A Knight Who Eternally Regresses-Chapter 279: The Black Blades Excel at Sabotage (1)

“Throw it.”

The moment Enkrid spoke, Jaxon’s hand moved.

There was no time to pay attention to the sound of air splitting.

Seven paces ahead, that sly stray cat with reddish-brown hair had already thrown a stone, and what had been a mere speck in the distance now expanded in his vision.

As his focus sharpened, he caught the trajectory of the incoming stone.

The instant he turned his body to evade it, he saw another stone in the exact spot he was about to move into.

A staggered, space-filling throwing technique.

Enkrid’s body twisted on instinct.

Using his left foot as an axis, he pulled his body back and to the right, twisting his waist in the opposite direction.

A grotesque contortion.

Then, using the rebound of his hips, he ducked his head and rolled forward, dodging all the stones.

“Aren’t you supposed to dodge in place?”

Jaxon’s detached voice reached his ears.

“I will, eventually.”

Maybe not right now, but repetition would get him there. He didn’t need to see the future to know that.

If you walk steadily, you’ll pass the milestones and reach your destination. He had proven that with his body, learned it through his life.

Enkrid answered calmly and dusted himself off as he stood up.

The pale blue light of dawn was breaking against the rising sun, turning orange and gold.

It was the hour when everyone was waking up.

As if on cue, the entire company was gathered, watching Enkrid and Jaxon.

Their eyes were all different.

Rem was wrapped in layers of warm fur, staring at them with a look that said, What kind of backwater ritual is this, training at dawn in the freezing cold?

Audin was smiling with satisfaction.

Ragna was watching impassively, rotating his wrist in slow circles.

Teresa was absent, on duty.

Dunbakel looked at Rem, then at Enkrid, then shook her head.

She clearly wanted to follow along, but if she asked Rem to throw rocks at her, she’d probably end up with a cracked skull.

Enkrid ignored their gazes, immersing himself in his thoughts.

He had spent two months walking, running, and fighting while pondering this.

The sense of evasion operates in the realm of the subconscious, as a reflex.

Seeing, hearing, feeling, tasting, smelling—these are the five senses.

When these senses compress into one, bypassing the process and jumping straight to the conclusion, that is the sixth sense.

Understanding without sensation, experience, association, judgment, or reasoning—that is intuition.

The sense of evasion was an intuitive technique that functioned within the realm of the sixth sense.

Until now, he had thought that was enough.

It’s not.

Pondering was Enkrid’s habit, his everything.

He had pondered and found his path forward.

It was, as always, a thorn-covered road. Rough and treacherous, like scaling a sheer cliff.

But he would enjoy every step of it.

Within the realm of consciousness.

He would read every trajectory of an incoming projectile, evade accordingly, and incorporate intentional movements.

That was preparation for the next move.

Lessons from the Unnamed Formal Sword Style, insights gained through experience, revelations from observing Jaxon’s setup—

This was the conclusion he had reached.

“Again.”

The goal was to dodge stones from close range, all while standing in place, pulling out deliberate reaction speed.

And this was just one part of it.

When this was over, he would train with Audin.

“You truly enjoy suffering, brother.”

“Why do you sound so happy when you say that?”

“Because, of course, the Lord has said—one cannot speak of suffering without walking the path of suffering.”

Enkrid translated the oversized zealot’s words into his own understanding.

In other words, you’re thrilled because now you get to beat me half to death in training.

Enkrid smiled back.

If there was a reward at the end of this arduous path, whether that fruit was sweet or bitter, he would accept it.

For a man who had walked endlessly in place without ever stopping, even the smallest result was a treasure.

Fruit was fruit, whether rotten or ripe.

And that, in turn, made Audin happy.

Even if it was just another way of saying he planned to push Enkrid to the brink of death.

“Let’s begin.”

Audin taught him an advanced isolation technique.

It was, quite literally, a path of suffering.

Before, he had divided his body into segments to train flexibility.

This time, he was dividing his body for isolated strengthening.

The day was split into three.

Mornings were for the upper body, afternoons for the lower body, evenings for the hidden muscles.

“There are the muscles that are easily felt and seen, but there are also those that are not. In isolation training, we call these the inner muscles. For example, here.”

As he spoke, Audin jabbed a finger into Enkrid’s lower back.

A searing pain shot from his spine through his entire body, like being stabbed with a knife.

“Ghh.”

A groan slipped out before he could stop it.

“Exactly. That’s what we’re going to train.”

Next came Regenerative Body Training.

Then, Hard Body Training.

They trained the inner and outer muscles to near destruction. He rolled and rolled again.

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“Normally, this takes years of dedicated training. But, company commander, you might just be a genius when it comes to conditioning. People underestimate how much of a talent physical training requires. And yet, despite your past lack of physical talent, you’ve become like this. I believe it is a form of unseen potential.”

He kept talking, but half of it didn’t register.

When you have three large stones strapped to your back and are squatting on one leg, external noise becomes irrelevant.

Sweat poured down his body.

The winter air was no match for the heat of relentless training.

“Good.”

Audin grinned. Enkrid grinned back. Just because it was grueling didn’t mean it was bad.

This was its own kind of enjoyment.

Every part of the training was extreme.

Like walking on all fours with Audin on his back.

Or balancing on one foot while picking up copper coins from the ground, a rock tied to his back.

Everything was repeated dozens, hundreds of times.

It was painful. Exhausting.

It required unwavering focus.

There were no instant results, no shortcuts.

But Enkrid did it.

Because if you stripped away his persistence, what was left?

And for him, this wasn’t tedious.

“I’m doing it too!”

Dunbakel jumped in, only to turn pale after fifty rounds of beast-walking—moving on all fours to develop isolated muscle control.

Still, even as she dripped sweat onto the ground, she endured.

Her glances at Enkrid during breaks felt oddly intense, but that was none of his concern.

He was too busy refining and adjusting his own training.

Rolling, training, conditioning.

And, of course, his swordsmanship.

First, the Flowing Blade Technique. Just because a strike was soft didn’t mean it wasn’t a blade.

So he continued refining what he had haphazardly named Serpent Blade Technique.

Then, the Unnamed Formal Sword Style.

Then, the Heavy Blade Technique.

Finally, he contemplated speed and Ki Swordsmanship.

Over and over, refining, seeking, honing.

“Rem.”

And, as always, he put his discoveries to the test against Rem.

“Damn it, what am I, your personal combat dummy? You treat me like some kind of human golem.”

Enkrid was momentarily surprised.

Because, deep down, he had been thinking of Rem that way.

Did the bastard read minds?

“If you don’t want to, step out.”

From the side, Ragna—who had been silently watching—began sharpening his sword against a whetstone.

Scrape. Ting!

Unlike before, seeing Ragna maintain his sword made it feel like watching a child finally mature.

“Get lost, you lazy weasel, before I split your skull with an axe.”

Rem immediately turned his head, glaring. Just another ordinary day.

“Well, now that my blade is sharpened, it’ll be a fine thing to stain it with a savage’s blood.”

Ragna gripped his sword and started to rise. From the looks of it, a fight was inevitable.

“You can both come at me if you want.”

Enkrid provoked them both.

At that, Rem and Ragna turned their gazes back toward him.

Rem blinked. Ragna sat back down.

Shhhk. He resumed sharpening his sword.

It was only one sentence, but it was the perfect way to stop a fight.

“You’d lose.”

Ragna spoke without even lifting his gaze.

“Fine by me.”

Rem smacked the flat side of his axe against his palm and stepped forward.

Ragna stood, sword in hand, and took his place on one side of the training ground, practicing slow, deliberate swings.

Sometimes slow, sometimes fast.

Enkrid observed the motion, then silently raised his sword. Gripping it with both hands, he focused on reading Rem’s intentions.

Blade against blade. Steel against steel.

Cold air cut between them.

Their first spar had been nothing more than one of Rem’s whims, not even worth calling a real fight.

Later, Rem had wielded his axe with playful mischief.

And now?

Even Rem couldn’t take Enkrid lightly.

A monster. He’s a damn monster.

Rem thought to himself.

If talent was something that could be surpassed through sheer effort, then a monster was the only fitting word for him.

Which made it all the more fun.

At first, he had just been watching, waiting for Enkrid to break.

But somewhere along the way, he had ended up in this man’s company.

At some point, he had truly become his subordinate.

The folks back home would lose their minds if they saw this.

For a brief moment, Rem thought of his homeland. Of what he had left behind.

Then he let it go.

What did it matter?

He lifted both hands, crossing his axes.

The blades met with a light, ceremonial greeting.

Thunk.

At the sound of the crossed axes, Enkrid moved.

He lowered his upper body and kicked off the ground, surging forward.

Rem saw it all.

That audacity, rising from deep within his chest, forcing his eyes to lock onto his opponent’s every movement.

His dynamic vision was on a level far beyond normal.

Rem twisted his left foot and swung his axe.

Hwoosh!

Ordinarily, even blocking the strike would mean the sword, forearm, and torso all getting sliced apart in a single sweeping arc of light.

A heavy, accelerating strike—

And yet, Enkrid parried it with his sword.

But he hadn’t been able to push forward even half a step.

Even though he had deflected the axe, he couldn’t immediately counter.

His Serpent Blade Technique had been stopped.

Rem swung his second axe.

A second slash.

A technique he prided himself on.

And Enkrid blocked that one, too.

The moment he realized it, Rem felt sheer delight.

“Now we’re talking!”

The thick fur he had draped over his shoulders billowed and flew backward.

Now bare-armed, Rem bared his fangs.

A wide, toothy grin.

Enkrid, having deflected both strikes, stood before him, sword raised.

And naturally, he smiled, too.

From the outside, they must have looked insane.

Why were they grinning while trying to kill each other?

But this was Enkrid’s life as of late.

Since his return, he had focused solely on training, sparring, and conditioning.

He didn’t even bother fulfilling the duties of a training officer.

Before he could make excuses about being too busy, a new reconnaissance squad had to be formed, and the number of troops on duty had doubled.

The surrounding situation was too volatile.

They couldn’t afford to waste time running through the wilderness or hunting monsters in the name of training.

Naturally, outside assignments had also stopped.

But they couldn’t block merchants or large caravans.

This territory was growing into a hub of trade.

Even if one fire could wipe it all away in an instant, for now, this was the best they could do.

Marcus had his hands full trying to manage the chaos he had set off.

Enkrid didn’t concern himself with Viscount Tarnin or the Black Blades.

He had already decided what he needed to do.

So he did it.

He moved, acted.

He would step in when the time was right.

And that time wasn’t now.

Marcus would be stunned if he knew, but it wasn’t as if Enkrid’s involvement would change anything.

This was the correct course of action.

And so, about two weeks passed.

“You’re still the same.”

Marcus had come looking for Enkrid.

It was in front of the independent company’s barracks, inside the training grounds.

Snow was falling thickly overhead, making the soldiers grumble.

If left alone, the snow would freeze over the ground, turning it into solid ice and making it even harder to clear.

The men sighed heavily as they watched it pile up.

A makeshift roof had been set up in one section of the training grounds, with pillars to hold it up.

Marcus leaned against the central pillar, giving a bitter smile.

“I got completely screwed over.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m leaving.”

Enkrid stared at him, waiting for an explanation.

Marcus sighed, his breath misting in the cold air.

“I’m going back. To the capital.”

Suddenly?

Enkrid had ears. He knew the situation was a complete mess.

No reinforcements. No support.

A candle flickering in the wind.

Though that candle wouldn’t be easily extinguished.

And yet, Marcus was pulling out?

No. He had said he got screwed over.

This wasn’t him withdrawing voluntarily.

Someone had forced his hand.

“I’m leaving the position of acting lord to the First Company Commander.”

Enkrid exhaled, the frost in the air merging with his breath.

He set down the weighted iron club—crafted by a blacksmith at his request—onto the ground.

A tool designed to build wrist and forearm strength, naturally reinforcing the core with every swing.

It was also useful for refining delicate sword techniques.

The impact echoed heavily, and Marcus’s gaze flickered downward.

The blunt tip of the club had embedded itself into the frozen earth at an angle.

What the hell is that?

Marcus took a moment to remind himself what kind of monster he was dealing with.

Just then, Kraiss peeked out from inside the barracks.

“Oh, Battalion Commander! You’re here?”

Kraiss opened the door and gave something resembling a salute.

It wasn’t particularly crisp or formal, just sort of a salute.

“Move along.”

Marcus gestured vaguely.

Enkrid placed both hands over the grip of his sword.

“Smoke?”

Marcus asked.

“I don’t.”

Marcus lit a rolled cigarette. He was about to strike a flint when Kraiss hurried over and handed him a small ember.

Taking a deep drag, Marcus exhaled, the white smoke curling into the frigid air.

The sharp scent mixed with the cold, stinging the nose.

It was a crude, rolled-up leaf cigarette. Not a pleasant smell.

And the conversation that followed was simple and to the point.