Eternally Regressing Knight

Marcus received the late-night report with a familiar blend of surprise and gratitude.

“Every time, you manage to impress me,” he began with genuine admiration, followed by an almost excessive show of thanks:
“I owe you for this.”

Though officially a Company Commander now, Enkrid still found it odd that a Battalion Commander like Marcus would lower his head so willingly.

“It was mere chance,” Enkrid replied plainly, delivering his account of the events with an unembellished tone. That was it.

“Understood,” Marcus said, concluding the exchange.

With the report done, Enkrid left Marcus’s office, leaving the rest of the cleanup and follow-up to the Border Guard’s leadership. Marcus, as the person in charge, would handle the aftermath.

Outside, the fairy Company Commander was waiting for him, falling into step alongside him with her usual detached demeanor. She stared ahead, her words as casual as her gaze.

“Tonight, together? Just holding hands, though, since purity must be preserved before the sacred union.”

“I’ll sleep alone. In my barracks. Hands-free.”

“Understood.”

Is that really supposed to be a joke?

After parting ways with the fairy commander, Enkrid returned to his quarters. He rinsed off the sweat from the night’s battles and settled onto his bed, water dripping from his hair. Running his fingers through it, he realized his hair had grown quite long again.

“Restless night… If they were going to attack, they should’ve gone all out.”

The barracks gradually quieted as his comrades drifted to sleep, adding their own remarks here and there:

“Everything unfolds as the divine wills. Pray, brothers and sisters.”
“Something went down, didn’t it?”
“Kyarng.”
“Ah, if the Black Blade’s here, things must’ve turned nasty.”

Despite the banter, Enkrid didn’t simply sleep. Instead, he replayed the fight in his mind.

Victory or defeat, domination or struggle—every battle offered lessons. That was what he’d learned, and how he’d lived.

Tonight was no exception.

Even though he’d cut through the enemy with ease, there was still much to learn.

As his thoughts blended with sleep, his dreams took shape: a pack of ten white lions charging at him.

Even in his dreams, he felt no panic. They were manageable, fightable.

For the first time in a while, Enkrid could tangibly sense his own growth.

“Amusing, isn’t it?”

His battles used to be desperate struggles for survival, a fight to stay hidden and unnoticed.

But now?

Even in a dream, his heart surged with adrenaline and confidence, a testament to the countless hours of training and practice.

Oddly, Esther appeared beside him in the dream—not as a leopard but in an entirely different form. Her skin was pale and smooth, her figure draped in a flowing black robe that shimmered like an expensive fabric despite its dark color.

“Is that the real you?” Enkrid asked.

“Don’t acknowledge me in this realm,” she replied curtly.

What an odd thing to say.

Even so, Enkrid recognized her unmistakably. Her jet-black hair and piercing blue eyes made her identity plain.

Though perplexed, he decided to humor her request. It was a dream, after all.

“Wait… isn’t this my dream?”

His musings were interrupted as the pack of white lions lunged forward, their claws and scimitars flashing. What began as a bloody skirmish turned into something almost dance-like, fluid and controlled.

“I never did ask how they learned the Valen mercenary sword style.”

That thought was quickly replaced by others:

“They were so intent on dying, yet seemed to cling desperately to life in the end. Strange.”

The peculiar nature of the white-furred beastfolk lingered in his mind as the dream faded, giving way to the morning light.

Enkrid opened his eyes, staring at the ceiling of his barracks.

Summer mornings brought early sunlight, even at dawn.

What’s on today’s agenda?

He already knew: start with the Isolation Technique, followed by sword drills, interspersed with focus training sessions.

Enkrid’s daily regimen remained unshaken: practice with Tangent Blade Form, training his five senses, and rigorously adhering to the Isolation Technique.

Jaxen had once said:
“Training is a daily commitment. Especially with sensory exercises—these build incrementally, day by day. Skip them, and you’re wasting progress.”

This philosophy echoed Audin’s teachings and aligned perfectly with the principles of the Isolation Technique:

“Brother, missing a day and doubling it tomorrow won’t work. It only harms your body. Do it every day. Every. Single. Day. Brother, are you listening?”

The repeated emphasis had been so relentless that it was ingrained in Enkrid’s mind.

But daily training wasn’t a burden. To Enkrid, it was as natural as breathing—a non-negotiable foundation of his life.

Thus began his day with a review of his tools, a reflection on past encounters, and disciplined training.

Meanwhile, Marcus—the city’s leader who had marveled at Enkrid’s actions the previous night—was dealing with a more infuriating matter: the shameless audacity of a noble who had taken bribes from the Black Blade mercenaries.

Dunbakel, now imprisoned, had confessed everything he knew:

“I was ordered to stir up trouble at the Border Guard. That’s all I know. I’m half a mercenary myself—I wasn’t told the origins of this mess. But it’s clear someone inside the city is involved.”

Marcus didn’t bother pressing her further. Instead, he summoned the bribed noble, who descended to the prison with an entourage of guards.

When Marcus asked if he had any knowledge of the situation, the noble sneered:
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

He frowned briefly before turning his attention to the captive beastfolk.
“Filthy animal, speak clearly. Are you seriously claiming to be part of the Black Blade? And you, Marcus, you believe the lies of a mercenary bought with mere coins?”

The noble’s outburst was laced with indignation. His brazen hypocrisy left Marcus flabbergasted.

I swear, if I could cut this fool down here and now…

Turning his gaze away from the noble, Marcus restrained his rising frustration.

Still, leaving this man unchecked wasn’t an option. A parasite causing such chaos couldn’t simply be ignored.

Killing him outright isn’t an option—not in the city.

As loathsome as he was, the noble remained one. Killing him would invite complications, particularly for the Border Guard’s standing. The central authority could easily use such an incident against them, no matter how justifiable the act.

Marcus weighed his options. His reputation as a “war fanatic” often painted him as someone disinterested in political maneuvering, but that assumption was far from accurate.

To survive and thrive as a central noble, one needed to master the art of manipulation and subterfuge—skills Marcus possessed in abundance.

After careful thought, he decided on a plan.

The noble couldn’t be dealt with directly, but perhaps he could be paired with someone who had a knack for resolving matters with excessive efficacy.

Enkrid.

The man didn’t even need specific orders—stationed in the barracks, he’d already eliminated a Black Blade elite, reduced a manticore to a bloody pulp, and decapitated a cultist leader, all in a single night.

Perhaps just assigning him to accompany this noble will suffice.

If nothing happened? So be it. But if trouble arose, Enkrid would undoubtedly handle it in his usual fashion.

Publicly, I’ll frame it as a simple assignment.

Marcus harbored more insidious thoughts beneath his polished facade. There was still the matter of the Black Blade mercenaries and their schemes—they couldn’t be left unchecked.

He let a faint smirk slip as he announced,
“Martaig has begun assembling an army.”

It wasn’t a lie. In the mercenary city, a self-proclaimed general was indeed mobilizing forces, preparing for conflict with the Border Guard.

While this information was still limited to those with sharp ears, the whispers of an impending city-wide war were already starting to spread.

“And we don’t have reinforcements to count on,” Marcus remarked as he took a step sideways.

The torchlight mounted on the underground wall flared briefly, illuminating half of Marcus’s face while leaving the other half in shadow. He looked like a man weighed down by the burden of protecting the city.

Martaig held a clear military advantage. Marcus knew it. The noble knew it.

It was precisely because of this that the suggestion to bring the Black Blade mercenaries into the fold had been made—a preposterous idea, born of desperation.

Marcus, standing as both the city’s commander and its figurehead, gave the appearance of deep contemplation.

“What if we hired them as mercenaries?” he mused aloud.

Though he hadn’t specified whom he meant, the noble’s ears perked up.

They couldn’t openly declare the Black Blade as allies, but hadn’t that group occasionally taken mercenary work? The suggestion was to discreetly employ them for this situation.

The noble, Vancento—who had taken bribes from the Black Blade—caught the implied offer, though he worked hard to conceal his eagerness. His face remained carefully neutral.

The long-awaited opportunity was finally here, but Vancento swallowed his initial response. To show too much enthusiasm might arouse suspicion.

The attack may have failed, but this could turn out better than expected. Perhaps Marcus’s desperation worked in my favor.

Vancento’s instincts, honed for survival since his youth, had secured his rise to power. But his addiction to that power dulled his judgment. He underestimated the complexity of the situation, emboldened by the presence of the Black Blade’s guards at his side.

“One of the captives is Dunbakel, a beastfolk woman,” said the guard. “Dealing with Enkrid shouldn’t be hard. As for the claim that he fought off ten attackers alone—that’s clearly a lie. Even I would struggle with ten of them. The story about him repelling a night raid unaided? Nonsense. His squad must’ve intervened. The manticore? Who knows. Likely just a baseless rumor.”

The manticore carcass had been quickly hidden by the Gilpin Guild, who intended to profit from dismantling and selling it. This move left only whispers of its existence behind.

What manticore? Another one of Marcus’s tricks, Vancento thought, dismissing it as typical pre-war posturing.

He didn’t even try to investigate further, nor did the Black Blade guard beside him.

Both knew that Enkrid had become a formidable presence, and his subordinates had gained a reputation for their prowess.

But if they’re matched against the right opponent…

The guard was confident, not in his ability to win but in his ability to kill. He was overconfident, even arrogant.

Meanwhile, Vancento, envisioning a rosy future for himself, let his imagination narrow his focus.

Feigning disinterest, he glanced at Dunbakel before commenting, “Doesn’t seem like she’s a particularly renowned mercenary.”

For mercenaries, a lack of a famous moniker often meant being regarded as second-rate.

“She should be executed. When do you plan to start the operation?”

Marcus, looking at Vancento, wondered how such a man had risen to this position.

Ah, the downside of the frontier—talent is a rare commodity, he thought, reflecting bitterly. Yet the barracks seemed to overflow with capable individuals these days.

“Tomorrow would be best, before Martaig’s forces make their move,” Marcus replied, concealing his satisfaction beneath a grim expression.

Vancento’s face lit up with contentment, unaware that Marcus had far more planned than he let on.

As for Dunbakel, she remained silent in the darkness, her fate momentarily delayed.

The trouble started with a rumor.

“Martaig’s demands are outrageous,” said Vengeance, who had shown up despite being off duty. He sought out Enkrid, starting a conversation with no clear purpose.

Krais, overhearing the exchange, couldn’t hold back.

“Reinforcements? Forget it—they won’t come. Or rather, they can’t. Let me explain since you seem clueless. Here’s the situation: in the south, there’s a full-scale war against monsters. It’s bad enough dealing with hordes of beasts, but now the southern powerhouse Rihinstetten has stepped in. The kingdom’s fate hangs by a thread.

“Meanwhile, the Border Guard proved its mettle holding off the Aspen threat and buying time. But since this is an internal conflict, the central authority won’t intervene. Even if other factions try to get involved, the western nobles—Baron Ventra and Count Molsen—are already in place.

“Normally, the best option would be to request reinforcements from these noble armies. But don’t hold your breath. Ventra is practically Molsen’s lapdog, and Molsen? He’s infamous for never lifting a finger unless there’s profit involved.”

Enkrid marveled, not for the first time, at Krais’s ability to gather such information while remaining seated.

More than anything, though, it was his endless chatter that amazed him.

“Doesn’t your throat hurt?” Enkrid asked.

“Hurt? Not at all! Back in the day, I even performed puppet shows where I handled five roles all by myself,” Krais replied cheerfully.

A remarkable talent indeed. Managing five roles in a solo performance couldn’t have been easy.

Given what Enkrid knew of Krais, he wouldn’t have half-assed it, either. This was the type of man who’d pledge even his soul if it meant furthering his goals.

“And how many traders pass through this city? Border Guard may be a fortress city, but it’s also the top trading hub in northern Naurilia. All you have to do is listen, and you’ll hear plenty. That’s both the problem and the key to this current mess,” Krais said, cupping a hand behind his ear for emphasis.

His tone made it sound like the most natural thing in the world, but such intuition wasn’t commonplace.

People with this kind of foresight usually fell into two categories: fortune-tellers or con artists.

Krais was neither. He was simply someone gifted with an uncanny ability to read the flow of events.

“And now the Black Blade gang has arrived, along with cultists popping up here and there. It’s not looking good. So, any thoughts about leaving Border Guard for another city, Captain?”

Enkrid didn’t even dignify that with a response.

Leave? And abandon the people left behind?

“Are you serious? What kind of talk is that? Have you no intention of protecting this city?” Vengeance shouted angrily.

Krais hadn’t been serious, and Enkrid knew it.

“Yes, yes, of course, we’ll protect it,” Krais replied dismissively.

“If you’ve eaten your share, do your job, Big Eyes,” Enkrid quipped, siding with Benzence.

“Oh, so that’s how it is? You’re taking his side now? Really, Captain? I feel betrayed! Is this how you treat your rival?”

Krais’s puppet-show experience wasn’t for nothing; his exaggerated impression was surprisingly convincing. He leaned casually, pouting as he delivered his lines.

“What’s this? Are you saying Big Eyes wants an axe in his head instead of a flower crown? Is that it?”

The problem was that Rem had just stepped out of the barracks and overheard the exchange.

“…That’s not what I meant,” Krais stammered.

“Vengence, you’re back again? Got nothing better to do?” Rem chimed in, casually misnaming Vengeance, though he didn’t bother correcting him.

It was at that moment that someone called out.

“Captain, you’re summoned by the Battalion Commander.”

The fairy company commander stood just beyond the training grounds, leaning over the low fence with her torso and face in view.

It seemed she was showing up more often than the official messengers lately. Why would a company commander handle something as mundane as relaying a summon?

“Volunteered,” she said with a grin.

“…I see,” Enkrid replied, now accustomed to fairy humor. He didn’t even crack a smile anymore.

“Big Eyes, you seem to need some training yourself. Off you go, Captain. In the meantime, I’ll turn this one into a model soldier,” Rem declared, gesturing at Krais with something akin to a death sentence.

“Wait! Captain! Take me with you!” Krais pleaded, his voice rising in desperation as Enkrid turned to leave, silently wishing him well.

Rem, perhaps venting some pent-up frustration, clearly intended to work Krais hard. Sometimes, venting like that was necessary.

A shriek that sounded like a pig being slaughtered erupted behind him.

Enkrid ignored it.

“Inter-squad murder is strictly prohibited,” the fairy commander noted casually, glancing over her shoulder.

“He’s not going to die,” Enkrid replied.

The fairy thought for a moment before nodding. “I trust you’ll handle it.”

Her tone was oddly reassuring.

When Enkrid entered the Battalion Commander’s office, Marcus wasted no time.

“I’ve got a mission for you. I need you to act as an escort for an envoy.”

The urgency in Marcus’s tone was evident—he hadn’t even waited for a salute.

“An envoy? To whom?”

“We’ll need to hire mercenaries, won’t we? That’s the reason,” Marcus explained.

The combination of “envoy” and “mercenaries” seemed odd to Enkrid. It sounded like the battle with Martaig was imminent.

But was it truly as dire as it seemed?

“To the Black Blade gang,” Marcus added. “You’re not the envoy—just their escort.”

If envoy and mercenary were odd together, envoy and bandits were outright bizarre.

And yet, Marcus’s eyes sparkled with a strange enthusiasm, practically glowing with excitement.

That unsettling twinkle made Enkrid feel profoundly uneasy.