Eternally Regressing Knight
Chapter 424 - Guests
As Rem reached his resolve, others experienced shifts in their own mindsets.
It was inevitable.
"Ha!"
From morning to evening.
Whether it rained, snowed, or the weather turned sticky and oppressive.
Watching someone swing their sword like a madman made one reflect, whether they wanted to or not.
If Rem solidified his resolve through a turning point, Ragna, on the other hand, revisited his innate talents.
He adopted a contemplative stance, gazing into his inner self.
"What do I possess?"
First and foremost, he excelled at finding shortcuts—a talent so remarkable it bordered on genius.
This ability to navigate paths wasn't a skill requiring others' acknowledgment.
"Not that I plan to become a guide or anything."
In truth, Ragna had tried being a guide once, but every client who hired him recoiled in horror afterward.
Though he fought exceptionally well, he was a mad guide who couldn't even distinguish north from south.
Some even accused him of intentionally seeking out places teeming with monsters and beasts.
The guide guilds would tremble at the mere mention of Ragna's name for a time.
Having dismissed his guide talents, he moved on. "What's next?"
The sword. Swordsmanship. Innate talent doesn't fade, and some things are self-evident, even without external validation.
Just as he had a natural talent for guiding, he acknowledged some measure of talent in swordsmanship.
"Then, what am I lacking?"
Recognizing his strengths was straightforward.
Though he was unmatched as a guide, the same could not be said for his swordsmanship.
If he truly had no flaws and faced no obstacles, he would already be at a knight's level.
But he wasn't. He had hit a wall, and his swordsmanship felt stifled, as if its flow had been severed.
This meant there was something lacking.
While others mistook him for slacking recently, Ragna had been deeply introspective.
Reflecting on himself, he arrived at a single conclusion before taking action. "The basics."
This referred to every fundamental movement—swinging, slashing, and thrusting.
Starting with basic physical training, Ragna retraced his steps along the path he had walked so far.
Even with his atrocious sense of direction, Ragna could follow his own footprints backward, one step at a time.
In this process, a voice from within asked, "Why do you want to become a knight?"
Previously, such a question would have left him speechless, unable to proceed.
But now? "Becoming a knight is the only way to see what comes next."
Ragna now awaited what lay ahead, with a clear goal in sight: the knight from Aspen.
His aim was to defeat him.
Just as Rem underwent a transformation, so too did Ragna. Jaxen, however, had no internal conflicts to resolve.
He had long made up his mind.
Instead, his days were consumed by endless activity. He had to stay constantly on the move. Fail to persuade his guild members, and the next moment could see them poisoning Enkrid's meal.
Amid all this, Enkrid continued to wield his sword.
Seeing its trajectory, a Frog marveled aloud, "Impeccable."
It was as if the technique had been repeated thousands upon thousands of times over the years.
To Luagarne's eyes, when it came to the basics alone, no one rivaled Enkrid. "Isn't that obvious?"
Luagarne thought to herself. On further reflection, the statement seemed so self-evident.
Geniuses, gifted as they are, grasp the principles behind a movement after only a few attempts, interpreting and refining them. "But can it be said that they truly master it?"
While dazzling talent may reveal shortcuts, it isn't always a blessing.
Without effort, even a genius could become consumed by their own gifts.
Luagarne had seen many unfortunate individuals like that.
So what was needed? Perseverance. Talent without persistence was like the song of a mute bird.
Where did such relentless determination come from?
"What compels someone to repeat endlessly, to the point they forget notions like boredom or monotony?"
"Hoo."
Enkrid exhaled deeply from his diaphragm and brought his sword down.
It was an identical motion to the one before.
He wasn't imagining a sparring opponent in his mind.
It was merely the repetitive downward slash he performed daily, which to Luagarne seemed tediously monotonous. Yet heat emanated from Enkrid's body.
This fervor could not be born from boredom.
It was a passion visible only to those intoxicated by joy.
"A strange and wondrous man."
What she hadn't noticed before now came into focus.
For Enkrid, the act of swinging his sword itself brought such pleasure that boredom never entered his mind. He simply enjoyed the act wholly.
Truly, he was a madman.
As Krang, now spreading his nickname "Mourning King," once remarked, "That bastard isn't human."
Luagarne found herself silently agreeing.
Her eyes trailed Enkrid throughout the day. Observing and analyzing everything he did became her occupation.
She also noticed how others changed under his influence.
"Recognizing one's shortcomings isn't a talent."
That required an opportunity, a stimulus.
In that sense, the man named Enkrid served as a fair and impartial catalyst to everyone.
That included Fel. Fel took pride in his talents.
Like Luagarne, he observed and scrutinized everyone. Especially Enkrid.
"What a lunatic."
There was no such thing as downtime. Or rather, when Enkrid appeared to rest, it didn't feel like true rest.
Not showing the slightest boredom during endlessly repetitive training was impressive enough, but this guy seemed to stake his life on each exercise.
"I give it my all."
Many claimed as much. "But this lunatic is something else."
He didn't just say it—he lived it, day after day.
Just as a burning soul illuminates its surroundings, so too did Enkrid's unwavering commitment define his days. Fel, though diligent in his own training, found himself awestruck by the consistency of it.
Swallowing hard, Fel made up his mind.
"If that's what it takes, so be it."
He hadn't come this far, enduring the old shepherds' scoldings, for nothing.
Quietly, Fel devoted himself to secret, intense training alongside his observations.
Ropord, in a similar position, took a completely different approach. "Let's duel!"
Anyone familiar with the old Ropord would have found this unimaginable.
Once a man who second-guessed himself and followed others' opinions over his own, he now disregarded others' gazes entirely and acted decisively.
"Are you looking to die?"
Ragna asked him seriously as Ropord confronted him. It was no joke.
"Don't kill him," Enkrid said, swinging his sword nearby.
Ropord was like a fledgling who had just broken out of his shell to embrace a new world.
"He can't be serious."
Ropord interpreted Ragna's words as such. In the past, he would have misunderstood others' intentions through wild assumptions.
But not anymore.
That's why he wasn't shaken by their banter.
Resolve becomes willpower.
"I wish to fight as if my life depends on it!"
"Even if this happens?" Ragna asked indifferently.
"Don't kill him," Enkrid interjected again, shaking his head.
Ropord stood firm, undeterred by their humor. The two truly enjoyed their jokes.
It was only natural that Ropord, who recklessly charged in, ended up beaten to a pulp.
Yet, he didn't stop there. Even after groaning in pain for days, he would quickly recover and rise again. "Lady Teresa! Let's have a match!"
Ropord challenged anyone, regardless of their strength or status. "I won't send you to the Lord just yet," Teresa replied, nodding. Recently, she'd had a small revelation.
This came after observing various challengers who sought out Enkrid. Truly, all sorts of people showed up: mercenary rabble, skeptical noble guards, foreign warriors, and wandering swordsmen from the eastern lands.
Thanks to Frog Maellune in the city, most were filtered out. Still, a few managed to reach the barracks. Even Maellune couldn't be everywhere at once.
Enkrid personally dealt with these challengers, and Teresa silently approved as she observed him. A lion exerted its full strength, even when hunting a rabbit.
Enkrid never treated any opponent lightly. Drawing Aker, he activated Will of Swiftness. His piercing strike, radiant as a bolt of lightning, was awe-inspiring.
Teresa imitated his approach. When Ropord charged, she struck him down with her shield. It was a blow powered by her half-giant strength.
Thud! "Ugh!"
Ropord's neck twisted as he was sent flying, rolling three times on the ground before coming to a stop. He was unconscious. Had Teresa used just a bit more force, he might've been knocking on Heaven's door.
"Were you trying to kill him?" Enkrid asked, witnessing the scene.
"I merely gave my all during the match," Teresa replied, exuding heat. Her eyes conveyed her eagerness to fight.
Enkrid wasn't one to decline such challenges. "Come at me," he said.
The ensuing chaos would've been baffling to any outsider.
The "lord" ruling this region, often called a general, fought recklessly as if his life depended on it.
Meanwhile, the weakest-looking one among them, Ropord, challenged anything that moved.
Some who came for a spar were so impressed by Enkrid and the others' skills that they sought to join the unit.
"I want to serve under the Demon Slayer."
No one stopped them.
But after some time, these individuals came to their senses.
"I'll start with the Border Guard reserves. No, wait! You want me under Lord Rem's command? I've made a mistake! Perhaps I'll try farming instead. Forget the reserves—I'll become a farmer!"
They changed their minds instantly.
No sane person could keep up with the madness here. It was no wonder this unit was called the Madmen Division.
"Let's spar!"
Ropord's voice rang out. Fel watched quietly, Teresa stood ready, and Rem pondered his journey to the west.
Jaxen moved tirelessly between locations, while Ragna threw himself into fundamental training like never before. Audin, too, was caught up in contemplation about his Seal. "Lord, may I lift my Seal?"
This thought plagued him lately. Audin believed that the Lord would eventually grant him another revelation.
Dunbakel, on the other hand, had come to terms with her weakness. Her excessive desire to survive—it was her greatest flaw.
As a result, her first instinct was always to look over her shoulder, planning escape routes.
"I had to be this way to survive," she reasoned.
The beastkin's survival instinct was sharper than most species'. For Dunbakel, it had only worsened after being cast out of her pack.
Even after resigning herself to death, the desire to live always returned. Why was that? It was because she truly didn't want to die.
"I need to overcome this."
Enkrid's presence was unique. Simply observing him made Dunbakel recognize her own flaws. Thus unfolded another ordinary day at the training grounds.
Fel noticed someone approaching from between three trees near the entrance.
It wasn't a familiar face.
The man wasn't dressed like a guard, either. He wore a vest made of coarse fabric. His arms were scarred and muscular, his jaw sharp, and his cheekbones prominent. His lean, sinewy build was impossible to ignore.
Fel's gaze scanned the man's body in an instant. "Mind if I join?"
The moment Fel saw the man's lips move, he heard the words and realized the man had suddenly drawn closer.
Startled, Fel instinctively drew his Idol Slayer and swung it upward.
Why wouldn't he? The man who had been walking leisurely from afar was suddenly right in front of him.
Fel's instincts commanded him to swing, and the man caught the blade with his palm.
Shh! The palm was slightly cut, blood seeping out. "Good blade," the man remarked, licking the wound casually.
The magic of Idol Slayer had no effect on him.
"You're not worth my time," the man muttered before stepping into the training grounds.
By then, Enkrid stood at the center, flanked by Rem, Ragna, Audin, Teresa, and Dunbakel.
Ropord, still oblivious, asked, "Who might you be?"
It was clear this man wasn't a common soldier.
"Just a passerby," the man replied.
Though the stranger had done nothing, Enkrid felt pressure and was reminded of someone—a memory summoned from instinct.
The memory was of someone from Aspen, who had slashed through a tent with his blade—a knight whose single strike had been overwhelming to block.
"They said the rumors were exaggerated," the man said, lowering his arms.
He made no movements, activated no Will, and yet, no openings could be found.
But was retreat the answer? Enkrid steadied himself, gripping his sword. For him, will was a blade sharpened on the whetstone of resolve. It wasn't just Enkrid.
Rem, Ragna, Audin, Dunbakel, and Teresa all prepared themselves.
None of them showed any intention of backing down.
The summer heat rippled through the air, the sweltering atmosphere now tempered by a chilling tension. Just as no one uttered a word, another figure approached from behind the stranger.
"Stop messing around," the newcomer said.
Though his words broke the silence, the tension remained. The first man had created this charged atmosphere intentionally, but now it had evolved. 'Interesting,' the vest-wearing man thought, staring directly at Enkrid. The source of the tension was clear—it was this man, the Demon Slayer.

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