Eternally Regressing Knight

The difference was clear.

One side spoke of skill, form, and meaning.
The other demonstrated how to overwhelm with superior strength.

If one focused on swordsmanship, the other was a mass of raw instinct.

Both were crucial, and both were necessary.

It wasn’t as if Ragna avoided instinctive moves.
Nor was it as if Rem ignored the structure of swordsmanship.

“Their traits were simply distinct.”

Thus, there was much to learn.

Moreover, there was a commonality between the two.

Be it swordsmanship, instincts, footwork, attacks, or defense:

“Precision.”

It was like threading a needle with intricate detail or using a fork to precisely pierce grains of millet.

Their shared trait was the remarkable precision in their stances, touches, and steps, even while fighting.

“Damn these guys.”

The shadow of defeat had long since settled in. The halberd-wielding rogue’s complexion was dark with despair.

His muttering voice was drained of energy, as if he already sensed his death approaching.

He had felt the stark difference in skill. It was the same for the five fighting Rem.

Two of them had their swords broken and had to draw short swords. Another, who had tried to throw daggers in an opening, ended up with one of his own daggers embedded between his eyes, dying instantly.

The one who died collapsed, his limbs twitching at first but growing cold as time passed.

Among the four remaining attackers, one had his arm severed.

These results came even though the attacks were intentionally held back to demonstrate to Enkrid.

Meanwhile, the female rogue who had been attempting to shoot arrows from the trees with a knife still embedded in her thigh kept hesitating whenever she felt Enkrid’s gaze.

Finding her distracting, Enkrid hurled another knife, this time piercing her forearm.

“I can’t focus on observing those two when I keep getting distracted.”

“Urgh…”

The rogue groaned atop the tree.

The halberd-wielding rogue, with blood vessels bursting in his eyes, rushed in, tears of blood streaming down his face. In his final moments, he threw his spear, intending to grab Ragna in a desperate embrace.

Ragna responded by abandoning the precise longsword techniques he had shown earlier and instead displaying his true specialty.

The blade of his arming sword gleamed like a flash of light, slicing through the rogue’s body at an angle—a mid-sword-style downward slash.

The balance of strength and technique turned the man’s body into a pile of straw, cut cleanly apart.

In an instant, Ragna shifted to the side, punching a female rogue wielding a rapier in the face.

Smack!

“Urgh!”

Her teeth flew into the air.

As she recoiled, clutching her face, Ragna followed up with a horizontal slash.

Slice!

Her severed head flew through the air.

Ragna didn’t stop there.

Switching from the swordsmanship forms he had shown earlier, he fought as if trading places with Rem—using rough but precise, and precise yet powerful mid-sword techniques.

“Yah!”

A female rogue with tanned skin, easily mistaken for a man, lunged forward with a spear.

Ragna sidestepped it. His movements read the spear’s trajectory and speed with such clarity that they seemed effortless.

Dodging the spear’s path, he stepped forward boldly and followed with an overhead slash.

The mid-sword-style chopping strike landed on her head.

Thud!

Her skull shattered like an overripe fruit.

That was the end.

He killed them all.

Afterward, Ragna calmly flicked the blood off his sword and turned his head.

Of course, his gaze fell on Enkrid.

“Did you see that?”

Though unspoken, the words resonated clearly.

Enkrid nodded.

Precision, the meaning of swordsmanship, and the strength that form provides.

It was a guidepost, a direction to move toward.

And Enkrid was pleased by that realization—especially knowing Ragna’s actions didn’t mark the end.

“Why’d you finish first!?”

For reasons unknown, Rem suddenly exploded in anger, swinging his axe furiously.

After hammering down on his opponents with brute force several times, forcing them into complete defense, one of them darted his eyes nervously.

He clearly had a plan.

Rem, noticing the shift, abandoned his forceful approach and began swinging his axe more methodically.

“Footwork, gestures, posture…”

Then came the descending axe strike.

It wasn’t meant to claim his opponent’s life.

Enkrid noticed, but the rogues did not.

The trident-wielding rogue raised his weapon to block the axe.

Meanwhile, another rogue spun to the side, opening his mouth.

“Pfft!”

It was a spray of poisoned sand, stored in his mouth for a critical moment.

It was likely a last resort, but Rem was prepared, stepping back as if it was part of a planned sequence.

“Damn it.”

The rogue with blue-tinged lips muttered a lament-like groan.

Rem smirked.

“You’re so obvious, you bastard.”

With that, his axe danced, severing the rogue’s neck.

One of the rogues suddenly stabbed the throat of his legless comrade and cried out:

“Please spare me! I’ll tell you everything!”

A rather pathetic end to the scene.

“Really? Great. So you’re willing to endure anything, huh?”

Didn’t he just claim he’d say anything?

Rem had a peculiar trait—his ears heard what he wanted to hear.

“Eh? What?”

“Where should we start? Your hands? Your feet?”

“…Huh?”

“I’m going to mince you. Piece by piece.”

With his axe in hand, Rem gestured with his thumb and forefinger, showing a small gap.

“…Huh?”

The rogue clearly didn’t understand.

Still grinning, Rem swung his axe. Whack. Thud. A head flew off, and a body crumpled to the ground.

“Kidding. I don’t have such twisted tastes.”

It seemed like he might, though. Possibly could.

Enkrid thought as much as he glanced at Rem, who was already turning to speak.

“Did you watch closely?”

That single question revealed his entire intent.

Both Ragna and Rem had slowed down their fights to put on a show—for their leader to see.

“These two…”

How far could they truly go if they unleashed everything?

Every time it seemed like he’d caught up, they’d already moved far ahead.

At first, Enkrid had thought of them as just high-ranking soldiers.
Then, when he reached the level of a high-ranking soldier himself, he realized they were far beyond any soldier ranking system.
As he reached the elite level and stepped toward his dreams:

“Capable of killing a knight’s squire.”

In other words, their combat prowess was at least on par with a sub-knight.

Rem himself had once said he couldn’t kill every opponent, one out of one hundred.

But who could believe that? When Rem spoke, it felt as if he meant that with the right means, he could kill them—without fail.

It wasn’t arrogance or conceit. It was a demeanor born from a clear-eyed grasp of reality.

Ragna was the same.

Audin and Jaxen, too, carried a similar air.

The four of them were monsters.

Enkrid marveled at his own fortune.

“Four monsters.”

Four teachers.

Four times the things to learn.

Wasn’t this truly the best?

“Hmm.”

While Enkrid nodded in quiet admiration, Dunbakel—who had been watching the fight—stood frozen, her mouth agape.

Drip.

Saliva trickled from her lips to the ground.

She was so stunned she didn’t even realize her mouth was open.

“The Black Blade’s Ten.”

A group of ten that could handle almost anything. They were considered the highest combat force under their branch head.

Their opponents had been from that group.

One rogue, the halberd wielder, had transitioned from being a mercenary. Back in his mercenary days, he was a renowned figure, bragging that he could face anyone below a sub-knight. His fame grew after surviving a clash with an actual squire of the knighthood.

And yet, he was toyed with.

Dunbakel, whose eyes were sharp, could see it. Ragna’s skill wasn’t just exceptional—it was overwhelming.

No, it wasn’t just skill. He had played with them.

She suddenly realized she couldn’t measure their abilities by her own standards.

As Dunbakel stood in shock, Rem spoke.

“Close your mouth. You’re stinking up the place.”

Startled, Dunbakel finally closed her mouth.

Meanwhile, Enkrid approached the female rogue who had wounds in her thigh and forearm.

The female rogue squirmed beneath a tree like a worm and stammered:

“I-I’m useful! Please spare me, I’ll… I’ll do anything! It’s true!”

For someone of her massive build, it was almost laughable.

Perhaps the term “female rogue” conjured images of a charming, feminine figure.

If so, anyone thinking that would need their head examined.

This woman fit the definition of “rogue” perfectly:
blackened front teeth, one missing altogether; skin rough enough to be menacing; and eyes reeking of bloodlust.

Her stench was rancid—days without bathing left a sour odor mixed with the acrid smell of urine.

The woman, who had wet herself, looked up at Enkrid.

What could be seen in her eyes? A plea for life? Or perhaps the primal instinct to survive?

Not long ago, Enkrid had spared Dunbakel after seeing something in her gaze.

He neither regretted nor dwelled on that decision—it was something he acted on simply because his heart compelled him. Dunbakel’s eyes then had shown no trace of malice.

And now?

Thunk.

Enkrid drove his sword clean through the female rogue’s throat.

A plea for life was no different from a plea for treatment.

Her injuries were already severe. Only immediate healing and prolonged care could have saved her.

The dagger wounds in her thigh and arm weren’t random—they were calculated, intended to immobilize by severing critical muscles.

Her request to be spared might as well have been: “Fetch me a high priest immediately” or “Take me with you, heal me, and cherish me.”

But she was a rogue. The group might have a grand name like Black Blade, but what kind of notable organization could they really belong to?

Certainly not.

Originally, this band of thieves went by names like Red Blade or Bloody Blade. Over time, their group caused so much trouble that people started calling them Black Blade—their blood had turned black from long-standing malice.

Any rogue serving as their core force, regardless of gender, would undoubtedly be a wretched scoundrel.

While Enkrid trusted his instincts to some extent, survival in a world filled with war, monsters, and thieves left little room for hesitation.

Killing was a natural part of life, especially for someone like Enkrid, steadily advancing toward the title of knight—a term sometimes derided as “killing machines.”

Enkrid had no qualms about such a label.

Pulling his sword free from the rogue’s lifeless body, he turned away without a second thought or shred of remorse.

“Is that it, then?”

Rem’s question cut through the silence. His earlier ferocity had subsided, likely because he’d worked out some of his pent-up tension.

Enkrid, too, had noticed how unusually aggressive Rem had been lately, though he didn’t bring it up. Instead, he responded to Rem’s query.

“Their base is probably in total chaos by now.”

“What else could be happening there?”

Rem tilted his head in curiosity, while Ragna chimed in with his own question.

Enkrid wasn’t slow to catch on. He had pieced things together before Krais had even explained.

How could he not?

Even before they’d left, there was an air of unease within the barracks. It was subtle but undeniable.

While most ignored it, someone as sharp as Vengeance had picked up on it.

“Doesn’t something feel off lately? Like there’s something going on?” he had asked.

Enkrid had felt it too and understood the root of that unease.

“They’re not coming back.”

One of the units he sparred with occasionally—the Border Defense Force—had been conspicuously absent.

Despite their official title, the Border Defense Force wasn’t a mere guard unit. They were a combat-oriented force often deployed for special operations.

Their leader, though formally ranked as a company commander, was practically second only to Battalion Commander Marcus in authority.

From there, Krais’s calculated deductions painted the picture.

“Marcus is bold,” Krais remarked.

When he started referring to the battalion commander as an equal, no one knew.

“It seems to me he’s clearing out Black Blade entirely while ensuring attention stays elsewhere.”

Krais shot Enkrid a knowing look. The bait for distraction was evident.

“He’s hitting them from behind. Brilliant strategy, really. The man’s a tactician.”

It was no surprise that Black Blade’s headquarters was in for far worse than their outpost.

And as it turned out, Enkrid’s gut instincts and Krais’s foresight were spot on.

“Do you think you’ll survive after opposing Black Blade?”

The branch leader, choking on blood, spat the words as scarlet dripped down his chin. His body felt as though it was burning—not just figuratively, but physically, as his damaged organs writhed in agony.

“I couldn’t care less.”

The Border Defense Force captain replied coolly, idly spinning a dagger in his hand. The blade gleamed ominously in the torchlight, its edge sharp enough to elicit unease.

He wasn’t one to approach recklessly, especially against someone who might have tricks up their sleeve.

“Cursed kingdom dogs,” the branch leader growled bitterly.

Perhaps he had his reasons, but they didn’t matter.

The captain’s dagger sliced through the air.

Thunk!

The blade struck the branch leader square in the forehead, sending him collapsing backward with a dull thud.

“Take everything and burn the place down,” the captain ordered.

While Enkrid fought his way toward the ambush site, the Border Defense Force made their move under cover of darkness.

The Black Blade headquarters was nestled on a mountainside. Its defenses were sturdy, designed to repel both monsters and intruders. But without adequate manpower, even the best fortifications could only do so much.

Most of Black Blade’s elite—the Ten Blades—were absent.

“What about the escapees?”

“They know the area too well. We lost them.”

“Unfortunate.”

As the captain explored the hidden paths and treasure-filled caves behind the mountain stronghold, over twenty rogues managed to flee.

Among them was a particularly skilled individual who wasted no time retreating.

If it was on their leader’s command, it was clear this was no ordinary band of thieves.

Regardless, the captain focused on their victory, unwilling to dwell on what had slipped away.

One of the fleeing rogues was a liaison from headquarters.

“An attack. This branch is done for.”

He racked his brain, searching for the best course of action.

“The Black Blade’s Ten.”

The chain of command in headquarters mirrored the branch structure. The branch leader had dispatched their ten elites for an ambush, determined to ensure success.

Ironically, that decision had left the headquarters vulnerable.

As the rogue fled the burning stronghold with over twenty others in tow, their destination was clear: the ambush site, where the Black Blade Ten awaited.

Breathing heavily, the group pushed through a concealed forest path, their escape route a narrow, rugged trail.

But when they arrived at the ambush site, what they saw froze them in place.

“This’ll be useful.”

Figures rifled through the corpses of their fallen comrades.

A man with black hair, another with gray, and a third with golden locks stood among the dead.

“Dunbakel?”

The rogue recognized one of them—a beastfolk mercenary they had once hired.

Rem, noticing the commotion and grinned.

“Boss, we’ve got a delivery.”

He called out cheerfully to his leader.