrid scanned his surroundings.

‘I can’t see it.’

It had to be a spell.

Of course. He had seen the severed head earlier—still moving, still twitching its lips.

Who else could pull off such things?

“You dodged? Just making things harder on yourself. Stay still, and it won’t hurt as much,” the mage said, waving his hand.

The attack was invisible—impossible to block. Encrid rolled to the side again, evading the spell.

*Whoosh!*

A blade of wind cut through the air where he had been a moment ago.

He didn’t know exactly what the spell was, only that it was some kind of magic attack.

‘What should I do in a situation like this?’

Over the years, Encrid had met many sword instructors. Whenever the subject of mages came up, they all gave the same advice:

“If it’s a mage? There’s only one thing to do.”
“Run. Don’t even think about looking back.”
“Don’t fight them. If you don’t want to live the rest of your life in misery—or worse, not live at all.”
“If you’re lucky, you’ll die. If you’re unlucky… better not even imagine it.”

Even experienced warriors agreed—mages and their spells were dangerous beyond measure.

Of course, his chaotic squadmates had their own views on dealing with mages.

“Just shoot them,” Rem had said.

“Kill them when they’re not looking,” Jaxson advised.

“If you absolutely have to fight them, get in close,” Audin had suggested in his usual way.

As for Ragna?

“You cut them, just like anyone else,” he had said.

From all this, the takeaway was simple: Avoid mages if possible.

But if one had to be killed, follow Ragna’s advice:

*“You cut them. They die just the same.”*

There was no option to run now.

If left alive, this lunatic would continue his atrocities—ripping people apart like old rags and scattering their remains like torn cloth.

The thought of the shoemaker and his daughter crossed Encrid’s mind.

If the mage lived, they would be the first to die.

He had quietly observed the shoemaker and his daughter over countless days.

Though they never truly interacted with him, they had left meals for him when he lingered at the crossroads, worrying for him in their small way.

They would never know the hardships Encrid endured—but that didn’t matter.

Even if no one knew, there were things worth protecting.

This was the path Encrid had chosen, the dream he pursued. It was the destination toward which his journey pointed.

“Now, now. No running away. Be good now, it won’t hurt,” the mage said, snapping his fingers.

*Snap!*

A bright light flared above, far brighter than any torch, casting shadows that stretched across the ground.

The mage neither smiled nor frowned. To him, this was just routine.

Encrid watched the mage and pushed his focus even further, throwing open the Gate of Sixth Sense.

The mage paid no mind to Encrid’s movements. To him, Encrid was nothing more than an experiment, a lump of flesh to dissect.

The mage waved his hand again, sending another invisible shockwave toward Encrid.

*Boom!*

‘A lucky dodge, I see,’ the mage thought, noticing Encrid sidestepping the spell.

But Encrid wasn’t moving by luck. He was operating on instinct, guided by subtle sensations.

‘I can’t see it.’

But not seeing didn’t mean it wasn’t there.

With that small revelation, Encrid realized he needed to feel it.

Just as he had predicted the movements of the wolf beasts, he now focused on the mage’s gestures—anticipating his next move, trying to sense something.

And so, he did just that.

The mage conjured a gust of wind and shaped it into a blade, hurling it forward.

The wind blades curved and twisted from three directions at once—like the scythe of death itself, capable of slicing through his gambeson with ease.

But Encrid rolled to the side again, narrowly avoiding the attack.

“You dodged again?”

The mage sounded more curious than frustrated as he continued moving his hands. Wave after wave of invisible shockwaves and wind blades flew toward Encrid, but none found their mark.

This was no accident.

Encrid was operating beyond sight and sound—relying purely on his sixth sense.

His half-lidded eyes, twitching ears, and the goosebumps on his skin all contributed to his awareness.

Every sense fed into his mind, helping him see through the mage’s tricks.

While evading the attacks, Encrid kept searching for an opening to strike.

If he were thinking coldly, he could have ended it with a single throwing knife.

Cutting the mage’s throat or putting a hole in his skull would be enough.

‘No, that won’t work.’

His instincts warned him—the mage wouldn’t die that easily.

So what was the best course of action?

He didn’t know if it was the right answer, but for now, he trusted his instincts to guide him.

The mage might be using magic, but to Encrid, the attacks were no different from arrows or swords.

‘Are they really that dangerous?’

No. He could avoid them. In fact, Mitchel Hurier’s sword strikes were sharper than these spells.

With that thought, Encrid knew what to do.

If a throwing knife wouldn’t work, he would follow Audin’s advice.

*“Get in close.”*

Dodging the next attack, Encrid suddenly surged forward, closing the distance between them.

The mage’s eyes widened in shock.

“You little…!”

The mage panicked. Encrid had dashed through his invisible spells and was now upon him, sword raised high.

The soldier’s blade had reached a lethal range.

This was Encrid’s distance—*a swordsman’s distance.*

*Whoosh!*

The longsword came down, slicing through the air toward the mage’s head.

“Devour!” the mage shouted in desperation.

With that command, magic and mana combined, manifesting into reality. The spell—the embodiment of the dark forces the mage commanded—was supposed to cut into Encrid’s body and tear out his insides.

This was not a spell that instinct alone could dodge.

Yet, nothing happened.

No, something did happen.

“Urgh!”

The mage gagged as his own spell backfired, sending a shockwave through his body.

Through the torn section of Encrid’s gambeson, the mage glimpsed something—a black leather vest radiating magical energy.

“What… What are you wearing?” the mage stammered.

“Something good,” Encrid replied, noticing the mage’s gaze on his armor.

The mage’s spell had been stopped by the enchanted armor.

Encrid reacted immediately—his hands moving as fast as his instincts.

*Whoosh!*

The sword slashed down, cutting through the air like a hammer forged by fire and steel.

*Crunch, rip!*

The blade met resistance, but Encrid pressed down with brute force.

The mage’s head was severed, his skull splitting open.

As he died, the mage lamented in his final moments:

‘I had so much left to do! Varmillo… Varmillo!’

He had hoped to awaken his grotesque creation, but it was too late.

Dead men, even mages, cannot act on their delusions.

Reality does not yield to the dreams of the dead.

“Looks like you had regrets,” Encrid muttered, kicking the mage’s lifeless body aside.

He stripped off his shredded gambeson—it was too torn to even be used as a rag.

There was no sense of satisfaction.

Not even relief at having survived.

There had been danger, yes, but he had overcome it.

He had simply done what needed to be done.

He had killed the one who needed killing. That was all.

‘Before I clean up…’

This mage had laid countless traps. There had to be something worth taking.

Carefully, Encrid searched the area, mindful of any lingering traps.

He found a thick brown book, a pouch with five gold coins, a black wooden staff, several blue and white stones, and a pair of dark brown gloves.

Encrid took everything.

The rest was a collection of strange herbs and odd trinkets that he had no desire to keep.

Just as he finished cleaning his sword, a sharp *clang* echoed through the tunnel.

The blade had snapped in half.

“Damn it.”

A sigh escaped his lips.

It probably wasn’t just because the sword had been used roughly.

He had felt a strange resistance when cutting down the last mage.

Could that have been the reason? He wasn’t sure.

Either way, it looked like he’d need to buy another sword with the cronas stashed away by the mad mage.

‘Maybe I should try getting it reforged?’

Since it was made from Valerian steel, repairing it might be worthwhile.

With that thought, Encrid turned and started making his way back out.

His abdomen ached from taking multiple shockwaves, and his head throbbed, but it was bearable.

He had only taken a few steps before he stopped and turned around.

“This thing isn’t going out?”

He thought maybe the mage had cast some sort of lingering trick.

Above him, the light still hovered.

He furrowed his brows and looked up to see a glowing stone floating in mid-air.

‘A levitating magic tool?’

It reeked of wealth—the kind cronas could buy.

‘Well, this is…’

It was only a stone, barely the size of a fist. When he leapt up and snatched it, it continued glowing in his hand.

It seemed like a convenient replacement for his torch on the way out.

Satisfied, Encrid pocketed the glowing stone and continued down the path he had come from.

Some time later, a sleek, black panther—Esther—descended silently to the floor of the tunnel.

‘He dodged magic?’

Esther was stunned. She had never thought anyone could pull off something like that.

Though, to be fair, the mage’s skills had been rather poor.

Then she reflected on something else.

‘It makes sense that there are things I don’t know.’

After all, she had spent most of her life in isolation, not roaming the world. It was only natural that somewhere, someone would have such skills.

Still…

‘Quite the stroke of luck.’

Esther was drawn to magic and knowledge.

In the past, she had stolen a few grimoires out of pure curiosity, wanting to see what other mages had discovered.

Now, she idly scratched at the discarded items with her claws, clicking her tongue.

‘Amateur work.’

It was crude by her standards.

But the real treasure wasn’t these objects—it was something else.

Varmillo, the thing the mage had mentioned.

A grotesque amalgamation of beast, monster, and human remains.

A guardian intended to compensate for a mage’s physical frailty.

Such constructs were often called *flesh golems*.

To ordinary people, they were revolting abominations. But to mages, they were invaluable tools.

Esther gathered the remnants of her strength and used her claws to carve a magic circle into the flesh golem’s forehead.

She tapped into a realm beyond the physical world—the domain of black earth and fire.

It was a spell to dissolve the golem’s physical form, sending it to a realm within her inner world.

The dead mage had been an idiot.

If he had awakened the golem from the start, Encrid’s chances of survival would have dropped drastically.

Though, of course, she wouldn’t have let things go that far.

As the spell took effect, the golem’s body began to fragment and disintegrate, crumbling to dust.

It vanished entirely, leaving nothing behind but a slight impression on the ground where it had once sat.

The panther, panting heavily, stood over the empty space.

Esther was exhausted, having spent every last bit of her mana. All she wanted now was to return to the barracks and rest.

But she couldn’t resist leaving one final mark on the moment.

In honor of the fool who created the golem, she gave him a name to remember.

“Bonehead.”

He was, without a doubt, the dumbest mage she had ever encountered.

—

“A mage? In the sewers?”

“Yes.”

“And you killed him?”

“Yes, I did.”

Encrid’s tone was matter-of-fact, and so was the company commander’s.

After confirming the situation, the commander excused herself, leaving Encrid to wash up and inspect his equipment.

He had considered signing up for a beast-slaying mission immediately, but the broken sword took priority.

“…What the hell did you do?”

Back at the barracks, Rem gave him a puzzled look.

“Went to war with a pair of boots,” Encrid answered.

“Boots? What, does that shoemaker make ego-boots or something? You telling me boots fought back?”

Rem was half-joking, half-curious.

He was referring to ego-swords—legendary weapons said to possess consciousness. The idea of boots doing the same was a playful jab.

The rest of the squad stared at Encrid as if silently demanding an explanation.

“I’ll report back later.”

With the company commander expected to return soon, Encrid figured it was best not to wander off and risk getting chewed out.

“Where’s Esther?”

Before leaving, he looked around and asked.

Audin, sitting in the corner, answered, “She often slips away. She’ll come back to you by nightfall, Brother.”

It was his way of saying not to worry.

After all, Esther was too clever—perhaps even too cunning—for anyone to harm her.

Encrid returned to the commander’s office just as she arrived.

“It’s all there—spell traps and the dead mage.”

“Yes.”

“A potential threat lurking beneath the city.”

“So it seems.”

“Well done.”

Encrid saluted, pressing down on his sword hilt with his left hand and bowing his head.

Back at the barracks, he explained everything to his squadmates, who were shocked.

“What the hell was a mage doing down there?”

“So you just cut him down, huh? Works like a charm.”

“In the sewers?”

“Well, you did a righteous thing, Brother.”

Why the mage had been there was a mystery even to Encrid.

Though not injured, he was exhausted and took two full days to rest.

When he brought the broken sword to the blacksmith, he was met with a sharp scolding.

“This thing’s ruined. What the hell did you do—slice up a mage or something?”

The blacksmith gave Encrid a skeptical look, clearly doubting the story.

Encrid decided it was best to keep the whole mage incident under wraps. No good could come from the citizens knowing.

The threat was gone. That was enough.

Even if no one knew what he had done, protecting others was its own reward.

The blacksmith shook his head. “Even if I believe your story, do I look like the kind of guy who can forge weapons to fight magic?”

Though known in the region, the blacksmith wasn’t famous enough to rival the continent’s top artisans. He was competent, but no legend.

Seeing Encrid’s disappointment, the blacksmith continued.

“Best not pull stunts like that again. This sword’s beyond saving. I don’t have any good steel right now. Want me to make you a new one? Regular iron, though—no Valerian steel.”

Valerian steel wasn’t easy to come by.

“Pity.”

“Unless… You’re willing to wait a few days. Someone I know is bringing in some Noir Mountain iron. It’s pricey, though—bring a fat purse.”

He held out his hand, rubbing his fingers together meaningfully.

The offer was tempting. Noir Mountain iron was several times stronger than regular iron, and though it wouldn’t become a legendary sword, it would certainly be a high-quality weapon.

In some ways, it was even rarer than Valerian steel.

Hope stirred in Encrid’s heart as he left the blacksmith’s shop.

“Hey, soldier!”

A familiar voice called out to him in the bustling marketplace.

The shoemaker hurried over, half-running, and shoved a worn leather pouch into Encrid’s hands.

It was heavy—enough to hold a pair of boots.

“Here.”

“What’s this?”

“Your old shoes were falling apart. Take these.”

The shoemaker didn’t know it, but Encrid had already spent countless days watching him through the hidden doorway of his shop.

“Why?”

“When someone gives you a gift, just take it.”

Embarrassed, the shoemaker turned and walked away.

Encrid chuckled softly.

The shoemaker had no idea what Encrid had done. All he knew was that his problem had been solved, and this was his way of showing gratitude.

A new pair of boots.

Killing a deranged mage seemed like a small price for them.

The boots were flawless—meticulously crafted with not a stitch out of place.

They were enough.

With a satisfied smile, Encrid returned to the barracks.

The next day, with no sword of his own, Encrid strapped Ragna’s backup arming sword to his waist and set out to hunt beasts.

After all, the only thing that mattered now was real combat—and Encrid was eager for it.

Perhaps a little too eager.

“Is it just me, or do you look way too excited about killing beasts?” Rem asked with a grin as they headed out.

“Nope. You’re right—I am excited.”

Encrid replied with his usual honesty.

And he meant it.