Eternally Regressing Knight

If one could endure pseudo-death, which resembled dying but was far easier, just endure it, if only that could be done—

There was a living textbook. One that showed every move in detail right before his eyes.

This was, in essence, a good thing. Cursed sword or malevolent spirit aside, it was good—at least to Enkrid.

“Think about why you step your left foot to the side.”

There was also a teacher who meticulously interpreted the textbook.

Thus, this was only natural.

Enkrid absorbed swordsmanship like a soaked cotton ball drawing in water. No, he engraved it into his body, leaving understanding for later.

He had learned this while honing his sense of evasion.

‘Is understanding even necessary?’

When he didn’t understand, he simply threw his body into it. By repeating it, he could engrave it into his body, postponing understanding for later.

“You’re insane, no matter how I look at you.”

Luagarne spoke with a mix of admiration. Enkrid let it slide by.

He was too immersed in swordsmanship at that moment.

In truth, it was nothing short of enjoyable.

What had driven him to learn the Valen-style mercenary swordsmanship in the first place?

It was an inner thirst.

He had longed for proper technique and swordsmanship—a foundation that would grant him the power to move forward.

“The basics!”

That was what every teacher, every instructor, and every person who had taken his coins had told him.

He didn’t dislike it. He didn’t think it was wrong.

It was just—

‘It’s fun.’

As any human would, he simply wanted to see what lay ahead.

And so, Enkrid repeatedly gripped his sword with a smile. A smile. A bright smile, pure and untainted.

“To be honest, I’m starting to find you a bit frightening.”

Luagarne remarked.

“I completely agree. It’s chilling.”

Finn chimed in, while Krais remained surprisingly composed.

“Well, he’s always been like this, but it’s definitely worse now.”

Kreis had witnessed countless insane acts from Enkrid. In a way, he thought it was fortunate that Enkrid was smiling.

It was better than him silently swinging his sword until his palms burst open, without so much as a grin.

To wield a cursed sword and experience pseudo-death—that was something Kreis himself couldn’t even dream of attempting.

‘But the squad leader might be able to handle it.’

That thought crossed his mind. It was a mix of intuition and keen perception. Krais saw the essence of it.

As long as there was the joy of growth, Enkrid could transform the pain of death into the drive of effort.

And so, he delved deeper. Into the sword and himself. Into swordsmanship.

A sword was a tool for killing people.

Swordsmanship was a method for killing others.

“Footwork, posture, stance—everything is for the next move. Think.”

Enkrid swung his sword again, adding to the repeated thoughts sparked by Luagarne’s words.

To encounter an exceptional textbook, he relentlessly grasped the cursed sword inhabited by a malevolent spirit. There were times he loosened his grip and then immediately tightened it again, even right after dying.

As the cycle passed hundreds of times, the spirit began to hesitate.

Was it real? Did I see that right?

Enkrid wondered. The spirit, which would usually charge at him instantly, now hesitated instead of swinging its sword.

For Enkrid, this hesitation was the last thing he wanted to see.

“Let’s not do that. Let’s both do our best in our respective roles,” he said earnestly.

By “respective roles,” he meant the spirit should keep stabbing into the mind of the one holding the sword, unrelenting in its torment. Hesitation was utterly unwelcome.

With his sincere plea, the spirit resumed its duty.

It attacked. They clashed. Enkrid honed his swordsmanship, learned from it, memorized it, internalized it, pondered over it, and reviewed every move. Then he gripped the sword again, repeating the cycle.

Once you knew how to move your body properly and could manifest what you imagined with precision, all that remained was to understand the movements.

Thus, by memorizing an entire set of swordsmanship techniques and hearing Luagarne’s thorough interpretations of each move, mastering them became surprisingly straightforward.

The creator of the cursed sword, who had bound a spirit within it, would likely have grabbed Enkrid by the collar if they saw this happening. But such is the way of the world—things rarely unfold as planned.

“Well done,” said Luagarne.

Before them lay the spirit, its chest slashed open and its neck severed. Blue light flickered weakly between shards of metal, as if it were trying to speak.

Enkrid silently watched the spirit.

Eventually, the spirit within the sword spoke.

“Thank you.”

Thank you? What was there to be thankful for?

The spirit shared its story—a fairly long one.

“Keep it short,” Enkrid interrupted, not particularly interested in listening.

The spirit faltered, its blue light dimming further. Forced to condense its tale, it spoke briefly and bluntly.

“I was trapped unjustly. And my swordsmanship was never complete; it was only half of what it should have been. Finding the missing half was my lifelong wish.”

For a mere swordsman to become a spirit bound to a blade required more than just enchantments and spells. It demanded a deep, unfulfilled desire—the kind that could anchor a soul to this world as a vengeful spirit.

The spirit’s desire bore similarities to Enkrid’s.

One had dreamed of becoming a knight.
The other had wished to restore their family’s lost swordsmanship.

In their intensity, both aspirations mirrored each other.

Enkrid nodded. If the opportunity arose, he would help. That’s all the nod meant. He was busy enough chasing his own dream and couldn’t carry the weight of someone else’s on his shoulders.

As the blue light flickered one last time and faded, a faint human figure appeared and spoke.

“And let’s never meet again.”

The spirit had had enough. It was sick of this. The last thing it wanted was to see someone like Enkrid ever again. It was genuine.

Naturally, the two wouldn’t cross paths again.

One would depart, freed from its cursed existence.

The other would remain in this world.

The spirit, which had now moved on, found this arrangement quite satisfying.

“Really, let’s never meet again,” it repeated for emphasis.

Enkrid tilted his head in puzzlement. Why such words, when it had been the spirit tormenting him all along?

“My family’s name is…” the spirit began to say.

Enkrid couldn’t catch the spirit’s final words. Its energy dissipated, and everything around him began to crumble. Beyond the collapsing world, familiar faces appeared. Thus, leaving the mental realm, the cursed spirit bound to the sword disappeared.

“We’ve won,” Luagarne’s voice called out. This was reality. Enkrid nodded in response.

“Was it dangerous?” Luagarne asked again.

Enkrid shook his head. It hadn’t been dangerous. Inside that space, nothing remained but swordsmanship.

It was a battle of strategy, not one won by brute force but by defeating the opponent through pure technique.

He had likely gripped the sword over a hundred times, though he hadn’t bothered to count. In terms of time, it had taken just over a full day.

The gray veil dissolved silently. As it vanished, Esther raised her head and glared at Enkrid.

Yes, she glared—intently.

Esther was stunned. How had he done it?

Defeating a spirit through divine or magical means was one thing, but purging it by sheer physical effort and willpower was something else entirely.

“Even for the most skilled sorcerer, the latter is nearly impossible,” she thought.

Currently in the form of a panther, Esther had once been a powerful mage and witch steeped in the magical arts. From her perspective, what Enkrid had achieved defied logic.

“How can someone do such a thing?”

The reality was that the spirit had been purified through relentless, near-death-level exertion of swordsmanship, combined with the spirit’s own act of sharing its unfulfilled dream. But Esther had no way of knowing this.

She blinked repeatedly in astonishment, and Enkrid noticed.

“What’s wrong? Hungry?” he asked, waving a hand dismissively.

Esther, feeling a mix of irritation and disbelief, let out a small snort and lay back down. She decided to chalk it up to coincidence. There was no sense in overanalyzing something with no clear answers.

Enkrid, for his part, admired Esther.

“For a panther, she really does have an expressive range of emotions,” he thought. It was entertaining to watch.

Even now, her surprised eyes had prompted his question about hunger, and her subsequent expression of what seemed like disdain was almost amusing.

With a faint smile, Enkrid sat down. His legs didn’t tremble, but after a day spent tirelessly swinging his sword and undergoing repeated near-death experiences, he felt the weight of exhaustion.

To say he wasn’t fatigued would’ve been a lie.

Still, it wasn’t so bad.

“Krais was right after all,” he thought.

He’d once joked about picking up stray coins, but this time, what Enkrid had picked up felt more like gold than copper.

He had learned new swordsmanship. How much had it advanced him?

It was hard to say. The measure depended on the standard. Still, it wasn’t arrogance he felt—just a small, budding sense of confidence.

“The soldier ranking system in Naurilia is meaningless,” he mused.

Ultimately, what he needed was Rem. Testing himself against his axe, perhaps earning a scratch or two on his cheek, seemed like a promising next goal.

It felt like a refreshing target.

“Let’s sleep, then head out,” he said.

Enkrid spoke. It seemed like a good idea to stay for the night. The gray veil was gone, and there was no immediate danger. There weren’t even any bothersome insects around. The place was cool but not damp—perfect for a night’s rest.

And so, the group decided to settle down for the night.

As Enkrid lay down, he dreamed. In his dream, the cursed spirit appeared once more.

“Let’s have another match,” it said.

Enkrid nodded, and again, he won with ease.

Swordsmanship begins with understanding the movements, but what happens when every single move has been memorized? If the opponent only repeats predictable patterns, there’s no reason to lose.

Beyond that, a bit of understanding had also been added.

The reason for stepping the left foot outward was to prepare for a thrust after cleaving the opponent’s crown.

Adjusting the wrist to match dozens of possible evasive or blocking maneuvers turned a basic movement into an unpredictable strike.

One fundamental technique led seamlessly into another, forming a continuous flow. This was swordsmanship.

As he reflected on this anew, the dream began to tear apart. From the void, a ghostly ferryman suddenly appeared.

The ferryman said nothing, expressing no intent.

Still, it seemed bitter.

“Using my curse for something else?”

That’s what its presence seemed to suggest.

Enkrid lightly rested a hand on his right hip and offered a salute, silently conveying an apology.

When he opened his eyes, he was back inside the cave.

It had been a meaningless dream.

“You sleep so peacefully,” Luagarne remarked upon his waking.

“You didn’t sleep?” Enkrid asked.

“I did.”

Luagarne, staring at him blankly, suddenly asked, “You really intend to become a knight, don’t you?”

There was no need to elaborate. Enkrid nodded, and Luagarne replied simply, “I see.”

Then, in a tone both casual and meaningful, she added, “It doesn’t have to be in this country, does it?”

Her words lingered in the air. Though they seemed to beg further inquiry, Luagarne turned away, signaling she had no interest in continuing the conversation.

Her statement hadn’t been a question but rather advice. Enkrid understood this and chose not to press further.

“This country,” he mused.

As a child, he hadn’t grasped the concept of nations.

As an adult, he had come to understand that knights bound by oaths of loyalty didn’t align with the ideal he had once imagined.

So, was there another path?

It wasn’t a question he needed to answer yet.

“When the time comes, I’ll decide then,” he thought.

As long as he followed his heart and treaded the right path, that would be enough.

That was how he had lived so far—whether one called it conviction or stubbornness, it was his way.

“Let’s move out,” Enkrid said, just as a voice cried out.

“Hey!” Krais’s startled exclamation rang out.

“There’s a hidden box under the chest!” Krais looked up, meeting Enkrid’s eyes with excitement.

Whatever Dolph’s intentions had been, it was clear the man enjoyed toying with people.

After diverting attention with an empty chest and a letter, then locking them in a dungeon with a cursed sword, he’d planted a hidden treasure only for those sharp-eyed enough to find it.

“Ancient gold coins!”

The find was significant. These were artifacts from an era long before the standardized imperial currency of krona.

For over a century, the empire’s gold, silver, and copper coins had been the standard. Naturally, “krona” referred to imperial currency.

But these coins hailed from a time predating that era—somewhere between history and legend.

While not priceless, their value depended on the buyer. With the right collector, they could fetch up to ten times their weight in modern gold.

There were over ten of these coins.

Each coin was the size of a palm, making them far from small. The pouch they filled was satisfyingly heavy.

“Divide them,” Enkrid said.

Enkrid spoke firmly. Krais looked dismayed but eventually nodded.

Even after Luagarne refused to take her share, Enkrid insisted, pressing the coins into her hands.

“You’re taking that, right?” Krais asked as though it was the most obvious thing in the world.

It was clear he was talking about the sword planted in the ground.

Before Krais even finished speaking, Enkrid was already standing before the sword again.

The cursed swordsman’s spirit had been freed, leaving this world for the realm beyond.

So, what remained?

“That’s obviously worth a fortune,” Krais said.

Enkrid grasped the sword with one hand and pulled it free in one smooth motion. His strength bordered on the superhuman, perhaps bolstered by the frequent use of Giant’s Heart. He felt stronger than ever.

The sword, though filthy, still pulsed with a faint vitality. The blade would need sharpening, but it seemed salvageable.

After giving it a few practice swings, he noted the balance was decent enough, though the hilt and pommel would require significant work.

“You’re not selling it, right?” Krais asked hopefully.

“No, I’m keeping it,” Enkrid replied. Both of his swords were in poor condition, so this find was fortuitous.

With their loot packed and ready, the group finally began their return journey.

The roads were eerily quiet. Neither monsters nor beasts were in sight, likely due to the lingering effects of the large colony they had just escaped. Even common bandits were nowhere to be found.

Finn, demonstrating remarkable recovery, occasionally challenged Enkrid to spar during their travels. Unable to fight seriously, they slowed their movements to practice strategy.

Enkrid, now far more seasoned after his swordsmanship trials, never lost to Finn.

Eventually, Luagarne announced her departure.

“Well then, I’m off,” she said.

“See you around,” Enkrid replied plainly.

Krais waved, and Finn gave her a curt nod.

Esther barely acknowledged her departure. Luagarne, equally unbothered, turned and left without hesitation.

Watching the lone Frog fade into the distance, Enkrid, too, quickly put any sentiment aside and turned his attention forward.

“She vanished quickly,”Krais commented.

“Well, it’s strange she stayed with us for so long in the first place,” Enkrid replied.

Krais thought otherwise but kept his thoughts short and blunt: “The Captain.”

“That nickname again.”

It was the most irritating title to hear, reminiscent of the “Captain of Charm” or some such nonsense.

“Captain of Charm,” Krais teased again, his smirk widening.

Enkrid didn’t let it slide this time.

“This is an Eilkaraz wrist-lock. You should learn it—it’s useful.”

With that, Enkrid expertly twisted Krais’s wrist.

“Aughhh!” Krais’s scream echoed across the summer sky.

Thus, without further incident, the group returned to Border Guard City.

***

Upon their return, the higher-ups, specifically those in the Cult’s Sacred Land who had dispatched the priest, were baffled.

“They failed?”

The speaker was a bishop responsible for overseeing the diocese—a strikingly handsome man with golden eyebrows and a sharp gaze.

Clad in a white robe adorned with golden embroidery, his appearance was as impeccable as his demeanor.

His expression turned incredulous as he repeated the report.

“Was it knights?”

“No.”

“What? A platoon Leader? A leopard?”

The explanation left him even more astonished.