A Knight Who Eternally Regresses Novel - Chapter 739-740

Chapter 739

“Get inside.”
Enkrid’s command was clipped and final.
He saw no point in delivering a physical lesson to each man as he had with Harkventyo.
There were more efficient ways to instill obedience.
“Where exactly?”
Jerry’s question came through a throat tight with nerves. Though he was a man of firm resolve, he was currently trembling.
It was the weight of the atmosphere.
To Jerry’s eyes, Enkrid appeared far more lethal than he ever had before.
The silent message was undeniable: Step out of line, and you will be cut down.
Limping, Harkventyo fixed a hard stare on Enkrid, but his gaze didn’t hold true fury.
Instead, it was the look of a man desperately trying to mask his own terror.
Before them lay a massive excavation.
It was a pit designed to snag the heavy predators of the region.
The lethal wooden spikes at the bottom had been cleared away, but the drop remained daunting.
Even if Jerry were to climb onto Harkventyo’s shoulders, reaching the lip of the pit seemed impossible.
The walls were angled rather than sheer, but it wasn’t a slope one could simply walk up.
The villagers exchanged nervous, questioning looks.
*Are we truly expected to descend into that?*
*What has possessed this outsider?*
*Wasn’t he supposed to be our savior?*
*Didn’t Harkventyo go to enlist his help?*
Without uttering a word, Enkrid adjusted his stance.
He possessed the presence to dominate them through sheer intent, but he chose a more calculated approach.
An unrestrained burst of killing intent might simply collapse their legs.
What they needed wasn’t paralyzing horror, but a precise, looming threat they could feel at the back of their necks.
As he shifted his weight and squared his shoulders, the hilt of the Three Iron at his side became impossible to ignore.
In that instant, the group finally grasped what Harkventyo already knew:
The monsters in the woods were a distant threat—
But the blade in front of them was an immediate reality.
There was no question about which one posed the greater danger.
Jerry was the first to drop into the hollow.
A length of rope was cast down from above.
Peering down from the edge, Enkrid gave his instruction:
“Now, get yourself out.”
In a place where one survived by navigating the brutal territorial disputes of monsters and beasts, sheer stubbornness was a prerequisite for life.
Even without formal instruction, a body grew hardy simply by enduring this environment.
However, hauling oneself up a rope from the bottom of a pit was a different level of exertion.
“Hngh! Gah!”
Jerry struggled upward with every ounce of his strength.
He pushed himself so far that the very muscles in his palms throbbed with fatigue.
“Run. That way. Move.”
Enkrid gestured vaguely toward a path.
The crushing pressure did not lift.
His demeanor suggested that execution was a mere whim away, and one he would carry out without a second thought.
Jerry sprinted, gasping for air.
“Over here! Step on this spot, then that one!”
The village children were positioned along the route, acting as living markers and shouting directions.
After circling a cluster of trees several times, Jerry finally made it back to the start.
The sky seemed to pulse with a sickly yellow hue before his exhausted eyes.
“That is one. Next.”
Enkrid’s voice was steady.
The next to go was a sturdy woman—physically stronger than Jerry, a capable archer, and known for her abrasive temper.
Yet, she was just as shaken. She offered no protest and asked no questions; she simply went into the pit.
Next was the soft-spoken man who had attended the earlier gathering.
He attempted to be subtle.
He was frightened, but he reasoned that this wasn’t the sort of task where performance would be strictly measured.
After exiting the pit, he maintained a moderate pace, making a show of being winded.
He had been a swift runner since his youth, so he felt he could coast through this.
Enkrid’s boot connected with the man’s leg.
*Thwack.*
A precise, low-impact strike.
The man hit the dirt hard, his fists pounding the earth in agony.
“Gah… ah…”
The pain was clearly visceral.
“Try to cheat me again…”
Enkrid didn’t bother to finish the warning.
Every individual capable of holding a weapon was forced through the cycle of the pit and the run.
They endured this more than ten times.
Their legs became like jelly, and their arms felt too heavy to even lift.
Had a beast struck at that moment, they would have been defenseless.
“We are digging another hole.”
Enkrid stated flatly. He then turned his attention back to Brunhilt and the youngsters who had been observing.
As he usually did, he resumed his lessons on spear handling and axe throwing.
“To be honest, she has a better feel for this than I do,” he remarked casually while demonstrating a throw.
*What is the meaning of this? What is he trying to achieve?*
The villagers were too terrified to ask.
Even if they summoned the nerve, it didn’t seem like Enkrid would provide an answer.
Even Harkventyo remained uncharacteristically silent.
This grueling routine persisted for three days.
“Are you some kind of monster?”
The timid man asked, his voice cracking with exhaustion and near-tears.
He was past the point of caring about the consequences.
Enkrid offered a faint smile.
“Believe whatever helps you get through it.”
Had he displayed that same smile in the aristocratic salons of Naurill, it would have sent hearts fluttering.
Even in the mundane markets of the Border Guard, it was the kind of expression that drew every eye.
If Leona Lockfried had witnessed it—
*That look is dangerous. Stop it. I’d rather not be hunted down by a vengeful fairy,* she might have quipped.
But to the man shivering on the ground, Enkrid looked like a demon who simply hadn’t revealed his horns yet.
Who else could grin while pushing human beings to their absolute breaking point?

—

The Ferryman squinted through the gloom.
He watched Enkrid’s movements in the present moment.
What the man had accomplished over these seventy-two hours was nothing short of startling.
*This brat.*
In another scenario, if Enkrid had desperately tried to win these people over to save them, the Ferryman would have mocked him.
*Do you honestly think they will follow you?*
He might have added, *Do you think training can bridge this gap?*
But those taunts were unnecessary now.
Enkrid had bypassed the need for them.
With minimal dialogue, he had assessed the internal dynamics and moved several steps ahead.
He had always possessed the ability to take the lead—but now he was adding calculation and intuition to his repertoire.
This was the fruit of that growth.
He had foreseen the Ferryman’s objections and acted to render them moot.
*You arrogant whelp.*
Despite his irritation, the Ferryman was restricted for the moment.
When he summoned Enkrid to the water that night, he had only one inquiry:
“Do you truly believe this will end in your favor?”
It would.
The Ferryman lacked the gift of prophecy, but he had lived long enough to recognize the inevitable conclusion of certain patterns.
It would work.
Watching the man operate brought a specific phrase to mind:
*A master of the here and now.*
Enkrid blinked, his expression unreadable.
“Yes.”
“Then go.”
“Understood.”
“Get out of my sight.”
With those brief acknowledgments, he stepped away from the raft.
The Ferryman closed his eyes.
He didn’t care for the direction of events, but a flicker of curiosity stirred within him.
*Will things truly unfold according to his design?*
An internal monologue echoed in his mind, but he chose not to engage with it.
*You won’t know until the end, whether it’s victory or ruin.*
*You’ve grown soft to even entertain such a thought.*
The Ferryman conceded that point internally.
Repeating this cycle would eventually become Enkrid’s tether—that was an immutable truth.
And yet, was there still a glimmer of hope to be found?
No.
It had simply become a different form of entertainment.
The Ferryman let out a low, dry laugh.
The sound traveled across the dark water and bounced back from the far shore.
Prisoners, after all, are only permitted a small world.
His laughter would always return to him, reflected by the walls of his cage.

—

Obey or perish.
In the middle of this forced labor, they had already endured three beast incursions—including a pack of wolf-types.
“You still haven’t learned, have you?”
During each encounter, the relentless swordsman had carved through the monsters with terrifying efficiency.
He didn’t rely solely on his steel; he used his limbs like a predatory spirit.
The beasts’ heads would cave in or fly off before anyone could even track his movement.
Granted, the defensive line was easier to hold now that everyone was concentrated in one spot.
Even so, his prowess was staggering.
On his own, he possessed the power to slaughter entire hordes.
“Ah…”
A villager let out a small, sharp sound.
It wasn’t a sound of admiration—it was one of bitter realization.
The skirmish had ended too quickly.
Currently, that blade was turned toward the monsters, but the moment the blood stopped flowing, it would be used to prod the backs of the weary.
And Enkrid, the taskmaster, did exactly that.
He used the point of his weapon to nudge those who were too spent to stand.
It didn’t draw blood, but it sent a freezing jolt through their nerves.
“Stopping already?”
He would ask with that terrifyingly calm tone.
It was almost like a spell.
That sharp poke and a few choice words somehow summoned a final reserve of energy from their depleted bodies.
“Gah!”
Only three days prior, a beast attack would have left the village paralyzed with fear.
That was no longer the case.
As the metallic scent of gore hung heavy over the settlement, Jerry finally found the nerve to speak.
“We need to clear the carcasses.”
Enkrid gave a simple nod of approval.
This signaled a brief reprieve for the workers.
However, if anyone attempted to genuinely lounge, he noticed immediately.
He would approach with that same unsettling smile.
Then the rest would vanish, and the torment would resume.
Even with the stench of death clogging their lungs, they were forced to work.
Then they had to scrub the area clean once more.
They were hardy folk to begin with, but now?
Now they were becoming tempered like steel.
Naturally, a hierarchy began to form.
Harkventyo, as expected, took the lead in organizing the labor and coordinating efforts.
After three days of this relentless pressure, Enkrid issued a new directive.
“Everyone, take up a spear and fall in.”
His words were now absolute.
One either complied or prepared for a funeral.
Even the proudest among them, Harkventyo, obeyed without a word of dissent.
The timid man nodded frantically beside him.
“I’d rather die than take another one of those kicks.”
In a strange twist, the man had developed a peculiar kind of bravery.
Even after being struck, he still tried to find small ways to slack off while moving the dead beasts.
Enkrid had kicked him several more times for it.
The man would weep and writhe, yet remarkably, his bones never snapped.
In fact, they didn’t break at all.
Despite the visible bruising, he didn’t even develop a limp after the initial pain subsided.
*He knows exactly how to hit.*
The realization dawned on the timid man.
*And he smiles while he does it.*
He realized Enkrid could do this indefinitely without actually killing them.
Those who have never known agony have no defense against it.
To the villagers, Enkrid’s “lessons” felt like a refined form of torture.
“Do not test me. Do exactly what you are told.”
It was a warning for everyone.
Harkventyo, in truth, began to see the logic behind Enkrid’s madness.
There were two primary goals.
First: To systematically dismantle their fear of the monsters.
He replaced their terror of the beasts with a much more immediate fear of himself, then acclimated them to the sight of carnage until they could stand over a corpse without flinching.
Second: To forge them into a single, cohesive unit.
There were fewer than seventy able-bodied fighters.
And not a single one possessed formal military experience.
Harkventyo had the raw power, but he had never been a soldier.
Responsibility doesn’t automatically grant tactical skill.
But he was observant—perhaps a byproduct of his position in the village.
He noticed that the people were starting to synchronize their breathing.
With simple glances, they began to understand each other’s limits and needs.
Only after achieving this did Enkrid hand them spears and begin teaching them how to hold a line.
They learned with surprising speed.
The previous days of suffering paid off.
Of course they did—they had spent seventy-two hours being pushed to the brink of the grave.
Aside from the pits and the sprints, their time had been spent moving in unison and shouting in one voice.
To an educated commander, this would be recognized as fundamental drill instruction.

—

Fascinating.
As he pushed them, Enkrid found an unexpected satisfaction in molding these recruits.
It was grueling work, but in a way, it was fulfilling.
The Ferryman’s intuition had been correct.
His time in Zaun had significantly expanded Enkrid’s perspective.
He was no longer just reacting; he was strategizing.
He understood that while the Ferryman couldn’t see the past, he could analyze the present to map out the future.
*They are isolationists—but they must be preserved.*
The endless tide of monsters.
The surrounding peaks.
The available supplies.
Brunhilt’s raw potential.
The total lack of martial discipline.
All these factors swirled in his mind, crystallizing into the path he had to take.
He didn’t need to struggle against the Ferryman anymore.
A month was a short window, but if every second was utilized, it might be sufficient.
The Ferryman might have wished to keep him trapped here, woven into their lives, repeating the same day for eternity.
But that desire was flawed from the start.
By the end of the second week, a new fire burned in the eyes of the villagers.
Until that point, Enkrid had governed them through pure intimidation.
Brunhilt, despite her youth, was incredibly perceptive.
She let her skepticism show in her gaze, yet she threw herself into the spear training with more intensity than anyone else.
She had always been curious, but once the formal training began, she became possessed by it.
She could sense it.
The period Enkrid had allotted for preparation was drawing to a close.
However, she misinterpreted his urgency, believing him to be the true threat.
“Stop tormenting them!”
The young prodigy leveled her spear at Enkrid.
It brought back a wave of nostalgia.
Back when he had first departed the village, this girl—who was barely half his size—had actually bested him.
A great deal had changed since those days.
“Hah!”
Brunhilt lunged with her spear, striking out for the sake of her people.
Enkrid caught the shaft with ease and delivered a sharp flick of his finger to her brow.
*Snap!*
“Ow!”
She clutched her forehead, tumbling to the ground.
“Know your place.”
Regardless of her innate genius, there was still a chasm of experience she could not bridge.
Yet, her intuition was spot on.
The end of this phase was approaching.
It was time to transition into real combat maneuvers.
“Bring out the entire winter store of food,” Enkrid commanded.
Harkventyo simply nodded and moved to obey.

Chapter 740

The communal life of the hidden settlement meant that private ownership was nonexistent—every resource belonged to the collective. Because the threat of calamity was a constant shadow, the inhabitants had secreted away various caches, much like rodents storing nuts for the winter. Hidden beneath the tangled roots of trees or tucked into small cellars masked by timber and soil near the village paths, these stockpiles were now being opened. Enkrid noted the effectiveness of the method; the earth provided a natural chill that persisted even through the warmer months.

In these shaded spots where the sun never touched the ground, they had excavated their pits. Without the means to afford expensive magical refrigeration, survival depended entirely on such practical ingenuity. With the heat of summer approaching, the current stores consisted mainly of non-perishable goods. While not as abundant as their winter reserves, the table was soon laden with a significant spread of smoked meats and exotic dried fruits.

“If we keep this up, there won’t be a scrap left for the future,” one villager grumbled. Even in their current predicament, the deeply ingrained habit of frugality remained strong. They were a people who had never known true famine. Through a combination of fortune and foraging, they gathered wild herbs and berries, while maintaining cautious ties with traveling traders. They hunted with restraint, and in dire times, they knew how to prepare the meat of predatory beasts. Once the impurities were purged, even the foulest-tasting monster meat provided the necessary calories for life.

“Stop complaining and follow the plan,” a soft-spoken man urged, his eyes darting around in apprehension. Harkventyo, who usually acted as their voice, remained silent, focusing entirely on arranging the meal. The intensity of their daily routine had surged. Their caloric needs had already been rising, but the feast prepared today was unprecedented.

As the platters hit the table, the youths were the first to dive in. Soon, the entire group was consumed by the act of eating, the silence of the room filled only by the sound of chewing. Some likely felt that if death was coming, a full stomach was the only way to meet it. Others harbored a fragile, inexplicable optimism that things might actually turn out well.

This shift in the village atmosphere was rooted entirely in Enkrid’s presence. To anyone not blinded by their own hunger, it was obvious. Harkventyo chewed on a strip of smoked pork, the saltiness stinging his palate, and washed it down with heavy gulps of water. He contemplated the recent days. It was training—but to what end? They were preparing to face monsters. A more cynical mind would wonder if standing shoulder-to-shoulder with spears would truly make a difference against such horrors.

While many had stopped trying to make sense of it, Harkventyo couldn’t stop thinking. His anxiety was no longer a sharp pain, but a dull, heavy weight. He felt as though he were living under a precarious ceiling of loose earth that might bury him at any second. Yet, whenever he looked over at Enkrid—who sat calmly eating among them—the weight lifted. There was a grounded, reassuring quality to the man. His speech, his movements, and his simple presence acted as an anchor for the villagers’ hope.

—

Enkrid tossed a piece of fruit into his mouth, rolling it around before spitting the pit onto the dirt floor. The fruit was shriveled and chewy, possessing a flavor that transitioned from tart to sweet with a bitter finish—a taste that became addictive after the first bite.

“Good, isn’t it?” a child sitting nearby asked. Next to him was Brunhilt, whose forehead now bore a prominent bruise where her “third eye” had been thwarted.

“It’s similar to a plum,” another boy noted with an air of intelligence. This was the same boy who had called Brunhilt a fool for charging Enkrid earlier, yet had stepped in to help her regardless. “She’s physically gifted but hates thinking. Once she picks a direction, she can’t turn. That’s her only weakness,” the boy explained, defending her.

He looked no older than fourteen, with a slight build that suggested he was no warrior.

“Your name?” Enkrid asked.

“Airik.”

Enkrid had managed these people with the foresight of Kraiss, looking beyond the immediate conflict to the long-term survival of the group. He pushed them with Rem’s intensity but planned with Kraiss’s calculation.

“You organized them into units based on physical stature, didn’t you?” Airik asked, his eyes sharp. “To ensure they don’t break. To keep them alive longer.”

A summer breeze stirred the boy’s pale, golden hair. Enkrid, eating a sandwich of salted meat and herb-infused bread, challenged him. “And what do you think of the circular spear formation? Why no shields?”

“To keep the monsters at a distance,” Airik replied without hesitation. “We buy time by holding them off. Only the strongest could manage shields anyway. It’s like a ‘Terrified Hedgehog’ tactic. If we tried to hide behind shields, we’d eventually be crushed. This gives us a fighting chance.”

“Why not use projectile weapons?”

“Reloading creates openings,” the boy countered. “If bows were enough to keep us safe, we wouldn’t be hiding in a hole in the ground.”

The boy’s pale blue eyes burned with the same intensity Enkrid had seen in Brunhilt, though his were the color of a shallow, sunlit lake compared to Enkrid’s deep navy.

“Was I mistaken?” Airik asked, a hint of genuine doubt cracking his confident facade. He hadn’t been a leader among the children or a standout among the adults.

“You were correct,” Enkrid said.

The boy exhaled in relief. Enkrid realized then that Airik wasn’t like Kraiss, who possessed an innate certainty. This boy was plagued by anxiety and suspicion regarding Enkrid’s motives. He was looking for validation. Brunhilt’s earlier aggression and the boy’s subsequent defense were all part of a test.

It was like watching a younger version of Kraiss. Talent is never distributed equally; it creates a violent imbalance in the world. Brunhilt was a prodigy of the flesh, but Airik was a prodigy of the mind.

“Commit that formation to memory,” Enkrid told him. “If the line wavers, everyone perishes.” They had chosen a strategy that removed the luxury of retreat, for in their case, retreat was synonymous with death.

“What is the next step?” Airik asked. No matter his intellect, he was still a child limited by his experiences. He couldn’t see the path Enkrid was carving.

“Anticipate. Deduce. Use your mind to find the solution,” Enkrid replied.

“If your plan is to relocate us…” Airik began, trying to weigh the outsider’s heart. It was a bold move that risked Enkrid’s ire, but Enkrid wasn’t offended. He saw the boy trying to calculate the cost of his “kindness.”

“We can’t leave,” Airik stated firmly. “We chose this life because we’d rather die together than return to servitude. We won’t abandon what we’ve built.”

To these people, this land was their foundation and their freedom. Enkrid was reminded of the words spoken to him before he departed Zaun—the refusal to leave one’s home even for the sake of safety. He understood the boy’s fear and the reason for Harkventyo’s constant, searching glances. They weren’t enamored with him; they were trying to figure out if they should drive him away or beg him to stay.

If a speech could have fixed their hearts, Enkrid would have given one. But words were cheap and time was short. He placed a hand on the boy’s head. “How old are you?”

“Seventeen.”

“…Seventeen?” Enkrid repeated, surprised.

“I know, I’m small. It’s always been my cross to bear. I’ve never been strong.”

“But you have a mind,” Brunhilt chimed in, having approached them. “You should pay more attention to him.”

“I do,” she added softly. She had realized that the man who had been putting them through hell wasn’t doing it out of cruelty.

The Night of the Hunt had passed, but the terror remained, albeit in a new form.

“Beasts!”

In the predawn gloom, before the moons set, a pack of over fifty hounds and wolves descended upon the village. They bypassed the obvious traps and moved through the treeline, their eyes glowing with predatory hunger. The villagers gripped their spears, their knuckles white. Normally, the mere scent of these predators would have paralyzed them with fear.

But they had spent the last fortnight facing a far more terrifying opponent. Enkrid had been a relentless shadow, striking at them the moment they lost focus.

“If you stumble, I will cut you,” he had warned. To an observer, it was brutal. To the villagers, it was the forge that had tempered their souls. Their legs did not shake.

“Position!” Harkventyo roared.

“Hah!”

They formed circles of ten, a forest of spearheads bristling outward. The non-combatants were shielded in the center. Airik, standing at the heart of a formation, watched the perimeter. He understood the *how*, but the *why* still eluded him. Was Enkrid a sadist who wanted to watch them struggle before the end? Or was he preparing them for something even worse?

Regardless, the weak had no choice but to fight. Enkrid hadn’t tried to turn them into heroes; he had turned the group into a single, functional organism.

“Rotate!”

“Hah!”

Despite their exhaustion, their execution was precise. Several wild dogs lunged at the circle, but the spear-wielders knew exactly where to thrust, claiming the air before the beasts could land. Brunhilt moved between the groups, correcting errors as Enkrid had instructed. The adults finally saw the depth of her talent.

By working in unison, they became an impenetrable thicket of sharp points. Against magical entities, they might have struggled, but against common beasts, the formation was devastating. They didn’t even need to kill every animal; they only needed to hold their ground.

Enkrid watched from the high branches. They were no longer easy prey. Beside him, the spectral image of the Ferryman manifested.

“You’re a cunning one,” the phantom remarked.

Enkrid didn’t see it as cunning, but as sound tactics. It was the Valen-style philosophy of “Feigning Defeat”—a method that relied on the support of allies to strike from the shadows while the enemy was distracted. It was tactical swordplay, and while Enkrid had mastered the theory, it still required physical resolve to execute.

He waited until the rhythm of the battle reached its peak, then dropped from the tree like a stone. With a few swift motions, he cleared the remaining threats, driving the pack away into the darkness.

The villagers stood there, gasping for air, lungs burning. Yet, as they looked around, the realization dawned: everyone was alive. No one was even bleeding. They had stood against the wild and won.

“Rest for today,” Enkrid commanded. This had been the ultimate training exercise.

A primal roar of triumph broke from the villagers’ throats—a sound of self-assertion they had never known before. They hadn’t been rescued; they had saved themselves. And in that moment, the struggle was justified.