Eternally Regressing Knight
Chapter 119 - 119 - Dogfight
Chapter 119 - Dogfight
'Now the odds are fifty-fifty.'
There was no way he could win against a fully capable Mitch Hurrier.
Awakened to his talent, he had retraced the path his right hand had taken, now forging ahead with his left.
But just because he did all that, did it mean his left hand could match his right?
No.
Then could he withstand the full force of Mitch Hurrier's two-handed assault with only one hand gripping his sword?
'Not a chance.'
He had experienced this scenario countless times already.
What's worse, whatever that bastard had been up to, he had no bad habits to exploit.
Even if he wanted to read his patterns, it was difficult.
Every move flowed seamlessly into the next.
His foundation still seemed to be orthodox and light sword styles.
Meanwhile, Enkrid's base was the heavy sword style.
The disadvantage was still his.
Wielding a heavy sword with one hand.
Even though Mitch had lost a thumb,
He was still capable of wielding a sword with both hands.
If things got desperate, he could endure the pain and swing his blade a few times.
'No helping it, then.'
He would have liked to end this cleanly, slicing his opponent's neck with his sword.
But if that wasn't possible—
Then he had no choice but to show him the Valen mercenary style, the dogfight.
"Sorry in advance."
"What kind of bullshit is that?"
Enkrid meant it. Just a little, but he did feel sorry.
To Mitch, he was an obstacle standing in the way of progress.
A rival and an adversary.
He had only exchanged a few words with him, but it was clear enough. The guy even remembered his name.
And when they met, it was as if he had been waiting, pleased to see him.
What Enkrid sensed from him—
Was the fighting spirit of someone eager to test everything he had built with his sword.
That's why—
'I really do feel bad about this.'
Enkrid had already seen everything he needed to. Mitch's skills, his growth, his fighting spirit.
And that's why he realized his best chance of winning lay in a dogfight.
Would it be the right choice to repeat this day over and over, trying to defeat his opponent with his left hand and swordsmanship alone?
How long would it take?
No, that wasn't the way.
Enkrid knew there was no point in lingering in the present.
If his left hand was to advance further, it needed a new turning point.
Mitch Hurrier was a good opponent, but—
'I think I've gotten everything I can out of him.'
He couldn't read his patterns, but he had memorized a few habits.
For example—
"You're still a weird bastard."
Like how his left eyebrow twitched just before an attack.
As soon as the words left his mouth, Mitch kicked off the ground and lunged forward.
Enkrid had expected it—no, he was sure of it.
Just as Mitch made his move, Enkrid scraped the ground with his toes.
A pebble, caught on the tip of his foot, went flying toward Mitch's face.
Clang!
Mitch deflected it with his blade, hesitating slightly.
But he kept charging.
His reactions were as sharp as ever.
Enkrid planted his sword into the ground, then flicked his hip forward with his left hand.
Whiiiiiiz!
A whistling dagger.
"Pathetic!"
Mitch growled, twisting his sword to deflect it. His eyesight was terrifyingly sharp.
Clang!
Even the whistling dagger was useless.
And before he knew it, Mitch was within striking distance.
Enkrid yanked his sword from the ground and thrust.
Mitch twisted to the side, slashing diagonally with terrifying speed, his blade appearing to bend with the motion.
Enkrid followed the trajectory with his eyes, shifting his sword aside to intercept.
Clang!
The moment their blades clashed, he felt his strength lacking.
He adjusted his angle, aiming for Mitch's hand instead.
Mitch, gripping his sword with both hands, pushed forward with brute force.
Enkrid, feeling the pressure, attempted to deflect the attack with a light sword technique. Mitch sensed it and doubled down.
So Enkrid simply let go of his sword.
Again, aiming for an opening to close the distance.
But—
thud!
—Mitch pushed off the ground, his body swaying as he vanished backward.
Of course, he wouldn't fall for the same trick twice.
Enkrid had expected as much.
Mitch swung down.
Enkrid kicked his fallen sword off the ground.
A calculated move.
Smack.
The hilt landed on his foot.
The blade shot forward, aiming for Mitch's nape.
Normally, one should never drop their sword.
That was a basic principle.
Only those trained in phantom sword techniques ever dared to fight this way.
But to kick it into an attack?
Unconventional moves required unconventional responses.
"Hah!"
With a sharp shout, Mitch caught his sword one-handed mid-swing and brought it down like a crown-splitting strike.
His other hand, clad in a gauntlet, intercepted Enkrid's flying sword.
Clang!
He twisted his wrist, redirecting the blade sideways.
As expected of Mitch Hurrier.
Though the back of his gauntlet was dented, there was no puncture, no serious damage.
Enkrid wasn't surprised.
This was all within his calculations.
The real move came next.
The downward swing had lost strength and speed.
A two-handed strike had become a one-handed one.
The moment Enkrid kicked his sword, he had already started charging forward.
From a time perspective, he had dropped his sword, kicked it, and dashed forward in a seamless motion.
Meanwhile, Mitch had backed off, swung his sword in a crown-splitting arc, then used his gauntlet to deflect the flying blade.
Thud!
Mitch's sword struck Enkrid's right shoulder.
A flesh wound.
At the same time, Enkrid's left hand shot forward.
His grip strength was superior.
He reached for Mitch's throat.
Mitch threw his head back, no—his entire waist arched away to create distance.
Enkrid silently thanked Torres.
Training his left hand's sensitivity had never been more valuable, and it had led to this opening.
He twisted his wrist, flexing the muscles below.
Click.
A dagger popped out.
It slid into his grip from his wrist.
At that moment, he met Mitch's eyes.
His pupils widened.
His gaze wavered.
Enkrid slashed toward those eyes.
Shwick!
The sound of steel cutting flesh.
"Ghh...!"
A stifled groan of pain.
"Hm."
A small grunt escaped Enkrid as well.
It was understandable.
The dagger in his grip had sliced through Mitch Hurrier's eye.
More precisely, from his cheek up to his brow.
Even as he lost an eye, Mitch retaliated with a kick to Enkrid's stomach, yanking his sword back.
The blade, still caught against Enkrid's shoulder, tore through the leather armor beneath, leaving a searing wound.
The sensation of metal slicing flesh.
His already useless right wrist, now accompanied by a slashed shoulder.
'This isn't good.'
With that thought, Enkrid flung his dagger.
Mmmph!
Despite losing an eye, Mitch instinctively swung to intercept.
But the dagger embedded itself into his forearm.
With his depth perception shot, his aim was off.
And that meant—an opportunity.
Valen mercenary-style dogfight.
It was all about closing in, grappling, biting if necessary—
Fighting until only one was left standing.
Using everything he had, no matter how crude the method—
That was what Enkrid did.
Once again, he threw his sword and charged forward.
His stomach still ached from the earlier kick, and his shoulder had been slashed, but—
His heart pounded, pumping blood through his body.
Now was not the time for composure, but for boldness.
So, Enkrid charged in boldly.
"Gah!"
With a cry somewhere between a scream and a battle shout, Mitch swung his sword.
'I can see it.'
Then he could dodge it.
Just like when he had saved Leona.
Like when he had dodged the flying daggers.
Activating his Focus.
Predicting the trajectory of the blade by instinct—
And closing in.
Thud.
His calculation was correct.
Instead of the blade, he was struck by the fist gripping the sword.
But he had pulled his chin in tight and lowered his forehead.
So the impact wasn't too bad.
"If you're going to get hit, take it well. If you take it well, the next chance will be yours."
That was Audin's teaching.
His lessons on how to take a hit had always been useful.
And just like that, the distance was closed.
"Yeah, come on! This is what I wanted!"
Mitch let go of his sword and grabbed Enkrid's shoulder with his hands.
The wound tore open, sending waves of pain surging through him.
But that was still far better than dying.
More importantly, the wound was shallower than Enkrid had expected.
The leather armor beneath his clothes had done its job, even as it was cut apart.
Their arms tangled together.
Two men, panting for breath, tumbled across the rocky ground.
As they rolled, Mitch, now boiling with rage, spat out,
"You filthy bastard, did you think you could win with wrestling?"
'Yeah.'
Enkrid did.
After exchanging a few holds, he could tell.
After learning Valaf-style martial arts and sparring with Eil Karaz's pins and grapples, he had realized—
This kind of combat wasn't just about talent.
It required an absurd amount of time.
It had to be drilled into the body so deeply that it appeared even in dreams.
Enkrid was confident.
If he could just get a hold—his victory was assured.
That was why he didn't hesitate to fight dirty.
Crunch.
As he tried to twist Mitch's arm, Enkrid bit down on his opponent's ear.
"Gaaah!"
Mitch screamed.
Enkrid immediately grabbed his ankle.
Yanking Mitch's leg into his side, pressing down on the instep with his hand, and twisting his own legs around it like a coiling serpent—
Then pressing down with both hands, he locked it into a break.
The explanation was long, but the action was instantaneous.
Crack.
Crack!
A sickening sound.
And surely an excruciating pain.
Only those who had experienced it knew—
Even if it didn't break, it hurt like hell.
With his hand pressing down on the ankle, he crushed the back of the heel against the ribs.
Then, shifting to the other leg—
Swish.
He coiled his legs around it, cradled the foot in his arms, clasped his hands together, and twisted his body like a whirlwind.
Crunch.
This time, the knee joint bent backward at an unnatural angle.
"Aaaaargh!"
A scream of sheer agony tore through the battlefield.
Mitch, drooling, his eyes bloodshot, somehow managed to draw a dagger and stabbed at Enkrid's nape.
Enkrid twisted his body away.
The dagger plunged into his forearm before being pulled free.
Releasing his opponent's leg, Enkrid rolled back.
That was it.
Mitch was no longer capable of fighting.
"Hah..."
Enkrid exhaled deeply.
His own body wasn't in great shape either.
Joint locks like that put strain on the user as well.
And he had been slashed—his arm, his shoulder.
Half his clothes were already soaked.
It was all his own blood.
Of course, even so, his condition was still far better than Mitch's.
"Krais, my sword."
Even if he wasn't a combatant, running away wasn't an option.
Krais, who had been nearby, quickly grabbed Enkrid's sword and rushed over.
As soon as he gripped it in his left hand, blood gushed from his forearm.
That wound was deeper than he had expected.
"Damn, I thought I was gonna die, Captain."
He didn't even have the energy to respond.
Enkrid gripped his sword and stepped forward.
His arms and shoulders were injured, but his legs were fine.
"Platoon leader!"
A few enemy soldiers reacted.
Seeing Mitch Hurrier collapse, they charged in.
But they were far too late.
None of them had thought their leader, Mitch Hurrier, would lose.
He was a genius.
A man born with talent.
A genius who didn't put in effort.
That was what they had once called him.
But after what he had experienced on the battlefield, he had returned and swung his sword night and day.
He wasn't supposed to die like this.
He was just beginning to shine.
And yet, there was no grand clash of swords.
He had simply been hit with a thrown dagger.
And then, both his legs had been shattered.
What was this?
This wasn't the fight their leader wanted.
He should have fought with his sword.
A proper duel, blade against blade.
That was what most of his men felt.
"This... this isn't right."
Mitch thought the same.
Locking eyes with Enkrid, who held his sword upright, Mitch spoke,
"You, you—"
"This is war."
Enkrid said—
And drove his sword in.
Shlunk.
The blade pierced through the nape and exited through the throat, making a faint scraping sound as it struck a few pebbles.
Mitch Hurrier, eyes wide, coughed up blood and collapsed.
The sword was lodged in his throat like an ornament.
Then his head lolled to the side.
"...Kill him!"
A few enraged enemy soldiers rushed at Enkrid.
"Idiots."
Enkrid sneered at them.
He had thought about this countless times today—
Did they really think his commander was an idiot?
That they hadn't anticipated this ambush?
Of course not.
In fact, they had been waiting for it.
Of course, the enemy might have known this too.
The battlefield was always a game of deception and feints.
Tactics were built on lies and misdirection.
So all they had to do was buy time.
Tatatat!
Among the enemy soldiers, there was no one on Mitch's level.
Enkrid's left-handed blade slid out of Mitch's neck and then danced like a butterfly, parrying and deflecting incoming spear thrusts.
It was a refined swordplay—a strange mix of heavy strikes, flowing cuts, and rapid thrusts.
"Rally up! Wipe them out!"
Vengeance was alive.
His shout rang out from behind.
The enemy was elite, but they couldn't overcome sheer numbers.
Especially once archers got involved—there was no answer to that.
"Fire."
About forty crossbowmen, a squad's worth, turned the remaining enemies into pincushions.
Someone had gathered the archers and brought them in.
That decided the battle.
Enkrid knew this better than anyone.
No one could block and dodge an entire rain of arrows.
Seeing that, he slumped to the ground.
His body was wrecked.
'What a goddamn struggle.'
Still, something remained.
His left hand.
That was enough to bring a faint smile to his lips.
He had survived the brawl.
Survived and made it through today.
Moving forward toward a new path.
Like a tattered, torn dream barely stitched together—
That was how Enkrid felt.

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