A Knight Who Eternally Regresses-Chapter 270: Not everything goes as planned (1)

The Black Blade bandits were large enough in scale to be called a small territorial state. Because of this, they were regarded as one of the biggest plagues and diseases afflicting Naurillia and its kingdom.

They were dangerous, without question.

A piece of cheese fell from the mouth of one of their executives. His shock was evident as he processed the words he had just heard. Picking up a linen napkin, he wiped his mouth haphazardly before speaking.

“All the assassins are dead?”

They sent Swiftblade, and he was eliminated.

They sent a mercenary company, and it was annihilated.

Afterward, the Black Blade executive emptied his coffers, gathering an elite group of assassins.

He had sent an entire squad composed of first-rate assassins.

And they had failed.

Bang!

The executive slammed his fist onto the table, roaring in frustration.

“Are you trying to throw the Black Blade’s reputation into the gutter?!”

So, you’re good at fighting, are you? Fine, let’s see how you handle this.

He had scoured their branch for every assassin available. Even the elite ones were summoned and sent.

It didn’t matter how skilled a warrior was—no one could survive a knife in the back. Especially not when it was coated in poison.

Over fifteen assassins, all of them proficient in the use of poison and blades, had been dispatched.

Even if they couldn’t kill their target outright, shouldn’t they at least have inflicted serious injuries?

“And he’s completely fine? What about our men?”

“They’re all dead,” came the reply.

“What about the observer we left behind?”

“Dead as well.”

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Had they not left someone behind to report from a distance, they wouldn’t even have this information.

“If I had gotten any closer, I would’ve been killed too,” the soldier stammered, kneeling on one knee. Sweat dripped from his face, pooling on the smooth stone floor beneath him. The drops darkened the light gray surface as they fell, one after another.

He couldn’t even look at Jaxon. All he could recall was the gruesome end of the observer who had been stationed closer to the assassins.

‘I didn’t even see what hit them.’

All he’d seen was his comrades thrashing in the air as if caught by something invisible, their lives extinguished in an instant.

He had fled immediately. Though he hadn’t sensed anything, the sight of death unfolding before his eyes had triggered his instincts.

If he hadn’t run, he would have died.

His instincts had screamed as much.

“What kind of monsters are they?” The executive’s voice was heavy with despair.

A lifetime’s worth of assassins, gone. They had existed, and now they didn’t. They were gone, wiped out, beyond recovery.

‘What kind of bastards are these?’

His mouth hung open in disbelief. Was this even possible? He turned to the soldier who had delivered the report.

The soldier bowed his head. He had nothing more to say. His report amounted to nothing more than stating the obvious: everyone was dead.

“What do we do now?” asked the attendant standing behind him.

“What do we do?” the executive echoed, bitterness lacing his tone. He mulled over the question as he stared at the subordinate dressed as an attendant.

‘Damn it.’

The situation was spiraling out of control.

If things went south, someone from below would rise to take his place. There were plenty of people who coveted his position.

Of course, they couldn’t replace him just yet. The operations he’d been running were too deeply intertwined with the organization’s activities.

‘Starting with the businesses.’

His position had been solidified for a reason. It was all thanks to the drugs he had distributed. There wasn’t a single noble in the kingdom who hadn’t been touched by them.

The profits from the drugs funded the Black Blade’s activities.

“We’ll request assistance from headquarters. Until then, we’ll let it be.”

He had no one left to send. Until reinforcements arrived from headquarters, they would have to bide their time.

“In the meantime, we’ll focus on the ‘burrow.’”

The coded language wasn’t lost on anyone present. As long as the “burrow” was intact, his foundation would remain secure. For now, he decided to set aside thoughts of Enkrid—or whatever demonic bastard he might be.

But he wouldn’t forget for long. His grudge would resurface soon enough.

He had no intention of letting this go.

“Where is he now?” he asked.

“He’s likely swinging his sword around somewhere in the territory,” replied the sharp-eyed attendant. The man was strikingly handsome, with a clean-shaven face that added to his composed demeanor.

His judgment was trustworthy. They had previously conducted a detailed investigation into Enkrid’s daily life.

‘Sword freak.’

The man was so obsessed with the sword that it was the only way to describe him.

Marcus had deliberately kept Enkrid and his group’s mission a secret. Not because he was scheming, but out of habit.

Marcus knew better than anyone the value of controlling information.

And Enkrid was someone easy to keep hidden. He was the type to spend days in the training grounds or barracks without stepping outside.

Of course, once enough time passed, his absence would be noticed. But within a week, no one would think twice about it.

Because of this, the Black Blade executive had no idea that Enkrid was already within his “burrow.”

Shinar entered the room, standing still as she focused her senses. Faint noises filtered through the walls from the adjacent room. She analyzed the sounds, assessing the situation and checking for prying eyes.

None.

Once she confirmed this, she raised her right index finger and made a small circular motion in the air. It was a signal only known to some members of the Pixie Company.

“This is the last stop, isn’t it?” Finn asked.

“It seems so,” replied the Pixie Company captain, reclining diagonally on the bed and stretching out her legs.

Her supple, toned muscles extended smoothly. She didn’t seem bothered by the cold, wearing only leather pants, which gave her unrestricted movement.

Her demeanor was entirely composed.

However, the small brazier in the room seemed to irritate her. As soon as she entered, she had pushed it to the side.

When asked why, she responded, “It might cause a fire.”

“Is it okay for us to just waste time here?” Finn asked again, adjusting the front of her armor. It was made of layers of hardened leather between fabric, but the leather was stiff and didn’t fit well, causing the front to keep coming undone.

Still, it was warm and sturdy.

Shinar answered without a hint of humor.

“This mission is important, too.”

“That’s true,” Finn agreed, pulling a chair to the window and leaning against it halfway. She inspected the view outside, mentally noting to oil the hinges for silence later.

After all, they’d need to move under the cover of night.

As a former ranger who had participated in various operations, Finn was adept at such tasks. Though, of course, she wasn’t quite at Jaxon’s level.

“Seven,” she murmured. It was the count of how many operations she, Shinar, and some of the Pixie Company members had undertaken so far.

***

Jaxon missed nothing.

He was meticulous to an almost obsessive degree.

Watching him, Enkrid felt like he was on the verge of grasping something. It was just out of reach, tantalizingly close yet elusive. While it might have been frustrating, Enkrid wasn’t impatient. In fact, he found it oddly fascinating.

When had he ever looked at something like this and felt a revelation coming?

This, too, was proof of his growth.

As Enkrid observed in silence, Jaxon spoke. This wasn’t Kraiss speaking through him anymore—this was pure Jaxon.

“Small things come together to create something big. Little streams converge into rivers, which flow into lakes and eventually the sea. That’s how it works.”

Though his words seemed abstract, Enkrid felt as though that unreachable thing had taken one step closer. It was no longer just a vague sensation; now, he could see a faint, blurry outline.

“Swordsmanship and training are all good, but a single small preparation can determine victory or defeat. And what if it’s a fight for your life?”

Enkrid had always lacked natural talent when it came to physical skills. Now that his deficiencies had been addressed to some extent, his sharp mind worked overtime, revisiting thoughts and processes, and piecing together new realizations.

Especially when it came to swordsmanship and combat.

In some ways, what Jaxon was saying aligned with Valen-style mercenary swordsmanship—a style Enkrid could now identify and classify.

For example, the nameless orthodox swordsmanship—referred to as the Standard Sword Technique—focused on layering and building up one’s movements.

Valen-style mercenary swordsmanship, however, was fundamentally different.

“That’s closer to personal tactics,” Enkrid thought.

– A fighter must use their head.

This phrase was written in the introductory text when Enkrid first learned Valen-style swordsmanship. While it had been helpful at the time, it was only now, with a renewed understanding, that he fully grasped its depth.

‘How many times has this saved my life since I learned it?’

His thoughts continued to flow, a series of small epiphanies connecting together.

This wouldn’t lead to a sudden, revolutionary change in his swordsmanship or some dramatic breakthrough. He instinctively knew that.

But the accumulation of his experiences and lessons had left something significant within him.

If an opponent wielded a long sword?

If their waist seemed bulky, as though they were hiding something?

If their weapon was like Swiftblade’s—a curved sword disguised as a belt?

By observing the angle of their sword belt, he could infer their habits.

And before engaging, he could take even a slightly more advantageous position or stance.

Everything was possible. Enkrid realized he could prepare for these things, that he could hone his personal tactics.

That blurry image solidified into something tangible.

A surge of joy, the exhilaration of growth, welled up within him. Yet, he didn’t drool or laugh out loud.

‘I’m not Rem, after all.’

Though, admittedly, Enkrid had been known to drool when overly focused, though he would never admit it.

“Shall we eat dinner?” Jaxon asked, snapping Enkrid out of his thoughts. Enkrid nodded in agreement.

The first floor of the inn doubled as a dining hall. As they sat down, Jaxon seamlessly slipped back into his role as Kraiss, while Shinar wordlessly performed the part of an elven bodyguard.

In truth, she didn’t need to act much. All she had to do was refrain from making her usual sarcastic comments.

“A fairy? My, my, what an extraordinary guest,” said the innkeeper, who personally brought out a stew and roasted pork. His gaze lingered on Shinar, awe written all over his face.

The innkeeper had seen Shinar’s face for the first time only after she entered the inn. When they first arrived at the village, she had kept her face hidden beneath her robe.

If not for that, every passerby would have undoubtedly stopped to stare.

Seeing the innkeeper’s reaction, Jaxon, with a subtle air of arrogance, spoke.

“Ah, I’d advise you not to speak too freely with her. She’s my bodyguard, assigned by my father, and she’s rather temperamental.”

With this single line, Jaxon established himself as the son of a wealthy merchant group and revealed just enough of his personality. He became the quintessential arrogant merchant’s son.

The performance was flawless—so natural it seemed like he’d been born and raised to play this part.

‘This is a bit different from Kraiss, isn’t it?’ Enkrid thought.

Just then, a servant following behind the innkeeper stumbled, dropping the tray he was carrying.

Thud!

A wooden cup fell, and wine spilled across the floor.

“You idiot!” the innkeeper shouted, storming over in anger as the servant repeatedly bowed his head.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry!”

It wasn’t much of a commotion.

A bearded man sipping wine and another man with plain brown hair briefly glanced over before returning to their own business.

“Take it easy on him. Take it easy,” Jaxon chimed in. The way he inserted himself into minor disputes reminded Enkrid of a sedated version of Kraiss.

Shinar, without shifting her gaze, stared blankly at a spot on the table, perfectly embodying a detached doll.

Meanwhile, Finn played her part as the dutiful assistant. “Young master, you’ll need to return to the trade route in two days,” she said, her tone formal.

Of course, everything was scripted by Jaxon—a simple but effective act.

“This should buy us a day,” Jaxon said.

The logic was simple. By announcing their departure in two days, they implied there was no need for immediate action.

Highlighting Shinar’s presence served as a warning: don’t try anything foolish, like poison or trickery. Emphasizing her temper reinforced that point.

Convincing the enemy that they were troublesome yet temporary bought them a crucial day.

“This is enough for me,” Shinar said, playing her role convincingly. She held up a small piece of dried fruit, signaling she didn’t require a meal.

“How could you not know the joy of eating?” Jaxon retorted, digging his wooden spoon into the stew.

Enkrid also ate without hesitation. Jaxon’s actions indicated there was no poison.

As they ate, the servant returned with another cup of wine, his steps measured and cautious, determined not to spill again.

“You clumsy fool, be more careful,” Jaxon scolded, without giving him even a single coin as compensation.

The servant stole a glance at Enkrid’s sword belt, his gaze lingering on the weapon secured at his waist.

Noticing this, Jaxon laughed and said, “This here is my friend. He’s helping with this matter. He’s not as rough as he looks, so you could even ask to see his sword.”

Some swordsmen, when stared at like this, would threaten to gouge out someone’s eyes or draw their weapon.

“No, no, that won’t be necessary,” the servant stammered, waving his hands.

“Just the blade,” Enkrid said nonchalantly, drawing his sword halfway.

Shing.

The movement was deliberately awkward. Enkrid purposely made it look unskilled. It wasn’t hard—he simply mimicked the clumsy motions of a beginner.

As someone who had clawed his way up from the bottom, Enkrid found it easy to replicate the mistakes he used to make.

For instance, gripping the scabbard too tightly near the blade was a rookie mistake. It risked cutting your own hand, something no competent swordsman would ever do.

But other details, like the way he tilted the blade, were carefully crafted to look convincing. It was the hallmark of a swordsman more concerned with appearances than skill.

“Wow, the blade is blue,” the servant marveled, his eyes wide.

Enkrid thought the servant was quite bold. His gait and demeanor suggested he was trained, yet he acted clumsy and pretended to be astonished by an unfamiliar weapon.

Regardless, Enkrid’s performance as the immature swordsman following a merchant’s son seemed to work well.

That night, when everyone had gone to sleep, the oiled hinges allowed the window to open silently.

“Well then,” Jaxon whispered as he slipped out into the night.

In the neighboring room, Finn moved as well.

The two met briefly on the inn’s roof, exchanging a glance before parting ways.

They had agreed to gather their findings in the morning.

Jaxon leapt across two rooftops, while Finn descended to the ground.

As Jaxon moved stealthily, he suddenly noticed a blade slicing toward him from the side.

There was no sound, no warning.

The blade slipped through his senses undetected and tore through his clothing with a sharp hiss.