Eternally Regressing Knight
Chapter 4 - 4 - Heart of the Beast
Chapter 4 - Heart of the Beast
"All units, assemble! Fourth platoon, gather!"
The platoon leader's shout echoed in front of the barracks.
It had been a day filled with a sense of fulfillment, but as the day drew to a close, dusk began to settle.
The sun was already descending toward the western horizon in the late afternoon.
"Simply put, this isn't something you learn through practice alone. Training a thousand days won't make a difference. Yet, seeing what you've managed to achieve during training, it's hard to say you lack talent."
As they moved in response to the platoon leader's call, Rem spoke with an unusual seriousness.
"Really?"
Enkrid only asked in return.
It was hard enough to believe the events unfolding around him, let alone that they would lead to anything good.
And if word got out?
Unless it was truly divine blessing, even a slight misstep could bring the Inquisition knocking at his door.
Would a meeting with those inquisitors end well?
Not a chance.
At best, it would be the stake; at worst, a torture party awaited.
No one wants nails driven into their body or their fingernails torn off—not Enkrid, either.
During his days as a mercenary, he'd seen many suffer unjustly under the banner of heresy.
Some he'd even quietly helped, though it was dangerous work.
If anyone had known, they'd have mocked him, saying he'd chosen his own death.
It was that perilous.
Still, he did it because it felt right.
Without that, there'd have been no reason to live as a swordsman.
"What's with that smugness? It's irritating. Did you strike gold today? Planning to desert and keep it all for yourself? Don't you know that'll only bring trouble?"
Gold...
He had found something better than that.
"Shut up and move."
The assembly order had been given; it was time to act.
Enkrid wiped the sweat dripping from his forehead with his sleeve.
If he put his helmet on now, it would stink to high heaven, but there was no time to wash at the stream.
Standing next to him, Rem wasn't even sweating.
How could someone train and remain so composed?
Enkrid, part of the fourth platoon, moved to his designated position.
"Will it work?"
Mastering something in a single day was a stretch, but he'd grasped some basics—thanks to the experience of being stabbed to death.
"We are!"
The platoon leader's voice rang out.
"Victorious!"
The platoon leader was an unremarkable but reliable figure, adept at following orders from above.
The battlefield loomed once more as the sun dipped further west, twilight descending.
Enkrid's heart trembled.
Why?
He asked himself and found the answer quickly: fear.
He'd been stabbed to death three times now.
That pain, that overwhelming dread—it wasn't something one could ever get used to.
Enkrid rubbed his neck.
Though unscathed, it felt sore, as if he'd swallowed a blade.
"What's the matter? Losing your head already?"
Rem whispered beside him.
"Stay sharp. This is the battlefield," Enkrid said as he stepped forward at the command, "Advance!"
Rem matched his stride.
"Tension stiffens the body. Didn't you learn from me to avoid that?"
He wasn't wrong, which made it all the more irritating.
The Heart of the Beast.
Few could truly learn it, even if taught.
Enkrid suppressed his racing heart, aligning his breathing with each step.
"That's the way. Let's see you survive today, dreamer."
Hearing Rem's taunt, Enkrid resolved not to share his ambition of becoming a knight if he died again today.
The battlefield beckoned once more.
Hand-to-hand combat began.
Another identical day unfolded—his fourth "today."
Enkrid decided against saving his shield from breaking.
A shield's purpose wasn't to be preserved but to block enemy blades, spears, and axes.
Saving it was laughable.
Instead...
His thoughts ran too long.
Suddenly, something came flying at him.
Without time to even cry out, he leaned back, thrusting his shield forward.
Thud!
A spear tip struck the shield's edge.
Barely a successful block.
His left shoulder ached.
The spear carried weight and power.
The enemy retracted and thrust it again.
Normally, his stiffened body would've failed to respond, leading to a series of crises.
But his calm mind allowed him to see the spear's movement.
The thrust was twice as slow as the one that killed him.
It was avoidable.
Focusing on the spear tip, Enkrid tilted his head aside.
Whoosh.
The spear grazed his helmet.
It was his first attempt at something resembling a stunt.
The Heart of the Beast doesn't excite easily.
It allows for minimal movements in evasion.
This newfound composure gave him clarity.
Enkrid saw the gap between the enemy's helmet and breastplate—a slit wide enough to expose the chin.
Not much of an opening, but enough for a blade.
He gripped his sword and thrust upward.
No grand technique required.
Squish.
The blade pierced from chin to throat.
"Gurgle."
The enemy spewed blood and bits of severed tongue.
Exploiting a gap doesn't require great strength—a lesson his swordsmanship instructor once taught.
"Evade with minimal motion, and the rest becomes easy."
It was an expensive training school, yet the lessons were few.
Back then, Enkrid dismissed them as nonsense.
"Money well spent," he thought now.
Short evasions followed by precise strikes were effective.
He kicked the enemy's abdomen and withdrew his sword.
More blood gushed from the hole under the chin.
The soldier crumpled backward.
"You bastard!"
Another enemy charged from behind.
Enkrid didn't rush to breathe or react.
"Six steps."
He counted the distance, slashing the straps securing his shield.
Rip.
Rip.
Two cuts freed the shield.
Wrapping it around his forearm had been a trick he learned to survive, ensuring it wouldn't be easily dropped in chaotic skirmishes.
But now, it was unnecessary.
The enemy closed in.
Enkrid hurled the shield.
Thud!
The shield startled the spear-wielding soldier, forcing him to pull back his hands—and the spear—instinctively.
His movements slowed.
For a moment, the broad shield blocked his view.
Taking advantage of this, Enkrid sidestepped two paces left.
Helmets protect the head but narrow peripheral vision.
Enkrid had often lost sight of enemies abruptly on the battlefield.
Now, he exploited that blind spot, crouching low and preparing to topple his opponent.
It was the same thing he had done the first time he died.
This time, however, he executed it with greater precision.
He targeted the opponent's right side.
Before charging, Enkrid observed the enemy soldier's grip on their weapon.
The front of the spear shaft was held with the left hand, while the right hand gripped the rear.
The soldier was right-handed.
He noticed things that would normally be overlooked.
A clarity of vision granted by his composure.
These were techniques he occasionally utilized in duels or small-scale skirmishes, but rarely during the chaos of a full-blown melee.
It was a form of insight honed through survival as a mercenary.
A right-handed spearman would struggle to swing to the right with their spear.
The soldier who had blocked his shield frantically turned their head left and right in search of Enkrid.
They were startled—understandably so—because their opponent had seemingly vanished.
The enemy soldier's eyes eventually locked onto Enkrid.
While they had been searching and panicking, Enkrid had positioned himself behind their head and brought his sword down in a diagonal slash aimed toward their chest.
Thwack!
The soldier's armor had a protective section covering the back of the neck.
The thick fabric and the thin leather covering it prevented the sword from completely severing their neck.
The blade lodged halfway into the back of their neck.
"Urgh, guh, ah..."
The enemy soldier's eyes widened in shock, round with disbelief.
Blood gushed from the half-severed neck, spilling profusely.
Even as their neck was partially severed, the spearman reflexively swung their weapon.
The shaft of the spear struck Enkrid's right shoulder with a light thud.
The impact was negligible.
The soldier, half-dead, had swung at an awkward angle, making it impossible to deliver a forceful blow.
Enkrid raised his sword and yanked it free.
Crunch.
It had been embedded in bone and required significant effort to extract.
As the blade came loose, chunks of flesh and blood clung to it, dripping down.
Surveying the battlefield briefly, Enkrid picked up a shattered shield from the ground instead of his axe.
He now had the luxury of time to make such choices.
"This is working."
It was almost too easy.
On a battlefield, it's rare to demonstrate even half of one's usual abilities.
That's natural.
How could anyone fight as they normally would in the heart of death and carnage?
While some went berserk, most faltered.
Until he experienced death three times, Enkrid had been the same.
But now, things were different.
"I can manage this."
That thrust—perhaps it was something he could contend with.
What Enkrid did wasn't enough to change the tide of the battle.
He was merely a single soldier fighting slightly better.
There was no shift in the broader flow of combat.
But for Enkrid personally, this was a significant breakthrough.
After dispatching a few more enemy soldiers in the same manner—
"Ugh!"
Bell stumbled again.
This time, Enkrid had enough leeway to pull him back to his feet.
"You okay?"
"Damn it, there's a rock sticking out here."
It was an open plain.
It wasn't unusual for a rock to jut out.
But Bell had tripped over his own feet.
That made him the fool here.
"Get it together."
Enkrid grabbed Bell's hand and helped him up.
"Thanks, man."
Without loosening his grip, Enkrid tightened his hold on Bell's hand.
"...You mind letting go?" Bell muttered awkwardly.
Through the split, blood-streaked visor of Bell's helmet, his eyes were visible.
The glint was a flash—an arrow.
The arrow pierced Bell's skull.
Enkrid knew this moment well.
In the chaos of battle, spotting incoming arrows was nearly impossible.
It was far too difficult.
Enkrid tried to pull Bell forward by his hand.
Bell staggered, struggling to maintain his balance before managing to plant his feet.
Thwack!
Bell's head shattered.
The arrow had smashed his skull.
Blood splattered across Enkrid's chest plate.
As soon as Enkrid saw Bell's head burst, he ducked.
A chilling whistle passed just over his head.
An arrow, no doubt.
The arrow buried itself with a dull thud into the corpse of a dead ally behind him.
"You prayed to Lady Luck or something?"
Rem's voice called out just as Enkrid dodged.
He hadn't been able to save Bell's head, but he had saved his own.
Of course, if he hadn't, Rem would have saved him anyway.
It was the same as before time.
"Something like that."
Enkrid answered vaguely, earning a faint chuckle from Rem.
Through the gap in his helmet, Rem's teeth were visible.
For someone with such delicate features, his mannerisms and speech were rough to the extreme.
"Good for you. They say it's the Hawk-eyed bastard who fired that arrow. I'm going after him. Better pray ten more times to your goddess."
"Don't get yourself killed out there. I'll pray for you too."
"Much obliged. Don't forget this."
Rem tapped his left chest with his axe handle and headed back into the fray.
He was off to hunt down the falcon-eye—or whatever he was called.
Enkrid nodded, hoping he'd be able to ask Rem that evening whether the archer had been taken down.
As Rem disappeared, allies and enemies swarmed into the space he had vacated.
The gap began to close, and Enkrid judged the battlefield flow as anything but favorable.
He had experienced this three times already.
The allies were being pushed back.
But there was only one thing to do.
Survive.
Enkrid felt a peculiar thrill rising within him.
It wouldn't be long before he encountered that skilled soldier again.
And soon enough, it happened.
That thrust once again aimed for his head.
Instead of dodging, Enkrid met the incoming blade with his own.
Clang, clang, clang!
Sparks flew in the air.
Their eyes met.
"You blocked that?"
The enemy soldier's gaze seemed to ask.
"You're pretty good," the enemy remarked, thrusting again.
Once, twice, three times.
The first was blocked with a shield.
The second dodged with a roll to the side.
The third was met with a counter-swing.
Enkrid's blade traced a short arc through the air.
And as the soldier pulled their arm back, something struck Enkrid in the waist from behind.
Thwack!
"Urgh."
He bit back a scream.
Another thrust came at Enkrid.
This time, he intentionally shifted his weight forward, collapsing into a roll.
The idea was sound, but his timing was off.
Thud.
The blade smashed into his collarbone, piercing through.
It felt like a red-hot iron branding his flesh and bone.
"Guh!"
The pain was so intense he couldn't even scream.
As he reached for the embedded blade, the enemy swiftly retrieved it.
The blade was impossibly sharp, likely cared for meticulously.
The withdrawal was accompanied by an even sharper agony.
The pain turned his vision white.
Enkrid clenched his teeth and turned to face his attacker.
A hulking enemy soldier stood there awkwardly, holding a club.
"I'll show mercy."
The one who had killed him three times before uttered the word, raising their blade vertically and driving it down.
That was the end.
Darkness seeped into his vision as his eyes closed.
Bang, bang, bang.
The sound of a ladle striking a pot echoed again.
"The fifth time."
Damn it.
He thought he had it this time.
"What's the fifth time?"
Rem asked from beside him.
"A bug's in your boot."
Enkrid replied as he stood.
He had died again, but he had learned something.
After all, the lesson he'd paid for with gold coins at the training grounds was this:
Nothing works the first time.
So what do you do?
If once isn't enough, try ten times.
If ten times isn't enough, try a hundred.
Ordinarily, dying once would be the end.
Fortunately, Enkrid could repeat this as many times as it took.

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