A Knight Who Eternally Regresses-Chapter 278: It Begins with Jaxon

“Cowardly bastard, filthy bastard, damn you, son of a bitch!”

The Black Blade officer spat blood as he cursed Marcus.

Of course, there was a bit of a misunderstanding. This whole thing had started with Shinar, and Enkrid had jumped in and finished it off in an instant.

But the more they looked into it, the more it seemed that the Border Guard’s standing army was involved.

Then who had given the order? Who was behind all of this? One name kept coming up, over and over again.

Marcus.

A noble, someone with ties to the royal palace, a man rumored to be eyeing the title of Grand Duke of the North.

“That bastard deserves to be torn apart!”

It didn’t matter if he muttered it under his breath or shouted it aloud—his anger didn’t subside.

It was infuriating, humiliating, and unbearable.

He wanted to throw himself to the ground, scream, and flail his limbs. That’s how furious he was.

It took every ounce of restraint to calm himself down, even just a little.

Grinding his teeth, the officer had to acknowledge that immediate retaliation was impossible.

Something was seriously wrong with the Border Guard. Every time they sent an assassin, they simply disappeared.

And that Enkrid—how many times had they tried to kill him? Not even once had they succeeded.

Had they even managed to scratch him?

They had sent men armed with poison, and yet every single one of them had been taken out.

Was it simply because their target was too skilled? The Black Blades had considered that possibility.

The officer himself had thought the same.

At the very least, Enkrid had to be at the level of a semi-knight.

His feats were sometimes exaggerated, sometimes downplayed.

But none of them truly believed that Enkrid had actually reached the level of a semi-knight.

No one suddenly discovers Will by swinging a sword in the dirt.

There were occasional geniuses, sure—but if he had that much talent, why had he remained in obscurity for so long?

Maybe if he had been hiding away somewhere, it would make sense. But that wasn’t the case.

His trail was everywhere.

He had been a mercenary. He had paid cheap instructors with a handful of krona to learn how to wield a sword.

He had worked as a hunter, taking odd jobs just to survive.

When there was no work for his sword, he had helped repair fortress walls.

That was the kind of man he had been. And now they were supposed to believe he had become a semi-knight?

The Black Blades were rational. They had no choice but to think this way.

More importantly, Count Molsen had deliberately manipulated information behind the scenes.

As a result, they couldn’t get an accurate measure of Enkrid’s true level.

But they weren’t foolish enough to underestimate him either.

Something had changed—there was no doubt about that.

They just didn’t believe he had truly become a semi-knight.

There had to be someone aiding him.

And among the names of possible benefactors, one stood out above the rest.

Marcus. That devious bastard.

“This is war now!”

The officer shouted to himself in the solitude of his study.

Of course, he wasn’t the only one who thought so.

The upper ranks of the Black Blade bandits had given similar orders.

Muster your forces.

The source of this c𝐨ntent is freeweɓnovēl.coɱ.

Seek aid from the heretics.

Burn the Border Guard to the ground.

They weren’t nobles. They didn’t own land. But they had something just as powerful—armed strength and influence.

Now, they were ready to wield it.

They poured out their stockpiles of bloodstained gold. They called in their connections.

Their men gathered.

Among them were mercenaries who, for the right price, wouldn’t hesitate to kill their own parents.

And so, a force began to assemble on a small hill west of the Border Guard.

Over five hundred men.

Could they breach the fortress walls with that number?

It wouldn’t be easy, but war wasn’t the Black Blades’ specialty.

Sabotage was.

And they had already set their plans in motion.

A Proxy War in the Making

On the surface, it seemed like a territorial dispute—Marcus expanding his hold on the surrounding lands.

But the consequences of this conflict were vast.

It was the spark of a civil war, one that would force many into action.

And Marcus, still stationed within the Border Guard, had no idea what was coming.

Just before this proxy war erupted, he had issued an order.

“How many villages are there? Send forces to occupy them all. From now on, we’re not just the Border Guard’s standing army. We’re the ruling force of this land.”

“And who’s the lord of these lands?”

“The first lord is me.”

Marcus answered without hesitation, casually pointing his thumb at himself.

Soon after, the rightful owner of those villages, the one who held official authority—Viscount Tarnin—declared war.

"How dare you seize land without the king’s permission! You are driven by greed and have no shame! Marcus, repent at once! If you do not, I shall sever your head and offer it to the gods!"

It was quite the declaration.

Since it wasn’t exactly a secret, Marcus heard about it almost immediately.

“That pig bastard must be high on something.”

Marcus muttered as he rested his chin on his desk. But his meaning was clear.

Civil war had begun.

Of course, that didn’t mean they would immediately engage in battle.

Like most territorial disputes, Viscount Tarnin sent an envoy first.

Typically, these things started with a war of words, with actual fighting coming as a last resort.

But something about this was different.

Viscount Tarnin had rallied mercenaries and hired killers before even sending his declaration of war.

It was as if he was itching for a fight.

And yet, instead of attacking, he had fortified his position and was holding out.

Why?

Who stood to gain from a stalemate? Who stood to lose?

Marcus wasn’t stupid. Rather than making the first move, it was better to let Tarnin and his backers waste their resources.

Marcus picked apart the situation, analyzing it carefully.

What was Pig Tarnin’s special skill?

—Eating.

What was the fool’s greatest strength?

—His thick skin made it hard for a blade to pierce him.

What power did he actually wield over his lands?

—Absolutely nothing.

So what was he relying on?

—The Black Blade bandits.

Marcus worked through the sequence of events, piecing the situation together.

But why was Tarnin stalling?

Gathering an army cost money. The soldiers needed food and shelter.

And there were mercenaries, too. They needed to be paid.

If they weren’t, some of them would happily turn around and carve star-shaped holes into Tarnin’s belly.

So why?

Why assemble a force and do nothing?

Instead of attacking, all he was doing was talking about “training.”

Marcus decided to wait. There wasn’t much else to do at the moment.

After all, he had encroached on another noble’s territory.

The plan had been to quietly seize a few villages, establish a pseudo-territory, and then seek the royal court’s recognition.

But now...

There’s someone backing Tarnin.

And the question was—who?

When the answer finally arrived, it was a crushing blow.

A letter arrived, carrying an ominous weight.

It read:

“Due to the increased instability in the North caused by the territorial conflict, the royal court decrees that Marcus, steadfast ally of the crown and pillar of Centerpole, is hereby ordered—”

Marcus was a gambler. He knew how to seize the moment.

But this?

This had bound his hands and feet before he even got the chance to play.

It was a political maneuver designed to remove him from the game before he could even place a bet.

There was no escape.

All he could do was scoff.

“...Hah.”

He had been completely outplayed.

***

“The moment I’m gone, you all start having fun without me, huh?”

As soon as he returned, Rem greeted him with that line. Enkrid thought, This guy never changes.

“It was a mission.”

“Oh, you had fun. And me? Huh? You dumped me here, stuck babysitting some beastkin and teaching them how to fight?”

A long-winded way of saying he wanted to spar.

Off to the side, Dunbakel stood with her eyes swollen and bruised.

It was clear she had been through hell.

Enkrid felt a little bad. If he ignored this, Rem was just going to take it out on Dunbakel again.

Besides, he wasn’t really injured. Just a little fatigued.

“Come at me, you loudmouthed savage.”

Enkrid said it with a smirk, and Rem grinned back.

“Time to settle some grudges!”

And with that nonsense, the sparring began.

“You haven’t changed a bit!”

Rem swung his axes in a crisscross pattern, showcasing an overwhelming presence. He had claimed to have learned from a rapier swordsman, but just listening to that was absurd.

Was that even something you could copy just by watching?

Of course, the execution was completely different. Not that Rem had any way of knowing.

Enkrid rejected the intimidation outright and responded with his sword instead.

Clang! Clang! Clang!

Steel clashed between them, sparks of gold flying.

Teresa, for once, sat quietly with her legs tucked together, waiting for her turn.

This was their everyday life.

Next up was Teresa’s match. She had carefully crafted a few techniques and honed them through training with Audin.

She wondered if they would work against Enkrid.

Her heart pounded.

While he was gone, something had felt off.

Even sharpening her skills and strengthening her body left her with a sense of emptiness. It was like being a landowner with an empty granary.

“Why do you seem down?”

Audin asked, noticing her lack of energy.

Teresa took a moment to observe her own emotions before speaking.

“The wanderer Teresa wonders... what happens if the captain never comes back?”

Audin chuckled.

“He always comes back.”

Audin spoke of everything in the name of the divine, usually with deep contemplation rather than absolute certainty. But when it came to Enkrid, he was strangely resolute. There was no doubt in his mind.

And the moment she saw Enkrid return, Teresa’s heart pounded faster than ever.

Her face flushed.

How could it not?

He’s the one.

The one to test her skills against. The one to match her fighting spirit. The one who had freed her from the cult. The only one who could wield a sword and shield alongside her.

Others could spar with her, sure.

But it wasn’t the same.

Enkrid was different. Teresa didn’t try to analyze why.

What mattered was the process of fighting him. The process of facing him in battle. The act of raising her sword and shield before him.

She would burn herself to ash if it meant standing before him. She would cut down and kill any enemy in his way.

She would make sure he didn’t just charge forward.

She would make him turn back and face her.

With that realization, Teresa knelt on one knee and prayed.

Not in the manner of the cult, nor invoking the name of any god.

But a prayer nonetheless.

“Are you sleeping? Get moving.”

Rem broke her trance, but by then, the captain was already on his feet.

Teresa rose from her knee, raising her shield.

“The wanderer Teresa is here.”

A joyful match, if you could call it that.

At least, Enkrid thought so.

Rem was enjoying himself. Teresa was attacking him head-on.

And even Dunbakel, wielding two swords, was proving to be an amusing opponent.

“You’re still clumsy.”

“I know!”

Dunbakel knew but insisted on using two blades anyway.

Enkrid watched, wondering what was driving her.

“You’re all crazy. Crazy. If you ever run into a high priest on your travels, kidnap them and bring them here. Everyone here needs healing.”

That was Rem’s assessment. Apparently, Dunbakel had been so impressed by Enkrid that she had picked up dual-wielding.

Enkrid left her to it. It wasn’t his place to interfere.

And so, he settled back into his usual routine.

But Rem had something to say.

“Why haven’t you improved?”

There was a hint of dissatisfaction in his voice.

Had Enkrid’s skills remained the same?

That was possible.

But had nothing changed?

No.

He had spent two months moving, thinking, learning.

Climbing cliffs, riding horses, walking, running, passing through villages.

The battles had been short, the marches long.

Along the way, Shinar had tossed in some fae humor. Finn had rambled on about nonsense. And Jaxon, every now and then...

“Do whatever you truly want. Holding back will only make you sick.”

...had thrown out those strange remarks.

I’ve never held back.

Enkrid meant that. But maybe others saw it differently.

For all his ability, he had never really fixated on worldly rewards.

So what did he want?

Jaxon’s question had struck at the heart of it.

Enkrid knew exactly what he wanted. He was walking toward it, following the markers along his path.

And after all that time walking, something had clicked.

His mind was sharper than ever.

Enkrid revisited his training.

What he had, what he needed to develop, what he could refine and perfect.

Before, he had been too focused on absorbing and adapting.

But now, he had moved past that.

Two months of travel had helped him refine his training method.

Now, it was time to put it into practice.

“I’ll need some help.”

And he’d start with that stray cat, Jaxon.