A Knight Who Eternally Regresses Novel - Chapter 687

Chapter 687

Darkness descended rapidly across the mountain range. The fleeting dusk vanished, and the celestial glow of the moon and stars soon claimed the territory vacated by the sun.

The group traveled at a brisk, rhythmic pace rather than a desperate sprint. Whenever they reached a stretch of level ground, their momentum surged. Their strides quickened until the astral lights above seemed to blur into luminous trails.

*Screeeech!*

A beast resembling a feral boar recoiled in alarm as they blurred past. It attempted a half-hearted pursuit before abandoning the chase. Had the creature been more dogged, it likely would have suffered the grisly fate of having its vitals strewn across the dirt—but fortune favored the animal that night.

Grida’s hand hovered over the pommel of her blade before she let it drop. She concluded in that split second that butchering a monster and allowing the stench of gore to permeate the air would only draw more predators. It was better to pass in silence.

The rare flat stretches offered a momentary reprieve. However, as Magrun had warned, the trail eventually twisted into more treacherous territory. Sharp rocks pierced the earth, and gnarled tree roots lay scattered like organic snares designed to trip the unwary.

Such obstacles might have brought down a common traveler, but these were knights. Not a single person in the party was slowed by the uneven terrain. Anne, who lacked the stamina to sustain such a forced march, had consumed two sedative pellets and slipped into a death-like slumber, secured firmly to Ragna’s back.

*Swish! Crack! Thwack!*

Positioned at the vanguard, Magrun wielded his blade to clear the path, lopping off intrusive branches that tumbled away behind them. He navigated through the roots with precision, seeking stable earth. When they encountered a waist-high boulder, they didn’t break their rhythm—they vaulted over it effortlessly. From the valley floor, the steepness of the climb might have looked daunting, but they ascended without a pause.

As they moved, Enkrid retreated into his own mind. He had long ago mastered the art of mental multitasking; navigating difficult terrain while deep in thought was as natural to him as breathing. His vision, honed for the dark, utilized the meager starlight to guide his steps. Unless he was pushing his absolute physical limits, he could adjust his footing with ease.

This was the ideal moment to contemplate the essence of the blade. Or so it seemed to him. It was about making movement instinctive—like reaching out to catch a falling object or a street vendor flipping meat skewers over a flame without a second thought. If he could manifest his Will with that same level of subconscious ease, his reactions to any ambush would be devastatingly powerful.

He had touched upon this truth before, but he knew that without relentless repetition, it would never truly become part of his nature. Enkrid understood his own limitations; a mere realization wasn’t enough—it had to be etched into his muscle memory. This was why he almost looked forward to the chaos of a sudden engagement.

In the midst of his meditation, his survival instincts sparked.

*Something is approaching.*

The moment the sensation hit him, Ragna—even while burdened by Anne—pivoted mid-stride, driving his foot into the earth to pivot.

*Thud!* The ground beneath Ragna’s boot buckled, leaving a shallow crater. His footwear, custom-crafted by Kraiss with steel reinforcements and durable troll-hide leather, held firm against the immense pressure. Enkrid watched as the boots kicked up a spray of dirt in what felt like slow motion.

Then, a dark, elongated shape lunged through the opening.

“Ambush!”

Ragna had reacted first, and Grida’s warning followed an instant later. Enkrid, trailing Ragna, drew Penna and lashed out the very second Grida spoke.

*Slice!*

The blade, a masterpiece of fairy craftsmanship known for its peerless edge, carved a diagonal path through the gloom.

An arm.

Enkrid felt the connection. His eyes, adjusted to the nocturnal light, caught the detail in the moon’s reflection. It was a forearm shielded by thick, obsidian scales. He felt the resistance through the hilt.

*It is resilient.*

A lesser weapon would have struggled, but Penna severed it cleanly. Scales and bone offered little defense against the fairy blade.

There was no cry of pain. Instead, the creature flicked its severed stump, deliberately spraying jet-black blood toward Enkrid’s eyes. His heightened perception caught the malice behind the move immediately. It was using its own mutilation as a weapon. This wasn’t the behavior of a common beast; usually, an injured animal would recoil or lash out blindly.

“Black!”

Grida’s voice rang out again, but Enkrid had already evaded the crimson spray by darting to the left, while Ragna veered right. Utilizing the explosive “frog-step” technique he’d acquired from Lua Gharne, Enkrid launched himself off the ground, bringing Penna around in a horizontal sweep.

An attack is a flash in time.

Every motion was saturated with Will, executed with a clinical efficiency that bordered on the mechanical. The sword, shimmering like a sliver of the moon, sliced through the air in a radiant arc, clearing everything in its trajectory. It cut through the midnight air and the black-scaled Scaler lurking within it.

*Splatter!*

The creature, nearly cloven in two, slumped to the ground as its lifeblood and innards spilled out. Enkrid held his finishing posture for a beat as the party halted.

“Look at these wretches,” Grida hissed, peering into the shadows ahead.

They left no scent and projected no presence, yet the darkness was suddenly filled with vertical, predatory pupils. Dozens of obsidian eyes stared back at them, glowing with a faint, eerie light.

*Ssssssshhh…*

Hissing sounds emerged from the brush and from beneath the ancient roots of the trees. It was another hunting party of Scalers. Enkrid glanced back at their path and then at the wall of monsters blocking their forward progress.

These weren’t magical constructs or cursed spirits—just Scalers. Their numbers were fewer than their previous encounter.

“Be wary of the ones with black scales,” Grida cautioned. “Some possess unique traits.”

Perhaps those traits were their version of sorcery. The one Enkrid had just cut down was noticeably sturdier than its kin. Was that its only gift? Unlikely.

*Did they deploy these quickly because we changed our course?* Enkrid wondered. *If so, how are they tracking us?*

The answer was basic military logic. To track an enemy, you use scouts. The opposition had clearly done the same. They hadn’t used obvious scouts that would be easily spotted; they must have used something more discreet.

Pieces of the puzzle began to fit together in his mind. The bat-like creature from their first day of travel. Bats used sound to navigate. If the goal was simply to monitor their location, sound would suffice. To a trained observer, the sound of a snapping twig or a heavy footfall in the mountains was as good as a visual sighting. Intercepting them in real-time was a simple matter of logistics.

They sent the Scalers here to obstruct them. This time, the goal wasn’t just to snatch Anne; it was to bleed their time and momentum. In a strategic sense, every delay was a defeat.

“Keep moving,” Enkrid stated firmly.

Grida looked at him. “What about you?”

“I’ll catch up shortly. Just leave a trail for me to follow.”

There was no need to ask if he would survive. If the enemy had specialized monsters, this group had a specialized knight of their own. Grida nodded to Magrun, who resumed the lead. Ragna followed without a backward glance, showing his absolute confidence in Enkrid’s capability.

The Scaler pack didn’t bother splitting their forces. When Enkrid remained behind, they focused entirely on him. Whether the enemy commander had planned for this separation was a question for another time. For now, there was only the immediate threat.

Enkrid faced the wall of monsters with a cold, almost predatory smile. “Let’s play.”

If these creatures possessed any spark of intellect, they would have felt the weight of their impending doom.

*Shing, chiiing!*

He returned Penna to its sheath and drew the Three-Iron Sword. The spirits of True Silver and Black Gold seemed to vibrate with anticipation, each eager to be the one to draw blood.

“Relax, both of you.”

As Enkrid spoke to his blades, the monsters took it for a moment of distraction and lunged from both sides. Enkrid met them with a whirlwind of steel. He drove True Silver upward in a celestial arc on his right and brought Black Gold down in a crushing blow on his left.

*Shnk, slice!*

The Scalers were split as if they had grown wings of gore, their bodies falling away in pieces. Beneath the moonlight, Enkrid’s expression remained calm and detached.

“Let us continue.”

He felt he was on the verge of a breakthrough, a realization that remained just out of reach. As he raised his sword high, two of the black-scaled variants gestured toward him. He felt a sudden, invisible pressure—spectral threads attempting to bind his arms and legs.

*Are they stronger than the manticore?* he mused. *No, roughly the same.*

It wasn’t enough to stop him. He exerted himself, and the air seemed to crackle as he snapped the psychic bonds through raw physical power. He didn’t even bother rushing the casters. Instead, he systematically dismantled the front liners.

A step forward with the left foot, a heavy strike from a middle guard. A deep thrust following through with the right.

*Thunk, stab!*

Sensing three points of lethal intent from his blind spot, he spun on his heel, his blade shattering three wooden spears in a single motion. His movements fluctuated between a blur of speed and a slow, agonizing precision. He moved only as much as the situation demanded.

His defense was fluid like the tide; his offense was sudden like a bolt of lightning. Yet, he questioned why they had to be distinct at all. Why separate the shield from the sword? At the pinnacle of knighthood, combat became a singular, unified existence.

Even as he contemplated this, a psychokinetic tried to pin his weapon while a spearman lunged with a poisoned tip.

*It isn’t about the technique or the hours spent.*

Enkrid adjusted his internal philosophy. He had once categorized swordsmanship by style and training. Now, he saw it differently. It was a balance of Sensation and Calculation. One informed the other. If a master like Pell couldn’t calculate, a strategist like Rophod would eventually find a gap. But if Rophod lacked instinct, he wouldn’t survive the first exchange.

With his mind sharpening, his twin swords moved in perfect harmony. Every strike was an improvement on the one before it.

*What I am doing right now is calculation.*

He was processing every variable, choosing the path of highest success, and executing it. It was becoming as instinctual as his heartbeat.

*I was too confident.*

It was often said that high knights used their Will without thinking. It looked effortless to an outsider, but it was built upon layers of endless repetition. Natural Will, refined swordsmanship, and more repetition—that was the formula. Even now, he could spot the flaws in his own form.

This was the Swordsmanship of Calculation. He had grasped it—but could he reach the level of pure, instinctive mastery?

The Mad Platoon had advised him to keep his true talents hidden. Enkrid decided he would simply develop a new talent to show the world instead. To an observer, his internal dialogue amidst a life-or-death struggle would seem like insanity. Perhaps even Rem would think so.

Yet, despite his wandering thoughts, his blades were unerring. The old continental proverb held that a knight was a walking catastrophe, capable of cutting through a hundred foes alone. Enkrid turned that myth into a bloody reality, carving a path through the Scalers.

When the last of them fell, he didn’t have a single mark on him. He didn’t look back at the carnage. The moment he decided the task was complete, he turned and vanished into the trees to find his friends. The Scalers had failed to stop them; they had merely provided Enkrid with a productive training session.