Eternally Regressing Knight
Chapter 399 - 399 - Also for My Shining Hero
Chapter 399 - For My Shining Hero
One of the squad leaders under the Kingdom Army's Capital Defense Unit, Rearban, knew Enkrid. They had spent several months together during the time Enkrid was in the capital.
Naturally, he recognized his face.
It wasn't a face easily forgotten.
When Rearban, standing at the forefront, saw Enkrid, memories of their conversations surfaced.
"So you want to become a knight?"
He had scoffed.
"You'd be better off finding another path."
He had offered sincere advice.
There was no response. Enkrid, that guy, simply wielded his sword. He was always there.
Whether it rained or snowed.
"Teach me swordsmanship."
He had begged for instruction, never ceasing in his efforts.
And somehow, it seemed dignified.
The number of people mocking him increased.
So did those who ostracized him.
Once, a novice mercenary who had just picked up a sword joined their group.
The mercenary crew often gathered at a particular tavern, and Enkrid was there too.
Initially hesitant, the novice swordsman quickly improved.
He was a talented one.
Soon, he surpassed Enkrid's skills and humiliated him during a sparring match.
"I don't understand how you're still at this level after all that practice. Shouldn't you just give up?"
Rearban vividly remembered the mocking laughter on that guy's face.
What was his name again?
He couldn't recall the name, but Enkrid's expression toward the guy was unforgettable.
Enkrid neither grew angry nor despaired. He remained unbothered, calm, and composed.
But was that truly how he felt inside?
Had he not rotted and decayed, over and over again?
Rearban had watched him. Not with any particular intent, but simply because Enkrid piqued his interest.
The next day, he swung his sword again.
The number of people belittling him grew.
"Why do you keep hanging around that guy?"
Someone once said to Rearban. It wasn't as if he was defending Enkrid.
"That's none of your business, is it?"
It just so happened that the jerks gathering around annoyed him.
Even after that, Enkrid remained unchanged.
Even when he was beaten to the brink of death.
Even when he was overtaken by others.
He kept swinging his sword.
For what?
"A knight?"
Did that even make sense?
A third-rate, at best a borderline second-rate swordsman, dreaming of knighthood?
Knighthood was reserved for the rare few among the most gifted, those hailed as geniuses.
"Get a grip."
Half out of pity, Rearban had said to him, but naturally, he hadn't listened.
Back then, Enkrid was somewhat infamous.
Childish sense of justice. Recklessness.
Unchangeably mediocre talent.
Those were the things that defined the name Enkrid.
Rearban now gazed at the enemy soldiers lined up in the distance.
The first thought that struck him upon seeing them was
Run.
We're no match.
Overwhelming numbers. A well-trained army. The Count's forces, now to be called rebels. Soon, they'd be his opponents in battle.
Years of mercenary experience and his time in the Capital Defense Unit made the reality clear.
Fighting here meant death.
A meaningless death.
Why am I standing here?
Out of a childish sense of justice?
Or clinging to a few measly coins?
Neither, really.
Even when he quit mercenary work, it wasn't for any grand reason.
He had found a wife and had a child.
There had been a woman who spoke of love under the moon and among flowers.
And there was a child who called him father.
"Why do you push yourself so hard? Your palms are torn."
He had once asked Enkrid. Why go to such extremes?
Why train to the point of risking his life?
Why refuse to back down, even while being beaten?
Inwardly, Rearban knew the answer.
Protection.
Protect those standing behind you. Do not turn away from honor. Uphold your convictions.
These were the words Enkrid had often voiced.
Even without words, he had shouted them with his actions.
Rearban had seen a few corpses while helping clean up after the incident at the royal palace.
One of them was a bastard who used to beat and torment Enkrid relentlessly.
That guy, once a so-called instructor, now lay scattered in pieces across the floor.
Should I say, "Serves him right"?
The one who killed him—Enkrid.
A name synonymous with mediocrity.
Rearban squinted as though blinded by light. The sunlight wasn't harsh, yet he felt dazzled.
Some people in this world shine so brightly, you cannot bear to look at them directly.
Call them heroes or shining stars—it didn't matter.
They stood tall, proving their worth.
Enkrid.
He silently repeated the name.
He could see Enkrid fighting in the distance. His movements were clear, bright, but they didn't blind him.
From Rearban's vantage, he couldn't tell how the battle was going. But he knew one thing.
It was fierce. Intensely fierce. As if Enkrid had thrown his very life into the fight.
Blood splattered. Sparks danced across the air.
The enemy Enkrid was fighting dropped their sword, pulling out a secondary weapon—a machete—from their waist. Enkrid countered with his own sword, swinging with force.
Clang!
The sound exploded. The impact rippled outward like concentric waves.
Goosebumps covered Rearban's entire body. His hairs stood on end. He forgot his despair over the enemy and could only watch Enkrid's back.
He was alone. Standing in front of a terrifying enemy army, cutting down foes, and continuing to fight those who emerged.
A flash of light burst between the two clashing fighters.
Enkrid's body was flung backward, rolling on the ground. His opponent staggered back a few steps but stood firm.
Rearban saw Enkrid rolling. He knew this wasn't someone who'd stop just because he fell.
Thud.
Rearban struck the ground with the butt of his spear.
Thud.
And he repeated the motion.
"For Naurilia."
He murmured. Words that wouldn't be heard. Words that wouldn't reach anyone. They were only for himself.
For his nation, his people, his wife, his child—for all of it, he stood here.
It was about protecting the person behind him.
As Rearban moved, the surrounding soldiers began striking their spears against the ground, one by one.
Thud, thud, thud, thud.
The staggered rhythm naturally aligned. It wasn't an order from their commander; they were simply moved by the battle unfolding before their eyes.
"For my radiant hero as well," Rearban murmured to himself, striking the ground with his spear.
And Enkrid, who had fallen, rose again.
Though it seemed as though words were exchanged between the two, they weren't audible.
Thud, thud, thud.
Only the sound of spears pounding the ground resonated.
Without taking a single breath, Enkrid launched relentless strikes, pushing himself harder and harder. Rievart was the first to change tactics.
Abandoning his sword, he swung a machete instead.
Enkrid neither slowed nor paused to catch his breath.
He simply swung Silver forward. The stance wasn't perfect, but the strike was infused with the explosive power of his monstrous heart.
It was a blow that surpassed the limits of human strength.
The two weapons clashed.
As blade met blade, an intangible pressure emanated from the machete, slashing Enkrid's chest and abdomen.
The attack was too sudden and close to deflect.
Grinding his teeth, Enkrid took the hit with his body and delivered his strike.
That's how it came to this.
Enkrid was thrown backward while Rievart staggered a few steps back.
Though Enkrid sensed his body being hurled through the air, he quickly regained his balance.
Even after steadying himself and standing upright, the world continued to spin. The ground seemed to whirl, and his opponent's figure appeared distorted, as though elongated. Something hot surged within him, and he spat it out.
"Urgh."
A mouthful of blood spilled onto the ground, relieving the dizziness.
"What was that?"
Enkrid asked.
"A magic sword," Rievart replied.
Enkrid didn't think it was dishonorable.
As he rose to his feet, the pounding sound of
thud, thud, thud
reverberated through the air.
It felt strangely akin to the rhythm of his own heartbeat. Oddly, it sounded like a song of encouragement.
"My insides ache a bit."
His head still felt hazy, but so what?
Not an issue at all.
Enkrid asked and answered himself inwardly, raising his sword once more.
It was time to end this.
Rievart looked at his dented shoulder and breastplates.
"Is it a difference in talent?"
He dismissed the thought and focused on Enkrid.
The opponent's figure seemed larger than before.
Perhaps it was a matter of willpower, but it felt more like discipline.
Though he could have pressed forward, there was no need.
A day's reprieve wouldn't hurt.
It was also in line with what the count truly desired.
For these reasons, Rievart conceded defeat purely and without reservations.
He acknowledged that if the fight continued, he would be the one to falter.
"You've won."
The words were unexpected. Enkrid merely looked at him.
"The goddess of fortune is as capricious as ever," Rievart said with a voice heavy with regret—more a lamentation directed at the world than at himself.
"But it doesn't matter. Nothing changes anyway."
"Not going to continue?"
Enkrid cut him off.
"That's it for today. I've lost my interest."
The rhythmic pounding of spears against the ground persisted.
To Rievart, it sounded like an order to protect the man named Enkrid.
Moreover, others had drawn closer during the fight.
Rem, Ragna, Aishia, and Dunbakel on one side.
On the other, Maltan, Benukt, and Banat.
All the key figures of both armies were gathered.
"No, there's one more," Rievart thought.
Someone skilled in assassination far beyond the norm.
With senses surpassing human limitations, Rievart pinpointed the individual's location.
In the shadows beneath a horse—using the animal's body to subtly conceal himself.
When their gazes met, the figure stepped forward, seemingly indifferent to being exposed.
It was, of course, Jaxen.
"Burning everything here would be wasteful. Remember, battle isn't limited to swordplay," Rievart remarked before turning away.
He gestured toward his steed, and the black horse that had accompanied him for years approached.
Retrieving his fallen sword, Rievart secured his gear onto the horse and mounted it.
"Boring, aren't you?" Enkrid taunted.
Rievart didn't respond.
"Next time won't be," he said, his composure unshaken despite admitting defeat.
Their eyes met briefly.
Rievart cursed the goddess of fortune.
Enkrid, meanwhile, wondered if this was truly the extent of his opponent's power.
His instincts told him it wasn't.
"The battle is tomorrow. At dawn, it will begin. This is my respect for your victory," Rievart declared, riding off.
Enkrid watched him go.
Was it right to attack him now?
No.
He wouldn't do what he despised. It wasn't the right course of action, nor would it have meaning.
His senses and reason both told him so.
If the enemy began an all-out assault now, his side would be at a disadvantage. Letting them withdraw was a blessing they should be grateful for.
Thud, thud, thud.
The sound of spears striking the ground resonated, the soldiers' morale high. But that was all.
Even if their spirits were lifted, their numbers wouldn't increase.
If an uncoordinated melee broke out, the smaller side would be at a disadvantage.
What must be done to improve their chances, even slightly?
Enkrid knew instinctively: buy time, regroup, and prepare for battle.
That's why he had stepped forward in the first place.
Fighting Rievart now would be meaningless.
Enkrid turned around as well. Rievart was already retreating, and the distance between them quickly widened.
"Why'd you come out to meet me?" Enkrid asked those waiting midway back to the main force.
"To chop your enemies to bits if you died," Rem replied, hefting his axe.
"Your breathless tactic was impressive," Ragna added, tossing an apple core.
"Not a single one of them is easy," Dunbakel muttered, glancing at Enkrid's back.
Finally, Aishia stared at Enkrid intently before speaking.
"Impressive bastard."
Though the exact meaning was unclear, Enkrid understood well enough.
It was recognition of his strength.
What had he shown them?
This was the proof of his earlier claim: that he could face even elite semi knights three times in a single day and emerge victorious.
It engraved the name Enkrid into the minds of all who watched.
Without morale, this unit had nothing left.
And it was Enkrid who had lifted that morale.
Thud, thud, thud, thud!
The sound of spears striking the ground matched the beat of his heart as Enkrid returned to the main force.
No one spoke to him, but everyone's gaze was upon him.
"How was he?"
"He's strong. Stronger than me," Rievart replied.
"And?"
"He must die."
"Then see to it."
Rievart had returned to the count, who asked with a tone of boredom.
The full-scale battle was postponed until the next morning.
That was acceptable.
In fact, it was what the count had hoped for.

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