Eternally Regressing Knight

It’s a common saying among the people of the continent when speaking of Easterners:
“They’re tough, unyielding, and stubborn to the core.”
Hans was one of those Easterners.
And those among them who remained in Martai shared a certain mindset:
“Let’s see how good you really are.”
This meant they bore resentment against the current lord of Martai. Hans was no exception.
“Stopping the colony? Damn, isn’t this whole thing rigged?”
Hans, with his deep experience in dice games, let his imagination run wild.
Dice games, when tampered with, become games where only the same people win, don’t they?
Back in the day, whenever Martai faced a threat, it was common to request support from the Eastern Mercenary King.
But after losing a battle, the lord was killed. A new commander took over, and since then, the domain had fallen under the Border Guard’s control.
Soon after, a major crisis hit the domain, and a handful of soldiers from the Border Guard supposedly defeated it.
“Damn, nothing about this sits right.”
To Hans, the whole situation was as irritating as a dog’s anatomy.
If monsters could be driven off by just a few soldiers, then how dangerous could they have been in the first place?
Hans had not witnessed Enkrid’s battles.
While others fought on the battlefield, he was drinking and sleeping, treating the domain’s safety as separate from his own.
A divide had emerged—subtly yet clearly—between the Easterners and the Continentals.
Even so, those in the know understood what had truly happened. But Hans? He only heard what he wanted to hear.
A textbook fool.
His job was to lend out his fists and collect meager silver coins in return.
“If it were me out there fighting,” he thought,
“Wouldn’t I have no trouble handling a few ghouls? And that so-called dog-headed beasts? Isn’t it just a mutt with a human face? One thrust of a spear and it’s over.”
Easterners, after all, were known for taking down lions with just a sword.
The Mercenary King himself had done so at 18, killing a man-eating lion on the Eastern plains—his first legendary feat.
“Must’ve been using some sort of artifact or tricks,” muttered one of Hans’ drinking buddies, nudging him on.
The man handed Hans a glass of wine.
Hans took a sip.
The sweet taste was almost like honey, warm and fiery. The slight dizziness quickly passed, but he clenched his jaw, unwilling to appear intoxicated.
“Not bad, sweet but light,” Hans remarked.
“Good, isn’t it? It’s a fresh batch,” replied the friend, grinning.
Unaware of the subtle change in Hans’ movements, the conversation shifted to insults.
“They say that guy’s got nothing but a pretty face. Women fall for him left and right.”
Hans’ blood boiled at the mention of Leni, the tavern keeper’s daughter—someone he fancied.
When Hans overheard that the so-called “Charming Commander” and his group were at her tavern, he decided it was time to act.
“That bastard’s getting beaten today.”
Fuelled by liquid courage and wounded pride, Hans stormed into the tavern.
The moment he saw Enkrid, his rage grew.
What noble soldier looked like that?
And then there was Leni, her eyes fixed on Enkrid, barely glancing away.
Hans stood abruptly, his chair screeching and toppling over with a loud crash.
Enkrid observed the scene with quiet amusement.
“So this is trouble?”
He exchanged a glance with Rem, who raised an eyebrow.
Rem’s gaze then swept across their group—Audin, Dunbakel, and Teresa.
Anyone with a shred of common sense would think twice before picking a fight with this group.
And yet, here was this man, fists clenched, reeking of bravado.
Enkrid internally sighed.
“What kind of idiot is this?”
With a flicker of his heightened senses, Enkrid assessed Hans.
It was clear the man had some training. His body showed signs of regular exertion, his muscles were decently developed, and there were habits in the way he placed his hands and shifted his feet when moving. Even the sequence of his motions when he shoved his chair back and stood up hinted at experience.
After assessing everything, Enkrid subtly extended his left hand forward while sliding his right foot back.
Anyone observant would recognize the intent behind Enkrid’s stance. However, his opponent showed no sign of comprehension—not even a flicker.
Absolutely nothing.
“Hey, don’t you think you’re acting a little too high and mighty in someone else’s territory?” the man snarled.
“Should I kill him?” Dunbakel asked casually. Enkrid suddenly recalled the lord’s instructions: go easy.
“I’ll take care of it,” Enkrid said, rising to his feet. None of his companions paid much attention, but his opponent’s eyes turned bloodshot—alarmingly so. They were now heavily congested with rage.
Not that it mattered.
“You bastard!” the man bellowed, charging at Enkrid.
With fluidity and precision, Enkrid twisted his body sideways to evade the man’s punch, nudged his forearm, and lightly kicked his thigh. The entire sequence unfolded seamlessly, one movement blending into the next like a flowing stream.
Even Rem and the others couldn’t help but admire the execution.
It was a practical adaptation of Valah-style technique, utilizing its principles in a physical form—a skill Enkrid had recently become enamored with.
The assailant stumbled forward, nearly slamming his head into a table. Yet Enkrid, rather than letting him crash, caught the back of his neck and hoisted him upright.
Bewildered, the man looked around, struggling to comprehend how things had escalated so quickly.
Enkrid shoved him away, and the man staggered to his feet, seething with rage.
“What… what the hell just happened?” he muttered, his anger intensifying further.
Unable to restrain himself, the man reached for the knife at his waist.
“If you draw that, you’re dead,” Rem muttered, nonchalantly chewing on a piece of rusk. The sugar dusted around his lips made his warning oddly comical.
But the words didn’t register with the man. All he could focus on was his overwhelming need to stab the smug bastard in front of him.
By now, the rational part of his brain had completely shut down, and his fury spiraled out of control.
Enkrid noticed something strange about his opponent’s behavior. As he considered whether to break a limb or two to put an end to this, a sharp snap echoed through the air.
The man collapsed, knife still clutched in his hand, his eyes rolling back as he crumpled to the ground.
Standing behind him, Jaxen grabbed the man’s limp body, flipped him over, and sniffed his open mouth.
“What are you doing? Got some weird fetish?” Rem quipped.
Ignoring the remark, Jaxen turned to Enkrid. “Someone drugged him,” he stated flatly.
“Drugged?”
Jaxen elaborated, explaining that the man had been subjected to a concoction designed to impair judgment and induce a hypnotic state—something that could leave permanent damage if improperly administered.
A slow clap interrupted the conversation.
“Impressive,” a voice chimed. “To think you’d figure it out so quickly.”
The group turned to see a man approaching, his swagger accompanied by a jangling noise. He wore a leather water flask at his belt, two knives strapped to his right side, and a short sword that swung loosely from its scabbard on his left hip.
Just from the way he walked, it was clear—this man was no amateur.
Enkrid stared silently at the newcomer, scrutinizing him.
The man’s sharp, rat-like features twitched with a nervous smile as he greeted them. “Hello there.”
No one replied. Even Rem, who rarely stayed silent, crossed his arms and simply watched with mild disdain. The sugary remnants on his lips did little to diminish the intensity of his presence, as if he might swing his unwieldy war axe or the pike he’d confiscated from a centaur chieftain at any moment.
Enkrid could feel that Rem was poised for action.
This could end quickly.
“Who are you?” Jaxen finally broke the silence.
The man spread his hands theatrically, pretending to deliberate before answering.
“I’m here from Black Blade.”
The name drew immediate tension. Black Blade was a notorious band of thieves.
Enkrid’s arms hung loosely at his sides. Nothing good had ever come from dealings with them.
The man raised his hands defensively. “I’m not here to fight! I just came to deliver a message.”
The tavern’s staff and remaining patrons froze, watching nervously as the scene unfolded.
“Have you ever considered switching sides?” the man asked, a sly grin creeping across his face.
Enkrid’s brow furrowed. “So you’re asking to die?”
“Now, now,” the man stammered, “I’m here with the best intentions, I assure you! Black Blade doesn’t take no for an answer, you know. That little stunt with the drug? Consider it a small demonstration.”
The man gestured toward the unconscious Hans as if to punctuate his point.
“It’s a genuine offer—a great opportunity. Think it over,” he urged, his tone growing more desperate.
Enkrid’s gaze hardened. “So you’re really asking to die, huh?”
Behind him, Rem let out a snort of laughter, clearly enjoying the predictable exchange.
The man tried to maintain composure, though beads of sweat began forming on his brow. “Black Blade won’t give up. And Dunbakel—don’t you have some debts to settle?”
He glanced at the beast-woman, his words laced with veiled threat.
Dunbakel nodded calmly, her expression unreadable.
For the first time, the messenger faltered. “This lunatic’s gotten even crazier,” he thought grimly.
Sighing, he tried again. “Listen, this is a golden opportunity. Dunbakel’s issues could be overlooked, and we can give you anything you want—even a place in the knight’s order if that’s your ambition.”
Enkrid remained expressionless, though the implication was clear—Black Blade had done their homework.
The man’s smile turned sly. “Well? What do you say to that?”
The man asked with his eyes.
Enkrid spoke carefully.
“Do you want to die? Or not? Why won’t you answer the question?”
Pfft.
It wasn’t until Rem chuckled for the second time that the messenger’s expression changed.
These bastards… Should I really show them a taste?
He moved his fingers subtly, in a way hidden from view.
It was time for a few assassins on the roof to fall.
Silence followed.
Hmm? The man flicked his fingers a few more times, still keeping the motion hidden. Only then did something swoosh down from the roof.
“Kyah!”
A scream erupted from a waitress who witnessed it.
Thud! Thud!
Two corpses.
Their necks had been pierced. Standing near them, a man with auburn hair spoke.
“Seems like that’s all your tricks.”
Ah, damn it. What the hell is this?
Everyone gets their turn, but how can top-class assassins be found and taken out so easily?
The messenger’s face darkened further.
“If you kill me, the Black Blade will…”
Whoosh, thud! Swoop, crack! Bang!
“Kyahhhh!”
The messenger reached for a smoke bomb at his waist while speaking.
But before he could act, Rem threw his axe without even taking a breath.
His right hand moved so quickly it was barely visible. Enkrid’s enhanced senses caught every step of the process.
The unbalanced, flame-less axe soared through the air, showing off its blade as it embedded itself in the man’s head. The force sent the Black Blade member’s legs flying up, his body crashing backward into the tavern wall before crumpling to the floor.
That was all.
The Black Blade’s messenger was now a corpse.
Another scream erupted from the waitress, and Jaxen, unfazed, began rummaging through the man’s belongings with practiced ease.
Folded pieces of paper, a leather pouch, a smoke bomb, poison, a knife—those were the items he found.
Inside one neatly folded piece of paper was a strange powder.
It seemed to be a drug that could enchant people.
“Don’t be too alarmed. If you contact the garrison, they’ll come and clean this up,” Enkrid said while still standing. To him, it was no more than a fly interrupting their meal.
It was a commotion, sure, but nothing too serious.
What stood out was Rem’s skillful axe throw and Jaxen’s precise movements.
“Haha, seems like even the devil’s bandits are making moves, brother,” Audin quipped carelessly, and the group moved on.
Whatever schemes the Black Blade was plotting, their goal was to meet the dwarf.
After all, that was the original purpose.
The dwarf was sitting in a corner of the forge, eating wine, cheese, and bread.
Clang! Clang!
The sounds of metalwork and the heat seemed irrelevant as the dwarf dipped melted cheese with her fingers and licked them clean.
Apparently, news traveled fast within the territory. By the time they returned from exploring the market, word of Enkrid’s actions had already spread far and wide.
The dwarf looked around at the group and said, “You seem like you know how to fight.”
Her tone was cheeky. Enkrid studied her.
How old could she be?
Her kind often looked younger than they were, so it was possible she was older than him. But outwardly, she resembled a small girl of about fifteen.
Of course, she wasn’t just any girl. She was a muscular youth with a neck that appeared thicker than his.
Yet, her face was delicate and neat—she was rather pretty.
Krais wasn’t lying when he said she was beautiful.
Still, by conventional standards, it was hard to classify her as a true beauty.
“Do you think that’s pretty?” Rem muttered with a note of disdain.
The dwarf mumbled back, “I can hear you, grey-haired idiot.”
Her manner of speaking was fiery.
And Rem was, well, Rem.
The barbarian chuckled softly and asked Enkrid, “Thinking of getting a stuffed dwarf trophy? Looks like I just picked up a freshly dead one.”

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TL here! Thank you for reading!

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