A Knight Who Eternally Regresses-Chapter 285: The Language of the West

While Enkrid was carving through the cultist forces, Shinar was on the move as well.

She took twenty of her fastest and most agile subordinates, circling the battlefield’s outer edge.

Their role was assassination.

The twenty-man unit avoided direct combat, instead observing the flow of battle and assessing enemy formations.

Shinar, with the keen senses of a fairy who had lived through hundreds of battles, could read the tide of war like a book.

She filtered through the cacophony of battle, distinguishing and identifying crucial sounds.

Then, she marked the first target.

"Move."

Her unit followed silently.

They cut through the outskirts of the battlefield in a sudden, sharp strike.

"Shit! These lunatics—!"

The enemy soldiers cursed and fought back fiercely.

Twenty against a larger force—yet they endured.

Their combat skills were exceptional, though not overwhelming.

They were good enough to be considered elite, but they were no match for seasoned borderland defenders.

Shinar, however, was different.

While her twenty soldiers occupied the enemy’s attention, she leaped, stepping onto a soldier’s head.

Her ascent was light, as if an unseen force had lifted her.

It felt as though she had wings.

Then, using the soldier’s skull as a foothold, she kicked downward, striking his throat.

Thud!

The small blade embedded in the sole of her boot punctured his neck.

At the same time, she drew her twin leaf blades.

Clang!

The polished steel caught the sunlight as she plunged the daggers downward in quick succession.

Clink. Thunk. Thud.

One soldier, lucky enough to have his helmet deflect a strike, stumbled to the side.

Another, whose helmet only partially absorbed the impact, instinctively thrust his spear upward.

The third, completely forsaken by luck, took a dagger straight to the forehead, blood streaming down his face as he crumpled.

All of this happened in the span of a single heartbeat—just before the soldier she had used as a stepping stone collapsed.

Shinar twisted midair and sliced through the spear shaft aiming for her.

Her daggers sheared the wood, leaving the soldier holding nothing but a broken staff.

He scrambled to lift his shield.

But instead of attacking the shield, Shinar stepped on it.

She ran forward.

A streaking arrow through the battlefield.

Using heads, shoulders, and shields as stepping stones, she barely touched the ground before her real target came into view.

She had identified him through sound.

The commander.

Not a high-ranking officer, but a key leader coordinating a crucial unit.

"Stop her!"

The commander’s shout was futile.

Before his order even reached his men, his throat had already been pierced.

Shinar’s strike was like a skipping stone across water—shoulder to wrist to fingertips, a whip-like motion that delivered her blade straight through flesh.

The Skimming Stab.

It was one of her signature techniques.

Tarnin Viscount’s forces were holding out thanks to commanders like these, stationed at key points to maintain cohesion.

That was exactly why Shinar had already eliminated three more like him.

"That damned fairy bitch!"

A higher-ranking officer snarled as he watched, grinding his teeth.

He immediately doubled the number of his guards.

Simultaneous strikes.

Kraiss had orchestrated this perfectly.

One side targeted the enemy's supplies.

The other hunted down their leaders.

By launching attacks at two critical points, they could inflict the greatest possible damage.

Shinar completed her task with only a few minor scratches.

"I wonder how they're doing?"

She wiped the blood from her daggers, her thoughts drifting.

What about Enkrid and his men?

It was almost laughable how often her thoughts returned to him.

"The moment battle ends, his face comes to mind?"

Something within her had dulled, numbed over time, yet she smiled.

This, too, was part of life.

A part of enjoyment.

There was something about that man.

Not magic, not some mystical force that granted wishes, but something that made her watch.

Something that made her root for him.

It was only natural to think of him.

"We’re pulling back."

She had done her job. As the midday sun shone down upon the battlefield, a fairy found herself thinking about a human.

Not as a lover, not in that sense.

But in anticipation—wondering just how far he would go.

"How far will you go?"

She asked the question in her heart.

Of course, there was no answer.

***

Relaxation.

A body that remained tense for too long would stiffen.

A stiff body could not perform at its peak.

"The growth of muscle, the growth of endurance—it’s the same. Just as reckless training is important, so is rest. Strength and stamina only improve after proper recovery."

That was what Audin had said.

Enkrid turned the words over in his mind, drawing small insights from his experience in battle.

Tension and relaxation.

What if he applied this concept even in combat?

He had noticed it in Ragna.

He had noticed it in Jaxon.

Jaxon seemed utterly relaxed except when swinging his sword.

Ragna, despite continuously cutting down enemies, barely seemed to exert himself.

Audin was the same.

Even Dunbakel and Teresa had similar habits.

The elasticity that came from controlling tension.

The rhythm that arose from properly managing relaxation.

Rest increased endurance.

Recovery strengthened muscles.

Was swordsmanship any different?

"Rest is important."

Audin had said it countless times, but only now did those words truly sink in.

It had finally become a part of him, buried deep in his instincts.

A battlefield could be a place of study.

"What if I go deeper into relaxation?"

Observing oneself, understanding oneself—these were as natural to Enkrid as breathing.

And through this introspection, he realized something.

The beginning of relaxation.

It was a skill he had gained from repeating this process over and over.

The Beast’s Heart.

The key to maintaining composure even with swords clashing and quarrels targeting one’s skull.

It was the method of enduring.

Fighting for long periods required careful stamina management, especially when outnumbered.

Not that Enkrid’s stamina was ever a problem.

Compared to ordinary soldiers, his endurance was incomprehensible.

But even he wasn’t completely tireless.

That thought led naturally to another.

"Rem is fine."

Who had first taught him The Beast’s Heart?

Who was the one who, even in battle, spouted the most nonsense?

If anyone deserved the title of Master of Relaxation, it was Rem.

"That’s not mastery of relaxation. That’s just a lack of thinking."

Jaxon chimed in.

"It’s stupidity."

Ragna added.

"Funny. When he’s hitting me, he sure seems tense."

Dunbakel muttered, a hint of irritation in her voice.

Teresa, as always, remained silent.

Then Audin spoke.

"Are you worried about our barbarian brother?"

Worried? About Rem?

About the gray-haired monster who would chop up even a demon if he met one?

"Me?"

Enkrid carefully chose his words.

Did he look like he was worried?

Audin only smiled.

"When the heart carries burdens, the eyes become clouded. When the mind harbors worries, thoughts drift in that direction. To think only of the Lord, to cast away burdens, to find peace in His presence—this is how you attain serenity."

It was a passage from scripture.

Teresa murmured the last line under her breath.

"Find peace."

Her voice was soft.

Though her face was hidden behind a mask, there was a certain thoughtfulness in her posture.

Perhaps facing the cultists again had unsettled her.

After all, this was once her faction.

She had been born and raised among them.

It was natural to feel uneasy.

As Enkrid glanced at Teresa, he reconsidered—was he truly worried?

"Ridiculous."

Why would he worry about that lunatic, Rem?

And yet, something bothered him. A faint sense of unease, an irritation that lingered at the edges of his thoughts.

Why?

They were retreating.

There were no signs of pursuit.

No stray arrows had hit their troops.

No one was wounded.

Everything had been executed in an instant.

Ambush, assault, arson, retreat.

They hadn’t even needed the cover of night—they struck in broad daylight.

And they had moved quickly enough that no scouts had survived long enough to raise the alarm.

So then, why did this unease creep in?

He was accustomed to observing himself, and just as naturally, he retraced every moment.

Too weak.

A few dozen wolf beasts should have been a significant threat.

"Would the cultists really have sent them without knowing our strength?"

Unlikely.

Then why had they felt so fragile?

Enkrid recalled how Marcus had once hidden his unit within an army’s ranks.

"If something looks weak, it means something is hidden."

The cultists’ forces weren’t just what they had seen.

Which meant—

"The Black Blades have something hidden too."

That was the natural conclusion.

Did Kraiss know?

"Of course."

That was why he had structured the operation this way.

Updat𝒆d fr𝑜m freewebnøvel.com.

Before the enemy could play their trump cards, they were chipping away at their resources, shaving off whatever they could.

That was the core of this raid.

"Even if you wish him dead, he’ll come back."

Jaxon commented dryly when worry was mentioned.

His crimson eyes remained indifferent.

Enkrid met his gaze and nodded.

"I know."

Worry wasn’t necessary.

Who was he supposed to worry about?

The one left behind was the mad barbarian—Rem.

***

Rem acknowledged that he was excited.

Awareness was the first step to control.

You had to recognize before you could change.

A man prone to excitement needed to know his nature before he could calm himself.

"Are all beasts the same? No. But the ones that survive share one trait."

He recalled those words from his first lessons in hunting.

Longer fangs didn’t guarantee survival.

Sharper claws meant nothing.

A lion on the plains, a tiger ruling the mountains—

They survived because they knew.

And if knowledge was the key, the first thing to understand was always oneself.

The length of his claws.

The strength in his legs.

The limits of his stamina.

That was the foundation.

And in that sense, the captain is unique.

Enkrid knew himself. He knew his limits.

Yet, his body hadn’t always kept up.

But now, that was no longer the case.

His growth had reached a point where he had become truly dangerous.

Watching it unfold?

Sometimes, Rem considered it a stroke of fortune.

Knowledge.

Change.

And now, blood boiling in his veins after staying idle for days.

Rem felt the thrill surging within him.

He read the situation, acknowledged his emotions, and—he didn’t bother hiding it.

"You dumb mutt-headed bastards."

Three wolf beasts lunged at him.

These were different.

Faster, stronger, smarter.

Not all monsters were the same.

There were always exceptional ones.

These three were those exceptions.

Brutally fast. Unnaturally intelligent.

Rem let them come.

He allowed a single claw to graze his side, digging just deep enough to sting.

Then, he swung.

His axe cleaved down, splitting one beast’s skull in half.

Blood and brain matter spattered across his vision, but he didn’t blink.

With his second axe, he severed the head entirely, sending it flying with the back of his hand.

The freshly severed head spun through the air like a grotesque flower in bloom.

One of the remaining beasts instinctively dodged to the side.

Rem had predicted that.

He threw his axe.

Whoosh. Whump!

It was almost simultaneous—the moment the wolf moved, the moment the axe flew.

The beast’s head lurched forward, the axe blade burying itself deep into its skull.

The direction of its dodge had already been accounted for.

That left one.

Rem grinned, baring his teeth.

"Monster!"

"That thing’s a monster!"

"May the Master of Beasts devour him whole!"

The cultists shrieked, clinging to their prayers.

"What the hell are you mumbling about, you lunatic cult freaks? Come fight me instead."

Rem muttered, shifting his axe from his left to his right hand.

"Hey, mutt. You coming or not?"

The last beast crouched low, baring its fangs. Its yellow eyes gleamed with pure aggression.

One of the cultists hurled a dagger.

Rem didn’t even look away from the wolf—he merely tilted his head to let the blade whistle past.

That moment was enough.

The beast lunged.

No sound of paws striking the earth.

Just wind rushing past his nose.

A massive body, moving impossibly fast.

It had aimed for his throat, lowering its bulk as it leapt.

Rem reacted.

This time, his axe moved at twice the speed it had before.

Wham.

None of the cultists could follow the motion.

One moment, his arm was mid-swing.

The next, his axe had already completed its arc—right to left, high to low.

He had deliberately swung slower before, lulling them into a false sense of expectation.

This strike was different.

The beast never stood a chance.

Its neck, severed halfway, burst open in a shower of blood.

Yet its momentum remained.

The corpse crashed into Rem.

He sidestepped, shoving the body away.

The heavy carcass landed with a thud, silencing the cultists momentarily.

Rem flashed them a grin, still covered in dark, sticky blood.

"See you later."

It was a casual farewell.

To the cultists, it sounded like a threat.

See that thing again? That monster?

Rem retreated, snatching up his thrown axe as he moved.

"Let’s see..."

He checked his body.

A shallow cut on his side.

A cracked rib, maybe?

Nothing serious.

Considering he had just slaughtered three monsters that would have been considered demons anywhere else, it was a fair trade.

Some cultists made a show of giving chase, but it was half-hearted at best.

"Want another axe to the face?"

Rem’s voice carried back to them, sharp and full of mirth.

Their pace immediately slowed.

Rem was already thinking about how he would brag to Enkrid about taking down three beasts alone.

"He’ll probably be so impressed he’ll ask me to teach him something again."

The thought amused him.

Just then, his body moved instinctively.

He shifted—right foot slamming into the ground, big toe pressing down, body twisting sideways.

The adjustment was impossible for a normal human.

He had been running forward at full speed.

Then, in a split second, he had shifted sideways at a perfect right angle.

Thunk!

A throwing spear slammed into the ground where he had been.

It buried itself halfway into the earth, quivering from the force.

Ordinary strength wouldn’t have been enough to pull it free.

Rem’s eyes flicked to the weapon.

The shape was familiar.

Not from now, but from his past.

A Western tribal throwing spear.

"Huh. Didn’t expect to see kin out here."

Then came a voice.

Not in the Empire’s language.

It was in the language of the West.