Eternally Regressing Knight
Chapter 463 - 463 - Reflection
Chapter 463 - Reflection
Stories about Oara, as radiant as sunlight, filled the conversations.
The funeral was over.
Among the townspeople, there were no loud cries of grief.
They shed tears but mourned in a calm, composed manner.
"Oara!"
Now, only the shouts in her honor remained.
"For Knight Oara!"
The voices of those left behind echoed.
Knight Oara's will had been eternally etched into the city.
Just as every knight possesses a weapon engraved with their mark, Oara now had a city bearing her name.
The city of Oara—the new name of Thousand Stone.
"Take your time to talk; I'll head back first."
As Enkrid and Krang delved into conversation, Luagarne excused herself.
After their talk and upon reaching the city gate, Enkrid clenched and unclenched his hand a few times.
His forearm muscles were still sore, making it difficult to wield his sword freely.
While assessing his own condition, Enkrid abruptly asked:
"Are you leaving right away?"
A day's rest might have been reasonable, but Krang hadn't even unpacked.
His escort's faces had grown darker and more anxious as time went on.
The implication was clear.
They weren't staying; they intended to leave immediately.
Krang had come to mourn the fallen knight and comfort the townspeople, but his life was evidently too busy to linger.
"Check the carriage," Krang called back to his escort.
"There's nothing more annoying than a wheel breaking during the journey."
Turning to Enkrid, he added, "I dropped everything to come here. If I don't leave soon, someone might literally work themselves to death on my behalf."
It was half a joke, but half-serious as well.
"Understood," Enkrid replied.
Krang came and left like the wind, showing no need for a grand farewell.
As he was about to leave, Krang turned his head and asked,
"Next time, will you come as a knight?"
His eyes sparkled, their brilliance undimmed even in the sunlight.
They asked a silent question:
Would they meet again in their respective positions?
Would Enkrid reach that point?
Looking directly into Krang's gaze, Enkrid responded,
"Do you really think I can ascend without a red mantle?"
Krang laughed and replied, "Do I need an answer?"
"No," Enkrid said with a slight smile.
Krang burst out laughing and turned away. As one of his escorts approached Enkrid, he spoke.
"I'm Squire Lug. How's Ropord doing?"
"Probably well," Enkrid replied.
The name Ropord felt oddly distant after repeating the day.
A friend who had followed him to the Border Guard after the civil war came to mind.
Enkrid recalled how Ropord had persistently challenged Ragna.
If he hadn't died to Ragna's sword, he should be alive and well.
"That guy, always wandering aimlessly, suddenly turned over a new leaf. He says it's all thanks to the Demon Slayer Lord."
The title sounded strange. "Lord" had been appended, and the nickname "Demon Slayer" seemed to have solidified.
Though not part of the knights, Ropord's skills had earned him such recognition.
To Enkrid, however, it was a rather grim moniker.
"Could I receive some instruction from you in the future?"
Squire Lug asked again, his eyes gleaming with competitive spirit.
He clearly wanted to cross swords with someone renowned.
"Lug, if you want to leave your escort duties and become Enkrid's squire, just say so.
You're free to go anytime," Krang teased.
"No, my lord! I have no such intentions," Lug replied, flustered.
"I'd bet a year's budget that's a lie," Krang laughed, then nodded to Lug as he walked away.
"Visit the Border Guard anytime," Enkrid called after him.
Lug briefly turned his head to give a thankful nod.
"Now, I'm really leaving. I'm so tired I might drop dead. That saying about bearing the weight of a crown? It's nonsense. It should be about enduring work, not a crown."
With that, Krang departed for good.
Enkrid, too, began to walk, savoring the sunlight and peaceful air.
He had seen Krang's exhaustion from rushing to this place, but even after a few days of rest, Enkrid's own body felt just as creaky.
The result of facing off against Jericks, no doubt.
As he walked back, soldiers bustled around repairing the aftermath of the battle.
They were energetic, moving materials to repair the broken gate.
Others worked at forges, casting molds and crafting arrows.
Some disassembled the carcasses of spider-like monsters, using their tough exoskeletons to fashion sturdy shields.
The unpleasant stench forced many to work with cloths covering their noses.
Work carried on, regardless of the funeral.
Life here brimmed with such vitality.
"Oara!"
The shouts continued as soldiers hauled logs on their shoulders.
The name of the city, Oara, carried forward the legacy of the knight.
On his way back, Enkrid felt drowsiness creeping in. His muscles ached, from his thighs to his back and shoulders.
It was a satisfying soreness, yet moving carelessly could spell trouble.
"Rest when you need to," Luagarne advised, waiting at the lodging.
Enkrid nodded in agreement.
Now was the time to recover, to close his eyes and sleep.
Yet he had something to say first.
"Dunbakel, if you don't bathe right now, I'll make sure your bath is going to be a long one."
After being sent to scout and help with the cleanup, Dunbakel had slain a few monsters but had yet to clean herself. The stench from the spider corpses still lingered on her.
"Do I smell?" Dunbakel asked, feigning innocence.
"How can you not smell yourself?" Rem quipped from where he lay, recovering.
Dunbakel, however, stood her ground. "Not really your concern, is it?"
Something had changed in her; she seemed far bolder now. During their last battle, she had even thrown herself in harm's way to protect Enkrid. Though he had stopped her, she might have died otherwise.
It was a stark reminder that anyone could die in war.
Grinding his teeth, Rem gave a sharp smile. "Think I can't kill you in my condition?"
Even outside the battlefield, having an angry barbarian ally could be dangerous.
"Fine, I'll go wash. Right now," Dunbakel muttered, quickly learning fear anew as she darted out.
Rem, holding a damaged axe handle, chuckled.
"Seems like she's struck with a disease where people only listen when you beat them senseless."
"You're the one who seems to be infected with the need to beat first and think later."
As Enkrid thought this to himself, Rem seemed to catch on and spoke up.
"Are you badmouthing me?"
"I wanted to ask what's out west. Might as well hear it now."
Both of them were bodies in need of recovery.
Weren't their bodies creaking from the battles with monsters?
Rem, in particular, was close to being seriously injured.
Though he lay there feigning normalcy with his chatter, anyone else would have been groaning in pain.
"Low skies, curious clouds, or the other way around—high skies, and the River of No Return, made of sand.
Do you want to hear old tales or something?"
"If it's an interesting story, sure."
"I've got a few I heard as a kid."
Enkrid skillfully steered the conversation, and Rem went on to share a few old legends from the West.
They were myths and folktales, some involving ancient origins of the dusky skies and even fragments of archaic language.
Enkrid briefly wondered if the West spoke a different language, but that wasn't the case.
"Ever since the Language War, the entire continent has used the same tongue."
The Language War had been a conflict initiated by the Empire, back when it was still divided into three kingdoms.
Surprisingly, Rem was a compelling storyteller, and Enkrid listened attentively.
For instance, Rem explained that in the West, the term "pocket sneak" was a significant insult because they despised acts of stealthy thievery, viewing them as dishonorable compared to openly taking something through a contest.
"What does 'pocket sneak' mean?"
"A thief."
"So boldly taking something through a fight is fine, but that's just robbery, isn't it?"
Luagarne interjected with a question, to which Rem shook his head.
"It's a bit different. Robbery's just brute force. This is more like a wager."
Enkrid listened quietly.
Before long, Dunbakel returned, freshly washed, and joined the conversation, bringing even more vibrancy to the stories.
The tales from the West were fascinating in many ways.
"Out there, they don't ride horses. Instead, they have something else. In the desert, it's as enduring as a camel. On flat terrain, it's not as fast as a horse, but it handles most terrains well. They call it a 'Velopter.'"
Enkrid had heard of such creatures but never seen one himself.
The ferryman watched the group sharing stories.
"You seem to be enjoying yourselves," he remarked, genuinely observing their lively camaraderie.
Life often threw up walls, some of which left lasting scars even when surmounted.
Those scars gnawed away at people over time.
Moments like facing the unchangeable—the unsalvageable—marked the day for those called mad.
The ferryman thought this was another one of those days.
Yet, once again, he was wrong.
"When does a person truly die?"
The ferryman muttered.
When life ends?
Then, when does a knight die?
When the sword of conviction shatters.
When they fail to protect what they swore to uphold.
Knight Oara fulfilled her duties, kept her oaths, and died with a smile.
This mad soul moved past what could not be undone, ensuring that each choice made became the best it could be.
This attitude stirred memories in the ferryman, ones he didn't wish to revisit.
He scattered the rising memories into the river, letting them drift away.
There was no need to dwell on what had long since been forgotten.
"Regret leads only to remorse when contemplating roads not taken."
He murmured the words like a verse.
The rhythm of his voice spread through the air.
The ferryman continued to watch the one afflicted by the curse.
Before long, the man, having brushed off the weight of yesterday, stood once again.
He was a figure that lived for tomorrow while casting aside the ruins of today.
From the stagnation of today, he shone, dazzlingly so.
The ferryman could not look away.
Darkness always yearns for the light, after all.
And so, he longed to bring that light into the shadows, to place it within reach.
It was only natural to desire such brilliance.
The waves rippled. The violet lamp swayed. On his humble boat, the ferryman gazed quietly at the cursed one.
This person defied everything the ferryman had seen before.
The sense of awe lingered.
With a sigh, he murmured, "Huh."
What a lunatic. Barely healed, and already moving like that?
The cursed man swung his sword, sweat pouring from him, but it didn't seem normal.
"A madman. A true madman."
The ferryman repeated the words.
Yet, seeing this, it became clear:
This madman never ignored anything left behind by the dead.
He carried their burdens, drawing strength from what was given to him.
After two more days of rest, his body was nearly recovered.
The sharp pain shooting from his wrists with even the slightest finger movement had vanished.
"Regenerative body, was it?"
Enkrid silently thanked Audin. His body was almost completely healed.
He got up, gathered his equipment, and stepped outside his quarters.
"You've held back for a long time."
Luagarne was already outside. She basked in the sunlight, her pale cheeks glowing.
Today was one of those humid days Frogs seemed to love.
"Yeah."
Enkrid replied, his thoughts wandering to everything that had been swirling in his mind.
There was much to reflect on, especially the legacy Knight Oara had left behind.
She'd left more than just laughter.
Fragments of Oara and Beelrog.
Every movement in their battle was etched into his memory.
Dealing with the Beelrog would come later.
For now, each day's repetition was necessary to face tomorrow.
Understanding this all too well, Enkrid focused on the task at hand.
He studied every move Oara had shown him, everything she'd imparted in his dreams.
Even the Beelrog's fragmented movements, barely glimpsed, became objects of analysis.
It was a knight-level battle beyond a squire's reach. He had seen less than he had missed.
Yet he absorbed every bit he could, with Luagarne assisting him.
One step at a time.
Enkrid resolved to move forward patiently, methodically.
"Looks like I don't need to remind you not to rush," Luagarne remarked, satisfied.
This man was worth teaching, though his learning pace was slow.
Enkrid had long embodied a life philosophy that even the Frog had summarized succinctly:
"Everything begins with a single step."
He studied the incomprehensible, repeated what he could grasp, and slowly transformed it into something uniquely his.
"Gain experience, then refine it through training until it becomes yours," Luagarne said.
That was already his way.
He revisited every detail, every nuance. It was part of the legacy Oara had left behind.
The clash between Oara and the Beelrog was unforgettable.
At times, they seemed to float in mid-air, and their swords emitted real light, not just metaphors.
Oara's movements were relentlessly simple, yet the Balrog's shards were anything but.
It twisted and contorted, making bizarre moves.
How did Oara's sword counter that?
Enkrid began to ponder every detail anew.

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