Eternally Regressing Knight
Chapter 501 - 501 - Spark
Chapter 501 - Spark
Esther ran her hand through her black hair, smoothing it back. As the strands settled, they cascaded down like an ebony curtain. Through the curtain, her lips parted, revealing a soft, pink expression as her voice escaped.
"Gift?"
Though he hadn't explicitly called it a gift, Enkrid gave a vague nod. His demeanor was neutral, yet Esther's eyes sparkled like stars fallen from the heavens. For some reason, a sense of euphoria seemed to ripple through her. Was she in a good mood? Sometimes, people simply felt that way—like waking up to an exceptionally refreshing day.
Enkrid began laying out the items he had brought from his backpack. Killing the Apostle had yielded quite the haul—artifacts and relics among them. Some were clearly magical in nature, though several pouches tied with string had not even been opened.
"Poisons, or something close," he muttered.
Thanks to Hira's guidance, Enkrid had intended to leave these behind in the western lands. However, he had been advised that a mage would find them valuable, so he had brought them along. Some items were intact, but many were damaged—like a cracked pearl necklace, a fragmented ring, a handkerchief embroidered with a weeping woman shedding blood-red tears, and the teeth of some monstrous creature. Among them were treasures of considerable worth, which Esther recognized instantly.
The Apostle Enkrid had encountered in the western region, though unable to fully resist, had been a formidable mage prepared to rival even Count Molsan. In magic, preparation could create an overwhelming advantage. Enkrid's sudden assault had backed the Apostle into a corner, highlighting the mage's comparative lack of adaptability. The Apostle had dedicated their life to transforming ordinary lands into magical domains—an obsession of a lunatic necromancer. Such madness often masked genius, and this necromancer's ambitions were nearly realized before fate intervened. Unluckily—or perhaps as someone's karmic retribution—they encountered Enkrid and Rem.
Esther's slender, pale fingers untied one of the pouches. As she began carefully storing the items Enkrid had spread out, she commented, "Not bad." Her eyes were already assessing the artifacts' values.
Mages were relentless in their pursuit of knowledge. Anything that could aid their research or spells was inherently desirable. Still, she wondered, where had Enkrid acquired such rare objects? Talisman fragments capable of deflecting curses and other malevolent forces, talismans imbued with western magical energies—it was as if he had looted a mage's hoard. No, he must have done exactly that.
Enkrid's calm reply confirmed her suspicion: "The advice on dealing with mages was useful."
"I see."
Esther packed everything and returned to her seat. Though she appeared idle, she was anything but. Recently, she had discovered that some of the curses she had been afflicted with in the past had permanently corroded parts of her magical realm. Just as a stitched-up doll would bear visible scars, so too did the corruption mark her magical world.
For a mage, one's magical realm had to be flawless. But if the caster themselves felt their constructed world was flawed? It was akin to playing chess without a knight and a bishop. Over time, the corruption would not heal but spread further.
Esther now faced two choices: attempt to repair her corrupted world or dismantle it and create a new one. The first option, while not impossible, would be like a swordsman fighting with missing limbs. Worse, if the corrupted parts were unintentionally used, it could lead to her own destruction—or worse, transform her into an abomination neither alive nor dead.
The second option was far more difficult: to rebuild her magical realm entirely. Instead of patching the doll's torn fabric, she would have to deconstruct it and craft something entirely new. An ordinary mage wouldn't dare to attempt such a feat, but Esther saw a path forward—and the artifacts Enkrid had brought would play a key role.
"Enki."
Esther called out to him from where she sat. Enkrid turned to see the black-haired beauty speaking again.
"Welcome back."
Though the artifacts he had retrieved were remarkable, what mattered more was that he had returned safely. His presence solidified one of the paths she had been contemplating, like divine guidance from the gods of magic. Esther might not have fully realized it, but seeing him made her understand—she had been waiting for this man.
"Instead of agonizing over the decision, I'll take a single step forward," she thought.
Choosing the harder path didn't matter. Enkrid, through his actions and life itself, always conveyed a simple truth: If you believe in your path, hardship is irrelevant.
Esther smiled faintly. Enkrid tilted his head slightly, puzzled. Were the items he had brought truly that valuable? Esther's smile quickly faded as she closed her eyes, immersing herself in the task of reconstructing her magical realm—a journey only she could undertake. Night deepened. Shinar had left after receiving her gift, and Esther, eyes shut, began her solitary endeavor.
Meanwhile, Enkrid settled into his spot. Beside him, Rem perched on the bed, drying his hair.
"Seems like those bastards ran away."
"...Sleep."
Rem grumbled twice more before lying down, and Enkrid soon drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep.
"Your greatest strength might be your adaptability," remarked Luagarne at dawn as Enkrid practiced the Isolation Technique.
The rain had stopped, and the air was crisp and refreshing—a perfect morning for training. Not that weather ever deterred Enkrid from his routine; it wasn't about comfort but discipline.
"Wherever you are, you eat, sleep, and move as if it's home," thought Luagarne as she observed him.
Even during their western expedition and now in the newly renamed city of Oara, Enkrid had been consistent. Luagarne watched him, finding the sight both enjoyable and remarkable. Though she had seen and trained many individuals, few had been as fascinating as him.
She had little patience for so-called prodigies who squandered their potential, and she wished she could show them Enkrid's example: unwavering and tireless, even with a stone pillar resting on his shoulders.
"See?" she mused. "Even if the sky falls tomorrow, he'll remain the same."
Enkrid's strength wasn't just in his physical endurance but in his unyielding desire to improve. Recognizing this, Luagarne decided to teach him more about tactics—fighting not just with strength but with strategy.
"Tactics are about knowing what you want before the fight begins," she said. "Why do you think that is?"
"To calculate and act toward the goal, rather than charging in blindly," Enkrid replied without hesitation—a response born of reflection and experience.
"Half right. The other half is to avoid becoming intoxicated by your own sword."
There is a saying:
To be consumed by the blade.
Enjoying the act of killing makes one nothing more than a murderer.
Yet surprisingly, many talented martial artists succumbed to becoming such monsters.
"So, stabbing someone makes them fall limp and die? What happens if I slash their neck? Maybe next, I'll try cutting their legs."
As their skills advanced, a morbid sense of curiosity often followed.
From Luagarne's perspective, Enkrid now seemed more like one of those moments than ever before.
Everyone's peak comes at different times. Lua believed this was Enkrid's prime. Despite knowing he wouldn't lose himself to his blade, Lua still offered words of concern.
"Understood."
Enkrid replied simply. He had dreams and purpose, and for that reason, he wouldn't falter.
Both Lua and Enkrid knew this. Yet, Enkrid nodded in acknowledgment, understanding why Lua had said such things.
"Such a beautiful man."
Who could dislike this man? Luagarne suddenly felt as if the camp's unique atmosphere now made sense.
Here, everyone spared no time in honing themselves, pushing forward without hesitation.
No other barracks or knightly order could foster such an environment. In most places, rivalries, pettiness, or overconfidence led to ruin.
But not here.
Some soldiers knew how Enkrid had reached his current level. Even those unaware could see it—the man with exceptional skill and the rank of General was always the first to rise in the morning.
Yesterday, a raw recruit named Marco witnessed it.
Marco, still battered from his first harsh training, had just finished his final guard duty outside the General's barracks. Ready to return, he felt a presence and entered to investigate. His pupils quivered at what he saw.
"Didn't he just come back yesterday?"
Such exertion should lead to fatigue, rendering the effort inefficient. Yet for some, this was the best method.
For Enkrid, resting felt more like poison. Movement restored him.
This was also a testament to the effects of his Isolation technique.
Marco, unintentionally transfixed by the sight, stared.
"Brother, you'll need to squat deeper than that."
The voice startled Marco, making him spin around. There stood a towering figure he'd somehow failed to notice—a man so massive Marco had to crane his neck to see his face.
Not a giant, but a human. How had he gotten so close without detection?
Audin passed Marco with a smile, heading toward the General. Enkrid, carrying a stone pillar on his shoulder, greeted him warmly.
"Audin."
"Have you achieved success with your striking technique?"
"Try hitting me and see."
Enkrid set the pillar down and greeted Audin with a gesture full of camaraderie.
Behind Audin came Teresa, a true half-giant. She brushed past Marco without a word.
Marco looked back at Enkrid and—
BANG!
Marco's eyes widened in shock as Audin delivered a punch to Enkrid's side, seemingly without warning or agreement.
What was happening? Why the sudden attack?
"Oh!"
Audin exclaimed in admiration.
"How was that?"
Despite being struck, Enkrid smiled.
Were they all insane?
Or did one have to be mad to fight like this?
The training instructor Ropord had claimed yesterday that anyone could achieve such heights with enough effort.
"Nonsense,"
Marco thought bitterly.
He knew he lacked the talent to reach such heights.
But did that mean he should quit, go back to his old life of preying on weaker men?
He refused to accept that.
Determined, Marco asked, "Why did you hit him?"
Nobody told him to leave, so he stayed.
That silence felt like permission, but Marco knew he would've asked regardless.
He desperately wanted to understand.
"That's training,"
said a voice.
Marco jumped, startled to find a red-haired man beside him.
With his cold, chiseled features, the man exuded an icy aura.
Without sparing Marco a glance, he walked forward.
"Something's changed,"
the red-haired man noted.
His name was Jaxen.
"If you'd like to test it, anytime,"
Enkrid said, extending a hand to take a sword from the Frog.
It was a sharp blade, undoubtedly a masterpiece. Even Marco could tell at a glance, his experience as a drifter sharpening his eye for fine weapons.
The moment Enkrid assumed his stance, Jaxen vanished.
One blink, and he was gone, like smoke dissipating into the air.
Then—
THUD.
A gray-haired beast of a man struck the ground where Jaxen had been. Marco could only piece together what happened from the cratered earth and scattered dirt.
The beast grinned, speaking in a voice brimming with exhilaration.
"So you've come, stray cat!"
Jaxen reappeared beside Enkrid, holding two daggers.
An axe and two daggers—beast and phantom stared each other down.
The gray-haired man smirked, while Jaxen remained expressionless.
The air was tense, like the eye of a storm, until Enkrid interjected.
"Keep it reasonable."
At those words, the two clashed.
CRACK!
CLANG!
Their blows were invisible to Marco, but their positions had reversed.
"Mess around, and I'll skin you alive,"
said the gray-haired man, Rem, now standing where Jaxen had been.
Jaxen inspected one of his daggers, half of its blade shattered. Despite the weapon's quality, the disparity in skill was undeniable. The broken piece of metal lay embedded in the ground.
"A few beatings, and you've awakened?"
Jaxen asked.
"Damn right. A few beatings, and I woke up,"
Rem replied with a deeper grin.
After exchanging a few more sharp words, Enkrid stepped in.
"My turn now."
It wasn't the most typical way to mediate, but it worked.
Marco witnessed everything and walked away with a newfound understanding.
"I was in a well."
To escape that well, he would have to roll forward, push beyond his limits.
Luagarne, observing Marco's departure, couldn't fully read his thoughts but saw the resolve in his steps.
"Another one,"
Lua thought.
Enkrid's magic was at work again.
His presence made stagnation impossible.
He compelled others to surpass their limits.
"How does one surpass their limits?"
The answer was clear: train earnestly and with all one's might. To achieve this, one needed a spark—stimulation.
Enkrid was that spark, whether he realized it or not.

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