A Knight Who Eternally Regresses Novel - Chapter 680

Chapter 680

“If I just sit here wallowing because my shop was destroyed, who will take care of the baking? I won’t allow my daughter to enter marriage with nothing to her name. Or perhaps you’re planning to marry her yourself?”
It happened exactly when the sixth sense was triggered.
The cobbler, even with his place of business in ruins, never allowed his hands to go idle.
That image had stayed with him, burned into his mind.
It wasn’t an epic display, but the artisan had performed his craft, and Enkrid had been there to witness it.
Handling the cured hide, driving the hammer, stitching, spreading the glue—creating the frame and binding it together, every motion flowed with a liquid grace.
What thoughts had crossed his mind as he observed that?
“How many years of labor does it take to reach that level of mastery?”
He had definitely pondered that.
He had concluded that if he practiced his blade work without pause, he might one day achieve that same fluidity.
Back then, his life was an unending battle to figure out how to progress.
His mind then drifted to the memory of Aitri at the forge.
“Did his hand ever falter?”
Never.
Whether he was refining edges on the stone or pounding glowing metal, Aitri’s movements were constant.
If a path has been trodden a million times, one could walk it in total darkness.
That was how Aitri treated steel.
And what of Frokk, who worked at his side?
Frokk would stubbornly set tiny jewels with slick, sweaty fingers—was there ever a clumsy moment?
Not a single one.
Not even a trace.
He would rise before the sun, grip the tools that had become extensions of his own arms, liquefy silver, solder gold, and shape every variety of metal—driven by a hunger to give his imagination physical form.
Clumsiness cannot survive in a routine repeated every day without exception.
Even when errors occurred and failures mounted, his hands simply transitioned to the correction.
Enkrid hadn’t seen every moment of their lives, but the ease of their movements told the story—they had been doing this for a lifetime.
Snap!
Jaxon had once crept up and clicked his fingers unexpectedly.
Startled, Enkrid had whipped his head around instantly.
“How did you manage to turn your head just now? Was it a conscious thought? Did you identify the noise, calculate the coordinates, and then decide to move? Or did you just react?”
Jaxon had claimed there was no simpler way to explain the concept.
At that time, Enkrid didn’t grasp the meaning.
He had a faint idea, something akin to the mechanics of using Will—but he couldn’t actually feel the truth of it.
A merchant of great stature would promote his wares as naturally as breathing.
A woman searing meat would regulate the flames and spices by instinct.
Did any of them look hesitant or unsure of their next move?
No.
He had stood there in awe—watching the meat being prepared in front of the Ragged Saint.
It was a perfect sequence of tiny, exact actions, without a single wasted breath.
Did the Ragged Saint struggle or strain when manifesting divine strength?
No. It was as natural as a heartbeat.
Seiki had described the training in the same way.
That holy power should be set free effortlessly—handled and tossed about like a child’s plaything.
Seiki had once remarked:
“I’ve understood how to manipulate divinity since my childhood. I just didn’t realize it was a ‘power’ until much later. It was the same for my brothers.”
Audin had echoed the sentiment:
“You just do it. The problem isn’t lack of ability; it’s that you choose not to.”
Even Ragna, talking in his sleep, would mutter:
“Just as I’ve practiced the basic strike ten thousand times, my Will acts on reflex. It has always functioned that way.”
So, if Aitri could master his craft, so could Enkrid.
If the woman at the grill could do it, so could he.
While they hammered iron and cooked food, he had been swinging his blade and exercising his Will.
Because of the limitless reservoir within him, he had logged more focused hours than anyone else.
He had practiced relentlessly, repeating the same day over and over.
Yet, he had remained convinced he was incapable.
Why?
Because he believed Will was synonymous with willpower, and therefore, every action required a conscious intent—that was his mistake.
“Why are you stuck? It’s a mental block. You’re a madman, Captain. You think Will only activates when you tell it to? You think Will and willpower are the same thing? You actually believe that nonsense?”
Doesn’t Will come from the mind’s intent?
Yes.
But Rem had argued that Will and intent were distinct things.
Back then, Enkrid was lost.
But now—he understood.
It wasn’t a world-shaking epiphany.
He just thought back to the hands of the woman roasting meat.
Now, Enkrid could finally merge Will with his sword naturally.
It had begun as an attempt to diversify his combat style beyond his usual moves, but he had stumbled upon the ultimate answer.
“Simply turn every movement into a specialty.”
To move the sword with such natural ease meant there was no point in separating “skills” into boxes.
Others might not follow this philosophy—but he would.
That was sufficient.
“No, Audin moves in broad, sweeping circles, but when the moment demands it, he turns into a piercing awl.”
An awl can penetrate a circle.
But an awl is also prone to snapping.
“Versatility.”
That was the benchmark for those moving beyond the tier of senior knight.
A warrior had to be both the circle and the awl—shifting between them instantly.
Reflecting on this, he realized he had surrounded himself with absolute freaks of nature in his unit.
“Even after I managed to close the gap once, they all adapted and surged ahead of me again.”
Enkrid himself had been the catalyst for that growth.
Whether he recognized his role in it now—or even cared to—was another matter.
Simply being in the presence of such powerful individuals brought him a sense of peace.
How fortunate was he to have such comrades?
He remembered a tale Marcus told about the former commander who had first assembled this group of outcasts.
A man described as a selfish snake, interested only in his own survival?
“I’m actually curious to meet the man now.”
He felt a strange sense of gratitude.
“Ha.”
As he sat in thought, a new realization blossomed—an expansion of his perspective.
It wasn’t just about the sword.
Was Will really something only knights possessed?
A fresh concept took root in his mind:
“Normal people use Will as well.”
Of course, doing so wasn’t easy for them—and even when they did, it wasn’t flashy.
But they were using it.
It wasn’t a mere hunch; he was certain of it.
He had seen the proof with his own eyes just now.
The meat-roasting woman, Aitri at his anvil—they were channeling Will without knowing it.
That meant that those who reached the pinnacle of any trade were, in a sense, Will-users.
“Wait, if the source is identical, perhaps it’s not Will but mana?”
Or maybe they required a different classification altogether.
Regardless—pure technique wasn’t the whole story.
He thought back to the dwarf who had visited Aitri once.
That dwarf had possessed technical skills superior to Aitri’s.
Yet, Enkrid hadn’t sensed any weight or presence from him.
Thinking of “presence” brought Crang to mind.
Crang was both the sharpest awl and a blinding light.
No matter the setting, he was impossible to ignore.
Even in tattered clothes, his inner power could not be suppressed.
“What makes Crang valuable is what he carries inside.”
And what was that exactly?
He was starting to see why Crang’s voice moved the masses.
His dignity, his gravity, his aura—these were all products of his Will.
“Countless people use Will unconsciously, in small measures.”
It was the reward for those who gave their souls to their labor, who gave their time and devotion.
Or perhaps for those born under a specific star.
As these revelations settled, one of his senses flared to life.
Enkrid sensed the shifting air.
A scent hit him. It started with his nose.
He flared his nostrils, mentally categorizing every smell in the area.
The sweat of the group after the march, the herbs in Anne’s pack, the metallic smell of blood on Ragna, Grida’s scent, the iron of their gear—he knew them all.
But slicing through those familiar notes was something alien.
A subtle stench of gore and a fishy, raw odor.
Then came the audio.
The wind was blowing through the brush.
Shff shff shff—but beneath that pattern was a secondary, rhythmic noise.
Finally, the sense of touch.
The hair on his arms stood up as a wave of sensitivity washed over him.
In a heartbeat, Enkrid mapped out his entire surroundings.
His five senses—usually separate—fused into a single sixth sense, pushing the boundaries of his awareness.
A cold shiver raced up his spine.
He shifted his head and slightly adjusted his grip on the Three-Iron Sword.
The blade’s tip, held in his right hand, angled upward.
That tiny adjustment was enough for Ragna and the three from House Zaun to go on high alert.
Ignoring their shift in posture, Enkrid stared toward the upper left of his position.
If malice had a physical form—what would it look like?
His refined perception and his new understanding of natural Will merged—visualizing the threat.
It appeared as a jagged, thin needle darting from the shadows to pierce its mark.
His heightened awareness tore open a glimpse of the immediate future.
In that vision, he saw a black speck of death heading straight for Anne’s head.
He didn’t know what the object was.
He only knew it was pure, lethal intent.
The Three-Iron Sword traced a perfect arc.
Enkrid stepped out with his left foot, anchoring his weight, and swung the blade from the ground up.
Because his reaction was simultaneous with the intent he sensed, it appeared to any observer as if he simply lifted his sword in a casual motion.
Smack!
A heavy impact echoed.
The sound of flesh being torn apart.
Screeeeech!
A high-pitched wail, like a dying predator.
Enkrid watched as a spray of blood erupted above Anne.
The blood was a deep, ink-black.
“Ragna.”
He barked the name mid-swing, and Ragna moved instantly.
Launching himself upward, Ragna drew his massive sword and cut a diagonal line through the air.
He put his entire momentum into the blow—even though he had just been in a crouch.
It looked like he was attacking the empty sky, but Ragna’s gut told him a target was there.
Squelch!
Screeee!
The sound of rending hide and a hideous scream followed.
Enkrid identified his own target—a bat-like creature.
Its teeth were far larger and more jagged than any normal bat’s.
Hacked in half, it leaked fluid and viscera—it was dead before it hit the ground.
Ragna’s target was revealed as well.
An owlbear.
These owl-faced beasts were known as “night hunters.”
They were famous for their ability to remain completely silent and invisible while stalking.
“For them to get this close without being detected—that shouldn’t be possible.”
It reminded him of Jaxon’s stealth.
Even if these beasts were experts at hiding, this was unnatural.
Beyond the killing intent, Enkrid had noticed something else.
It was a realization born from defeating Walking Fire and his duels with Esther.
He could smell the traces of a spell.
He didn’t need a comparison, but—if Esther’s magic under the stars smelled like burning wood…
Then this scent was like rotting fruit—sickeningly sweet.
It was unique.
Powerful—but only visible to those who knew what to look for.
Even Enkrid had almost missed it.
And something felt wrong.
The bat and the owlbear had both been aiming for the same person.
“Why?”
He looked toward the freckled woman—she was trembling and pale, but she wasn’t screaming.
She had a strong spirit.
“Why are they hunting Anne?”
Do beasts have the intelligence to pick a specific target?
Or was it just bad luck?
“Magrun.”
Before Enkrid could call for him, Grida was already shouting, scanning the tree line.
“Odinkar, secure the perimeter! What the hell were those things?”
The group had been relaxing by the fire.
“What’s going on here?”
Magrun walked over, inspecting the area.
It might seem like an overreaction to a couple of animals—but the nature of the ambush had set everyone’s nerves on edge.
A knight’s title doesn’t protect them from toxins.
They still bleed.
And these monsters often have physical traits that outclass human limits.
Can a normal man snap a tree trunk with his hands?
An owlbear can smash timber with a single swipe of its arm.
Their strength and claws are that formidable.
So, real knights tend to over-prepare rather than get caught off guard.
These warriors were no different.
Enkrid included.
His sixth sense was still standing on end.
The odor still teased the edge of his senses.
It was the kind of smell you could only catch when your focus was at its peak.
Like trying to catch the scent of a dried flower petal right under your nose—if you moved an inch, it was gone.
“Do these beasts use magic?”
Enkrid asked, his senses still scanning.
“What are you talking about? We haven’t even reached our borders yet. This isn’t even part of the Empire.”
He was right; they weren’t in Border Guard territory.
They were northeast of Count Molsen’s lands—not yet at the peaks of the Pen-Hanil Mountains.
This was no man’s land.
Yet, they had been precisely targeted.
“I don’t sense any more direct threats… but the smell is still here.”
“Where?”
How do you track something you can’t see?
Enkrid’s eyes roamed the darkness.
Using the environment is the core of survival.
He grabbed a piece of wood from the campfire.
It was only half-consumed—making for a perfect makeshift torch.
Fwoosh—the log sparked, sending embers flying into the night air.
The firelight danced, and Enkrid’s shadow shifted like the tide.