Eternally Regressing Knight-Chapter 475 - Human Totem

Chapter 475 - Human Totem

"Have you ever heard of a totem?"

It was a tool used in shamanism, as I had mentioned before.

"You told me about it,"

Enkrid replied, seated in the middle of the tent.

The chair he was sitting in lacked a backrest, but it wasn't too uncomfortable.

In front of him, Rem had taken on the role of a serious shaman teacher.

"Now, the captain will become a human totem. You will eat, sleep, and play here."

Rem spoke with a solemn tone.

Enkrid, quick to catch on, immediately understood the situation.

It seemed like this was what he was supposed to do.

Of course, it took several experiments to get here.

Just a moment ago, when Rem intervened, he had said this right away:

"Get out. Now."

Enkrid followed Rem's command, stepping outside the tent. After taking about three steps, Rem called from the entrance, his foot resting against the flap. He waved his hand, showing the back of his hand.

"Go far over there."

Enkrid obeyed, moving further away.

Dunbakel emerged from the tent and sat down, holding her nose with one hand, watching the scene.

Luagarne followed Enkrid from behind.

"He thinks you can block curses," she said, drinking water repeatedly.

"That can't be," Enkrid muttered.

It was just a coincidence.

Even though he joked about realizing divine power, there was no way that was true.

He hadn't even touched shamanism.

There was no need to reflect on his past life; he had been too busy wielding a sword.

Even now, his mind was occupied with the things he had pondered earlier.

The twins attacked in a very unique tempo.

One used a single tempo, throwing a spear with precise breath, while the other used a half tempo.

Watching that, many thoughts crossed his mind.

'What if I mix the tempos?'

The idea came to him, recalling how Oara had demonstrated her technique.

Her swordsmanship was rooted in basic principles, one of which was tempo.

She applied the counter to a single tempo, split it with a half tempo, and added two moves into a single tempo, creating a double tempo.

Tempo could also be seen as a single breath. Ragna, too, added three or four moves in one breath.

Would it be called a triple or fourth tempo?

The name didn't matter.

Oara did the same—splitting tempos and using a single tempo.

She even did the opposite, lengthening her strikes and making them slower.

That was what she did with the fragments of Beelrog's attacks, showing continuous swordplay.

Her sword never stopped—it flowed, one strike following another.

It left a strong impression.

Other figures came to his mind, too.

Ragna swung his sword for one heavy strike, engaging in trickery or strategic feints to deceive the opponent.

But the goal was always the same: landing the decisive blow, whether on a sword or shield.

The King of the East used cutting movements that were unpredictable and irregular, thrusting the spear in strange angles and breaking gaps in the defense. There was no clear pattern to his strikes.

Enkrid continued to reflect. His mind raced, and his body repeated the motions, adjusting with every strike.

As he walked, practicing his swordsmanship in his head, Luagarne watched him, wide-eyed.

'He's obsessed with training.'

That was a common thought from those who saw Enkrid practice. Luagarne agreed with it.

Training, relentless training.

He didn't tire of it, even breaking up his sleep time to practice.

That was Enkrid.

Even now, his thoughts were consumed by swordplay.

He thought about breaking the tempo like one would break a breath.

Could such a sword technique exist?

There was one, in fact—Valen-style mercenary swordplay.

"I used to think that was nonsense," he mused.

Valen-style mercenary swordplay was about mixing your breath and tempo however you wished.

It was a technique that played with rhythm and breath.

But how could it work?

It required perfect mastery of all basic skills.

Was it an easy path?

No.

It was difficult.

A hard road.

And yet, Enkrid found joy in it.

It was the path he enjoyed.

Looking back, there was no swordplay more focused on mastering the basics than Valen-style mercenary swordplay.

Even more so than Oara, who had been an incredible practitioner, Valen's teachings had a more stringent emphasis on the basics.

While Enkrid didn't physically hear those lessons, it was almost as if he had.

Back when he had learned the Valen-style, there had been a manual, and every page was filled with advice about mastering the fundamentals.

"First, get the correct posture. Without basics, you can't deceive your opponent."

"If you can't wield your sword with the right posture, you can't even cut straw."

"Make your body work, so you can hold the proper posture."

"It all starts with your stance."

"Focus on the stance when holding your sword. That's where it begins."

"What comes before technique? Think about it. Yes, it's your posture."

The book would have been thinner if it removed all the advice on posture and foot placement, but those things were that important.

Most who read it ignored these words, dismissing them as unnecessary details.

Enkrid, however, could not afford to do that.

He had to follow those instructions.

During a time when he was desperate, he had sharpened his skills through these basic teachings.

He couldn't imagine becoming a swordsman without them.

If Valen had returned to see Enkrid now, he would have proudly called him his disciple.

But back then, Valen might have scoffed at Enkrid's meager talent and asked how he could possibly live off a sword.

The truth was, Valen-style swordsmanship was about mixing in truth to deceive your opponent.

By honing the basics, one could employ various tricks within the swordplay.

Enkrid was immersed in these thoughts as he walked farther from the tent.

"Come back!" Rem called from a distance.

Enkrid turned back and walked toward the tent.

Along the way, there were eyes watching him—some dull, others staring thoughtlessly.

The sun was bright, and the light hurt his eyes.

Enkrid sought a shady spot, walking along the side of a large tent.

It seemed like an unnecessary task.

Some other factor must have been involved.

After all, how could just his confidence make the curse disappear?

As he neared, he saw that Rem's expression had grown serious.

"Go there. Move away."

Rem's tone had lost its playful edge.

The woman, who seemed to be a mother, knelt and sat quietly.

The shaman, Hira, kept placing an incense stick to her mouth, the smoke clouding her face.

Enkrid did as Rem instructed.

After three rounds of coming and going, Rem muttered under his breath.

"Damn, is this really happening?"

But then, he nodded.

The situation was too chaotic to question or consider properly.

It was a mess, and there was no time to analyze it.

So, Rem decided to establish the human totem, and Enkrid had to accept it.

Looking around, Enkrid saw that many of the people were injured—more than twenty of them.

He thought to himself, Do I need to bring a healer?

Or perhaps a shaman?

At least becoming a human totem seemed much easier than threatening a shaman with a knife to their neck.

After Rem's experiment ended, it was Hira's turn.

She would make contact with those cursed and sit quietly.

And that's how the decision was made.

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In the middle of the tent, Enkrid became the human totem.

A special chair was brought in, replacing the usual one. It was his personal chair, with a soft cushion and fragrant herbs from the west burning instead of pungent smoke.

A clay vessel used by the chief was moved here. It had four holes at the top, and when the herbs burned, smoke rose gently from them.

"Ah, this smells good," said Dunbakel.

Enkrid deeply inhaled the scent that drove away the rancid and foul odors from Dunbakel's body.

As she had said, it smelled good.

It made him want to scold her immediately.

"Go wash up."

"Ah, why?"

"Now."

"In our village, there's a saying that if you wash too often, it brings misfortune."

"Do beastkin villages really have such a saying?"

Luagarne knew the habits of beastkin well.

She knew they didn't enjoy bathing, but also that they didn't casually mention such superstitions.

Dunbakel didn't continue speaking.

After all, she hadn't spent that many years in the village—she had been cast out as a child.

"Are you going to wash?"

Before long, the mother of the child, who had almost become a follower, approached.

Enkrid was a little wary of her.

Her attitude had changed so suddenly, and her demeanor seemed different.

Actually, when he thought about it, westerners tended to be like this.

They were bold, straightforward, and had little pretense.

The middle-aged man who had come after hearing the news of the curse being blocked had been like this too.

"Thank you, thank you."

Enkrid had just nodded vaguely, not even knowing who the child was was.

The child's mother stared at Dunbakel.

Enkrid read her gaze.

Will she speak if I say something? What if she doesn't hear it?

The mother's hand slipped into her robe.

She subtly grasped a karambit, a small curved dagger, and appeared lost in thought.

"Hey, wash up. Don't make things difficult."

Enkrid kicked Dunbakel in the rear and sent her off. There was nothing else to do.

Mostly, he just watched as Hira, who was gradually losing her temper, occasionally spat out sharp words.

"Protect this land."

Hira muttered this as she continued tending to the patients.

Was that some kind of spell?

She applied a dark, viscous ointment beneath the patients' eyes, turned their bodies, wiped their faces and limbs.

It looked more like careful nursing than magic.

"You can walk around near the tents."

Hira's attitude also changed.

She had become more polite toward Enkrid.

When they stepped outside, the twins were standing guard near the tents.

It was in response to Rem's statement when they asked if he needed anything.

"Prepare a sparring partner for me."

"Okay."

"Not going to do it yourself?"

"I'll be busy."

Rem said this and left.

And so, Enkrid became the totem.

It wasn't boring at all.

When sitting, he trained in his mind.

When he went out, he moved his body.

He had cleared enough space in front of the tent to swing his sword.

He didn't even feel awkward adapting to the western tribe.

Having lived as a mercenary, surviving on swordplay for years, how could he possibly not adapt?

To sum it up, Enkrid got along well.

"Please, eat."

Nearby, the child's mother was tending to him with great care.

Yes, it wasn't just attending to him—she was practically serving him.

"I'll eat well."

Enkrid responded casually, quenching his thirst with a ground squirrel fruit and eating some well-cooked lizard meat.

Their cooking style was quite similar to what he had experienced with Rem.

They would catch a brown-furred rabbit, skin it, remove the innards, and then either crush the meat into a porridge or make it into dumplings.

Like a noble's table, no food was wasted.

They ate just enough, but it was sufficient for their nutrition.

Was it tasty?

Yes, it was.

The habit of eating whole animals had likely come from the scarcity of resources.

Several hours passed, and before evening, some of the children were wandering around.

Enkrid, while polishing his sword, gazed at the children silently.

Did they come to watch me?

Were they curious because I'm a foreigner?

They hadn't seemed particularly interested until now.

Some of the children did show curiosity.

However, their purpose wasn't to watch him.

"Is Jiba alright?"

One of the children asked, looking toward the tent.

The mother came out and looked at the child.

Enkrid recognized the face—it was one of the girls who had been playing earlier.

"I told you not to come near here."

"But they said it's okay now."

One of the children spoke up.

There was concern in her attitude, words, and gaze.

When her friend had collapsed, the children had been lingering around, worried.

Though children were playful, they also worried.

Enkrid merely watched.

He didn't need to interfere.

"Still, don't come near."

The mother, having regained her composure and forgotten the resentment and hatred, shooed the children away.

She didn't want to bring any bad luck to her children by being too close.

"Benefactor, if you're feeling bored, please have some of this."

The mother then offered dried plums to Enkrid.

He took one and chewed it.

It was sweet.

Next to him, Luagarne was drinking water constantly.

Then, the woman gave a gift for Luagarne as well.

It was a dry, grasshopper-like insect.

After catching one from the wild, she put it in a basket made of tree branches.

When Luagarne saw it, her cheeks puffed up with joy.

Looking back, Luargarne might have a thing for food.

Enkrid spent the whole day training with his sword, eating, drinking, and relieving himself.

He felt a change—it was making the training more enjoyable than before.

The twins occasionally served as sparring partners.

Rem also came by from time to time.

"I'm going to die."

"What's wrong?"

Enkrid asked, wondering if something difficult had happened.

It was a bright night with the moon shining, so clear that everything was visible without a torch.

"Ayul won't listen."

"When did you leave?"

Rem hesitated before answering.

"About ten days after the wedding."

"Then?"

"I just..."

"Just?"

"I ran away in the middle of the night."

This fool!

He did that, then proudly walked on two legs?

Would it even be forgivable after crawling on all fours and begging for mercy?

Enkrid gripped the hilt of his Aker's sword, his face grim.

"Bend your waist. Put your neck here"

As he looked at the tent pole outside, Rem asked.

"What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to calm her anger. It might be quicker to cut your head off and bring it back."

There seemed to be no other option.

Rem chuckled, but Enkrid didn't laugh.

"Wasn't that a joke?"

"I'm serious."

"Hey, don't meddle in other people's affairs."

It seemed he had gone too far in teasing Rem.

He turned around with a stern face.

Afterward, Rem was no longer around.

He looked busy.

The first night passed like this, and on the second night, when Enkrid was trying to sleep in the middle of the tent, something began to shake his body.

Splash.

It came with the sound of the river water moving.

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