Eternally Regressing Knight - Chapter 92: The Line Between Greatness and Madness

Encrid finished polishing his boots and gloves, then carefully cleaned his sword with an oiled cloth.

Defeating the previous horde of beasts had attracted merchants, which meant a new sword was coming his way.

The broken sword, once made of Valerian steel, was melted down and mixed with Noir soft iron.

Combining two high-quality metals recognized across the continent.

“No one but me could do this,” boasted the blacksmith.

And rightly so.

Though he couldn’t forge enchanted swords, his skill with metal rivaled that of a mage.

Within the border guard, he was considered a master craftsman.

Though only renowned within the city limits, that still counted for something.

The fact that this craftsman made his sword was enough.

Even the picky Ragna, who used any scrap metal available, nodded slightly in approval.

“It’s decent enough. Not that I’d use it myself.”

Ragna’s half-hearted nod was accompanied by this remark.

Encrid, with great care, flicked the blade after cleaning it with the oiled cloth.

Ting.

A resonant note rang out. For Encrid, it was the first time wielding a sword worthy of being called a masterpiece.

It brought immense satisfaction.

Ironically, Ragna, who never seemed satisfied with weapons, used anything he could find—even carrying around a chipped arming sword until Encrid sharpened it for him out of annoyance. If not, he’d still be using a damaged blade.

“Esther, that’s not a toy.”

Encrid gently coaxed Esther as he finished tending to his sword.

After killing the mage in the sewers, there were a few items he’d retrieved.

He had asked Krys to help sell them, but one item, in particular, had been troublesome and kept around due to its dubious nature.

“The cover’s made of human skin. Was there really a mage in the sewer?”

Krys had asked when Encrid entrusted the item to him.

The way Krys phrased it sounded as if he didn’t believe Encrid had killed a mage.

“You didn’t believe me?”

“I did, but now I’m more convinced.”

… It still sounded like he hadn’t believed him.

“So, it’s hard to deal with that one, but the staff and stones sold well.”

According to Krys, many people sought rare items. Encrid had little interest in such matters.

The black wooden staff and a few stones were sold.

The staff was a rudimentary creation of the mage, while the stones were minor alchemical artifacts of little value.

With the proceeds from the guild payments, the bounty from killing the mage, and rewards from completed assignments, Encrid poured everything into buying the sword.

The Noir soft iron alone was expensive enough that he felt the investment was worth it.

‘A little more Valerian steel would’ve been nice.’

“That’s a lot of money for a single sword.”

Krys commented, but Encrid was satisfied.

For a warrior, nothing was more important than their weapon.

Even if it was considered disposable, if it meant survival in life-threatening combat, no cost was too high.

“This is enough.”

The remaining item was the spellbook, its human-skin cover distasteful enough that Encrid had wrapped it in a thin cloth and stashed it away. Esther had found it and brought it back to its place.

What would happen if Esther decided to urinate on it?

A spellbook was essentially a wizard’s life’s work, filled with their knowledge and findings.

A book important enough to earn the grand title of ‘grimoire.’

Yet now, a leopard was using it as a mat.

‘Is it okay to leave it there?’

At least Esther probably wouldn’t relieve himself on it. He never did his business in front of the squad members. Whether it was a trait of felines or just Esther’s peculiar habits, he always went somewhere private.

And he washed often, too.

Encrid decided not to worry about the spellbook.

He had no idea how much it was worth, but if he reached for it—

“Hiss!”

Esther hissed in rare defiance.

“Leave it be. Looks comfortable enough,” Rem chimed in, and Encrid simply nodded.

Having traded the wizard’s legacy for a sword, Encrid continued his rigorous training.

He started his day earlier than sunrise, pushing himself to extend each day a little longer.

As a platoon leader, he only needed to serve specific duties every ten days.

These duties typically involved supervising night watch or patrols for four to six hours.

Because he was free from standard duties, he could begin his day a bit earlier than usual.

Encrid’s routine began two hours before the rest of the soldiers.

“Grr.”

One morning, as he placed Esther down and stepped outside, the chill of the early dawn bit through the air, accompanied by a sharp, cutting wind.

They called this the north wind.

Facing the cold, Encrid steadied his breathing.

The day started with the *Isolation Technique*.

He moved his body to build heat, burdening his muscles with heavy stones to warm up.

Soon, Audin joined him, standing by his side to begin his own version of the technique.

“Good morning, Platoon Leader.”

Was this meant as a form of respect?

He now carried the title of platoon leader, as well as the title of “brother.”

Hearing that, the company commander’s promise to fill the platoon came to mind.

“Focus.”

Audin chided as Encrid’s mind wandered.

“Understood.”

He couldn’t afford distractions when performing the technique.

Mastering concentration on both breath and muscle was Audin’s emphasis.

Encrid complied.

He trained and trained again.

But it wasn’t just the *Isolation Technique*.

He remained committed to organizing and refining his skills.

‘Heart of the Beast, Sense of the Blade, Singular Focus, Isolation Technique.’

Sword forms, including mid-sword stances.

Application of swordsmanship.

The skill to assess an opponent’s training and strengths just by observation.

Anticipating attacks through intuition and gut feeling.

In terms of pure swordplay, there was still the Valen-style mercenary swordsmanship he originally possessed.

‘Can I utilize it, or should I discard it?’

Discarding it wasn’t necessary—that was Encrid’s conclusion.

How one used their skills depended on personal ability.

‘If my ability is lacking, I need to develop it.’

Boldness was always essential. The ability to face crucial moments without flinching proved its worth.

Encrid considered the *Heart of the Beast* as the foundation of everything.

‘Stay calm.’

Some days, he focused on training his instincts.

On others, he combined sensory awareness with concentration.

‘Imprint it on my body.’

Each swing of the sword embodied a multitude of experiences.

A process of internalizing through instinct, consciously recognizing it, and then embedding it into the body again.

Of course, it wasn’t easy.

Through this, Encrid gradually shaped his own patterns and methods.

‘Mere training isn’t enough.’

What he needed was real combat.

Training alongside battles that tested him.

Ideally—

‘Combat that risks my life.’

“I told you before. When you fight with your life on the line and survive, you gain a lot. But since you only have one life, building skill that way isn’t exactly practical.”

Rem’s half-joking words were the truth.

Now Encrid understood the importance of combat that pushed him to the brink.

Of course, surviving was the goal—not dying repeatedly but overcoming death.

Understanding this necessity, Encrid accepted all kinds of assignments.

Small tasks, dangerous missions—nothing was off the table.

“What are we looking for?”

“My cat, please.”

Even requests like this, from a noblewoman.

Was it odd for a unit to take on such jobs?

No, it was necessary.

Encrid didn’t discriminate against missions.

Every situation, every moment.

‘All of it helps with training,’ he reminded himself, genuinely believing it.

So, he found the cat up in a tree.

“Let’s go quietly.”

The cat was poised to flee. This, too, was within his realm of instinct.

Oddly enough, this turned into an epiphany.

He manipulated the cat’s instincts, pushing it to leap from the tree.

With a soft thud, he caught it and subdued it with his gaze.

Even this was within his capabilities now.

“Since you’ve opened the door to your instincts,” Jaxson said as an aside. He no longer tormented Encrid with sudden bouts of aggression.

Those days of being tested by killing intent were over.

They no longer had meaning.

From finding cats to—

“There’s a thief hiding in the city?”

He took on such assignments as well.

A drifter had entered the city and committed a sloppy crime.

“Find him.”

Encrid hadn’t anticipated that overtaking the Gilpin Guild would lead to this, but Krys handled it with practiced efficiency.

They found him in a back-alley gambling den.

A scarred veteran with a blade mark on his forehead.

“Want to fight? Damn, coming to the outskirts brings all kinds of trouble. Aren’t you with the border guard? Come on, show me what you’ve got.”

Confident, but was his skill up to par?

It didn’t seem so.

A perfect opportunity to test Encrid’s trained eye.

Feigning weakness, he gauged the man’s movements.

‘At best, mid-to-high level.’

By the Naurilian military’s ranking system, that’s what he was.

No surprise.

“Huff, huff, who are you?”

“Border guard.”

With that, Encrid broke the man’s leg and detained him.

The captured man was jailed in the unit’s prison.

If no one paid his fine, he’d stay there for life.

“We’ll see.”

He said as he was taken away.

But it was unlikely they’d meet again.

Encrid also responded to brawls between merchant escorts at inns.

One participant was quite skilled, providing Encrid an opportunity to train his *Singular Focus* and *Sense of the Blade* together.

Focusing while keeping sensory awareness heightened.

He’d done it before but learned something new each time.

The difference in concentration could change everything.

‘It slows down.’

Not as much as before, but it still felt as though his opponent’s blade moved slower.

Matching predictions with movements.

It was real, a difference in perception speed.

All of this was a cycle of continuous training.

Training upon training.

Through these varied missions—

“Are you crazy? What kind of requests are these?”

Murmurs began to spread among the soldiers.

It wasn’t criticism.

“Does he have ten bodies? Why doesn’t he rest?”

“He’s not human. He can’t be.”

More amazement than critique.

“No wonder he became a platoon leader.”

“Damn, maybe I should start waking up early to practice spear thrusts.”

Thanks to Encrid, an unexpected training surge swept through the unit.

His skills were proven.

His reputation among the soldiers grew.

Word spread of his high status, even reaching the level of platoon leader.

Some soldiers owed their lives to him.

All of this contributed to the training fever that gripped the unit.

Many started waking up earlier to condition themselves.

Encrid paid it little mind.

He was too focused on his own path.

Throughout all his training, he felt a steady fire burning within his chest.

What had he once been like on the battlefield?

Not fearful, but it had never been enjoyable. Battlefields didn’t excite him.

‘This can’t be normal.’

Now, he looked forward to the battlefield. He wanted to fight, to prove himself, to display his skill. To risk his life and cross the threshold of death once more.

A madman’s ambition.

And then—

“Don’t you know? There’s a thin line between greatness and madness.”

Rem’s words echoed in his mind.

If the path to greatness was reserved only for the mad, then madness was necessary.

On a day punctuated by training and missions—

“I’d like to spar again. It should be interesting.”

The company commander summoned Encrid to her personal training ground.

“A duel?”

Encrid, of course, didn’t refuse.

“Gladly.”

The situation was the same as before. Would the result be the same?

That was uncertain.

Encrid still couldn’t fully gauge the company commander’s skill.

But he didn’t think he’d be overpowered like last time.

However, he knew he’d only learn by clashing blades and fists.

The company commander raised her hand, forming a rigid knife-hand.

“Let’s use this today.”

It felt like a test.

Their previous duel had made him realize his shortcomings.

The gap back then? Close-quarters combat.

Wrestling, as it was called.

Encrid nodded.

Soon, their knife-hands met in the air.

Thud.

A brief impact marked the start of their match.