Eternally Regressing Knight
Chapter 402 - 402 - Heaven Gifted Talent
Chapter 402 - Heaven-Given Talent
"Send the Chimera unit."
At the command of Count Molsan, Rievart raised a flag. The messenger, seeing the small flag in his hand, ran and shouted.
"Deploy! Deploy!"
Following the messenger's shout, the second blade prepared by the Count began to rush forward.
The Count had sent a pack of werewolves to Border Guard. They were true werewolves, having transformed from humans into monsters. Naturally, the ones sent to Border Guard were not all that was deployed.
The main force was here.
The cavalry was being overwhelmed, and the mounted archers, had been caught by the knight order led by Aishia. The infantry was also losing in the formation fight.
It was due to an unexpected additional force rampaging through the Count's infantry.
More specifically, it was a result of one ignorant swordsman getting lost.
Rievart saw this too, but remained calm.
Although the infantry was of poor quality compared to the available forces, it was a situation where they were clearly losing.
In fact, they were losing.
Despite this, the Count remained indifferent, merely watching the battle unfold.
The actual movements of the commanders under the Count's command were leading to increasing losses.
In other words, people were dying. And in the midst of this, the Chimera unit surged forward.
It seemed like a proper decision. When you're losing, isn't it basic tactics to deploy additional forces?
The group heading forward was mostly clad in torn, worn-out clothes that hardly seemed suitable for the battlefield.
When seen up close, their eyes were glazed, devoid of any rational thought, and they were driven only by simple orders to advance.
At some point, they began to run and transformed.
Feathers sprouted from their bodies, thick fur like a mane grew, and their size increased.
Their claws sharpened, and the hazy eyes were now filled with murderous intent.
They were becoming true monsters born solely for slaughter.
There were three types of monsters among them: owlbears, werewolves, and bearwolves.
The transformed creatures rushed forward, howling as they went.
Hooo!
Awoooo!
Grrr!
Their howls were the kind that could induce a primal fear in anyone who heard them.
With those howls, they aimed for the right flank of the kingdom's army. The pack, numbering over a hundred, was enough to spread despair and frustration among those on the opposite side.
Then came a cry from one side, directed at the beastly pack. It was unmistakably a human cry, but with a different kind of tone, almost like a chant.
Orororororo!
It was a rolling cry, spreading through their diaphragms.
"Chase the wolves!"
"Beast, beast, you've lost your way!"
Orororororo!
The cry mixed with the chant rang out, and from one side of the plains, soldiers appeared, running faster than most cavalry charges.
Their speed was comparable to a mounted charge.
They were not at all behind the monstrous pack.
They were a group draped in brown leather cloaks, each holding a long staff or spear.
Such a group could not exist in more than one place.
They were the shepherds of the wilderness.
These people lived in the northernmost part of the continent, managing both wild mountain goats known as the "thick-horned mountain goats" and the fierce herbivorous creatures called "dry sheep" in the plains, which they called the wilderness.
Their numbers were fewer than twenty, but they were a group comparable to a knight order.
They charged and ran toward the monster pack.
Against more than two hundred beasts, fewer than twenty of them rushed forward. At first glance, it looked like a suicidal charge, but the result was different.
"I hope you die and make the land fertile."
At the front was a man named Fel.
He wielded a sword that held the soul of a demon, one that killed idols.
If you were struck, you would die.
It was like a poisoned blade. A sword that cut and killed not just the body but the soul.
The sword was said to be dangerous to use repeatedly, as it could awaken the demon trapped within. But against these monsters, using it without hesitation seemed like the right choice.
It was the very sword and shepherd that had made Enkrid relive the same day.
Fel thrust the sword into the owlbear's eye. There was no need to pierce through the brain. He simply stabbed and immediately pulled it out. A wound of such a size was enough.
Of course, gouging out an eyeball was hardly a "moderate" wound.
But it was enough for the shepherd.
"Uuuuuu!"
The beast let out a howl, but instead of dying, it resisted. Was it Will? No. It was the magical nature of the monster.
The sword trembled. It gave off a small vibration, signaling its displeasure with the strike. It meant that the demon's soul wasn't yet satisfied with the kill, and so the sword would let Fel use it more freely.
Even without offering the soul to the demon, he could still use its powers.
However, unlike when cutting actual souls, it required more strikes, stabs, and blows.
In any case, if one strike wasn't enough, then strike again.
Fel quickly pulled the sword out, rushing in to stab the other eye.
The owlbear, with its claws raised like feet, swiped at him.
Fel ducked as he withdrew the sword, his eyes gleaming.
He was processing all the information pouring in from every direction and moved with instinct.
Fel began to rampage more.
Then, two companions joined him. Both were older shepherds. One wore a hat made from a wolf's head, and the other from a bear's head.
"Crazy Fel, slow down a bit."
"The young ones these days."
One wielded a long spear, the other a long staff.
The shepherds had always preferred long weapons like spears and staves.
Fel, however, stuck with his sword.
"Can't you leave me to do things my way?"
Fel spoke as he kicked the dying owlbear aside.
"Do you really think I want to hear any nagging right now?"
"You should take that up with your father if you think I have no manners."
The old men continued bickering.
Fel, despite his thoughts, said aloud:
"Yes, I'm sorry."
"You're only saying that now."
"The young ones these days."
The old man with the bear's head seemed to always have that phrase on his lips.
So, it was best to ignore it.
Fel thought that perhaps chatting with the owlbear would have been more pleasant.
Though, a chat would only be enjoyable for him. The dead beast would never laugh, and no monster would be allowed that luxury.
The two older shepherds followed behind Fel, assisting him.
Soon, two more joined them, making the group five.
This was the basic formation of the shepherds.
The five became one, attacking as a single unit. The diamond-shaped spearheads, the staffs wrapped with metal, and Fel's sword mercilessly took down the monster subjects, one after another.
In the end, the Chimera army of the Count had failed to achieve its goal.
But how did the shepherds of the wilderness end up here?
It was the work of Krang.
He had wandered across the continent and, by chance, met the shepherds. Asking for their help, the shepherds came to repay the favor.
No, to be honest, it had been several years since they arrived.
They hadn't been waiting specifically for today.
They had their own reasons for coming.
Krang knew all of this and used it to his advantage.
Isn't it basic politics to use what the other party desires to create your own strategy?
That's exactly what Krang had done, and that's how the shepherds, fewer than twenty in number, found themselves here.
To the soldiers, their number felt like two of Enkrid's crazy units.
The older commanders, however, thought it felt more like a knight order splitting into three parts to devastate the enemy.
Aisia's group and the Squire unit.
The shepherds of the wilderness.
And Enkrid's madmen.
Ironically, the most impressive of them all were the madmen.
The destructive power of the Red Cloak Knights was unmatched.
Even though there were no knights, it was an absurd situation.
For Krang, Count Molsan was, in a way, like a festering wound.
It hurt if left untreated, but poking it would only make things worse.
Such a wound had to be cut out in one go.
And that was why Krang made an outlandish claim.
"We need a civil war."
What he meant by civil war was that all the diseases brought by Count Molsan should be gathered and burned out.
Thus, the battle that was taking place now was closer to being driven by Krang's intentions rather than the Count's.
But did Count Molsan not understand Krang's intentions?
Whether or not Molsan was a natural politician, he was an ambitious schemer. He understood the situation. And he agreed to it.
So here they were now.
Marcus's mind was sharper than ever before.
Based on the information from the scouts, he moved his troops.
He had to destroy every tactic the enemy had prepared, without leaving any gaps.
So far, things had been going that way.
In his mind, Marcus asked the Count a question.
"You didn't expect this, did you?"
He had brought in an entirely different military force—replacing the knights. The enemy would be taken aback by this.
He had heard that the wild shepherds were promised some land in exchange for their help.
The leader of these shepherds would receive the title of a nominal noble and their land would become an autonomous territory.
Besides their northern lands, they had claimed territories all over, across kingdoms and empires.
But they didn't govern those lands directly.
They kept tenants, and only collected a share of the crops.
The Marquis of Okto had worked tirelessly for this, and without his skill, none of it would have been possible.
So it was unexpected.
"Try to stop us, you monsters."
The swords that used to tend sheep on the northern continent were now cutting through a pack of chimeras sent by the enemy.
For some reason, Count Molsan sent more troops into the fray.
The Count's next move was unexpected.
"What?"
Marcus frowned. What was this supposed to be?
"Are you trying to overpower with numbers?"
They weren't regular soldiers.
The troops were splitting apart and flooding through a path to the rear.
It looked like a tidal wave, so overwhelming in numbers, yet they were rushing forward with no formation whatsoever.
"Reservists?"
These were farmers who became soldiers during wartime.
Even though they had received basic training, some of them transitioned to professional soldiers, and others simply followed the mandatory training requirements.
These weren't them.
There was no formation. They were charging ahead haphazardly.
Common civilians—specifically those in the Count's territory—were given spears and sent out.
Behind them, a group of archers stood ready, their arrows aimed at the back of the soldiers.
The "poison controller" was the one forcing the soldiers to fight, even by threatening them with death if they ran.
The Count had created a "poison squad."
If they retreated, they'd die from arrows. If they advanced, they'd fall by the enemy's sword.
The Count promised them land and status if they survived, but Marcus had no way of knowing this for sure.
Marcus frantically tried to figure out the Count's intent.
"Is he trying to exhaust us?"
Even if he understood, there was no way to avoid it.
The Count wasn't an idiot. He had been a prominent figure in his time.
In his youth, he had even been called the protector of his lands.
As his meat shields reached the enemy lines, they were chopped and cut down.
Of course, it was the expected outcome.
Following that, the troops the Count had raised arrived as well.
The battle raged on. What the Count was trying to achieve was unclear, but one thing was certain.
Blood would flow across this land as surely as the rain would pour.
Ragna was in the thick of the fight, stabbing and slashing at the enemy.
"Take this!"
"Kill him!"
Blood splattered. Bones cracked. Heads exploded, their contents staining the ground. Severed limbs fell beside the lifeless bodies of soldiers with eyes still open.
Ragna did not hesitate with his sword. In fact, he paid little attention to the dying.
Instead, he focused on honing his skills.
This place became his training ground.
Everything was allowed.
He wielded his sword, stabbing, slashing, and swinging, thinking as he fought, replaying the battle in his mind, and making realizations.
He did it all at once.
From this, he formed several new techniques.
He naturally combined what he already had and reorganized it. He discarded what was unnecessary and kept what was useful.
"Breaking the momentum is through grappling."
He had learned this from a knight he had fought earlier, but after reflecting on it, he realized it was a technique not worth keeping.
It might be useful against weaker opponents, but it had no effect on those of similar or greater skill.
It could momentarily surprise an opponent, but it was unlikely to produce any lasting results.
So it was unnecessary. Ragna casually discarded what he had learned and forgot it.
Thus, he had a few small revelations.
"Stronger and faster."
In general, it was about increasing power and speed. From there, he added force to the basics of stabbing and slashing. The focus was on physical enhancement.
This wasn't just training, it was a technique of enhancement using his Will.
There was no need to question whether it was the right path. He simply walked it. He didn't need to ask anyone for directions or check the stars.
That was his talent.
Being a genius, the kind of talent that could only be described as a gift from the heavens.
Ragna kept repeating his practice, creating the techniques he needed to master.
And in the midst of this, enemies who didn't know how to fight drew closer.
These were the so-called reservists sent by the Count.
"Annoying."
Why? He didn't need to know. Without a second thought, Ragna moved. He kicked off the ground and searched for the soldiers he could fight, those who were at least professional enough to be worthy of his blade.
Before long, he found a group ready to engage.
As soon as he approached, the formation around them parted as if inviting him in.
Ragna walked into the center of their formation, and immediately, soldiers holding thick square shields began to form a circle around him.
They were trained in the way of hunting beasts. The signs were clear.
"Now!"
The moment he stepped in, nets flew above him. Along with them, crossbow bolts and arrows rained down, all targeting him.
Ragna raised his sword and sliced through the nets.
It wasn't difficult.
It wasn't hard to avoid the arrows either, weaving through them like water and cutting down the shields in front of him. He was ready to slice through the shields and the soldiers holding them.
Clang!
For the first time, his sword was stopped. It wasn't a knight's or even a junior knight's shield, just a simple shield—but it wasn't ordinary.
These soldiers weren't ordinary either.
They were heavily armored infantry with shields five times heavier than normal, made of thick steel.
Even the Will of his sword couldn't slice through something so thick.
The situation had been as expected.
His sword cut through the shield, but it didn't split it.
The soldiers behind the shield caught their breath, watching Ragna intently.
Ragna looked at his sword and then raised his gaze.
Behind the shield, their eyes met. Eyes of trained soldiers, capable of withstanding fear.
Ragna thought this would be the perfect time to test his newly honed technique.
"Faster."
Stronger.
Slicing better.
Stabbing better.
These were the core principles of the technique Ragna had just created.
It was time to practice breaking through their thick shields.

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