A Knight Who Eternally Regresses-Chapter 317

As his body sought recovery, Enkrid continued to push through, grinding himself against the cycle of today, repeating it over and over.

Dunbakel and Shinar moved swiftly, dealing with the enemy cavalry attacking from the rear, clashing in a brutal fight against the enemy forces.

Ragna, having found an opportunity, excitedly babbled about brown excrement again, while Jaxon remained busy.

‘Hmm.’

For the first time in a long while, he caught a familiar scent of his kind.

Not an actual smell—his heightened senses had blurred and merged, stimulating his sixth sense, allowing him to feel the scent rather than detect it.

Silent footsteps. A blade closing in.

What he sensed materialized in his vision.

Jaxon slipped away from the formation, weaving between soldiers.

The approaching group had recognized him as well.

They were the ones known as the Assassin Clan.

Founders of Montaire's Swamp, Azpen’s assassin guild—and the true masters of the guild itself.

Unlike the nominal guild leader, these three assassins were the real ones in control.

Each of them was supremely confident in their abilities.

The moment they identified Jaxon, they moved.

‘That one's sloppy. Let’s kill him and move on.’

With a single glance, their intent was exchanged.

Jaxon deliberately leaked his presence, let out faint sounds, and lured them in.

Yes.

This was bait.

A silent invitation to strike, as if he were a warrior adept at such fights but ultimately weaker than them.

‘Three.’

Jaxon gauged their numbers by the faint traces of bloodlust pursuing him.

Dancing with the grace of a temptress, he led them away from the friendly forces, each movement deliberate.

The three assassins, fully ensnared by the act, followed.

Just then, a soldier from the allied ranks staggered out of formation.

An older man, helmet awkwardly jammed onto his head, clutching a spear to his chest as he fell forward.

An oddly attention-grabbing soldier.

His fall was theatrical, crashing onto his knees with a thud, followed by an exaggerated yelp.

The surrounding soldiers—friend and foe alike—instinctively turned to look.

Ridiculously enough, he was somehow wearing a Border Guard uniform.

Without looking, Jaxon already knew.

The old soldier hadn’t actually fallen onto his knees.

He had clapped his gloved hands against the ground to create the sound.

At the same time, Jaxon felt the blade flying toward him from behind.

A needle-thin sword.

Jaxon mimicked the old soldier’s movements.

“Ah!”

Feigning shock, he pitched forward.

His stumble was just clumsy enough to pass as ✧ NоvеIight ✧ (Original source) that of an incompetent recruit.

“You idiot!”

The allied commander behind him roared.

From his perspective, Jaxon had broken formation, and the enemy had struck at him.

Since he had barely dodged in time, it looked as if he had simply been careless.

Naturally, the commander was furious.

But Jaxon didn’t drag the fight out.

He had fought far too many battles of this kind to bother.

Even as he fell, he had already thrown a silent throwing dagger—the Voiceless Blade.

Thunk.

The old soldier raised a hand to block.

The dagger embedded itself like a flower planted in his chest.

“You blocked it, huh.”

Jaxon muttered indifferently, half-bent over.

His eyes, calm and unreadable, met the old soldier’s gaze.

A gaze armed with sheer detachment.

A crimson ring glowed faintly around his pupils, deep reddish-brown filling their depths.

The assassin trembled at the sight.

One of them yanked the dagger from his pierced hand and flicked his fingers.

[Kill.]

A silent hand signal.

It was instinctive.

A deep sense of foreboding had crept down his spine.

Immediately, the other two assassins moved.

Poisoned daggers flew, and a cloud of venomous smoke erupted at Jaxon’s feet.

The allied commander, who had initially intended to save what he thought was a hapless recruit, froze.

He recognized Jaxon.

This wasn’t some fumbling recruit.

It was Jaxon.

Jaxon had wanted him to see his face—to ensure he wouldn’t interfere.

And yet, the commander had no way of knowing that.

Regardless, if he moved now, he would only die.

That wasn’t Jaxon’s problem.

He had deliberately distanced himself far enough that no allies would be caught in the fight.

Using a soldier as a human shield would have made the battle much easier.

But he hadn’t done that.

If he had, Enkrid—their commander—wouldn’t have looked kindly upon it.

Enkrid would hate something like that.

‘Why the hell am I even worrying about this?’

Jaxon felt his metaphorical blade dull ever so slightly.

But that didn’t mean his skills had dulled.

Shh-shhhk!

A blade whistled through the air, wires of steel tightening like a snare around his ankles.

Jaxon saw it all.

And dodged everything.

His monstrous senses were unparalleled.

Of course.

He had taught these techniques—how to predict movement, how to read intent.

Jaxon, through sheer effort, had surpassed even the senses of the Fae.

The result was inevitable.

The assassins, realizing their mistake, tried to escape.

Jaxon hunted them down, one by one, slicing open their throats or planting daggers into their hearts.

By the time the fight ended, they had strayed far from the battlefield.

Neither enemy nor ally had witnessed the duel properly.

Even if they had, all they would have seen was flashes of steel, darting too fast to follow.

“Shit... Are you one of Geor Dagger’s?”

The last assassin—the one disguised as the old soldier—spat out the words as he lay dying.

His expression was one of disbelief.

“Would knowing change anything?”

“Bast—”

Blood dribbled from his lips.

He would have lived a little longer if he hadn’t pulled out the dagger buried in his chest.

But Jaxon saw no reason to prolong his suffering.

He yanked the dagger free.

The assassin, in a final act of defiance, spat a needle from his mouth.

It sliced through the air—aimless, useless.

“You bastard.”

How could he not lower his guard even a little?

Regardless of the assassin’s attitude, Jaxon remained unmoved.

He watched impassively as the man trembled in his final moments.

His own wounds ached.

The signs of poison were unmistakable—his skin bubbled black where it had touched him.

A deadly toxin.

But not lethal to him.

He knew this poison.

As he examined his wounds, the assassin died.

Almost as a habit, Jaxon rifled through the corpse.

He found needles, poison dust, smoke bombs.

And then he saw it.

A tattoo.

A single emblem.

A black lily.

One of the traces he had been chasing.

He hadn’t expected to find it on an Azpen assassin.

Jaxon stared at it, expression unreadable.

It seemed he couldn’t just ignore this.

Which meant, for a while at least—he would have to leave.

‘For a while?’

The thought caught him off guard.

He had assumed he would return.

That realization left a strange feeling in his chest.

When had he last had a home, a place of rest?

A place to return to?

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What an indulgent notion.

And yet, separate from his thoughts, he felt a firm conviction.

That he would come back.

Because Enkrid—whatever he was—was someone worth watching.

Someone he simply couldn’t look away from.

‘I should at least say something before I go.’

A simple report should be enough.

A brief leave of absence.

That would do.

***

Enkrid repeated the cycle of waking up and going back to sleep.

He knew better than anyone that when injured and in pain, eating well and resting were the most important things. So he did just that.

More than anything, every time he opened his eyes, he was starving.

His body, built through the Isolation Technique, demanded sustenance for recovery.

And it was a very strong demand.

The demand boiled down to a single, undeniable truth.

Hunger.

He was so hungry it felt unbearable.

"Is there anything to eat?"

That was the first thing he said the moment he woke up, barely alive.

"Huh? Oh, yes! Please wait a moment!"

The military medic, standing by his side, bolted out of the tent.

When he returned, he was carrying a bowl of thin porridge.

"I will feed you!"

"No need."

His arms were tightly wrapped in bandages for whatever reason, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t lift a spoon.

He snatched the bowl and spoon away, downing the meal in an instant. The medic hesitated before speaking.

"You shouldn’t eat so quickly."

"I'm fine."

Even before learning the Isolation Technique, his digestion was one of his strengths.

If you didn’t want to die, learning how to eat and sleep properly was a necessity.

No skills, no stamina?

You’d die a miserable death as a mercenary.

And now?

He figured that, if not iron, at least he could probably digest dirt at this point.

"Brother, eating well and shitting well are the basics of life."

The Isolation Technique was a method of constructing the body.

Not just about toughening the exterior, but refining the internal system as well.

That naturally included methods for eating and resting.

Enkrid ate well and closed his eyes.

He intended to get proper rest.

That was how things were—eat, sleep, repeat.

When he briefly opened his eyes, Jaxon was there.

Dried blood clung to his hair, his expression anything but normal.

The scent of dirt and blood lingered, assaulting Enkrid’s senses.

When the battle had ended, Jaxon had disappeared without a word.

Where had he gone? And what had he been doing?

“I’ll be away for a bit,” Jaxon said.

“If I tell you not to go, will you stay?”

Enkrid asked without blinking.

It was nothing more than idle curiosity.

Normally, he wouldn’t have bothered to ask, but he was still half-asleep.

Even at the question, Jaxon’s expression didn’t change.

He was going.

Enkrid knew it without needing an answer.

"Go, then."

Every soldier in his unit had things they wouldn’t compromise on.

Enkrid didn’t know what that was for Jaxon.

But he knew that such things existed.

And he respected that.

These weren’t just his subordinates; they were the ones who had brought him this far.

He had built his today upon their skills.

As Jaxon met his eyes, Enkrid added one last thing.

"Don’t be late."

"I'm not bad with directions."

It was a humorless reply, but it was a joke.

Neither of them laughed.

But they exchanged humor as their farewell.

Not long after, exhaustion swallowed Enkrid whole.

"I'm sleeping."

"Understood."

By the time he woke up again, Jaxon was gone.

Come to think of it, it had been dawn when he first woke.

And now, when he opened his eyes, Shinar was holding a spoon.

“Ah.”

The otherworldly beauty of the elf was still expressionless, holding out the spoon, silently urging him to open his mouth.

She wanted to feed him.

Her intentions were crystal clear.

"Are you not busy?"

What was this elf even doing here?

"My fiancé just came back from the brink of death. This much is expected."

An elven joke.

Enkrid blinked.

Then, feeling too tired to argue, he opened his mouth.

And Shinar actually shoved the spoon into it.

"Should I chew it for you?"

"Who chews porridge before feeding it?"

"It's the thought that counts."

"The elves must have a rather promiscuous society."

"Are you insulting me?"

"Not really."

"I'm the only one like this. And only with you."

Enkrid still wasn’t used to elven jokes.

But this was the best he could do at adapting.

"Shall I prepare an elven meal next time?"

Shinar asked, still expressionless.

"What are the ingredients?"

He had seen Frokk eating insects.

"A green porridge filled with high-quality fiber."

"And the taste?"

"Truly divine."

"I’ll pass."

No matter how he thought about it, it seemed like it would taste absolutely terrible.

Besides, he really liked the porridge he was eating now.

Finely ground meat and onions mixed in, seasoned with aromatic spices.

Who made this?

It was damn good.

Ever since returning the previous evening, he had spent most of his time lying down.

He had slept through nearly the entire day.

Waking up only briefly to send Jaxon off, eat porridge, and catch a glimpse of Ragna sleeping.

At some point, Dunbakel had come by to grumble.

"The fight was too bland this time. I could’ve fought even better."

But why was he telling him that?

Yes, yes, I know you fight well.

Even just watching you get beaten up by Rem is proof enough.

"I’ll do even better next time."

Why did he keep saying that?

Eat, sleep, recover—over and over.

His body demanded it.

And Enkrid listened.

There was barely any time spent awake, so he didn’t even have the luxury to reflect on the battle.

At one point, he briefly wondered where Jaxon had gone.

But there was no point in knowing.

And he had no desire to ask.

If it was something he needed to be told, Jaxon would have told him.

Enkrid focused on eating, drinking, and resting.

"Is this something you take seriously?"

When he woke up briefly, a female soldier asked him.

Enkrid blinked twice, recalling her name.

"Helma."

Beside her, another soldier—the so-called ‘Master of Seasonings’—stood, his head and shoulders wrapped in bandages.

There was also one more standing awkwardly to the side.

Who was that?

"What’s with the secrecy? You surprised us."

Helma commented, and the bandaged soldier nodded.

"I—I have committed a grave sin!"

The third soldier suddenly slammed his forehead to the ground.

A bit of dust kicked up.

"What?"

"I spoke carelessly...!"

"Ah, forget it. It’s in the past."

Enkrid waved it off without a second thought.

"You didn’t even know who I was. If anything, that means I deceived you."

"N-no! That’s not—"

Ah.

It was him.

The one who had been running his mouth about how real warriors should charge forward in battle.

Enkrid didn’t care.

What caught his attention instead was the bowl beside Helma.

The savory aroma reached his nose.

He was hungry again.

‘At this rate, I might as well have a god of beggars living in my stomach.’

In reality, his body was simply responding to the loss of blood, demanding recovery.

His physique had already become something optimized for regeneration.

If Audin saw this, he would’ve been proud.

"Brother, they say the ground hardens after the rain. Once you heal, you’ll be stronger. Let me break your leg for you."

He would’ve made some savage joke without hesitation.

The thought nearly made Enkrid laugh.

His men—every single one of them—pretended they weren’t interested in joking around.

And yet, they always found a way to joke with him.

Rem, especially.

If Rem saw him now, what would he say?

"Oh? You hurtin’? Mind if I poke at it?"

Something like that, no doubt.

The barbarian bastard.

Rem was getting cursed out for no reason, despite doing nothing.

At this very moment, he was probably just digging his pinky into his ear, completely unaware.

Enkrid spaced out for a moment, lost in thought.

Then Helma lifted the bowl.

"Would you like some?"

Enkrid instinctively opened his mouth.

It wasn’t until the porridge was in his mouth that he realized—he could eat by himself.

He was getting used to being fed, thanks to Shinar.

Still, it felt awkward to suddenly switch back after already accepting it once.

One spoonful, then another.

The taste was different this time.

Soft beans and rich meat melted together in each bite.

"I used well-boiled chicken and beans," the bandaged soldier explained.

The Master of Seasonings was also a damn good cook.

"This is delicious."

"Thank you."

He looked slightly embarrassed.

"I want to feed you too!"

The third soldier blurted out something insane.

Had he lost his mind?

"Are you out of your damn mind?"

Helma preemptively shut it down.

Good job, Helma.

Enkrid had only woken up for a little while.

After eating and lying still, he felt drowsy again.

His body still demanded recovery.

As he was dozing off, he faintly heard Helma’s voice.

"It was an honor."

Enkrid only nodded.

Sleep overtook him once more.

"I’m putting in a transfer request. I want to fight by your side."

The soldier who had been running his mouth earlier spoke up.

Whether he transferred or not was his own business.

Right before sleep overtook him completely, he faintly heard Ragna’s voice nearby.

"What, you're not going to feed me too?"

Helma’s reply came without hesitation.

"Your arms seem to be working just fine."

To be fair, Enkrid’s arms were working just fine, too.

In his dream, he found himself wielding a sword with his toes, entirely without arms.

Ragna appeared, asking what the hell he was doing.

Enkrid answered simply.

"I don’t have arms."

It was a ridiculous dream.

Eat, sleep, repeat.

By the next afternoon, Kraiss arrived with an update.

"Azpen's forces are pulling back."

"Good news."

"Though, whether they're planning something else is another matter entirely."

Suspicion was written all over Kraiss’s face.

Like he was staring at someone who had just stolen his krona.

Did he think they had just suffered a loss?

Enkrid didn’t bother to ask.

He simply closed his eyes and went back to sleep.

After two straight days of rest, he could finally move.

"You recovered quickly."

Shinar, upon seeing him up, was genuinely surprised.

Of course, her face remained as expressionless as ever.

But she was surprised.

What kind of body did he even have, to be on his feet already?

A normal person wouldn’t have just been half-dead from that kind of injury.

They would have been completely dead.

Had the ointment she given him turned out to be some kind of miracle cure?

She had heard of a concoction made with holy water, poured with divine blessings to heal wounds instantly.

But the ointment made with the elves' secret methods contained no such divinity.

"Did you sneak in some special medicine without telling me?"

"What nonsense are you talking about?"

Deeming it a pointless remark, Enkrid ignored her and focused on checking his body.

Let's see.

If his normal state was a ten, then right now, he was at about a five.

His body wasn’t fully healed.

But there was no longer any reason to lie around.

And he was getting restless.