Eternally Regressing Knight
Chapter 311 - 311 - The Relentless Onslaught
The ferryman would have applauded.
Two men chanted identical spells.
A surge of water from the river formed a wall in front of Enkrid, blocking his path.
He swung his gladius lightly, slicing through the barrier. While it split momentarily, it quickly reformed.
It was like cutting water.
The water wall spanned only five steps across, but it wasn't the only obstacle.
"Rise, rise, heed my call!"
At the command of two other spellcasters, rounded masses resembling water clubs emerged from beside the barrier.
These entities had smooth heads, thick chests, and limbs akin to hands, but their legs were replaced by swirling currents of water.
They resembled water spirits or golems—manifestations of magical worlds crossing into reality.
"Block him!"
At the mage's command, the two legless water fiends surged forward, their bases churning into frothy currents.
"Surged" wasn't quite the word—they crashed forward like tidal waves rising and falling, ready to strike.
Enkrid thrust his sword.
Being crafted by the fairies, it might have had some enchantment—though, of course, it didn't.
It
was the product of exceptional metallurgy, not infused with magic.
The blade pierced through the water creature, but it showed no sign of pain or hesitation. It swung its watery club, connected to its form, toward him.
Enkrid withdrew his sword and leaped aside.
Crash!
The water club smashed into the ground, leaving a noticeable dent.
Judging by the deep impact, it was clear the weapon couldn't be underestimated.
From this single exchange, Enkrid deduced the solution.
"The caster."
When it came to magic, there was no answer other than to eliminate the caster.
But this group had coordinated well. Two restricted his vision and movement with the water barrier, while the other two controlled the spirits to hinder him.
What's more, they seemed to understand they couldn't kill him outright, so they focused on pinning him down.
Whenever he tried to escape, the spirits would swell and loom closer, making it impossible to ignore them.
Despite the short span of the confrontation, Enkrid soon found himself with three swordsmen from the Hurrier family closing in behind him.
"Didn't think I'd see you again today," Enkrid muttered, genuinely surprised.
He'd acted almost the opposite of yesterday, yet the results were eerily similar.
"Don't engage with him. He's insane."
"Stop your pathetic tricks."
"You think I know you? You think this is a reunion? Feels like I'm meeting you for the first time."
The three swordsmen didn't seem thrilled to meet him—they radiated the kind of fervor that promised a deep "kiss" with their swords and his innards.
Enkrid adjusted his grip on the sword.
His arm muscles quivered.
He hadn't rested properly since yesterday, and even his well-trained body was beginning to falter.
"This is exhausting," he admitted to himself.
His lungs burned from overexertion, and his pounding heart echoed in his ears.
He steadied his ragged breathing and surveyed the scene—the water spirits, the three Hurrier swordsmen, and the throng of soldiers behind them.
Surrender was not an option.
No day passed easily, and today would be no exception.
And so he fought.
He resisted, killing the two spellcasters and the three Hurrier swordsmen.
"Well... this makes sense... ugh," the last swordsman muttered before coughing blood and collapsing.
But Enkrid had been injured—a water arrow pierced through his thigh.
Had he not been wearing his inner armor, the arrow would've struck his abdomen instead.
Water arrows were worse than regular quarrels. They dissolved after hitting their mark, leaving nothing to stem the bleeding. Blood pulsed freely from the wound.
It was a bad spot to get hit.
Among the
Isolation techniques,
there was a method of muscle reinforcement to stem bleeding.
Enkrid employed it, but the severed blood vessels resisted.
This wasn't something muscles alone could fix.
Dizziness set in from blood loss.
Even so, his focus didn't waver.
Until the very end, he remained resolute.
With the
Heart of the Beast
pounding in his chest, Enkrid refused to falter.
Adrenaline surged, keeping him upright.
"You've adorned yourself with something precious," one of the surviving spellcasters remarked.
Perhaps overconfident, the mage closed the distance.
Enkrid planted one foot firmly on the ground and launched himself forward.
A lurching charge.
Blood sprayed from his wounded thigh, but he reached the mage faster than his blood could hit the ground.
With no sword in hand, he swung his fist instead.
Crack!
"Ugh!"
The mage's skull caved in, spilling brain matter and blood.
No human could survive such a blow, especially from a man putting all his strength into it.
This was the natural outcome.
The mage hadn't even been wearing a helmet.
With the mage dead, Enkrid barely had a moment before a spear pierced through his back.
Thud! Thud! Thud!
The red-hot steel ripped through muscle, spine, and organs, tearing its way through his body.
The searing pain was something he could never grow accustomed to.
But it was something he could endure.
"Die, monster!"
"Kill him!"
"Die!"
The enemy soldiers thrust their spears with manic fervor.
Their eyes gleamed with desperation, as though staring into the abyss.
Enkrid remained calm.
No screams, no groans—just silence as he died.
To be precise, it wasn't even a matter of stifling pain; he simply lacked the energy to take a single exhale.
And so, he died.
Overcoming the agony of death was something one could never grow used to.
Hoo...
With a single drawn-out breath, he shoved the pain of the day aside.
There were no dreams. No ferryman appeared.
All that began was his third iteration of today.
And on this third day, he took another path, sprinting as far as he could.
Yet still—
"Why the hell is there a cliff here?"
He hadn't climbed a particularly steep hill, but a sheer drop greeted him nonetheless.
Could he survive if he jumped?
Only if luck was on his side might he escape with half his body intact.
But even that would require the Goddess of Fortune to court him incessantly.
Without such luck, his chances were slim.
Falling would mean death.
"That will be your grave."
Behind him were three swordsmen of the Hurrier family, a group of seasoned mercenaries, and, for good measure, a shaman he'd never seen before.
'I went a different way today.'
Scratching his chin with his uninjured left hand, Enkrid thought.
There was something uncanny about all of this.
How did the outcome always remain the same?
Instinctively, he fought to find an answer.
On the third iteration of today, the shaman's spell ended it.
The technique known as "Invisible Force" struck him, a blow from an intangible power.
Of course, this came after Enkrid had hurled his gladius into the skulls of the Hurrier swordsmen, the shaman, and the mercenaries.
He had killed everyone who needed killing.
"Fall!"
The shaman's cry echoed, right before the gladius impaled his head like a macabre ornament.
And so, Enkrid fell from the cliff.
Naturally, the fall was as horrific as one might expect.
At first, the air itself seemed to choke him. Then came the relentless shockwaves coursing through his body.
And yet, he didn't die easily, experiencing pain so excruciating it felt almost divine in its cruelty.
The fourth day, the fifth day, passed.
On the ninth day, he died again.
This time, one of the Hurrier swordsmen dropped his blade to pin him down, allowing a mercenary to slit his throat with a dagger coated in poison.
That day, Enkrid had overextended himself annihilating the enemy's heavy infantry battalion.
His body had reached its limits.
Even his
Sense of Evasion
could only delay the inevitable for so long.
No one, no matter how skilled, could stand against such numbers indefinitely.
Twenty-five iterations came and went.
The forms of death varied, yet their essence remained the same.
Every path led to an inescapable labyrinth.
A maze.
He was trapped.
A prison with the sky for a ceiling, the wind as its bars, and commanders who sought only his demise.
By then, he realized something.
It wasn't new knowledge, but a continuation of what he had come to understand in previous iterations.
Why had rescuing the child always led to the same outcome, no matter what he did?
'Someone is watching and triggering the scroll.'
Even now, it was no different.
Someone outside was manipulating the enemy forces, ensuring his death.
That was why every outcome was identical, regardless of his actions.
So how could he overcome this?
He recognized the wall, but the question remained: how to scale it?
On the thirty-fourth iteration, the ferryman returned and posed the same question.
"Do you have an answer today? Tell me—are you enjoying this?"
This time, Enkrid had the leisure to respond.
Moreover, he actually wanted to speak.
"A little."
He paused, thinking for a moment before continuing.
"Maybe a lot."
A mindset the ferryman could never comprehend.
Enkrid smiled—it was simply his nature.
In darkness, most would despair, unable to see a way forward.
But Enkrid was always different.
Even when the path was shrouded in shadow, he found joy in moving forward.
He knew that with each change, he could add something new.
He hadn't uncovered much yet, but that didn't matter.
Not knowing didn't stop him from greeting each challenge with joy.
"You truly are a madman," said the ferryman, offering a peculiar kind of praise.
The continent's greatest tactician and strategist once said there were five key factors to evaluate before a war.
First, does the king share the same will as his people?
A war waged for the king's selfish desires, neglecting the people, could never earn their support.
Second, is the timing appropriate, considering the seasons and weather?
Third, has the terrain been meticulously assessed?
Fourth, is the commander fit for the role?
Fifth, are the military structure, chain of command, and supply lines robust?
Summed up, they addressed politics, timing, geography, leadership, and organization.
Among these, Abnaier prioritized the third, fourth, and fifth.
The second, timing, had been forfeited—they were fighting in unfavorable weather and terrain.
The first, politics, was an issue to be addressed once they returned to the capital.
In terms of terrain, he had reshaped unfavorable ground.
In some areas, trenches were dug.
In others, traps were set.
As for leadership, he had worked extensively to ensure capable commanders.
"Will you bury the name 'Grey Dogs' here? If not, do what must be done."
Appropriate pressure coupled with promises of future rewards.
Even if the Grey Dogs were destroyed, they could be reborn anew.
The current commander had resolved to make the ultimate sacrifice out of loyalty and patriotism.
Abnaier simply exploited that resolve.
Finally, organization was where Abnaier's meticulous attention shone brightest.
Criminals, men with families held hostage in the homeland, soldiers desperate for a single victory to turn their lives around—all had been carefully assembled.
With desire and fear as his twin weapons, Abnaier bound the army together.
Enkrid knew none of this.
He didn't even know the name of the enemy commander.
Yet he was certain of one thing.
Standing on this precipice, he couldn't shake the feeling of being trapped against an unyielding wall.
Even so, Enkrid remained unyielding.
He rose, opened his eyes, and prepared to repeat the day once more.
This time, Enkrid charged straight into what he thought was the heart of the enemy lines. The first to greet him was Cent, the mercenary.
It felt like the first time he met Cent without a single scratch on him.
"You're not going anywhere."
"Nowhere?"
"You won't get away."
Cent gritted his teeth and took a fighting stance. Behind him, the man who once slashed his own throat with a poisoned dagger came into view. Enkrid still didn't know that man's name.
No solution came to mind for escaping today. The future looked murky. The familiar markers that once guided him blurred once again.
Yet...
"Are you smiling?"
Cent raised an eyebrow at the sight of Enkrid's expression.
Who in their right mind would smile in a situation like this?
Cent questioned Enkrid's sanity.
Truly a madman.
Enkrid, though faced with bleak uncertainty, felt exhilarated.
Even without clarity, he wasn't stifled.
No matter what blocked his path, he was determined to break through.
Where would this lead him?
He wouldn't give up, wouldn't retreat. He patched his shattered dreams together and moved forward.
And so, Enkrid smiled.
He had gained much from his previous experiences.
Hadn't he endured countless
todays
already?
What did he gain from all those days?
The accumulation of experience allowed him to embrace an uncertain future with excitement.
"Kill him!"
From behind Cent and the two mercenaries came a wave of archers.
Having faced Cent numerous times, Enkrid knew this time it would only take three swings of his blade—perhaps two, if he could afford to throw his gladius.
Should he throw it?
No, not yet.
A prolonged fight demanded keeping his weapons at hand.
Fortunately, he still held a steel blade gleaming with a faint blue hue.
This one, he could afford to throw.
The blade often broke after a few swings, but luck was on his side—two more swords remained in his possession.
Planting his left foot forward, he drew the blade with his right hand and hurled it. The movement flowed seamlessly, honed through repeated practice.
Through the endless repetition of
today,
Enkrid didn't waste his time idly.
He honed his skills.
Even throwing swords, a technique derived from dagger throwing, became second nature.
Thud!
The blade cut through the air with a sharp twang, startling Cent, who hastily deflected it.
Enkrid surged forward, activating his
Will of Momentum
This was proof of how he had spent his time—proof of the second
Will
he acquired from learning the fastest sword techniques.
He charged with unparalleled speed.
The world blurred as his thighs burned with explosive power. Blood coursed through his veins like a wild stampede.
With fiery intensity, Enkrid drove his sword forward, piercing Cent's throat.
This
today
began with Cent's death.
"Peek-a-boo."
The jab and quip were likely wasted on Cent, who couldn't hear him anymore. But it was enough to terrify the mercenaries behind him.
"You crazy bastard!"
The sheer terror spilling into curses marked them as seasoned warriors.
As Enkrid thrust his gladius at one, the others closed in. With a second burst of
Moment's Will
, he dispatched two mercenaries in an instant.
Later, he encountered heavily armored infantry and three knights from the Hurrier family.
Among them were crossbowmen, archers, and even a few fairies.
Some of those archers had astonishing precision. They only attacked when his movements concluded, targeting even the smallest disruptions in his breathing.
This wasn't the first time Enkrid faced such tactics.
He endured.
With each repetition, his endurance stretched further.
After fifty
todays,
Enkrid had fully mastered
Moment's Will
He refined his swordsmanship, crafting a second technique after his Snake Blade.
"Should I call it Stab Blade?"
His naming sense remained abysmal.
"Stab Blade" because it ended with a stab? Ridiculous.
After more repetitions of reflection and battle, he renamed it
Thunder Fang
A lightning-fast strike. A blade that flashes like a storm. It had a better ring to it.
A good name lent a technique greater weight and significance.
With
Four Blades
and
Thunder Fang
, he was finally crafting a system.
His battles weren't just about killing; he learned and adapted constantly.
Falling into pits riddled with poison arrows improved his footwork.
Getting caught in nets and dying taught him to slice through them with precision.
"It won't cut through everything, though."
Still, he reached the level where he could cleave through steel while moving.
He absorbed the fundamentals of mid-weight swordsmanship, blending power with destructive force.
The day repeated.
And repeated again.
Endlessly.
For 105
todays,
Enkrid trained and reflected.
His techniques grew sharper and stronger.
Yet he remained ensnared in Abnaier's web.
On the 255th
today,
the Ferryman, who had once urged him to give up, said something entirely unexpected.

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