Eternally Regressing Knight - Chapter 9: A Man Different Every Day

Receiving battle orders wasn’t about detailed strategy explanations. It was just a call to be ready. As soon as Encrid heard the orders, he headed towards the rear tent. By now, the sewing expert who had sent a substitute under the pretext of being ill should have finished making the items.

“You didn’t give me any thread.”

Indeed, the leather guards for his hands, knees, and elbows were ready and looked quite satisfactory.

“Thread?”

Feigning ignorance, Encrid watched the drunken squad leader snort.

“What was I supposed to do with just leather?”

Well…

“You would unravel the blanket thread and twist it yourself.”

He’d done this several times. Even without giving thread, this guy, upon receiving the squirming gift, would do a good job.

“I forgot.”

“Doesn’t seem like you forgot at all.”

Despite his hangover, the guy had a keen sense.

“Seriously, I forgot.”

“Hmph.”

He didn’t believe it, but what did it matter? Encrid quietly gathered the leather guards. The stitching was meticulous. Though Encrid had made such things himself before, this guy’s work was undeniably superior. He was satisfied.

“I feel duped.”

“Thanks for the hard work.”

After a brief pat on the shoulder, Encrid returned to the tent. Once back, he mentioned the afternoon battle and then sat down to work busily.

With a swift motion, Encrid unsheathed his sword and used the deer skin gloves to cut the leather back and forth, lengthening it and fashioning sheaths for the throwing knives. He finished by slicing the leather into several strips to form a belt.

This wasn’t his first time doing it.

Having repeated this process dozens of times, he was skilled and efficient.

His hands moved smoothly and confidently.

Seeing this, Rem craned his neck over Encrid’s shoulder and asked.

“What are you doing? You have small knives; why bother with that?”

“Testing the sharpness of the blade.”

“Good with your hands, huh? Your swordsmanship should be just as good.”

This guy always managed to poke at people with his words.

It wasn’t hurtful.

Even when his skills didn’t improve, these words hardly mattered.

Encrid ignored him.

“You tore up the glove I got you just to make a sheath?”

Krys peeked over from the other side.

“Why are these guys so interested in me?”

Did they think he was their mother because of his head injury?

“That’s a bit gross.”

“I used it all.”

“What are you thinking? Did you eat something bad?”

“Come to think of it, you were running around all day. What’s going on?”

“Nothing much.”

Encrid casually dismissed their questions, cleaned his blade again, and then sat quietly, eyes closed.

He recalled the countless battles he had experienced.

The battlefield he had repeated 125 times.

Encrid replayed those memories.

The preparations were for survival, not just for honing his swordsmanship.

“The battlefield is not a training ground.”

Even if his sword skills weren’t the best, the experience he gained over a long period didn’t vanish.

What had kept Encrid alive all this time wasn’t just his sword.

It was the combination of situational awareness, luck, preparation, and composure.

Using all these, he survived.

And today was no different.

He would do everything to survive.

Encrid had decided to break free from today.

* * *

“Charge!”

A comrade’s shout echoed.

Encrid was thrust into the heart of the battlefield.

He wasn’t flustered.

He didn’t rush in excitement. He raised his head, using his eyes to scan the battlefield while controlling his breath.

Exhale.

A brief but calm breath.

He saw the enemy. He saw his allies.

Charging enemies, scattered allies.

He drew his sword.

And the incoming blade.

Encrid deflected the spear with his left-hand shield.

Thud!

It was a task he had repeated numerous times. He didn’t make mistakes.

Deflecting the spear, he stepped forward.

“Ugh!”

He thrust his right foot behind the enemy’s heel and bent his knee, preparing for the impact.

It all happened in one breath.

The opponent fell backward as if it were a rehearsed sparring match.

Thud!

The guy fell headfirst, blinking in confusion.

He had no idea what had happened.

Trying to thrust his spear, he stumbled and fell, his foot caught.

It happened in an instant.

Encrid passed the fallen opponent and kicked his chin with the tip of his foot.

Crack!

With a crisp sound, teeth and blood spilled from the enemy’s mouth.

Knocked out.

No need to kill him.

Moving forward, he raised his left arm.

Bang! Thud!

A spiked club struck his shield and grazed his elbow.

Rip!

It was a spiked club.

No injuries. The leather guard on his elbow did its job.

“Damn!”

The enemy grit his teeth. His jaw muscles tensed beneath his half-helmet.

This one would be a tough opponent.

In previous battles, Encrid often got his left arm caught by this guy.

He gripped his sword hilt and stepped forward with his left foot.

It was the Valen style.

Their eyes met. Drawing his sword meant they couldn’t avoid a fight.

Both knew it.

Their gaze met, and a silent agreement was made.

They would clash with their weapons.

The enemy’s eyes focused on Encrid’s right hand.

Sling.

Before his sword was even half-drawn, Encrid’s left hand moved first.

A throwing knife flew from his waist.

The club-wielding enemy raised his arm in panic.

Thud—the blade embedded in the enemy’s arm.

Even wearing a gambeson, the arm area wasn’t heavily padded.

Too much padding would restrict movement.

So the blade likely reached the flesh.

“You coward!”

The enemy cursed.

There was no place for cowardice in a fight.

Encrid silently sheathed his sword.

The Valen style involved pretending to draw the sword and throwing a knife or stone.

“Damn you!”

The spiked club-wielding enemy, enraged, charged forward.

But the poison would work faster.

The enemy stumbled and fell forward.

The paralyzing poison took effect.

He crashed face-first into the ground.

He choked and gasped for breath.

Encrid walked past him calmly.

The next enemy was kicked in the groin and pushed aside.

The following one was shoved from behind, his head bashed by an ally’s hammer.

Thud!

Even with a helmet, a blunt force to the head was fatal.

Especially with a leather helmet, not a metal one.

Encrid didn’t perform any exceptional feats.

He simply took the necessary actions at the right moments.

But these actions brought small victories to those around him.

“Thanks for saving me.”

An unknown comrade said. Encrid nodded slightly and moved on.

It wasn’t a big deal.

“I owe you.”

“444 Squad Leader? Was that luck or skill? Anyway, I owe you a drink.”

“Damn, almost died there.”

Many had similar sentiments.

Compared to his first death, he had grown significantly.

The Heart of the Beast was at the core of this growth.

“Stay calm.”

And composed.

The Heart of the Beast kept him steady.

With it, he could observe everything with a clear mind.

In the midst of the battlefield, Encrid felt his heart beat steadily as he walked on.

He had repeated this battlefield countless times.

That didn’t mean he wasn’t nervous.

“The more familiar you are, the more you’re caught off guard by variables.”

Just because today repeated didn’t mean everyone did the same thing.

How Encrid responded influenced their actions.

So he walked slowly, prioritizing observing his surroundings.

“Around here.”

Swish.

Someone slashed at his leg from below.

A creative attack from a fallen enemy.

“I’ve fallen for this before.”

He had tried to avoid it several times.

Then he found an easier way.

Like blocking an arrow.

If you can’t dodge it, block it.

Thunk.

The knife hit the leather guard, failing to cut his shin.

As expected.

“Huh?”

The surprised enemy’s exclamation was his final word.

Encrid struck the prone enemy’s back with his shield’s edge.

Thunk!

“Ugh!”

The scream was short and faint.

“Attack!”

The battlefield roared with the sounds of battle.

Encrid’s efforts wouldn’t change the battle’s outcome.

He only made things easier for those around him.

“You can’t save everyone.”

This was a battlefield where dozens or hundreds died.

Trying to save everyone was foolish.

“Come at me, you bastards!”

The shout belonged to a spearman from another squad.

Encrid knew without looking.

Encrid had killed over five enemies while walking.

The boastful spearman had died dozens of times.

Without Encrid’s intervention, he would have died today too.

Usually, his shin would be cut, and he’d roll on the ground before dying.

Encrid straightened up, taking a deep breath.

“This is the first goal.”

After countless battles, he had set some goals.

Reaching the front lines without injury was the first.

“No injuries.”

He had just met that goal.

The second was…

“Finding familiar faces in the chaos.”

Of course, avoiding injury in the melee was crucial.

Only then could he properly face the stab-happy enemy.

After over a hundred battles, he had one clear thought.

“I want to fight in perfect condition.”

Would his training and experience from these repeated days work?

Could he defeat the sadistic enemy?

Could he survive today with his efforts?

Thump.

His heart pounded.

Separate from the Heart of the Beast’s calmness.

“Survive today.”

With clear goals and a defined purpose.

Encrid’s heart raced.

Returning to the battlefield, he walked and sometimes ran.

“Attack!”

“Please, spare me.”

“Damn it, come on!”

Amidst curses and shouts.

Encrid quickly turned his head.

“Find the guy skulking around.”

He wasn’t hard to spot.

A figure sneaking among the enemy lines.

“First target.”

He had a task to complete before facing the stab-happy enemy.

“The back-of-the-head club guy.”

He had even given the guy a nickname.

Leaving him alive meant Encrid would get hit from behind.

Call it fate if you will.

But Encrid didn’t believe in fate.

“Destiny set from birth? Nonsense.”

If his sword broke, he’d use the broken blade.

If he had no weapon, he’d use his fists.

No teeth, then gums.

If talent didn’t work.

“I’ll climb up like this.”

What made a knight?

What was the power to change the tide of battle?

Unattainable wishes were delusions.

But if he could get closer, it became a dream.

Encrid hadn’t given up on his dream.

“Hoo.”

He exhaled and drew a throwing knife, pulling back his arm.

In the chaotic battlefield.

He felt the knife’s weight with his fingertips, aiming at the target and visualizing a straight line.

A pub knife-throwing contest winner had taught him this technique.

Practicing this move countless times.

Encrid slightly lifted his left foot, twisted his waist, and extended his right hand.

Focusing on his fingertips, he added a wrist snap.

Swoosh!

The knife followed the imagined line.

“Ugh!”

The knife embedded in the club guy’s shoulder.

His armor was poor, making it easy.

“Who the hell?”

The guy cursed, looking around. No need to make eye contact.

Without an antidote, he’d collapse soon.

The guy fell, and Encrid calmly looked for the next target.

The next was the throwing axe guy.

He often disrupted Encrid’s plans with his axes.

Taking him out early prevented interference.

“God, please!”

An ally’s devout shout echoed.

Curses and angry voices filled the air.

Encrid searched while walking.

Blocking minor attacks with his shield.

Tripping enemies when they showed openings.

Hitting heads with the flat of his sword. Striking the head when they wore helmets.

This eased the burden on allies around him.

“Three throwing knives left.”

The axe thrower wasn’t in sight.

“Always in a different spot.”

But he knew the general area.

“Save Vel first.”

Vel was about to be shot by an enemy archer.

“Right turn here.”

Encrid moved, observing allies’ movements.

Blocking attacks, he discarded his broken shield.

This always happened.

“Here.”

After over a hundred repetitions, some things became familiar.

A rolling shield.

Encrid stepped on its edge.

The shield bounced up.

He grabbed it mid-air. It was easier than bending to pick it up.

“Nice trick.”

A nearby ally commented.

“Enemy behind you.”

This guy had died multiple times watching Encrid in awe.

Encrid warned him.

The ally turned, facing a spear-wielding enemy.

“Damn rat.”

The two clashed.

The ally would win.

Encrid had seen this fight twenty times.

No need to watch.

In the familiar battlefield.

Encrid mentally mapped the area.

“Save Vel first.”

He moved.

“Ugh!”

Vel fell.

Thud.

Blocking the arrow with his shield.

“Huh, I survived?”

“Don’t lift your head. Crawl back. More arrows incoming.”

Vel followed his advice.

In over a hundred repetitions, a second arrow often killed Vel.

So crawling was safer.

“Are you secretly dating the goddess?”

Rem.

This barbarian made blasphemous comments without a second thought.

“No scratches?”

Facing the stab-happy enemy in perfect condition was Encrid’s goal.

“Go do your job.”

“I will. But you seem different today.”

“I’m a man who’s different every day.”

No two days were the same. Each day he grew.

“You need some medicine.”

With that, Rem left.

“Was I too arrogant?”

Maybe. But it was the truth.

Encrid spotted the axe thrower.

An enemy with an axe dangling at his waist.

No need to wait.

Encrid drew a poisoned knife.