Eternally Regressing Knight
Chapter 73 - 73 - Because I Trained Every Moment (2)
Chapter 73 - Because I Trained Every Moment (2)
The assailants' methods were eerily similar to those of common thieves. Their primary weapons consisted of black-painted daggers, crossbows, and throwing knives.
"Really now..."
However, their skills were inferior.
"They aren't even on the level of the Gilpin Guild," Enkrid thought.
"Dodged it?"
The astonishment in their voices when Enkrid evaded their daggers was enough to betray their lack of professionalism.
Assassination clearly wasn't their forte.
Enkrid grabbed a dagger from the hand of a fallen assailant and spun it deftly in his palm.
Adjusting its position with a flick of his fingers, he gripped it between his thumb and forefinger, then extended his arm in one fluid motion.
The action yielded immediate results.
With a sharp
thunk
, the thrown dagger buried itself in the forehead of one of the masked attackers. He collapsed backward, his head striking the ground with a dull
thud
as crimson blood began pooling on the inn's floor.
They fled the inn, while the innkeeper's assistants dove beneath the tables for cover.
The attack brought chaos and panic, but not a single scratch was inflicted on Enkrid's party.
"Kill them all!" one of the attackers yelled.
"An ambush! Fight back!"
"Grab your weapons!"
The caravan's guards quickly took up arms in response, their swords hissing as they were drawn from their sheaths.
Listening to the clamor, Enkrid remained acutely aware of his mission.
"I'll handle this," he informed the fairy company commander, turning on his heel.
Someone needed to secure the safety of their charge.
If there was chaos on the ground floor, the upper floor was likely no better off.
While close guards had been assigned, the situation here would inevitably become their responsibility as well.
"Whoever orchestrated this must be utterly insane," Enkrid muttered as he made his way upstairs.
The attackers were foolish to assault a caravan guarded by an armed force stationed at the border.
On his way up, no one stood in his way.
This was thanks to Jaxen.
He had grabbed a chair and wielded it like a shield, blocking every incoming dagger with ease.
Before long, the chair resembled a bizarre work of art, studded with knives and quarrels.
When projectiles failed, some of the attackers approached with shortswords or clubs.
Jaxen dispatched each of them with a single, precise stroke of his blade as they entered his range.
His movements were immaculate.
Although his swordsmanship seemed ordinary at a glance, none of his opponents managed to block his strikes.
Clang!
One attacker narrowly deflected his blade, but Jaxen had anticipated this, following up with a lightning-quick thrust that pierced his opponent's face, shattering his nose and creating a gory wound.
Jaxen withdrew his sword and resumed his grim work.
He used the chair to block incoming daggers and slashed at anyone who got too close.
While his throwing skills surpassed Enkrid's by several magnitudes, there was no need for such finesse in this situation.
"What the hell is this guy?" one of the attackers cursed.
Jaxen didn't bother to reply.
He saw no reason to converse with those who were about to die.
The fairy company commander took advantage of the distraction Jaxen created, stepping into the thick of the assailants.
She drew her leaf-blade, and as it danced, attackers began clutching their throats and collapsing.
Slash after slash, blood spattered the air, painting her face and clothes with crimson.
None of the attackers could match her graceful yet deadly movements.
Their group lacked anyone capable of countering her skill.
"If this is all you've got, I'm disappointed," she said, balancing on one foot while raising the other slightly off the ground, her blade poised as if ready to begin a deadly dance.
Though her voice was clear and cheerful, to her opponents, it must have sounded like the call of a grim reaper.
One masked attacker involuntarily stepped back, cursing under his breath.
"Damn it..."
The leader of the attackers, observing the chaos, came to a conclusion.
"As long as the objective is complete..."
They had stalled long enough.
Whether or not their mission on the second floor was a success, lingering here any longer would mean certain death.
The caravan's guards were far more skilled than he had anticipated—almost as if they had brought killers from the frontier.
He didn't need to know more.
It wasn't his concern.
"Kill them all!" the leader shouted before making a break for the exit.
His plan was to escape while his subordinates bought him time.
To him, the mission was already a success.
"Glory to Aspen!" one of the remaining attackers cried, their voice fading as the leader fled.
They were remnants of spies planted in the city.
While the rank and file sacrificed their lives for the mission and their country, the leader was in it purely for the money.
That's what loyalty was meant for, after all—to be wielded at moments like these.
Jaxen watched the leader's retreating figure with mild interest, his hand briefly moving toward a thin blade concealed at his waist before reconsidering.
"It's not worth it," he thought.
Killing the man wouldn't change anything.
Letting him go wouldn't cause any major consequences, either.
Shrugging off the thought, Jaxen returned to his task—slaughtering the attackers who dared to challenge him.
He stood at the stairs leading to the second floor, ensuring no one could pass.
Though it wasn't a role that suited his usual demeanor, he fulfilled it with ruthless efficiency.
None of the attackers could best him, as his skill was second only to the fairy company commander in the inn's main hall.
Despite her relentless assault, the commander occasionally glanced toward her squad.
Among them, one member stood out—not Enkrid, but the squad member holding the line at the staircase.
"Impressive," she thought.
The so-called 'troublemaker squad' lived up to its reputation, boasting a member who even outshone their leader.
Such cases weren't unheard of, but in this instance, the disparity in skill was striking.
"At least city-level," she mused.
While different regions measured skill differently—village, city, or continental level—she found the categorization familiar from her wanderer days.
Was this someone capable of making a name for themselves in a village?
Or someone whose skills could bring them renown across an entire city?
To gain fame across the continent, what level of power is required?
From her perspective, a continental-level powerhouse would need to be at least knight-class.
Without mastering the "power" they wield, it's impossible.
Of course, excluding con artists hiring bards to spread false tales.
"Interesting."
She murmured.
To those she had ambushed—particularly one man who had just lost four fingers on his right hand trying to block the daggers—it was a cruel remark.
"Ugh... what?"
Tears streaming down his face, the man stared in disbelief.
The fairy company captain silently struck the back of his head with the pommel of her dagger.
Thunk.
He collapsed.
Should she stop the bleeding?
No, it wouldn't matter.
Let him live or die—either way, it was irrelevant.
There were plenty of mouths left to testify.
Not everyone had been killed.
Jaxen, too, had spared a few.
Among those spared were those who seemed young or loose-lipped, left incapacitated with slashes to their thighs or knocked unconscious.
Even the one who had first shouted "Aspen!" was kept alive.
They could be useful later.
'What about above?'
While fighting, the fairy threw part of her focus upward.
Her heightened senses picked up the situation above.
A strange smile spread across her face.
'How amusing.'
The thought came again.
It reminded her of the first time she wielded her daggers as a child.
She had felt this exhilarated back then, too.
With that thought, her blades moved again.
By now, the number of attackers had been halved.
Enkrid ascended the stairs two steps at a time.
Each step felt light beneath him, his movements almost effortless.
'Isolation technique.'
Though Audin claimed it was slow, Enkrid could feel the difference—it was clear as day.
His body felt lighter, more responsive than ever.
As he reached the second-floor corridor, an assassin armed with a blade dropped from above.
This one was less skilled than the assassins he had faced before.
Their presence was almost tangible, allowing Enkrid to sense their approach.
In the narrow corridor, he twisted his body and pressed against the wall, evading the assassin as they crashed to the floor.
The fallen attacker looked up, their gaze meeting Enkrid's.
Enkrid gripped his longsword in his right hand, bending his knees slightly into a ready stance—Middle Swordsmanship's unsheathing posture.
The assassin regained their balance, holding their short sword vertically in a defensive stance to block a horizontal slash.
It would have been an excellent defense against a Middle Swordsmanship unsheathing strike.
But against the vertical slash Enkrid executed with the short sword hidden in his left hand, it was utterly inadequate.
Thunk!
He feinted with his right hand and stance, then split the assassin's skull with the short sword in his left.
It was a dual unsheathing maneuver—a Valen mercenary blade technique.
The assassin's eyes trembled in disbelief, but they couldn't utter a word.
Dead men tell no tales.
"Are you insane? Hiring assassins here of all places?"
A woman's voice rang out.
"Stop right there!"
Another woman's voice followed.
Enkrid leapt over the corpse and sprinted down the narrow hallway.
A room door, slightly ajar, came into view.
Standing before it was a masked figure.
The figure saw Enkrid charging toward them and flicked their hand.
A throwing knife whistled through the air.
The Heart of the beast granted Enkrid courage to face the incoming blade directly.
His pin-point focus slowed its trajectory in his perception, allowing him to read its path with the sensitivity of his blade sense.
Combined with his reflexes and muscle memory, he simply tilted his head to the side.
A feat unimaginable before this repeating day.
Back then, he could only dream of dodging like this—purely acrobatic in nature.
In the past, he had failed to dodge an arrow on the battlefield and had to raise a shield.
Now, he felt confident he could evade even that arrow.
The knife whistled past his ear, and Enkrid continued forward.
The assassin, wide-eyed, moved to throw another blade.
Feigning another charge, Enkrid lifted his right arm in a sweeping motion.
Whistle!
The sound of a Whistle Dagger echoed as it pierced the assassin's neck.
"Guh..."
Blood spurted from their neck as foam bubbled from their lips.
Reflexively, the assassin completed their motion, but the dagger they threw dropped harmlessly to the floor.
Dodging and throwing all happened in a few heartbeats.
Enkrid didn't slow, slamming his shoulder into the dying assassin and sending them crashing into the opposite wall.
Thunk. Crash.
The impact rattled the door behind the assassin, eliciting a startled cry from within the room.
This was an inn.
Of course, there were guests.
Though it wasn't broad daylight, this was still the heart of the city.
For someone to attempt an ambush here—they either had nerves of steel or were utter fools.
"Bastards..."
Enkrid muttered as he charged into the half-open room.
The moment he stepped inside, he saw a guard collapsing, stabbed in the stomach.
The masked assailant turned their blade toward the guard's charge—a young woman of the merchant caravan.
In that split second, Enkrid hurled another Whistle Dagger.
Whistle! Thunk!
The dagger struck its target, disrupting the assassin's attack.
It hadn't been a full-strength throw, but it served its purpose, creating an opening.
Enkrid closed the gap with a swift charge.
The assassin ignored him, swinging their weapon toward the merchant's heir instead.
'Persistent bastard.'
Cursing internally, Enkrid mimicked a move he'd seen a squire use on the battlefield.
He couldn't replicate it perfectly, but in this small, confined space, a crude imitation was enough.
Lowering his stance, he pushed off the ground, closing the distance in one explosive movement.
Instead of throwing another Whistle Dagger, Enkrid lunged, interposing himself between the blade and its target.
Thunk!
The assassin's blade struck his back, cutting through his gambeson and slicing into his lower back.
Grimacing, Enkrid twisted his body to deflect the blade.
The merchant heiress stood before him, not wide-eyed and pale as he expected, but gritting her teeth, her expression resolute.
This was his duty.
The mission was everything.
Enkrid endured the pain, silently thanking Audin for his lessons.
'Thanks, Audin.'
"Learn to take a hit—that's the first step," Audin had said.
Body movements that let one deflect even the sharpest blades.
It had felt impossible during training, but now, it was saving his life.
"Stay back!" Enkrid ordered, pushing the heiress aside.
The woman bit her lip but obeyed without a sound.
She seemed tougher than expected.
"You bastard."
The assassin, wielding a gladius, glared at Enkrid.
"Let's take this outside," Enkrid said, turning to charge once more.
The assassin lunged, aiming for his forehead.
Enkrid evaded, crouching low, and grabbed the assassin's leg. With a burst of strength, he lifted and charged toward the window.
Crash!
The wooden frame shattered as they both tumbled out of the second-story window.

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