Eternally Regressing Knight
Chapter 148 - 148 - Ten Days, Meritorious Deeds
Chapter 148 - Ten Days, Meritorious Deeds
Ten days after the retreat.
The day flowers began to bloom even within Border Guard.
Spring had fully arrived.
During that time, there had been a single rainfall.
News of ongoing battlefield cleanup arrived, along with continuous reports of victory.
Eventually, word spread that the Duchy of Aspen had requested peace.
Naurilia had seized part of Aspen's territory, soon claiming the Green Pearl Plains.
Though the land had long been barren and would require considerable effort to develop, a victory was still a victory—an overwhelming one at that.
Cheers erupted at the battlefield's end.
More people indulged in magic as spring arrived.
In those lively days filled with excitement,
Enkrid's ten days remained unchanged.
Nothing had changed, nor was there anything to change.
Woosh.
He swung his sword.
"Brother, you're not there yet. Keep your posture and sit as is. Straighten your back, inhale deeply, and feel the pressure in your abdomen. If that pressure slips, your spine will break."
Audin chuckled as he spoke.
Training his body through methods that were closer to feats of acrobatics—
such as standing up and sitting down while carrying Audin on his back—
was a routine part of his days.
Swordsmanship, training, sparring.
His time was devoted solely to these three things.
He didn't care whether others were excited or not.
Krais flitted about from place to place, but Enkrid had no such inclinations.
As an independet unit leader, recognized as an independent unit, and perhaps due to his influence on the previous battlefield, he had no assigned duties.
It had been ten days of complete rest.
Or rather, for Enkrid, it had been ten days of immersion in training.
But if there was one thing that had changed—
"Hu!"
It was the attitude of the soldiers in the unit who knew Enkrid and had fought alongside him.
From early morning, they were all busy wielding spears.
There had been a slight trend toward this before, but now the number of soldiers dedicated to training had increased significantly.
Each one of them trained with utmost focus, genuinely committed to swinging their spears and building their stamina.
And there was another change.
"Um, could you provide me with some guidance?"
Some soldiers had begun to seek out Enkrid.
"Me?"
He was taking a short break, drenched in sweat from swinging his sword.
Enkrid pointed at himself in confusion.
It was understandable.
This was something he had never even imagined.
Him?
Teaching someone?
Offering guidance?
His life had been anything but easy.
He had never looked beyond the path of learning, training, and advancing.
Teaching others, of all things—could there be a word more ill-suited to him?
"Give it a try."
Rem, who had been idly watching, spoke up.
Despite seeming half-asleep, he had been paying attention.
Enkrid nodded.
He had already been considering it.
Because right in front of him, he saw the soldier's eyes.
That earnestness—the same longing and thirst that still burned within himself—was reflected in that gaze.
Ting.
Enkrid flicked his sword against the tip of the soldier's spear.
The soldier flinched, his shoulders trembling.
How skilled was he?
From what Audin had taught him, one could gauge a person's training level by their posture and the state of their body.
This soldier seemed fairly experienced.
"Private First Class, Paul."
The soldier introduced himself.
Enkrid barely registered the name.
Instead, he focused.
He did not take this lightly.
To concentrate solely on his opponent—that was his best and only approach.
Left hand forward, right hand back.
A posture specialized for thrusting.
His feet crossed forward and back, and with a sharp "Ha!" he lunged with his spear.
Woosh.
A well-trained soldier.
Enkrid tracked the incoming spear tip with precision.
Observing, reacting—his body moved accordingly.
Though he had not yet mastered it completely, his Sense of Evasion flowed naturally.
He twisted his body sideways to avoid the attack, extending his left arm.
With his palm angled upward, he seized the spear shaft from below.
"Urk!"
Paul instinctively tried to pull his spear back.
The veins bulging in his neck showed his full exertion.
Enkrid, gripping the spear shaft, pivoted on his left foot, spinning half a turn inward along the spear's path.
In other words, he pulled the spear inward while rotating.
His right foot planted firmly on the ground, his left hand pulling the spear while anchoring his body.
There was no need for the brute strength of Heart of the Beast.
Just a bit of technique and moderate strength were enough.
Tap.
A light tap.
His sword descended gently from above, landing atop Paul's head.
Naturally, it was the flat of the blade, not the edge.
Feeling the cold metal against his scalp, Paul let out a surprised gasp.
"Ah."
"It's over."
"Ah, yes."
Enkrid released the spear shaft.
Paul hurriedly retrieved his weapon and stood there, awkwardly.
"Uh, what am I lacking?"
A seasoned soldier—someone who held confidence in his own skill.
And yet, he was asking Enkrid this?
The old Enkrid—back when the Madmen unit was seen as nothing more than a band of troublemakers—what had it been like then?
Hadn't he been the one scorned and ridiculed by others?
And yet, now they were asking him for guidance?
Upon closer inspection, the soldier wasn't entirely unfamiliar.
They had crossed paths a few times before.
The battlefields they had faced had been anything but forgiving.
The fact that this soldier had survived long enough to ask for guidance meant—he was at least a veteran.
He even wore the epaulet symbolizing a squad leader.
What was this about?
What was going on?
Enkrid stared at him, filled with questions.
The soldier stood there, awkward but patient.
Once again, Enkrid saw the soldier's eyes.
Desperation.
Yearning and thirst.
A desire that sought something beyond reach.
It was the same as what coiled within himself.
He couldn't ignore it.
To be honest, he could tell what the man needed after just one spar.
"You should build your strength."
A spear was heavier than expected.
It wasn't a light weapon.
And for such a weapon, his strength was lacking.
"Ah, yes, thank you."
The squad leader saluted.
Enkrid nodded in response.
From that day onward, the squad leader devoted himself to strength training.
He focused entirely on lifting heavy objects to build his muscles.
His squad members followed suit.
A wave of strength training spread throughout the unit, alongside their regular drills.
Hadn't this unit just returned from the battlefield?
Wasn't this the time to celebrate their victory?
Of course, many headed to the city to unwind.
Some spent their days drinking endlessly.
For some of them, indulging in the red-light district for a night was preferable to training for tomorrow.
Enkrid didn't particularly blame them.
What did it have to do with him?
He was just a platoon leader.
The commander of an independent platoon.
At present, he wasn't even capable of stepping onto a battlefield where Squire Knights fought.
And to be honest, if he said he didn't want to see their fights, it would be a lie.
Even so, his thoughts remained unchanged.
If the destination was clear, there was no need to take detours.
Now, if it had been a battle that Sir Cypress was involved in, that would have been a different story.
A true knight.
A knight known across the entire continent.
Wouldn't it be something worth seeing?
He wasn't sure.
You could only truly know once you were faced with it.
"Is it fun?"
Rem, who had been watching silently, asked with a gentle smile instead of a chuckle.
Fun?
He had no idea.
"I don't know."
As always, he answered truthfully.
That was when Rem finally laughed.
Enkrid turned his focus back to training.
Immersed in his practice—
Someone else approached and requested a spar.
After knocking them down with ease, he offered a single piece of advice.
"Your footwork is too rigid."
Another person came forward, another match.
"You should loosen your shoulders."
More advice.
After several spars—
"Uh... Could we...?"
The voice lacked a subject.
But there was no need to ask what he meant.
His eyes burned with determination, though his cautious stance betrayed his nervousness.
The young soldier had a boyish face.
At best, he was Andrew's age—perhaps even younger.
"...Fine."
None of the other platoon members stopped him.
Hadn't they always stepped in whenever someone approached him?
Hadn't they always stirred up unnecessary trouble?
Why were they just letting it happen now?
Most soldiers wielded spears.
Using a different weapon usually meant they belonged to a special unit.
This one held a battle hammer about the length of a forearm.
The rounded head gleamed smoothly, proof it had seen years of use.
It didn't look especially heavy, but its effectiveness was undeniable.
Watching him roll his wrist, Enkrid could tell—his movements were ingrained through training.
"I'm from the frontier slaughterers unit."
As expected, the soldier introduced himself.
Enkrid simply nodded.
Whoosh.
The soldier twisted his wrist, spinning the battle hammer as his eyes gleamed.
Enkrid could see through his intentions immediately.
Had he grown too accustomed to the Valen-style mercenary swordsmanship?
His opponent's techniques were laid bare.
Thud-thud-thud!
The soldier swung the hammer with full force.
Then, suddenly gripping it with one hand, he brought it down in a vertical strike.
Rather than blocking it, evading was the better option.
Following his opponent's intent, Enkrid sidestepped the hammer's trajectory.
At the same time, the soldier reached for his waist with his other hand.
Before his elbow could fully extend, Enkrid grabbed his wrist.
"I see it."
That was all he said.
The technique was simple and direct.
Use the hammer to draw attention, then throw a close-range dagger.
It was strikingly similar to Valen-style mercenary swordsmanship.
"Valen-style mercenary swordsmanship?"
He asked.
The soldier nodded.
"You should refine your hammer techniques more."
Enkrid instinctively pointed out his weakness.
And in that moment, he realized—
That was advice he needed as well.
If the hand techniques were perfected, the dagger would be even easier to conceal.
From the start, there would be no need to distract the opponent with a secondary motion.
The soldier had more than enough talent.
He was so skilled that he reminded Enkrid of that kid—
The one who had once put a hole in his stomach.
Back then, he hadn't even been able to fight back properly.
But now?
A lesson from one of his old instructors resurfaced in his mind.
"Improvement begins with understanding where you stand."
Awareness.
Recognizing once more.
To move forward on a new path, one must first understand the path they currently stand on.
Sparring after sparring, lesson after lesson.
Many continued to seek him out.
And each time, Enkrid realized something new and progressed.
His steps were slow, but he never hurried.
That was a lesson learned from watching soldiers recklessly thrust their spears.
Haste brought no benefit.
There were those who acted with remarkable composure.
"Rut."
A member of the frontier slaughterers forces, a friend from the western regions.
He glanced at Rem as he spoke.
But Rem paid no attention.
Enkrid brought him down as well.
Was he an easy opponent?
No, he was a tricky one.
But Enkrid had already accumulated too much experience, so facing him posed no difficulty.
"You're strong."
Rut muttered in admiration before turning away.
Yet, as he did, his eyes were fixed solely on Enkrid, not Rem.
As the number of challengers grew over the ten days, Krais finally stepped in to regulate things.
"This is too much. It'd be better if you all sorted yourselves before coming. You know what happens if you interfere with our captain's work, right?"
His words carried a different weight now.
Especially with Rem, Jaxen, Audin, and Ragna standing behind him.
The four of them simply nodded as they looked at their squad leader.
To recognize one's place, what must be done?
One must observe above, below, left, and right.
Only then could they grasp their position.
They had all faced that moment at least once before.
If anything, Enkrid was late in experiencing it.
Spring had come.
He was thirty-one now.
By continental standards, he could be called an aging mercenary.
Of course, many wielded swords well into their forties.
But no one could do what Enkrid did.
That was why watching him brought them satisfaction.
Audin found his answer in the squad leader.
Rem revisited fragments of his past.
Jaxen pondered what it would mean to live like him, why he lived that way, and envisioned his own future.
Ragna reflected on swords and people, ambition and life, knights and the power they wielded.
And then, he realized—
He, too, had stepped onto that path.
And he would continue walking it.
A deep certainty settled within him, along with the realization of the value their squad leader held.
A late-blooming genius.
That was the best way to describe Enkrid now.
Changing the soldiers around him—
That was another matter entirely, separate from being a genius.
The soldiers who surrounded him, especially those who refused to remain stagnant and sought to move forward—
To them, Enkrid was a symbol of change.
He became an idol, someone they wished to emulate.
And all of this—
"Formation, now!"
Became clear when the commendation ceremony began.
The entire battalion gathered in the training grounds, usually a place of boisterous noise.
Only those on duty were absent.
It was time to recognize the merits earned in battle.
Everyone already knew who the centerpiece of this ceremony was.
Marcus was different from the previous battalion commanders.
With a few nobles seated in the back,
He stepped onto the platform and began his speech.
"If I have to tell you whose merits were the greatest in the last battle, then you bastards' head isn't even worth using as a helmet rack."
His loud, powerful voice rang through the ears of the soldiers.
Blunt words, harsh language.
Some nobles frowned at the lack of decorum.
But—
To the ones those words were meant for,
The soldiers, they heard something different.
Because Marcus's words carried sincerity.
With his mind made up, Marcus spoke from the heart.
"The one with the highest merit—I'll call him now. Ma.... Independent Unit Captain, Enkrid."
Everyone knew what word had nearly slipped out before "Independent."
And then, a man stepped forward.
He walked with bare hands, drenched in sweat.
Even though the weather was warming, he shouldn't have been sweating that much.
But no one questioned it.
It was obvious—he had been swinging his sword countless times before coming here.
Because that was the kind of man Enkrid was.
One who swung his sword relentlessly to prove himself.
One who demonstrated his worth by embodying what he had learned.
A man who never treated anything carelessly.
A madman.
Tha madmen captain.
Enkrid ascended the platform.
The training ground fell into a peculiar silence.
Heat rose in the air.
To those who had fought in the battle,
What did Enkrid mean to them?
He had become an idol to some.
A hero to others.
On the battlefield, that was what he was.
And Marcus had not forgotten.
One man stood before another on the platform.

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