A Knight Who Eternally Regresses Novel - Chapter 740

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.