Eternally Regressing Knight - Chapter 95: The Secret to Youth Is Endless Training

“With how often we meet, one might think we were spouses in a past life.”

It was a comment born from familiarity. They had seen each other just recently during the monster hunt.

“Or we could’ve been mortal enemies, don’t you think?” Torres retorted, leaning on an old saying, and Encrid caught on to the jest.

Connections from past lives often fell into one of two categories: bonds that were meant to be or curses best left avoided.

“We’re not enemies, right?” Torres smirked.

“True enough.”

The two men bumped fists in mutual understanding. Familiarity was better than facing the unknown.

Their path led them out the northern gate, where the sound of gravel crunching underfoot welcomed them. They were the only ones departing from the border guard.

“Just the two of us?”

“We’ll meet with our scouts once we cross the river.”

Maybe it wasn’t such a dangerous mission after all. Encrid mused silently but didn’t voice his thoughts. Torres was in charge, and Encrid only needed to know what was told.

They set off before dawn, walking diligently. By the time the morning sun rose, Encrid’s undershirt beneath his armor was soaked with sweat. The cold hadn’t fully receded, but marching fully armored under the rising sun made him perspire.

He wore a sleeveless, thin undershirt beneath thicker garments with sleeves, followed by his magic-resistant leather armor, which held a whistle dagger sheath. On top of that, he strapped on his gambeson, boots, and leather gauntlets. His trousers were kept thin for mobility. It was the best he could do to balance protection and speed.

A thick dagger known as a guard sword hung at his waist, with his new longsword on his left hip and a shortsword on his right. It didn’t stop there. He carried concealed knives on both ankles and two throwing knives strapped to his left forearm.

Despite being labeled light infantry, his load was heavy. This time, an additional burden had been added.

“Your left hand’s too idle. You’ll need to address that,” Ragna had insisted. As a result, Encrid carried a buckler strapped to his back.

‘Might double as a cooking pot in a pinch,’ he thought, eyeing the small shield. If he tore the leather from the handle, it would just be thin metal.

‘Unnecessary baggage,’ he mused but followed orders anyway. He’d use the shield and decide if it suited him later.

“Whether it’s sword and shield or just the blade, it’s time to move forward. First, we need balance,” Ragna, usually so lazy, turned into an exemplary instructor when training Encrid.

Did it bother Encrid?

‘Not at all.’

He was grateful, repeating Ragna’s teachings in his head as he kept his senses sharp and eyes scanning their surroundings. To Torres, the scene looked strange.

Glancing at Encrid, Torres noted his load—far heavier than his own, which only included two short swords sheathed on his left hip. Yet, Encrid followed without a hint of fatigue, responding instantly to any sound.

‘What goes through that head of his?’ Torres wondered, growing curious.

It wasn’t just that.

In all his past missions, Torres had seen soldiers ask questions, especially about secretive tasks like this. They would wonder, where were they going? What was the mission’s purpose? What awaited across the river?

Torres had an answer ready for such inquiries:

“We’re soldiers. Our job is to follow orders without question.”

But Encrid had asked nothing.

“Straight ahead.”

Encrid broke the silence. Torres’ gaze followed Encrid’s.

They had been walking northwest alongside the river, where two soaked ghouls emerged.

Their sparse, tangled hair clung to white skulls, looking like seaweed. They crouched behind a large rock, blending into its gray surface, almost invisible.

‘He spotted them before I did?’ Torres thought. Was it keen senses or just sheer luck as rumors suggested? Who could say?

The point was, an enemy had appeared.

“One each?”

“Agreed.”

Encrid moved first, drawing the ghouls’ attention. He slung the buckler off his back and grasped his longsword.

*Srring.*

‘Good sound,’ Torres thought. For a warrior, weapon sounds mattered. Torres didn’t draw his weapon but judged the distance between himself and the ghouls.

Their claws were venomous. No need to get too close.

As the two ghouls lunged at Encrid, Torres snapped his hand to his waist, then extended it. His right foot dug into the ground as his arm propelled forward.

The knife left his fingers with weight and spun through the air, embedding itself in one ghoul’s head. A sharp crack signaled bone splintering as the blade ricocheted off.

The ghoul’s rotting body, typical of those near water, emitted a stench as it fell, a testament to decomposition.

Torres watched Encrid, who deftly blocked a claw swipe with his shield before slicing through the second ghoul’s neck.

Black blood gushed as the decapitated ghoul crumpled, knees folding before it collapsed entirely.

“Wasn’t this area supposed to be clear of monsters?” Encrid asked.

Though both were platoon leaders, Torres was from the kingdom’s border guard, while Encrid’s promotion was recent. Still, their rapport was easy.

“Can’t ever be totally free of them. With all the forces drawn by the face-beast pack recently, patrols are sparse. But we shouldn’t run into too many,” Torres replied.

Encrid nodded, sparking another question in Torres.

“Aren’t you curious about where we’re headed?”

“Beyond the river, isn’t it?”

“Drop the formal speech. We’re both platoon leaders, probably close in age.”

“Thirty.”

“You’re older than me.”

“So?”

No reason to refuse such a proposal.

“What’s the secret to looking young? We’ve both seen our share of battles, but you make me look rough.”

Torres had a plain face, looking almost like a humble innkeeper at best.

As Torres spoke, he wiped the blood off his knife with river water, using his sleeve to dry it before slipping it back into its hidden sheath. The knife vanished into a pocket within his tunic, a trick Encrid found fascinating.

“Endless training,” Encrid answered. Torres chuckled.

A quick wit. He should’ve joined my squad, Torres mused as he shifted to more serious matters.

“You know crossing the river isn’t the end, right?”

Encrid nodded.

“But you still don’t ask questions?”

“Would you answer if I did?”

Torres wouldn’t, not fully. He didn’t have all the answers—only theories.

“Not a pleasant mission, is it?” Encrid’s eyes glinted, catching the morning light. To Torres, they seemed to reflect the thrill of fighting monsters.

‘Is he excited?’

The lands beyond the river teemed with creatures and dangers.

“This is oddly entertaining,” Torres admitted. He liked a touch of danger, and so did Encrid, apparently.

“Let’s move.”

They walked on until they reached the river crossing, marked by piled stones and makeshift trails. The sun was now high.

“Earlier than expected. We have time,” Torres noted, settling in a shaded spot as Encrid practiced sword swings.

“Not taking a break?”

“This is my break.”

No wonder they called him obsessed. Torres watched as Encrid practiced: stepping forward, swinging from low to high, high to low.

*An opening.*

As Torres thought it, Encrid pivoted, using the pommel of his sword like a bludgeon. A basic move executed with finesse.

*Clean.*

A strike like that could break a jaw, leaving someone on a gruel-only diet—or worse.

‘Ugh.’

Just imagining it made Torres’ jaw ache.

Encrid kept moving, despite their long march.

‘Impressive stamina.’

Torres unconsciously gripped the handle of one of his short swords, halfway drawing it with a rasp.

‘Ah.’

He was caught up watching. Encrid stopped mid-swing, turning his head as their eyes met.

“Care for a round?” Encrid proposed.

It wasn’t the time, but why not? Encrid sparked an odd competitiveness. It wasn’t aggression, just a pure urge to spar.

Torres had seen him fight harpies and face-beasts, and now, his training session. Underestimating him was out of the question.

‘He’s still growing.’

Encrid’s thirty, yet improving.

“Let’s do it.”

Torres rose. Encrid sheathed his sword and lifted it, scabbard and all. Even a blow from that could break bones, given Encrid’s strength.

“Good, very good.”

Torres stretched, musing whether to throw a knife.

No, cheap tricks wouldn’t work.

He calculated and analyzed. Every lesson from countless battles surfaced.

*One strike.*

With a sudden lunge, Torres skated low across the ground. Fast, like Audin’s tackles. Encrid instinctively bent his knees, swinging low.

Torres dodged, feinting to the side. Encrid’s eyes, hands, and feet followed. Full-body awareness.

*Close in, prevent space.*

Would it be a battle of endurance? Could he win?

In a drawn-out fight, with real weapons, perhaps he’d prevail.

But this was a spar.

Encrid closed the distance. Torres responded.

He twisted his wrist just enough, pretending to graze Encrid’s neck.

Encrid pulled back on reflex.

*Pik.*

There it was. A knife had appeared in Torres’ hand, its blade glinting close to Encrid’s cheek.

“If this was real, you’d have a scar,” Torres said.

“…What’s that?” Encrid stared, astonished.

Understandable—Torres’ hand had been empty.

“My secret. You think I’d share?”

“Probably not.”

Yet Torres explained, surprising them both.

“It’s a skill. Takes practice, not something learned overnight.” He flipped his wrist, and the knife disappeared again. A quick shake, and another blade emerged from his sleeve.

A thin, flat blade, clearly designed for concealment.

“Hidden knife technique. My specialty,” Torres sighed. “Not something I show everyone.”

“Figured as much.”

Encrid’s gaze shifted to the river, awaiting their ferryman.

“Another round?” he asked.

Torres hesitated, then stood.

“Yeah, let’s go.”

It had been too long since he felt this alive, like when he first learned swordplay.

Caught in the moment, Torres sparred again. It wasn’t just the upcoming mission and its risks. It was this spar that brought clarity.

It was Encrid’s influence.

Instinctively, Torres knew. And it made him smile.

When the ferryman finally arrived, he found two soldiers drenched in sweat, panting.

“I thought this was a standing army mission, not training,” the old boatman said.

There was no good answer to that.