Eternally Regressing Knight

Valen-style Mercenary Swordplay—Close Combat Technique.

Headbutt.

Enkrid was startled. No, surprised—but not enough to fall for such a blow. His path thus far had been far too arduous for that.

As his Sense of Evasion kicked in, his body moved on its own.

He tilted his head aside to avoid the attack and immediately swept his leg out.

With a sharp thud, his foot struck the white lion’s ankle, sending him tumbling forward.

Right where he fell, Enkrid’s blade whistled past.

Had the lion stayed in place, the sword would have surely left a mark somewhere on his body. Instead, his forward roll spared him.

The beastkin’s reaction speed and judgment were remarkable.

Enkrid, in turn, naturally increased his own pace.

Step after step, he closed the distance, his blade swinging faster, and his reactions sharpening.

The rhythm shifted entirely.

This was Enkrid’s most notable recent development—his ability to elevate his tempo mid-fight.

A diagonal slash, twice as swift as any he had delivered before, surged forth even from his twisted posture.

Dunbakel clenched his teeth tightly.

It was an angle from which escape seemed impossible.

The beastkin raised her elbow.

Crack! Thwack! Slash!

She aimed to parry the blade’s edge with the bone of her elbow. But her opponent, keenly aware, adjusted the sword’s angle.

What had been a downward blade quickly pivoted to a horizontal slash. As a result, Dunbakel’s elbow made contact not with the flat but the sharp edge.

Even so, the beastkin’s reflexes—unique to her kind—remained intact. Despite a portion of her elbow being cut, she managed to deflect the strike.

“You can do that?”

The voice was low, sharp, and precise.

Above all, it was close.

Dunbakel had assumed that transforming into her beast form would grant her the endurance to hold out longer.

How naive.

The sword was already descending toward her head.

To be honest, she couldn’t even comprehend how her opponent had closed the distance and swung so quickly.

She barely managed to block, barely managed to evade.

Pain surged through her as her arm muscles tore while she raised her scimitar to intercept.

Though she had resigned herself to death, she refused to perish as anything less than a warrior.

She wanted to meet her god—the god who dwelled in the sacred halls after death.

“Kriemhalt.”

Dunbakel murmured her god’s name.

The name of the deity all beastkin worshipped, the god of war and fertility, the sole divine figure in their belief.

To embrace Kriemhalt’s glory meant to die a warrior’s death.

If she perished as a warrior, she would become an eternal, indomitable force—Kriemhalt’s blade in the swirling chaos of eternity.

Clang! Crackle! Sparkle!

The scimitar clashed against the incoming blade, and sparks scattered as the weapons slid against one another.

For an instant, the red sparks seemed to illuminate the night like embers against the pale moonlight.

In that fleeting moment, Dunbakel made her move. She aimed for her opponent’s likely position using a Valen-style mercenary swordplay technique—a deceptive kick to the ankle.

The trick was in the diversion. While her gaze and weapon feigned an attack on her opponent, her real target was their balance.

It was a calculated move, but her opponent thwarted it with ease.

A simple shift of the foot.

The blade pivoted downward, meeting the kick with the sole of their boot.

And then the sword descended, this time aimed squarely at the nape of her neck.

The cold touch against her skin made Dunbakel think of the end.

“Will I be able to reach Kriemhalt’s side?”

As death loomed, stray thoughts intruded. Why wouldn’t they?

For someone who had lived trembling with resentment, regrets were bound to be abundant.

Abandoned by her village, discarded by the city, and shunned by her own kind—none had easily accepted her.

She had survived as an outcast, rejected by all.

Becoming a mercenary, proving herself through the blade, had seemed like the only path. But even that wasn’t simple.

The road she believed to be her salvation had been blocked.

Her inability to bear children had felt unfair.

Her very existence felt unfair.

“Why me?”

Why did only she have to endure such a life?

Her bitterness transformed into a desperate will to live.

Regrets clawed at her heels, while rage pounded in her chest.

Enkrid, with his blade pressed against her nape, hesitated.

It wasn’t compassion—it was something intuitive, primal.

A gut feeling told him that letting her live might be better than ending her.

To justify his instinct, he added a practical reason:

“We’ll need a mouthpiece to answer questions. Who sent her, what group she’s with…”

Initially, she had lunged as if begging to die. But now, with the sword at her neck, her body trembled.

Enkrid could see the white lion’s fur quivering.

Fear and frustration danced in her movements.

The beastkin pressed her palm against the ground, pulling her hind legs inward to crouch.

“That looks just like Esther when she’s exhausted.”

The thought struck him unexpectedly.

“Do you want to live?”

The sudden question made Dunbakel lift her head despite the blade still resting on her neck.

Had her eyes always been this blue?

Tears streamed down her faintly golden eyes.

“…Crying? Here?”

It was, naturally, the last thing he’d expected.

“Grrrr, grrrr…”

The beastkin sobbed. Whatever storm raged within her was hard to discern, but one thing seemed clear.

“She’s asking to be spared.”

He withdrew the sword. Almost immediately, a familiar voice pierced his ears.

“What? Not killing her? Yaaaawn.”

It was Rem, speaking while opening her mouth so wide it looked like her jaw might split. Her yawn was almost theatrical.

“When did you get here?”

“Are you crying?”

The question from Rem hung in the air, sharp yet laden with that casual sarcasm only he could deliver. His tone was light, almost playful, but it cut through the tension like a blade. Enkrid glanced at him, his usual stoic demeanor unshaken, though the subtle rise of his brow hinted at mild exasperation.

Dunbakel—this proud, feral creature—didn’t respond immediately. Her trembling frame seemed at odds with the overwhelming presence she exuded moments ago. The gleam of her golden-tinged blue eyes, now glistening with tears, held none of the fury that had propelled her relentless attacks. Instead, they spoke of exhaustion, regret, and something far deeper: the fragility beneath the beast.

Enkrid’s grip on his sword eased, the blade no longer an immediate threat. He hadn’t expected this, not from someone who charged so recklessly into battle. Yet, here she was—defeated, crouched, and vulnerable, weeping in silence.

“Answer him,” Enkrid said flatly, though not unkindly. His voice carried an undertone of curiosity. He wanted to understand.

Dunbakel’s lips parted, but no sound emerged at first. Her shoulders rose and fell with the rhythm of ragged breaths as she wrestled with the humiliation of her position. Finally, her voice, hoarse and trembling, broke through.

“…Do I look like I want to cry?” she growled, her pride flaring for a brief moment. But it was a weak defense, quickly betrayed by another tear streaking down her furred cheek.

“Yeah,” Rem interjected, deadpan. “You look exactly like that.”

Enkrid sighed, shaking his head. He wasn’t here to mock or taunt. The fight was over, and whatever had brought her to this point—her desperation, her fury, or her pain—it had run its course. He stepped back, lowering his sword completely, signaling that he had no intention of striking her down.

“You want to live, don’t you?” Enkrid asked again, his gaze steady.

Dunbakel’s ears twitched at the question. Her claws dug slightly into the ground as if bracing herself. Then, reluctantly, she nodded. It was a small, almost imperceptible motion, but it carried the weight of her surrender.

“Well, there’s your answer,” Rem said, yawning again. “She’s not just a crybaby. She’s a crybaby who doesn’t want to die.” His grin was infuriatingly smug.

Enkrid ignored him, keeping his focus on Dunbakel. He wasn’t certain yet if sparing her was the right choice, but something about her—her fight, her tears, and even her silence—told him she might be more valuable alive than dead.

“Stand up,” he said firmly. “You’re not going to die here.”

For a moment, it seemed she might not obey. Her pride was visibly at war with her survival instincts. But then, with a pained groan and trembling limbs, she rose, the aura of the fierce “white lion” still flickering faintly around her.

“Good,” Enkrid muttered. “Now, we talk.”

The sharp sound echoed through the night as Rem’s palm landed squarely on the back of the white lion’s head, cutting off her angry retort mid-sentence.

“Language,” Rem scolded, his voice a mix of mock authority and pure mischief. He wasn’t done tormenting her yet.

He crouched beside her, poking at her head with a finger before delivering another light slap to her already battered pride. “Stop crying, will you? He said he’s not going to kill you.”

It was as if he had no off switch for his antics. The others had gathered now, descending into the clearing as quietly as shadows. Audin, Jaxen, Ragna, and Krais stood at varying distances, each observing the strange spectacle.

“What’s all this racket about at this hour?” Krais asked, his tone carrying more curiosity than irritation.

“Was it noisy?” Enkrid replied with a mild frown.

Jaxen gestured vaguely toward the camp. “Esther called us over.” His tone was the usual monotone, but Enkrid sensed something different—a faint hint of admiration, perhaps?

“Why are you staring at me like that?” Jaxen asked.

“Did you see the fight?”

Jaxen nodded once, then fell silent. He had, in fact, seen it all, having arrived before even Rem. His sharp gaze had dissected every move, analyzing with the precision of a blade.

Elite recognizes elite.

Jaxen, usually reserved, couldn’t help but be impressed. Watching Enkrid fight was like witnessing a spell—an intricate dance of precision, instinct, and unrelenting force.

The others felt the same.

“What was that last move?” Ragna asked, her curiosity breaking through her usual calm.

“Mixed a little Valen mercenary swordplay with something new I picked up,” Enkrid replied.

Ragna’s expression turned thoughtful. “Did Frog teach you that?”

“Huh?” Enkrid blinked, caught off guard.

Luarne had urged him to learn a variety of techniques, but what he’d done earlier wasn’t something he’d been taught—it had simply happened. A natural, instinctive response to the moment.

As he replayed the sequence in his mind, Enkrid himself couldn’t fully explain why he had acted as he did. It had felt right, a necessary motion, dictated by the flow of battle.

The realization struck him: he had reached a level where his body and mind moved in perfect synchrony, even against a foe of considerable skill.

And yet…

“Not enough,” he muttered under his breath. The thirst for improvement gnawed at him.

Krais interrupted his thoughts. “So, where is she from?” he asked, nodding toward the defeated lioness.

While Enkrid deliberated, Rem was busy doing what Rem did best—being an insufferable pest. He leaned closer to the white lion, tapping her on the shoulder wound with infuriating precision.

“Does it hurt? No? Must be fine then,” he teased. “What’s the deal with your face, though? Did you eat curses instead of meat as a cub?”

The white lion growled low in her throat, a dangerous sound muffled by the residual tremor of earlier tears.

“First time seeing a lion cry,” Rem continued, grinning. “Want me to dig into that wound to help the tears flow better?”

He didn’t stop there, laughing as he added, “Come on, crybaby, show us more. Let it all out.”

Enkrid sighed, coming to a familiar realization. Rem really is the most obnoxious bastard alive.

If ever a battle needed a provocateur, Rem would be his first choice. But here, there was no strategy, no purpose—just his unrelenting knack for getting under someone’s skin.

The lioness finally snapped. Raising her tear-streaked face, fury burning in her watery blue eyes, she bared her teeth and growled, “You miserable little—!”

Her curse was cut short once again by the sharp crack of another slap to her head.

“Watch your tone,” Rem chided with a smirk, entirely unbothered by her rage.

The others exchanged glances, half-amused, half-exasperated. It was just another day for Rem.

Rem showed no mercy. Remaining seated, he shifted his left leg outward and swung his right elbow horizontally with practiced precision.

The rotation of his waist lent power to the strike, turning it into a textbook-perfect blow, the kind that would have earned admiration had the circumstances been less absurd.

“Impressive,” Audin muttered, unable to hide his appreciation.

The white lion, however, had no chance to admire the technique. The elbow slammed into the back of her head, sending her sprawling forward in a graceless roll.

“Urgh!” she groaned, the sound somewhere between a gasp and a whimper.

“Hey, can we talk this out?” Krais interjected, attempting to de-escalate the situation.

Enkrid nodded in agreement. If they didn’t step in, Rem might very well beat the poor mercenary to death.

“This cat, growling at me like that,” Rem grumbled, clearly still irked, but he raised his hands in mock surrender.

“Alright, alright. I was just saying hi, you know? A friendly tap, that’s all. Like waving. With my elbow.”

If that’s his idea of a greeting, two greetings would probably wipe out an entire squad.

“So,” Krais prompted, turning to the dazed lioness, “what’s your affiliation?”

Her will broken, pride shattered, and with no loyalty left to cling to, the lioness finally gave in. Survival was her only goal now.

“Black Blade,” she muttered.

“The mercenary band?” Krais asked, his expression darkening.

She nodded.

“Well, this is trouble,” Krais muttered, his usual composure wavering.

Enkrid remained silent, processing the information. It was sheer coincidence they’d intercepted this raid, but the implications were troubling.

Marcus, the Battalion Commander, had once asked him if he loved the city. Now, standing here, having just protected it against a dangerous foe, Enkrid felt a strange satisfaction. Yet, concern lingered in the back of his mind.

Too weak, he thought.

The city’s perimeter defenses were woefully inadequate. It wasn’t just that Enkrid’s standards had risen; the reality was that the guards couldn’t handle another assault of this caliber. Patrol units would be slaughtered before they could even mount a defense.

Worse, there had been infiltrators in soldier’s uniforms trying to open the gates. Spies in the city were nothing new, but this brazen act was a glaring issue.

As much as Enkrid wanted to act, there wasn’t much he could do immediately.

“Captain, we should file a report,” Krais said, breaking Enkrid’s thoughts.

Nearby, Rem interjected, “We’re really letting her live?”

“She stays alive,” Krais said hurriedly, clearly worried that Rem might take matters into his own hands.

Enkrid nodded. His gesture added weight to Krais’ words, and he gave a single, decisive order.

“Take her into custody.”

The lioness slumped in defeat. Her fate was no longer in her hands.

As the soldiers moved to restrain her, Enkrid noticed the gathered troops nearby. Among them, one figure stood out—a lieutenant with insignia on his shoulder.

The officer met Enkrid’s gaze, saluted crisply, and Enkrid responded by tapping the pommel of his sword against his palm, a simple gesture of acknowledgment.

“Thank you!” the lieutenant said earnestly.

“It’s fine,” Enkrid replied, turning away.

The lieutenant was visibly shaken, but gratitude glowed in his expression. He understood what had just transpired. Without Enkrid and his unorthodox unit, he and his men would likely have been slaughtered, leaving their families behind to mourn.

As Enkrid walked away, Krais sidled up to him.

“The Black Blade business stays quiet,” Krais whispered.

“Understood,” Enkrid replied, willing to accommodate for now.

“We’ll handle the report ourselves,” Krais continued, his voice steady but firm.

While the others began cleaning up the scene, Krais hovered near the corpses. Enkrid glanced back, curious.

“Something wrong?”

Krais straightened, his eyes gleaming with anticipation. “Looting rights belong to our unit, don’t you think?”

It was hard to argue with his logic. The spoils of battle rightfully belonged to those who fought.

The soldiers began recovering the equipment of the fallen raiders. Among their finds was a collection of high-quality weapons, though there was no trace of the infamous Krona pouches often carried by mercenaries.

Still, the weapons alone were a worthwhile haul, and Krais, true to form, wasn’t about to let such an opportunity slip through his fingers.