A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

“I’ll go handle the trainees for a bit.”

Rophod said and turned away.

He had his own duties to attend to.

Today was the day when, after grueling training, the recruits were allowed to challenge someone of their choice.

It was the reward given at the end of hard labor.

“You remember the deal? If you beat me, you can join the general’s command immediately—anyone.”

Rophod stepped to the front of the platform and announced. A drop of rain, pooled at the edge of the platform roof, fell and dampened his hair.

Behind him, Rem grumbled.

“Did these bastards all get the hint and bolt?”

Whether it was Ragna or Jaxon, if they’d truly foreseen that Rem would ascend to knight-level by using sorcery, they’d be holding crystal balls, not swords.

So of course, they hadn’t run off.

Enkrid cast his gaze toward the platform, having heard what Rophod had said.

It wasn’t something he had given explicit permission for, but judging by how it was playing out, the scent of Kraiss was unmistakable.

Audin was the best at working the recruits into the ground, but giving them motivation—that was another matter entirely.

That required knowing how to handle people. And Audin… was definitely not good at that.

Enkrid had learned firsthand under him—like when he was taught isolation techniques.

“Drink this.”

“I don’t have the strength.”

“No, you do.”

“I can’t move my arm.”

“No, you can.”

That was Audin’s way.

And Rophod?

He wasn’t all that different.

He’d spent nearly his entire life in the knight order.

He had definitely dealt with plenty of rough fighters and criminals.

But guiding and leading people was a different skill.

Training wasn’t just about building strength or endurance. It was a process of understanding what kind of person someone was.

To do that, sometimes you had to push them hard—and sometimes you had to reward them.

Enkrid accepted the situation, assuming Kraiss had gotten involved.

That wide-eyed bastard might not be some veteran mercenary, but when it came to handling ordinary people—understanding the logic behind people’s actions—Kraiss knew best.

***

The ones gathered now had been drawn here by the name Enkrid, but among them were those who, having only heard rumors, still doubted his skills.

After all, rumors spread like wildfire, but who really knew how true they were?

Marco was a spearman whose skills had been recognized by a famous lancer from the western trade cities.

He was the kind who didn’t put much faith in rumors.

If those rumors were all true, then the so-called Harpy Slayer or Colony Destroyer from the west wouldn’t have been just that good—they’d have been extraordinary.

So he’d come all this way—and, naturally, he had every intention of proving himself.

But now the so-called hero who ended the civil war was nowhere to be seen?

No training, no duels?

So he had joined in the training, going along with everything so far. But he was starting to hit his limit.

Frustration had been building.

And then there was Rophod. He definitely looked strong—but Marco had come to fight a demon slayer.

‘Is it wise to reveal my technique ahead of time?’

That would only put him at a disadvantage.

Most martial artists on the continent believed showing your hand first was a tactical mistake.

Marco was no different—and he also wanted to seize fame with a single, decisive victory.

So he waited. And waited.

Today was the day.

If Audin hadn’t gone off for a fasting prayer… If Ragna hadn’t gotten lost… If Pell had been here with his silver tongue…

Marco wouldn’t have even thought this way.

He wasn’t looking at Rophod. His gaze was locked on Enkrid.

His curly hair, drenched in rain, drooped into his eyes like soggy seaweed. He ran a hand over his face to push it away.

Grrrrk.

Behind him, a gray-haired beast gnashed his teeth—but Marco didn’t spare it a glance.

Some trainees looked toward Rophod, but Marco’s eyes never left Enkrid.

Enkrid.

General, hero, civil war’s ender, demon slayer, savior of the kingdom, guardian of the Border Guard, friend of the king, destroyer of the Gray Demon Realm...

The man with endless titles.

Now that he saw him up close, Enkrid certainly didn’t seem like a second-rate fighter.

‘But would I definitely lose in a fight?’

Marco didn’t think so. He believed in himself.

He had learned spear techniques from books. Even so, as a child, no one around him could match him. And when he grew older, anyone with comparable skill was caught up to within a month.

He’d sought out sword and spear masters—but none had satisfied him.

He didn’t always win. But he never ended on a loss.

Marco let out a slow breath. The rain was bringing autumn ◈ Nоvеlіgһт ◈ (Continue reading) with it, but the air was still warm.

The dampness was unpleasant, but so what? Now was the time to showcase his skill.

Enkrid had sensed the gaze on him for some time. Since there was no reason to avoid it, he stared right back.

“Am I allowed to choose my opponent directly?”

Marco spoke.

Among those who came seeking the Border Guard, some were lured by the high pay—but many were here to test their strength.

Enkrid knew that kind of person well.

Everything was said through that look alone. He was going to challenge him.

Enkrid had no intention of avoiding it.

More importantly, he had learned a few things on his journey here. He needed a good opponent to test them.

They weren’t quite polished enough for Rem.

“Will you be alright with this?”

Enkrid didn’t turn away those who challenged him. That hadn’t changed even now, fresh off a long journey.

Rophod asked, and Enkrid nodded, lowering his pack.

He considered drawing Acker but instead took only Gladius and stepped down.

Maybe he’d been too rough with it—the scabbard had loosened, and the blade wobbled inside.

He’d have to visit a blacksmith in the city soon and get it repaired.

Marco, the trainee, drew his weapon.

It was a long spear—slightly taller than he was.

The way he gripped it, the wide stance—none of it was ordinary.

At least by soldier standards.

Those outside the knight order often called themselves “quasi-knights” or “squires.”

Marco could be considered quasi-knight level.

But after real experience, Enkrid had come to see that “quasi-knight” was… well, nonsense.

‘You can die from any sword—but the difference in skill is real.’

No matter how you looked at it, neither Roman from Oara nor Aisia, now likely back at the royal palace, would lose to someone like this.

“I don’t think I’ll be able to go easy on you.”

Marco said.

At least he was honest and courteous.

He was warning Enkrid that he was coming at him seriously.

His stance and aura already said everything.

That kind of instinct—that ability to see a step ahead—was what people would one day call future sight if Marco ever became a knight.

Enkrid lightly tossed Gladius into the air, caught it, and gripped it in reverse.

“…That’s your weapon?”

Marco asked. Enkrid just flexed his fingers around the grip and motioned with a slight twitch.

The seaweed-haired man clenched his jaw and surged through the rain. His spear tip had nearly vanished to a pinpoint.

Would Rophod be able to handle someone like that?

Who knew. If it were the old Rophod, maybe—but the current one was hard to judge.

Enkrid swung the reverse-gripped Gladius.

Thunk.

He struck the spear’s blade and immediately stepped in, driving his bare fist into Marco’s abdomen.

It was a thrust inspired by Rem’s axe kicks that embedded themselves like javelins.

Enkrid stomped the ground, pushed off with no rotation—just pure strength—and extended his arm. The short prep made it fast.

Thud.

“Guhhk!”

Marco’s feet briefly left the ground. Even so, he didn’t drop the spear.

He floated at an angle for a moment before slamming to the ground with a splat. The strength drained from his eyes.

Not quite unconscious, but definitely dazed.

Still held onto the spear, though.

Enkrid thought to himself—

If this were a test, he’d say pass.

In the end, it was a sequence of simple motions—block, slip in, strike.

Swooosh.

The rain grew heavier.

“Gggk…”

This translation is the intellectual property of Novelight.

Marco crawled on the ground. Enkrid had held back—but it wasn’t a light blow.

Had he struck full force, Marco might’ve ruptured his organs—coughing up blood and chunks from his guts.

“…What the hell…”

“I didn’t even see it.”

Some of the trainees muttered.

The difference in skill was glaring.

“Anyone else?”

Rophod asked.

All the trainees looked up.

Their eyes said it all:

How the hell do you fight that?

Rophod stood there smiling, rain pouring down on him. And then he said:

“Then how about a match with me, sir?”

With Ragna gone, his hands had been itching for action.

More than anything, Rophod had something he wanted to show Enkrid now that he was back.

He raised his sword and took a high stance.

Enkrid responded by gripping Gladius once more.

“If this is the kind of welcome I get, then I gladly accept it.”

He had been curious about how much Rophod had changed.

Rophod focused. He broke down the moment and stretched time out. His burning concentration made him forget everything else around him.

The falling rain, the situation, even time itself.

The only things that remained in his consciousness were the sword in his hand and his opponent.

He had continued polishing his skills even after learning from Lua Gharne, and had rolled around endlessly with Ragna. In doing so, Rophod had discovered something new.

He had named it: the Eye of the Eagle.

When he concentrated all his senses on his opponent, it felt as if he were watching them from the sky above.

Enkrid didn’t move an inch.

Rophod watched him through the Eagle’s Eye, waiting for his move.

And then Enkrid moved.

A blade suddenly obscured Rophod’s vision. Enkrid had thrown Gladius without a hint of preparation. No—there had been a prep motion, but it was so fast his reaction lagged. Rophod instinctively brought his sword down.

Clang!

Gladius was deflected—

BANG!

Sky and earth rang out. That’s how Rophod perceived it. A bolt of lightning exploded before his eyes.

What?

Why is the world spinning?

Rophod collapsed with a thud.

“You should pick your opponents more carefully.”

Rem, now calm, called down from the platform.

“Looks like you had a bit of fun. Still got a long way to go.”

He followed up in a bored tone.

“Ah…”

Still seated in the muddy puddle, Rophod let out a brief sound of admiration.

He’d thought he’d finally caught up a little.

Watching Enkrid take down a trainee like that, he thought maybe—just maybe—he could face him with his own sword.

No chance.

“It’s really that hard to catch up to a genius, huh…”

Rophod muttered.

Ah… So that’s how it is.

Every trainee watching silently agreed.

Rophod shook his head side to side. His skull was still ringing.

Enkrid had closed the distance by throwing his sword, then followed with a left high kick straight to the jaw. Every motion had occurred at a speed beyond reason.

Rophod was still dazed from that single strike.

The trainees said nothing.

As for Enkrid, he had no particular thoughts about being called a “genius.”

It didn’t feel good, nor bad.

It just… was. If that’s how someone saw him, so be it.

After all, even Rophod knew that the word “genius” or “talent” couldn’t possibly sum up everything a person had built.

“I’ll head in first.”

And with that, Enkrid picked up the backpack he had left on the ground and walked across the training yard, leaving behind the Squire he had just flattened.

From behind, Rophod suddenly called out in a booming voice.

“Alright! If we keep trying, we can become like that one day!”

Rophod had somehow become a man of great ambition.

“Dream big, don’t you,” Rem muttered.

“Not everyone can be like that. That’s why the world is unfair,” Lua Gharne added.

“Were you always the kind to mock others’ dreams?”

Enkrid looked at Rem and asked.

“You didn’t know? I laughed the first time you said you wanted to be a knight.”

He really had laughed.

“If someone gives you a dream, someone else has to wake you up,” Lua Gharne said, sounding like a sage who lived not on a mountaintop but in a hill behind your house.

People like that usually weren’t sages—they were swindlers—but she wasn’t entirely wrong.

If someone’s dream could be broken by just a few words, it probably wasn’t something you could prop back up anyway.

Enkrid walked on and soon saw the lodging that hadn’t changed.

First, he’d drop off his gear, wash up, and for the first time in a while, have a proper meal that wasn’t field rations.

He opened the door to his quarters.

Blue eyes. Long black hair. A black robe with pale skin showing between the folds.

Seated on an antique chair of unknown origin was a mage.

She sat with her legs crossed and locked eyes with him.

“You’re back.”

She spoke like someone who had seen him just yesterday.

And next to her—perhaps even more absurd than the antique chair—was a fairy seated at an office desk.

The fairy looked up as she set down the carving knife she had been using.

“You’ve returned, fiancé.”

Her fairy-like jokes remained unchanged.

Esther said nothing else.

Shinar didn’t turn her gaze away.

Her eyes were bright, sharp, and direct.

Hsssshhhhhh.

Rain poured outside. The door clicked shut behind him.

The hearth in the center burned quietly, and with its light flickering in the background, Shinar asked:

“Where’s my gift?”

He hadn’t been on a vacation or anything—why was she asking for a gift?

Enkrid thought that as he set down his pack. He was about to say he didn’t have one… but then closed his mouth.

On second thought, he did have something for each of them.

For example, for Jaxon—an invisible-blade dagger.

For Esther—some magical trinket he had happened to pick up.

And for Audin—a shattered relic.

Can any of this really be called a gift?

Probably not. And yet, Enkrid gave the fairy something anyway.

“A dagger that wards off misfortune.”

A sacrificial blade. Useless to him, maybe useful to someone else.

Shinar caught the dagger with a flick and gave it a glance before tucking it into her robe.

“Something’s changed in you. Let’s spar once the rain stops.”

And then, choosing the words she knew would make Enkrid happiest, she added:

“It’s not a bad offer, is it?”

Enkrid washed up, ate, and unpacked.

Still, it didn’t quite feel like he was back. More like something was missing.

Probably because all the people who were supposed to be here… weren’t.

They’d return soon, of course—but for now, yeah.

It felt just a little bit lonely.