A Knight Who Eternally Regresses Novel - Chapter 732

Chapter 732

The Sword of Chance serves as the premier response when facing an unfamiliar adversary. Its nature allows it to knit every unfolding possibility into the user’s deliberate intent.

His perception, sharpened by acute sensory mastery and hard-won combat experience, deciphered the atmosphere.

“In the martial traditions of the Empire, manifesting Oppression into a physical form is a fundamental requirement.”

His intellect dissected the statement provided by Valphir.

Imperial swordsmanship. Fundamentals. Oppression. Form.

These concepts materialized before him, appearing remarkably straightforward rather than convoluted.

“The Oppression of Tempest Zaun felt like a force of nature.”

This realization had dawned on him during his personal drills with the blade.

However, the warrior standing across from him was of a different breed. When Valphir labeled it the “foundation” of the Empire’s style, he implied a conscious effort to mold their killing intent into a specific shape.

What was the purpose of such a curriculum?

“First—it serves to project a tangible, overwhelming weight onto the foe.”

Second—by displaying only a specific silhouette of their style through that form, they craftily mask the rest of their repertoire.

At this moment, Gelt was essentially using the sword as a veil to hide his true self.

It appeared to be a posture dedicated to total protection…

“Yet, I cannot take that at face value.”

The act of deconstructing and rebuilding a combat stance occurred in a heartbeat.

Just as it seemed he was retreating behind his steel, Gelt eliminated the gap between them.

“Silent footwork.”

It was a fusion of knightly maneuvers, incorporating the principle of Assimilation.

The scent of cold iron hit his nostrils. His mouth hung slightly open, leaving a tart sensation on his palate.

His tactile senses flared—the hair on his arms stood on end.

The movement was silent, and to the naked eye, it looked like a simple, elegant cut—but there was a hidden depth to it.

Enkrid pivoted his hips and drove his weight through his left foot, swinging Three Iron along the most efficient trajectory possible.

The edge dipped in a fluid curve before snapping into a horizontal plane, slicing toward Gelt’s torso.

The precision of the move was nearly gymnastic.

Clang!

A vibration traveled from the center of Three Iron into his palms.

Gelt had produced a blade roughly two hand-spans shorter than his primary weapon, striking from the shadow of his right hand.

It met Three Iron with a heavy ring.

Despite intercepting the surprise maneuver, Enkrid’s internal alarms remained loud.

“This is not the end.”

His hand reacted before the thought had fully crystallized.

He released his left-hand grip on Three Iron, unsheathed Penna, and slashed upward.

It intercepted Gelt’s descending follow-up—a second concealed strike.

Ching!

Penna glided past Three Iron with finesse, parrying the falling steel.

With both gambits neutralized, Gelt backed away using those same ethereal strides.

Shff, shff, shff.

His soles barely grazed the dirt, yet he reached a distance beyond the reach of a blade.

Should he be permitted such a retreat?

Absolutely not.

Enkrid lowered his center of gravity and exploded forward.

Boom.

He kicked off the ground and accelerated. It was a stride refined by the principles taught by Lua Gharne.

An uncompromising charge—uncomplicated and lethal. If Gelt merely held his sword steady, Enkrid’s momentum might carry him onto the point.

Gelt responded in kind.

He ceased his withdrawal, planted his heel firmly, and lunged with the longer of his two swords.

The steel pierced the air—transformed into a lethal point by Enkrid’s own speed. It moved swifter than any projectile he had ever encountered.

However, Enkrid’s blade was already in position.

The point collided with the flat side of Three Iron. At the instant of contact, his wrist twisted by pure reaction.

Ting!

It was a blend of raw intuition and a calculated prediction of the beat.

“The Sword of Chance is not fueled by gut feeling alone.”

Experience provided the spark for true perception.

The Sword of Chance operated on two synchronized engines: instinct and seasoned experience.

He brushed the attack aside, maintained his forward flow, and delivered a thrust of his own.

Any typical warrior would have buckled—but Gelt discarded his lunging weapon and threw a heavy punch.

Enkrid disregarded the fist, let Penna fall, and clamped both hands onto Three Iron.

Everything had been orchestrated for this specific beat.

A blade guided by pure intent. A solitary strike imbued with the velocity of a lightning bolt.

His cognitive processes reached a state of absolute transparency and settled on a resolution—enacted without delay.

Slice! Splatter!

“You little—!”

Gelt retracted the punch and threw himself to the side—but he surrendered his left arm in the process.

Had he failed to move, his skull would have been cleaved in two.

Enkrid gave his sword a sharp flick, sending droplets of red across the earth.

A few spots stained his cheek. The detached limb jerked on the ground like a fish out of water.

There was no requirement for a protracted duel. The conclusion was undeniable.

Was the swordsmanship of the Empire truly so unique?

Certain patterns were unfamiliar, but the essence remained identical.

Slay the opponent. Remain unmarred yourself.

It was exactly what Enkrid had just achieved.

“What kind of person produced such a freak…?”

Gelt growled while gripping his raw shoulder. He halted the flow of blood by manipulating his own muscle fibers—a display of high-level control.

He performed the task with casual ease.

Enkrid noted this as well, etching the technique into his mind.

Gelt, holding his remaining sword, glared with intensity.

Observing him, Enkrid felt he had finally grasped the philosophy of Imperial swordsmanship.

An unbroken, perfect loop.

A unified refinement of every possible technique.

Perhaps this wasn’t the full picture, but based on this encounter—it appeared to be the case.

They were rooted in the basics and had polished them to a mirror finish.

The only difference was that their interpretation of “basics” far exceeded that of the rest of the continent.

It was a level of mastery that even Ragna, Rem, Audin, Jaxon, or Shinar might not entirely comprehend.

Was it simple luck that he had witnessed this?

No. It was the unavoidable result of the path he had forged for his own martial journey.

He had received instruction from the Zaun lineage as well.

And it wasn’t a superficial education. He had committed himself fully.

Zaun welcomed any who wished to study and appreciate the craft.

“But what of the Empire?”

Master knights mentored their subordinates. Countless doctrines must have been established through that lineage.

Among those, Imperial swordsmanship seemed to prioritize—

“Turning the extraordinary into a standardized practice.”

Molding Oppression into a visible shape was a feat few in Zaun could manage.

On the continent, even tapping into Oppression was beyond the reach of many mid-tier knights.

“Yet the Empire functions differently.”

The sensation against his skin validated it. More than a theory or a guess—his gut turned the answer into a fact.

Imperial swordsmanship was not something to be understood by sight alone.

One had to endure the methodology—that relentless conditioning that made the supernatural feel mundane.

And those who rose above even that rigorous standard…

They would possess a level of skill completely foreign to anything continental warriors could envision.

Should a person fall into despair over that? Be intimidated by such a lopsided starting point?

Perhaps the majority would. But not Enkrid.

To him, it was a beacon. It was far superior to trekking through a wilderness without a map.

He would incorporate the Empire’s solution into his own.

In doing so, a fresh realization began to take root. Enkrid allowed a smile to form.

“…Does this lunatic always grin when he lops off a limb?”

Gelt spat the words with bitterness.

It was a misunderstanding—but Enkrid saw no point in clarifying.

—

Valphir had experienced at least half a dozen moments of genuine shock while observing the skirmish.

The first realization was simple—

“He is anything but ordinary.”

The sheer scale of power Enkrid was wielding.

At this stage… could he actually stand his ground against Tempest Zaun?

Certainly, Tempest Zaun possessed his signature One Strike.

Even a man like Valphir wouldn’t be able to intercept that.

One would have to engage entirely outside the reach of that move just to survive.

But aside from that single factor…

“He might actually prevail.”

That was the caliber of his combat efficiency.

Gelt always relied on deceptive feints for his opening move.

Valphir had seen many who were too clever to be fooled—

“But never someone who could weaponize the feint back against him.”

Enkrid had introduced a second blade, shattered Gelt’s timing, seized control of the flow—and then committed to a final, decisive lunge.

It wasn’t merely a matter of power, reaction time, or speed.

The boy knew how to kill.

Valphir, with his background as a mercenary, recognized the signs.

One does not reach that state without clawing through death’s door hundreds of times.

“A man devoid of natural gifts, scaling a mountain through sheer stubbornness.”

A resilient weed that refused to die despite a storm of misfortune.

That was the mental image that took shape.

Valphir’s personal outlet was painting. When he returned home, he decided he would attempt to capture that image.

A sheer cliff and a lone weed—an unlikely pairing, yet he wanted to find the harmony in them.

There was one more thing that stunned him.

“Even in the heat of that struggle, a portion of his mind was fixed on me.”

The reason?

Because he never placed his full confidence in Valphir.

That had been a constant throughout their time on the road.

Even while they swapped stories, shared meals, or practiced.

Gelt was a knight of the Empire. On the continent, he could have easily dismantled three or four of those ornamental knights.

“And yet, while engaged with him, Enkrid kept a sliver of his focus on me.”

Even during that high-risk charge.

Who wouldn’t be taken aback by that?

“He is truly a monster.”

Valphir rubbed his cheek—a nervous twitch he’d had for years.

Whenever he did, the old scar there would begin to tingle.

What would occur in a genuine life-or-death struggle?

“Would I be the one to fall?”

It was nearly impossible to tell.

Just as Valphir possessed hidden cards, Enkrid undoubtedly held many mysteries.

He didn’t adhere to any of the five major sword traditions. That meant he might pull a maneuver Valphir couldn’t even fathom.

Schmidt had vastly undervalued him.

“Simultaneously boiling with passion and cold as ice.”

Driven by instinct, yet hyper-analytical.

Traveling alongside Valphir had likely been a simple impulse.

But within that impulse, he never ceased his study and dissection of his surroundings.

He acted on a whim, but he utilized every resource available to him.

A person of that nature isn’t created overnight.

“What kind of life has he endured?”

The question genuinely fascinated him.

A student…?

A part of him felt the urge to pass on his knowledge.

But even without relying on his intuition, he understood—

“He will never submit to another’s command.”

Obstinate to his core. And likely insane.

Valphir unfastened the locking mechanism on his gear.

Click.

The hexagonal grip fit perfectly into his rough, scarred palm.

“Hey.”

He spoke, letting his presence ripple outward.

Enkrid pivoted. Now he had Gelt to his left and Valphir to his right.

Valphir moved forward, a light spring in his step.

Enkrid turned to give him his full attention.

It was a mark of genuine respect.

“His reaction is without hesitation.”

His situational awareness was remarkable.

Valphir’s grin sharpened with genuine pleasure.

Enkrid leveled his sword.

Directly at Valphir.

Not as a provocation—but in a synchronized rhythm. No words were exchanged, yet the intent was mutual.

Gelt, sensing the transition in the air, attempted to flee.

In that split second, Valphir launched his weapon.

BOOM!

It whistled through the air and impacted Gelt’s head like a stone dropped from a high wall.

CRACK!

His skull disintegrated like a brittle fruit—fragments, matter, and red fluid erupting in a violent circle.

The weapon that had pulverized his head hung suspended for a moment… then fell with a heavy thud, landing perfectly vertical, its handle pointing toward the sky.

“Where do you think you’re off to?”

Valphir remarked as he strolled over to retrieve his gear.

He had projected a faint trace of murderous intent toward Enkrid—just enough to bait Gelt.

That was why Enkrid had shifted a portion of his focus.

And Valphir had capitalized on it. The moment Gelt wavered and tried to run, he ended it in a single motion.

It was the efficient route.

And Enkrid had recognized the play and assisted.

The more he observed the boy, the more Valphir appreciated him.

“Join the Empire.”

He offered the invitation with total sincerity.

—

“No.”

Enkrid didn’t require a moment to consider.

“You claimed you intended to wipe out the Demon Realm, did you not?”

Valphir questioned. Enkrid gave a firm nod.

“Regardless of whether that is feasible—if that is your goal, the Empire is where you belong.”

It was a statement of fact. Enkrid remained silent—simply watching him, a quiet refusal in his eyes.

“Right. I suspected you wouldn’t listen. You have the most inflexible streak I’ve ever encountered.”

He had been told that before.

Back when he lacked power, and again once he had gained it.

All those experiences had converged to become his Will.

“Obstinacy. Pledges. Faith. Will.”

He now recognized the wellspring of his Will.

“Will is generated from will.”

What Esther had mentioned about its source being akin to mana… it held weight. It was likely a different manifestation of the same energy.

He would have to document that thought eventually.

“I have dealt with Gelt, so I will be taking my leave. Enkrid of the Border Guard.”

“It was a significant meeting. Valphir of the Empire.”

“Until the next time.”

“As rivals?”

“I would prefer as comrades. Do not turn the Empire into your foe. There is no profit in it.”

Was that a threat? A caution? Or a piece of friendly advice?

“I will handle my own concerns.”

“Arrogant kid.”

Valphir combed through Gelt’s effects, collected a few items for proof of identity, and departed. Their shared path had reached its conclusion.

And Enkrid… would also begin his journey back.

The trail had ended.

And once again, he was by himself.

But then again—even in the company of Valphir, it had always felt like he was traveling alone.