A Knight Who Eternally Regresses-Chapter 398: Strike and Thrust

The lieutenant who had held the javelin hesitated before finally retreating. His opponent did not pursue. It was as if he was silently saying, Only those who dare should step forward.

Enkrid merely shook the blood from his sword and returned to where he had first stood.

The horse that had carried him neighed softly beside him.

It was not an ordinary steed—its size and eyes spoke of something greater.

The lieutenant, having witnessed everything, backed away cautiously, returning to his side.

Rearvart, standing beside his horse, swung his sword down.

"You should have fought to the end and died properly."

Crunch!

The skull split in two. Rearvart wrenched his sword free.

A thick stream of blood trailed from the blade as he pulled it out.

"That idiot Jalban."

A clear, indifferent voice spat insult at the dead man.

It was Banat, the fairy warrior. She had golden hair cut as short as a man’s, and her voice was devoid of emotion—so much so that it went beyond mere coldness.

That was simply the way she spoke. A frigid, unreadable scorn.

"He was the weakest among us. I'll handle it."

Banat stepped forward, but Rearvart shook his head.

"I will go."

Did they truly believe sending in someone like that would boost morale? Then he would be the one to crush it.

Excluding Count Molsen, Rearvart was the highest-ranking warrior here—the second-in-command.

He did not need anyone’s permission.

Banat gave a small nod, her expression unreadable as ever.

Malten, being mute, remained silent, and Bennukt simply looked indifferent.

"Let me fight," Bennukt said.

The blood of giants ran in his veins, and he never bothered restraining his thirst for slaughter.

"When I kill him, charge all at once."

That was how it would be. Rearvart said no more and moved his horse forward. He took the reins and set his steed into a brisk trot.

He dismounted at the site where two corpses now lay, barely sparing Jalban a glance. Then, he secured his weapons.

He adjusted his sword belt, took a shortsword as a backup, and strapped a heavy machete to the back of his waist. It was a magical weapon.

He also fastened a plain kite shield to his left arm—not by a handle, but by a clamp onto his gauntlet, reducing its size slightly.

Even so, it was heavy. A weapon few would use unless they were confident in their strength.

With each step he took, his armor clanked—the sound of plate worn over gambeson.

Fully armed, he stepped forward.

Yet even then, his opponent merely stared at him.

Rearvart found those eyes irritating.

"Your name?"

"Enkrid."

"Rearvart."

It was the first time Enkrid had heard that name.

The Count’s Five Blades were known within his domain, but they were not warriors who operated beyond it.

Their names were not widely known.

It would not be an exaggeration to say that Enkrid was far more famous than any of them.

"I’ve already won," Enkrid said.

"...We haven’t even started."

"I meant because my name is more well-known."

What the hell is this bastard talking about?

Of course, it wasn’t because Enkrid was truly insane.

It was a simple taunt, meant to shake his opponent’s composure.

The way he walked, the way he armed himself, even the way he spoke—it all made him seem like a formidable opponent.

"So you really are from the Mad Platoon."

"Jealous?"

Rearvart fell silent for a moment.

Jealous?

Truthfully, was there anyone who disliked having a reputation?

Even if they weren’t driven by pride, fame was not an easy thing to turn down.

And Rearvart was an ambitious man. He was also an experienced one.

He quickly realized that he had let himself be dragged into his opponent’s words.

"You little shit."

"I'm tough to chew."

Was that supposed to mean I’d have a hard time eating him alive?

Rearvart was no fool. He was good with words himself, so he understood the meaning immediately.

And that only made him angrier.

"Fine. I'll kill you."

Rearvart stepped forward and swung his sword in a diagonal slash.

To Enkrid, the strike wasn’t particularly fast or unpredictable—there was an opening.

Because he could see it, he moved.

He focused all his Will into a single, piercing strike—Ember Thrust.

A needle of light shot toward his opponent’s «N.o.v.e.l.i.g.h.t» forearm.

Rearvart immediately withdrew his left arm, blocking with his kite shield.

Clang!

The thrust was stopped.

The shield didn’t break.

The material was no ordinary steel, and the wielder’s skill was no ordinary talent.

Enkrid pulled his sword back.

Whoosh.

Rearvart’s sword came stabbing forward.

It wasn’t a sudden acceleration, nor was it meant to sever his momentum.

Instead, it was calm and precise.

If Enkrid stayed still, it would graze his neck.

So he leaned back, bending his body to avoid it.

He had expected the sword to drop down for a follow-up slash, so he prepared Silver to intercept.

But his opponent pulled the sword back and reset his stance instead, once again positioning his shield in front.

Even if he had charged in recklessly, he would’ve been at an advantage.

Enkrid had accounted for that possibility and had counters in mind.

Yet, even after seeing this, his opponent didn’t press forward?

Enkrid straightened from his evasive posture, eyes narrowing at Rearvart’s helmet.

Through the visor, he saw the man’s gaze.

A feint?

No. His opponent was serious.

Ten knights could walk the same path, and all ten would take different steps.

That was why the path of a knight was so difficult.

Following in the footsteps of those before you did not guarantee the same results.

The same was true even for squires.

They each walked their own path.

Rearvart’s path was sturdier than most.

He wore thick plate armor and carried a shield.

He only thrust or slashed when he had a perfect opening.

There was no recklessness.

Even if there were a bridge of stone supported by iron pillars, he would not cross it—he would walk around instead.

He had built his swordsmanship on this solid foundation, incorporating his own mastery of words as well.

After his initial taunt, Enkrid fell silent.

His opponent’s defense was formidable.

Ember Thrust had not pierced it. Silver had not cut through it.

Even a Whistle Dagger thrown at a weak point had been deflected by his helmet.

It wasn’t just that he was wearing armor—he knew how to use it.

And that was impressive.

Meanwhile, Rearvart continued talking.

"You dream of becoming a knight?"

Enkrid recalled Ember Thrust and gripped Silver with both hands.

He swung down with crushing force.

Rearvart raised his shield and caught the blow.

Thud.

The sound was not the sharp clash of metal on metal, but a dull, heavy impact.

Silver’s blade struck Rearvart’s shield.

Enkrid immediately pressed down with all his strength, applying pressure.

Rearvart adjusted the shield’s angle, redirecting the force to the side.

The sword slid off harmlessly.

He blocked, absorbed the impact, and stepped back.

He didn’t falter under the pressure. His stance was as solid as his armor.

"So," Rearvart asked, "are you satisfied with the path you’ve walked so far?"

Enkrid heard the words, but he moved for his next attack instead.

If pressing down didn’t work, he would use a Binding Blade.

It was a battle of wits now.

The problem was, no matter what tactics he used, his opponent absorbed everything with his armor and shield.

A faint glow emanated from them.

They were enchanted, magical equipment.

Would Severance be able to cut through it?

If a battle of tactics could not secure victory, then all that remained was to pour everything into a single strike.

If he could not wield Severance in full, then he would compensate—with sheer force, with the Heart of Might.

Enkrid acted the moment he thought it.

A slash built upon Ragna’s technique.

He added the Greatsword Spinning Cut to it. He pressed his foot into the ground, twisting his waist to drive the power into his sword.

Just as he gathered his strength to swing, Rearvart charged in, attempting a body slam despite his heavy armor.

Had Enkrid continued his slash, at best, he would have struck his opponent’s forearm where the ricasso was exposed.

He had to retreat. His stance was momentarily disrupted, but Rearvart did not pursue.

He simply raised his shield and reset his stance.

He bent his knees, lowering his center of gravity, watching his opponent carefully, sword poised to strike or thrust at any moment.

A troublesome opponent.

"If the path you’ve chosen is the wrong one, what will you do?"

Rearvart spoke.

Enkrid studied him, considering his words.

He was already a formidable warrior, yet he devoted himself entirely to defense.

What did that mean?

Enkrid saw the strategy behind it.

This translation is the intellectual property of Novelight.

"The road to knighthood is harsh. A path of thorns, a plunge off a cliff with brambles in your arms. And if you make even a single misstep, the ideal you seek is forever out of reach. Every time, you must leap with the thorns in your grasp—and be right every time."

Rearvart spoke steadily, his breathing even.

He was preparing for a prolonged battle.

He nullified his opponent’s attacks with armor and shield while keeping the conversation going, never once letting his breathing waver.

His nickname Executioner did not suit this measured, unwavering approach.

Yet, he was still dangerous.

His shield and armor stood like an unbreakable iron wall.

That was his intent.

And above all, he used his words to shake his opponent’s resolve.

He sought weaknesses—pressing, cutting, and striking, both with his sword and his tongue.

"Every wrong turn weakens your talent, drains your strength. Talent alone does not make a knight. So tell me—how far do you think you can go with nothing but talent and luck?"

He was especially talkative.

It was the same foundation that had allowed him to counter Enkrid’s initial taunt.

Rearvart, too, wielded words as a weapon.

"A knight? A dream that drifts ever further away. A painted grape, visible but untouchable. A star in the sky—wishing for it does not place it in your grasp. You walk toward a foolish dream. Fairy tales do not happen in reality."

He turned his words into blades and spears.

Enkrid did not answer. Instead, he repeated his earlier attack.

He thrust with Ember Thrust.

Rearvart reacted in time, blocking with his shield.

He pressed down with Crushing Blade.

Rearvart endured, a man who could withstand even a falling boulder.

He attempted Binding Blade.

Rearvart did not waver.

He did not play into the tactical battle; instead, he interrupted the flow, shoving his shield forward to forcibly obstruct the path of the blade.

All the while, he continued talking.

"Walk barefoot on a path of thorns, and your feet will rot, burst, and fester. You’ll lose them entirely. Why take such a path?"

Rearvart was relentless. Even without a response, he kept speaking.

Enkrid finally answered his persistence.

"You're unbearably noisy."

Truthfully, he could have answered sooner—Rearvart’s words did not shake him in the slightest.

"Noisy? Look inward. If my words sting, then it means, deep down, you already acknowledge them as truth."

"You should’ve been a philosopher, not a knight."

Enkrid took two steps back, adjusting his stance.

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He stepped forward with his left foot, pulling his right foot back.

A basic form.

He raised his sword skyward, as if to pierce the heavens.

"If you’ve chosen the wrong path, what then? I’ve told you—when talent fades, when you lose your way, what will you do?"

His voice feigned concern.

"I’ll just do it again."

Rearvart blinked.

He had spent the entire fight explaining why that was impossible.

The exchange continued a little longer.

Thorns, lost talent, the impossibility of becoming a knight.

"I’ll just do it again."

A battle of offense and defense was often called a battle of spear and shield.

Until now, their swords had been that battle.

Now, their words had become it.

With the sword, Enkrid attacked and Rearvart defended.

With words, Rearvart attacked and Enkrid deflected.

Enkrid responded steadily, repeatedly.

"I’ll just do it again."

"I can do it again."

"Getting lost is part of the journey."

"I don’t need shortcuts."

"I’ll just do it again."

Something here was harder than Rearvart’s armor and shield.

A sheer force of will.

Of course, when Enkrid said again, he did not mean repeating today.

Even without that, he would keep moving forward.

Because even without knowing if this path was right, he had lived each day, each tomorrow, like this.

Had he been certain this path was right when he swung his sword until his palms bled?

He had not.

He had simply repeated, walked, and walked.

And in the end, his worn, tattered dream had caught the light of dawn.

If he had three more todays, he would have surpassed even the Interrupter Squires.

For a month, as he fought beyond Aisia, each day had been a gateway to a new world.

Now, Enkrid swung from his sky-piercing stance.

He seized and pressed down.

A fusion of Binding Blade and Crushing Blade.

A feat of swordsmanship wielded through a single sword.

The Dual-Sword Style was difficult to master.

Rearvart had placed everything into enduring and blocking.

So Enkrid struck with all he had.

His left hand, trained for speed, struck first—executing an Instant Acceleration parry.

His mind split into separate thoughts, executing two attacks at once.

His right arm strained as he drove his sword downward.

Clang!

Before the ringing steel had even faded, Ember Thrust shot forward.

Thud!

The thrust struck Rearvart’s shoulder plate but failed to achieve its purpose.

Silver, too, could not cut through the shield.

It didn’t matter.

He would just do it again.

Enkrid repeated his assault.

A prolonged battle meant confidence in one’s stamina.

That applied to him just as well.

He stopped breathing.

He pulled his opponent into a world of breathless combat.

And he repeated.

Strike, thrust. Strike, thrust. Strike, thrust.

Rearvart blocked, endured. Blocked, endured.

Before either of them realized it, their fight had become a contest of perseverance.

Their words had vanished.

At the heart of the battlefield, only the ringing of metal remained.

The war horns had fallen silent.

Even the drums had stopped.

The sound of clashing steel alone became the voice of the battlefield.