Eternally Regressing Knight
Chapter 106 - 106 - Dodge and Dodge Again
Chapter 106 - Dodge and Dodge Again
It was the moment when Leona Rockfreed and Mathis, her bodyguard, parted ways near the walls of Border Guard.
It was deliberate—a display of raw intensity.
"Hostility is a form of momentum. You can create it with your instincts. It's easy. Ah, but for someone like our squad leader, it might be a bit difficult."
That unhinged bastard Jaxen.
His words always cut deep, like his tongue had been forged in a blacksmith's workshop.
Every sentence of his was a sword in disguise.
Not that Enkrid paid it much mind.
He just dismissed him as a lunatic and moved on.
But in the end, Jaxen's words weren't entirely wrong.
Enkrid had unlocked his instincts.
He had dabbled with a similar kind of momentum during a mission to catch a cat, but mastering it was another matter.
This time, however, he truly grasped it.
Once he relaxed his shoulders, it turned out to be easier than expected.
In fact, he'd already put it to use when he warned Torres and Finn to tread carefully. His words carried a forceful intent.
And now...
"Step aside. I'll draw their attention," Enkrid ordered.
"What?"
Finn responded first.
"What kind of nonsense is that?"
Torres followed, his tone sharp.
Neither of them had known Enkrid for long enough to be bound by any deep camaraderie.
They weren't exactly the kind to risk their lives for each other.
"Rangers don't abandon their comrades," Finn growled.
"That goes for me too," Torres added.
Yeah, you're both good people, Enkrid thought.
But that wasn't the point.
"Just get lost. You're in my way," he said coldly.
He didn't have the time to explain.
Even in another timeline, when he had tried to explain, they stuck to him like leeches.
"...Why is he acting cool?" Finn muttered under her breath.
"This crazy bastard?" Torres bristled but still caught the meaning behind Enkrid's words.
Enkrid was dead serious.
"Wait at the farthest range. Once this is over, regroup. I have a plan—we can all survive."
His tone carried the weight of a command, more effective than explanations.
Soon enough, Torres relented.
"See you later," Torres said, his words laced with double meaning before stepping aside.
Finn glanced back twice before following him.
As Enkrid watched them leave, he mulled over his next move.
Even though they'd split off, every single spear-wielding enemy still needed to focus on him.
How could he ensure that?
He already knew the answer.
Glancing back, Enkrid shouted at the top of his lungs, "Roger! Take off your helmet!"
To an outsider, the words would seem meaningless.
"Roger! The man who sent his hair to the heavens first!"
Enkrid's voice boomed like a bard reciting a ballad.
He'd learned about Roger's peculiarities across seventy-eight timelines.
Although his grudge with Finn stemmed from other reasons, one detail about him stood out—Roger was the commander who never removed his helmet.
The nickname stuck.
From the top of his head to his forehead, a barren desert stretched across Roger's scalp.
A glaring weakness.
"Do you carry a wasteland atop your head?"
Enkrid had doubted whether this tactic would work at first.
But confirmation came easily.
In another timeline, when he had been caught by Roger and managed to knock off his helmet, Roger's reaction had been explosive.
"Bald?"
The moment those words escaped Enkrid's lips, Roger's eyes had flared with rage.
In the current timeline, Enkrid needed to redirect Roger's wrath toward himself, away from Finn.
He ran his fingers through his own thick, black hair, letting it cascade between his fingers.
"...That damn bastard!"
Roger's eyes burned with fury.
If Enkrid were captured now, he wouldn't just die—he'd be tortured first.
Escape was the only option.
As Finn and Torres retreated, Roger barked orders.
"Get him!"
Twenty-nine spear-wielding soldiers charged forward, fueled by their commander's anger.
Despite their frenzy, Enkrid knew Roger would soon divide his forces, targeting Finn and Torres if he didn't act.
'It's about time.'
As if on cue, a bone-chilling howl echoed from the opposite side of the battlefield.
Awooooooo!
Under the light of the Dual Moon, the surroundings were illuminated.
From the other side, the figures of lycanthropic beasts became visible—wolves on two legs, sprinting with feral ferocity.
Lykanthropes.
"Phew."
Enkrid exhaled, steadying his breath as he came to a halt.
This was it.
He needed to bind both the spearmen and the lycanthropes here.
'Look at me.'
To unleash momentum was to channel a murderous intent through every fiber of one's being.
It was the mindset of being able to cut down every last opponent in sight.
He grasped the hilt of his sword, slowly unsheathing it.
The blade reflected the moonlight as it emerged.
Taking a half-step forward, Enkrid conveyed his intent with his entire body.
Approach, and you'll be cut down.
The intangible pressure of momentum, killing intent, and will radiated from him.
The soldiers and the lycanthropes, drawn by that oppressive force, converged on Enkrid.
At the center of it all stood Enkrid, like a man embracing death.
Roger was growing increasingly irritated.
What should have been a simple mission—capturing a wildcat-like woman—had become complicated.
Should he give up now?
No.
He couldn't.
He needed to kill her.
She was the one who had killed his brother.
"Damn it, chase her down!"
Determined to see it through, Roger's anger boiled over when Enkrid's voice cut through the air once more.
From "Take off your helmet" to "wasteland," the taunts pierced him like daggers.
Thump.
His heart pounded.
Rage surged, making his blood feel like it was boiling.
"That son of a bitch?"
He made up his mind.
He steeled himself.
When he caught that bastard, he wouldn't let him die peacefully.
He'd make him beg for death.
In that instant, reason flew out of him, screaming at him to pursue.
Roger himself took off running.
Awooooo!
The howling of beasts erupted.
The moment Roger spotted the werewolf pack charging from the opposite direction, frustration surged through him.
"Goddamn it."
How had things ended up like this?
"That damned bastard."
It was because of the one who mocked him as though reciting a poem about his hair.
Because of that jerk's ridicule, he'd lost focus for a moment.
"Damn bastard."
Roger tried to steady himself by cursing at the werewolves he saw, but it wasn't easy.
So what should he do?
The answer came quickly.
"Kill them all."
No matter how precious they were to that woman called Retsha or whatever her name was, they were just monsters.
Even if they formed a colony, a pack of Lycanthropes could be dealt with as long as they fought in formation.
He was about to shout orders when it happened.
The man he had been chasing suddenly exhaled sharply and stopped in his tracks, gripping his sword.
With that sword in hand, he spoke with his body.
He spoke with his presence.
He spoke with his killing intent.
"Come closer, and I'll cut you down."
To Roger, the surrounding world blurred away, leaving only the man holding the sword.
If this was how Roger saw it, imagine how it felt to the other soldiers.
Formation or not, the overwhelming presence forced the battle to begin.
Since no one had ordered them to halt, the spearman at the front simply acted as he always did.
If an enemy appeared, they fought—that was his role.
And so it began.
Thrust!
He lunged with his spear.
Awooo!
Clang!
The werewolf's claws deflected the spearhead just as it was about to strike.
The discordant sound of the wolf's howl, claws, and the spear shaft reverberated.
That sound brought a cold sliver of reason back into Roger's mind.
"Damn it."
He'd attacked without forming a proper formation.
It was because he'd been impatient.
No, it was also because the enemy had mocked his weakness.
And the presence—that was an issue too.
Everything had spiraled out of control.
A chaotic battle had begun.
Huff.
The first thing to reach Enkrid was a werewolf.
Its claws aimed for his neck.
Watching the creature's sweeping arm, Enkrid stepped back.
"Hoo."
He steadied his breathing.
He couldn't endure this by gasping for air.
From here on, it was like walking a narrow path between cliffs.
He couldn't afford any carelessness.
Mistakes were not an option.
So, what did he need?
"Boldness."
The heart of the beast beat within.
Thump.
The charging werewolf pack and the encroaching spear unit.
Enemies surrounded him, closing in from all sides.
But there was no reason to feel anxious.
After all, wasn't this a battlefield he himself had created?
"Then, next?"
He sharpened his senses.
Beyond his five senses, he reached into the realm of intuition.
He had to avoid claws and spear tips flying from behind.
And that's what he did.
Stepping forward with his left foot, he swung his sword sideways.
It wasn't a powerful strike.
Clang!
But it was enough to block the claws of a wolf lunging at him from the side.
Pivoting on his left foot, he executed a Northern-style passing step.
Normally, this would be followed by a heavy downward slash to break the arm or weapon of the enemy that attacked his back.
"Forward again."
Instead, he ducked low as though folding his body.
Whoosh!
The wolf's claws grazed the air above his head.
By now, Enkrid's eyes were only half-open.
His gaze was unfocused.
If someone looked closely, they might say his eyes resembled those of a fish gasping on land.
"Focus."
Instead of concentrating on a single opponent, Enkrid had chosen a method to survive this place.
"Wider."
He sharpened the blade of his concentration and spread it outward, encompassing the range of his sword.
The outcome of a battle was determined by judgment, distance, timing, and position.
In an instant, he made decisions.
He gauged the distance to his opponent.
He measured the time it would take for their weapon to reach him and for his own sword to strike its target.
He took in his current position and where he would stand next.
With this, Enkrid danced alone in this chaos.
Clang, clang.
Occasionally, his blade met a werewolf's claws.
Sometimes a spearhead scraped past the side of his gambeson.
There were moments when claws brushed dangerously close to his neck.
Even when an enemy tried to stomp on his foot, he merely gave them a light shove with his shoulder.
The result?
"Ugh!"
It led to a soldier's dying groan.
A werewolf sank its teeth into the neck of a soldier who had been pushed off balance.
Blood splattered, leaving stains on the beast's face.
It wasn't intentional.
He dodged again and again.
Growl!
When a werewolf lunged to bite his shoulder, he crouched to avoid it.
Snap!
He heard the beast's teeth clack together as he stood and pushed it away.
And that led to...
Thud!
Howl!
A spear pierced the werewolf's belly, the very one that had targeted Enkrid.
He focused solely on evasion.
Circling around the edges of the battlefield instead of staying at its center, he gradually slipped away.
Now the werewolves had to deal with the spear-wielding soldiers.
And the spear unit had to fight off the werewolves.
All of this was clearly visible to Torres and Finn, who weren't far away.
"...That guy."
"He's bat-shit crazy. Completely insane."
Torres and Finn alternated between speaking, unable to tear their eyes away from Enkrid's movements.
He kept dodging.
Sometimes he was struck by spear shafts, and claws occasionally raked across his body.
But he managed to avoid fatal injuries.
And look at what he'd created in the center of the battlefield with just a few words and his commanding presence.
The fight between the monsters and the elite soldiers had devolved into chaos.
"The humans are going to win."
Even so, elites were elites.
Though their formation had broken, groups of three or four banded together to watch each other's backs.
They recovered some of their stamina lost from the initial charge.
By forming shield walls and striking with spears, they fought back effectively.
And then, Roger moved.
Facing three or four werewolves on his own, he killed one by driving his spear into its head.
Switching to a short spear, he charged like a raging tiger.
"If we leave him alone..."
Finn could see him heading straight for Enkrid.
She didn't need to look closer to know his eyes must be burning with venom.
He always flew into a rage when mocked about his hair.
"That crazy bastard."
"I'm going to help."
Finn mumbled, and Torres declared his intent as though steeling himself.
In the meantime, the enemy commander named Roger charged furiously, thrusting his short spear at Enkrid.
"Ah."
Finn let out a sharp cry as she watched.
To her, it looked like the spear had pierced Enkrid's side.
"Damn. No, he dodged it."
Torres spoke.
He was right—it was a mistake.
The spear shaft was caught between Enkrid's arm and side.
He had dodged it by a hair's breadth, trapping the weapon with his body.
It looked like a narrow escape.
To Torres, it seemed like a moment of life and death.

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