A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

Finn tilted her head slightly, glancing in the direction Jaxon had gone.

“Heading straight for the chief’s house, huh?”

In her eyes, this village was riddled with far too many suspicious elements.

Hadn’t she noticed a woman walking through the streets earlier with an unusually confident stride?

Even at a glance, that woman wasn’t ordinary.

“Damn bandits,” Finn muttered to herself.

Through her work with Shinar and various operations, she had come to understand just how deeply the Black Blade bandits had infiltrated the kingdom.

Perhaps even central nobles or major landowners with vast estates were involved.

Of course, the biggest issue was still…

Her thoughts trailed off as she walked under cover of darkness. Her ranger instincts kept her out of sight, and she moved with deliberate steps, constantly aware of any potential pursuers.

She headed toward a small mill on a hilltop, but just as she neared her destination, something struck her head.

Finn reacted instinctively, twisting her head to minimize the impact. The force of the blow was absorbed, leaving her with only a muffled ringing in her ears.

Reacting just before the strike hit had been half luck, half skill.

The skill came from her relentless training. Ever since joining Enkrid, Audin, and Shinar, Finn had practiced Ailcarazian martial arts, focusing especially on defensive techniques.

This wasn’t by choice but out of necessity.

“Take a hit from me, sister, and you’ll be shaking hands with God,” Audin had warned her once. His punches were a one-way ticket to heaven’s gates if they connected.

“Too many openings,” Shinar would mutter, jabbing at the back of her head or the nape of her neck from angles she couldn’t anticipate.

Because of these experiences, Finn had grown more sensitive, her reactions quicker, her instincts sharper.

Thunk!

The sound of the strike rang out, but Finn didn’t collapse or lose consciousness. She had pulled her chin in and tensed her trapezius muscles, taking the blow near her ear rather than the back of her head.

The impact still left her head spinning.

Her assailant didn’t wait. A second strike came immediately—a sweeping attempt to trip her.

They were a skilled fighter. The initial ambush targeted her upper body, while the follow-up strike went for her lower half, a tactic designed to catch opponents off guard.

But Finn didn’t fall for it. She bent her knees, planting her feet firmly in a defensive stance rooted in Ailcarazian techniques.

When the attacker’s foot aimed for her shin, she twisted her body slightly, deflecting the attack.

“Damn bastard,” she cursed internally.

Her head still throbbed painfully, but she knew she couldn’t afford to let herself get overwhelmed.

With a swift motion, she reached for the shortsword on her sword belt.

Clang!

She unsheathed it in a single fluid motion, slashing horizontally without even looking.

Her blade didn’t meet any resistance, but she sensed her attacker retreating.

Her vision swam, and she scowled.

“Don’t move. If you move, you die.”

A voice came from her left rear, accompanied by the distinct sound of a crossbow being drawn.

“Damn it,” Finn cursed silently.

She’d been caught in a trap. Her opponents were skilled in ambush tactics and seemed to have been waiting for her. This was dangerous.

“Did you idiots think we wouldn’t notice? What, you thought we’re blind and stupid? Maybe we should cut you to pieces and sell you to some brothel that wouldn’t even pay a few coins for you.”

The one who had struck her spoke, holding a short club. His language was as filthy as his demeanor.

Finn didn’t respond. She focused instead, sweat dripping down her temples. The winter chill was entirely absent—she didn’t feel it at all.

Her head still felt like it was spinning, though the sensation was slowly subsiding.

Her top priority was to escape this situation. But to do that, she first needed to assess it fully.

“Don’t shoot,” she said calmly, raising her hands slightly. The shortsword slipped from her grasp, landing on the dirt with a dull thud and sticking into the ground at an angle.

“You crazy bitch. Do you even know where you are?”

The club-wielding bandit smirked, his lips curling into a mocking grin.

“This isn’t good,” Finn thought grimly.

By raising her hands and feigning surrender, she managed to get a clearer sense of her surroundings.

She identified three key points:

First, the villagers weren’t as foolish as they seemed.

Second, she and her group had underestimated them, putting themselves at a disadvantage.

And third, not everything goes as planned.

The original plan had been simple: observe the village for two days, then sweep through it with the waiting troops.

They intended to gather evidence first, using it to gain permission from the lord overseeing the area.

The Border Guard was technically part of the estate, but this land fell under the jurisdiction of a different noble.

This mission was layered with political intricacies.

Marcus aimed to establish the Border Guard as the ruling power of the surrounding region. To do so, he needed operations like this to strengthen their influence.

While his anger at the drug-dealing bandits and the Black Blade assassins was genuine, there was also a calculated aspect to his actions.

Marcus was, at his core, a politician.

He planned to liberate the village, reorganizing it around the innocent residents while eliminating its ties to the Black Blade and its drug production. The goal was to transform it into a village under the Border Guard’s protection.

The official noble overseeing the area would undoubtedly protest, but there were plenty of ways to handle that.

The ideal scenario was finding evidence linking the noble to the bandits, but even if that failed, Marcus was confident in his ability to absorb the village into the Border Guard’s territory.

The key was to start somewhere. Taking one village would set the stage for further expansions.

But no one could have predicted this level of resistance.

The current lord of the area was no more than a pig-headed fool, his brain filled with nothing but dung.

The groundwork for this mission had been carefully laid, yet things had gone awry from the start.

Finn didn’t know the full extent of Marcus’s plans. She was simply a soldier carrying out her orders, her thoughts focused on her immediate task.

Finding evidence seemed increasingly unlikely now, like trying to scoop water onto dry soil.

“I’ve walked into a trap,” she thought bitterly.

Sweat poured down her face as she prepared for her next move.

Just because she’d been caught didn’t mean she would submit.

She would fight with everything she had.

Finn had learned one thing from observing Enkrid.

When you refuse to give up, you move forward. And when you move forward, you change.

She had seen it happen, standing beside Enkrid.

Finn suddenly kicked the sword embedded in the ground.

The blade shot upward, freed from the dirt, and flew forward.

At the same time, she pulled two small daggers from hidden sheaths on her forearms, gripping them tightly.

It was time to fight.

Even if the odds were slim, when the moment called for it, you had no choice but to fight.

***

After Jaxon slipped out of the small window, Enkrid stared absently outside.

How did he fit through that hole?

The window was small. Yet Jaxon had slipped out effortlessly, almost as if he had oiled himself up. It wasn’t a clumsy struggle—he had gauged the size of the window and his own body with precision, leaping through it in one fluid motion.

It was as if someone had pulled him from outside, or as if he had straightened his body midair into a perfectly aligned plank, vanishing like a wisp of smoke.

Jaxon’s sense of spatial awareness was uncanny.

He observes with his eyes, maps his movements in his mind, and executes flawlessly.

It was a feat only possible because he had a complete understanding of his body and its capabilities.

Could Enkrid do the same?

He doubted it.

His curiosity ended there. Enkrid turned his gaze to the world beyond the window.

The moonlight scattered like crushed silver powder, spilling over the landscape. It was a bright, cold winter night.

He stared outside for a moment longer before turning back into the room.

Despite the chill of the winter night, the warmth of the brazier filled the air. Red-hot coals glowed beneath thick logs of wood, releasing a steady heat.

Enkrid dragged the brazier closer to his bed and stared at it, watching the flames slowly consume the wood.

As the log caught fire, crackling and popping, the flames licked along its surface, glowing brighter with each passing second.

He watched the process, his mind hazy and unfocused. The tension drained from his body as he slouched forward, mesmerized by the dancing flames.

The crackling fire, the heat pushing back the cold, and the faint warmth filling the room all surrounded him like a comforting embrace.

It felt like being gently placed into bed by a mother’s hands.

Though Enkrid had no memory of a mother’s touch, having grown up an orphan, this warmth was what he imagined it would feel like.

He curled up like a child, pulling himself into a fetal position. The warmth of his earlier bath still lingered in his muscles, making his body feel light and relaxed.

He drifted into a short, fleeting dream.

In the dream, he was a child again, crying in his mother’s arms. Then, he set out on a long journey, only to find his life endangered within ten days.

Barely escaping death, regret began to creep into his heart.

Why did I leave home?

Every step beyond his door had been a struggle, fraught with hardship. The slightest misstep could cost him his life.

It was like walking a tightrope stretched across a chasm.

Even so, will you continue?

Someone asked him this.

He could have gone back home, where safety and comfort awaited. But Enkrid didn’t.

Despite the serene and idyllic life he had left behind, despite the mother’s embrace and the father’s steady hands that he missed, he chose to press forward.

I will continue.

Why?

Do I need a reason?

Nothing is without reason, even if you can’t see it. Why do you walk this path?

It was a question without a clear answer, yet in the dream, Enkrid replied without hesitation.

Because it’s fun.

Is that all?

Would you rather see smiles or frowns? Pain or joy? Would you rather live in misery or happiness?

What?

He couldn’t see the face of the one asking the questions. His last response echoed as he murmured aloud in his sleep.

“I walk the path I believe to be right, the path that brings me joy.”

There was no doubt in those words. Enkrid didn’t even think of it as conviction—it simply was.

He opened his eyes.

It had been a short dream. The log in the brazier had barely burned through, its flames still flickering faintly.

A brief rest, but it was enough.

His body felt light. His steps would feel weightless, and his hands brimming with strength.

Normally, waking up meant sluggish limbs and stiff muscles, but not this time.

It was as if someone had poured vitality into every fiber of his being.

Then came a knock.

Knock, knock.

The sound echoed through the room.

“Are you in there?”

The voice of the inn’s servant followed.

“Hello? Are you there?”

The servant asked again. Enkrid rose and quickly dressed himself. In seconds, he wrapped his inner armor like bandages around his torso, slipped on his thin leather outer armor, and buckled his sword belt.

His speed in donning his gear was beyond remarkable.

Why wouldn’t it be?

Back when his swordsmanship was barely passable, he’d often found himself relegated to grunt work. He’d helped countless mercenaries gear up while also learning to armor himself with precision and efficiency.

And now, it showed.

By the time the servant spoke again, Enkrid was fully prepared.

“Hey, you’re in there, aren’t you? Why aren’t you answering?”

The servant’s tone carried a trace of amusement.

“Oi, you idiot,” a gruff voice added.

Click.

The door creaked open. Whatever lock it had was useless.

Light from the hallway spilled into the room, mingling with the warm glow of the brazier.

Standing in the narrow hallway were the servant, the innkeeper, and a heavily bearded man with a wild, untamed look. Their eyes glinted with hostility, their presence oppressive.

“Three of you?”

Enkrid skipped the pleasantries, his voice calm as he glanced at them. His hand shifted slightly to adjust his sword belt, moving it forward for easier access.

The servant sneered, mistaking Enkrid’s actions for clumsy fumbling.

“What’s this? Three of us, and you’re asking dumb questions? You must be out of your mind, idiot.”

The servant’s words dripped with mockery, but Enkrid paid no mind. Instead, he continued fine-tuning his gear, remembering the lesson he had learned earlier about the importance of small preparations.

The angle of his dwarven gladius didn’t feel quite right. He adjusted it, pulling it tighter against his hip.

“You’ve got some skill with that sword, huh? But what’s with this amateurish act?”

The servant’s crude voice reminded him of Kraiss, specifically the times he’d scolded him for overacting.

For a moment, Enkrid resented a world that failed to recognize his theatrical talents. Surely, there was a playwright out there who would appreciate him.

“No need for words, then, right?”

The servant smirked, confident.

If anything, he was someone who typically waited for an opponent’s guard to drop. But to him, Enkrid looked completely unguarded, unskilled even.

The elf at his side might be a bit troublesome, but they had the numbers.

Do they even know where they are?

The servant felt certain he could handle these fools who had wandered into their village.

“Just kill him already,” the bearded man muttered from the back.

Enkrid made one final adjustment to his sword belt, the blade now perfectly positioned at his hip.

He looked up, his posture straightening.

The servant, with his earlier facade of innocence now gone, smirked wickedly, his eyes glinting with malice.

Enkrid saw it all—the shifting expressions, the glint in his eyes, the way time seemed to slow as their intents became clear.

The servant drew a knife and hurled it without hesitation.

Enkrid tilted his head slightly, the blade whistling past his ear and embedding itself in the wall behind him.

Thud.

“...Not bad,” the servant growled, raising both hands. Each held a dagger, and his expression was feral.

Enkrid instinctively measured his opponent—his movements, his stance, and the trajectory of the thrown dagger.

And with that assessment, he made a small adjustment.

He shifted his left foot forward, the leather sole scraping faintly against the floor.

It was a minor, almost imperceptible move, but it completed his preparation.

The servant twirled his daggers confidently, while the innkeeper behind him unsheathed a shortsword.

Each weapon sang as it left its scabbard, their metallic hiss slicing through the air.