A Knight Who Eternally Regresses Novel - Chapter 748

Chapter 748

A superhuman’s perception reaches into dimensions that common eyes cannot grasp. In this moment, Enkrid truly embodied that superhuman status.
‘The talent-discerning eye of Frokk.’
Though the underlying mechanics differed, Enkrid could replicate the effect through pure observation.
Bone and muscle alignment, ingrained physical habits, the subtle shifts in a person’s focus—all of it served as data for his assessment.
Naturally, Enkrid did not go as far as Frokk in definitively proclaiming whether an individual possessed the soul of a knight.
‘I can see it.’
Utilizing a lifetime of experience, sharpened intuition, and refined senses, he could pinpoint the flaws in Clemence’s form.
‘Her regimen is too balanced; she lacks a defining edge.’
She would likely dominate those of lesser skill but find herself at a standstill against more formidable foes.
The outcome allowed him to reconstruct the journey.
By measuring the depth of her physical conditioning, he could map out Clemence’s combat philosophy.
Kraiss once remarked that such high-level analysis was reserved for those with a specific mental faculty, a type of cognitive processing not granted to everyone.
Regardless, the immediate priority was evident.
She needed to maintain her core conditioning—but what she truly lacked to build upon that foundation was specialized technique.
Her stability was undeniable, evidenced by the strength of her stance.
‘The cornerstone of physical mastery is the lower body.’
Clemence’s legs were like iron pillars. He approved. They were the product of relentless, grueling work.
“Would you care to spar?”
Clemence’s gaze lit up at his suggestion. Receiving direct tutelage from a knight was a rare privilege.
Furthermore, the warrior standing there was no mere knight—he was a legend, the vanquisher of demons, the Ironclad Knight, the commander of the Mad Order, a mentor who had forged many into knights, the heartbreaker of many maidens, and the Enchanted Knight.
While those final descriptors were merely rumors that trailed him, they served as a testament to his immense reputation.
“It would be my honor.”
Clemence gave a disciplined, soldierly response and unsheathed her weapon.
*Shing.*
A slender, elongated rapier. It exceeded a standard longsword in length but was significantly more narrow. It was clearly no ordinary piece of equipment.
“Who crafted that?”
Enkrid inquired out of genuine professional interest. Smiths capable of producing such refined work were few and far between.
“A dwarven artisan serving the standing army.”
“We have someone of that caliber here?”
“Indeed. He was fleeing his creditors when he was incarcerated, and now he operates the army’s smithy under a ten-year term of forced labor.”
The story struck a chord of familiarity.
The memory was distant and unimportant, but after a moment of mental tracing, Enkrid identified the man.
‘The dwarf present when I first encountered Aitri.’
Based on Clemence’s account, it appeared Kraiss had stepped in to reorganize the situation and the man’s life. The quality of the blade certainly supported that theory.
It seemed the dwarf had finally found his focus—this weapon was exceptional.
“Officers are permitted one personal weapon beyond their standard gear. This was my choice. I suppose such logistics are foreign to you, as knights provide their own equipment.”
Clemence stopped mid-sentence, suddenly leaping backward two paces in a reflexive jolt of surprise.
The explosive power she generated from the ground was impressive.
Enkrid was satisfied to see her bring her sword to a defensive guard while in retreat, her feet already positioned for a counter-strike.
“Pressure.”
He whispered the word. This was meant to be a controlled session.
Clemence immediately exploded into action, delivering a flurry of thrusts, extensions, cuts, and rotations, driving her blade forward with every ounce of her strength.
Enkrid engaged her with a training sword.
‘She is incredibly disciplined.’
Despite her notorious moniker, ‘Fallen Clemence,’ every movement she made spoke of a desperate struggle to remain upright.
‘She prioritizes safety, plays the percentages, and fights with a logical, calculated mindset.’
Yet, how did Clemence appear in the heat of this methodology?
She seemed devoid of joy. He wondered if her solitary training was just as joyless.
Her spirit was fierce and her frame was sturdy—but her bladework felt like someone struggling against the current of a river.
She was buoyant, yes, but her internal rigidity kept her from gaining ground. She had the potential for great speed, yet she moved as if through honey.
‘She is holding back her true potential.’
He worked backward from her performance to the root cause, accounting for her mental state.
‘She is surrounded by too many superior warriors.’
These were not distant idols to be admired from afar.
The nearest was Rophod, then Pell, and further still was the Mad Order—Enkrid included.
That proximity fueled her drive while simultaneously stifling her confidence.
The weight of the ‘Fallen Clemence’ label and her frantic efforts to disprove it had exacted a price.
Essentially—
‘She has never been pushed to the absolute brink.’
She had likely steered clear of such desperate confrontations.
She knew only total victory or total defeat.
Why did a phrase from the Imperial Knight Valphir surface in his mind now?
The concept of a ‘flowerbed knight’—if Clemence achieved knighthood in her current state, would she be a warrior who had only known the safety of a greenhouse?
*Thud, ting.*
During their moderate exchange, the atmosphere surrounding Enkrid shifted violently. Clemence’s eyes contracted.
Her primal survival instincts screamed, sharpening her perception to a razor’s edge.
‘I am going to die.’
If she remained static, it was over.
In an instant, a lifetime of memories and tactical thoughts flashed through her mind.
‘Fallen Clemence.’
Since that name had haunted her, she had fought tooth and nail against failure. As her prowess grew, her philosophy had distilled into a single mantra:
‘I do not engage in battles I cannot win.’
Rophod had influenced this mindset, and the doctrines of Lua Gharne had been woven in as well.
In her case, the tactical swordsmanship of Frokk had been stripped down to its most risk-averse form.
Clemence simply refused to fight losing wars.
This meant that unless she saw a guaranteed opening, she never fully committed her blade.
Even now, her rapier waited for a perfect moment that would never come against a knight of Enkrid’s caliber. Thus, she did nothing but test and feint.
Perhaps that was the catalyst?
Clemence felt the cold touch of death. She felt her throat opened. The horizon tilted. Then, total blackness.

—

‘Her physical attributes are top-tier.’
Her musculature was both supple and tough, conditioned through diverse exercises rather than raw strength alone.
The groundwork was clearly the system established by Audin.
The training program Audin used for his personal troops had become the blueprint for the Border Guard’s army.
‘She has curated that foundation to fit her specific physiology.’
Her mental processing and physical quickness were superb. She perceived the battlefield clearly and acted with precision. Her stamina was equally high.
Her body bore the undeniable marks of a long-term practitioner.
‘Her psyche is resilient as well.’
Aside from her aversion to reckless gambles, she remained composed and made rational choices.
Enkrid even caught a glimpse of her latent Will.
He didn’t see it in a physical sense, but he felt its resonance. Whether it would ever fully manifest was not for him to decide.
‘That choice belongs to her.’
He could clear the path, but the journey was hers alone.
One can guide a beast to the stream, but the drinking is its own affair.
Still, Enkrid felt a lingering sensation that Clemence would indeed take that step.
His gut feelings were rarely off the mark.
‘The missing ingredients are imagination and the hunger for victory.’
Learning how to seize a win, rather than merely avoiding a loss—that was Clemence’s next hurdle.
From the moment she had flinched at his killing intent, Enkrid’s analysis had already reached this conclusion.
His complex cognitive layers, his superhuman instincts, and his vast reservoir of combat history converged.
As he mapped out Clemence’s path, he solidified his own identity as a warrior.
This was a cycle intended to be repeated endlessly—provided one survived long enough to keep trying.
‘The path of the sword is infinite.’
That infinity was precisely what made it fulfilling.
Whatever progress he made now was simply a milestone, not a destination.
This time, he was merely polishing a concept he had previously outlined—but in that refinement, a new school of combat was born.
The Wavebreaker Sword Style was the path of the traditional blade.
The Balafian techniques were specialized for medium-weight swords.
His heightened perception led to the blinding speed of the Flash style.
The fluid movements of Jaxon’s sensory training, combined with battle experience, had birthed The Accidental Sword.
What remained was the art of the deceptive blade.
‘A level beyond the mercenary swordplay of the Valen-style.’
The deceptive sword was a tool for victory at any cost. To survive and triumph, one had to utilize every trick available. That was the Illusory Blade.
‘Incorporated with the tactical maneuvers of Lua Gharne.’
Tactical combat was about securing the superior position. Enkrid took the finest elements of both and forged them into a new synthesis.
“Is this the afterlife?”
Clemence whispered as she regained consciousness, having collapsed from the overwhelming pressure and a minor impact.
“Not quite.”
“Oh.”
She blinked, the reality of the situation returning to her.
She wasn’t dead. She was standing on the training grounds. She had simply blacked out in a moment of weakness.
As she scrambled to her feet, Enkrid realized that instead of trying to lecture her on creativity or competitive drive, it was more effective to communicate through the blade itself.
He spoke the name of the system he had just finalized.
“The style you will learn is called Enkrid-Style Orthodox Swordsmanship.”
Clemence took several deep breaths before managing to ask,
“I beg your pardon?”
“Study it.”
The core of the style was deception, pure and simple.
The training focused on the inventive creation of feints and traps.
Its application was found in any move that secured a tactical edge—the desperate measures the weak used to topple the strong.
Even the name itself was a lie.
The techniques were rooted in trickery, yet he dubbed it ‘Orthodox.’
“The theory is straightforward. The execution requires your own ingenuity. I will demonstrate the opening forms.”
Given her solid posture and lower-body strength, any opponent would expect Clemence to play a defensive, traditional game. Her foundations suggested as much.
“This is known as the Illusory Step.”
Enkrid showed her several moves adapted from Valen-style mercenary combat. Clemence watched with intense focus, then asked a question.
“Is this truly how you fight?”
She was no simpleton. She understood that Enkrid was teaching her through the sword because words were insufficient.
“It is.”
Enkrid’s message was clear: stay alive by any means and win by any means. Clemence took the lesson to heart.
Following this, Enkrid turned his attention to the training of the royal guard—his personal battalion.
‘Are their fitness levels not a bit underwhelming?’
His own benchmarks were so extreme that he was likely being overly harsh. He was technically only there as an observer.
“We are going for a run.”
With that simple command, the guard was forced into a full-speed sprint all the way to Martai and back without a single break.
It was a distance usually reserved for a long trek on horseback, not a footrace.
The result? The sentry at Martai nearly suffered a stroke from the sight, and Odd-Eye, likely seeking amusement, decided to run along with them.
Upon their return, the soldiers were drilled in ‘The Feigned Defeat,’ ‘The Kick-Draw Feint,’ ‘The Double-Blade Kick,’ and the ‘Illusory Step.’
Throughout it all, Enkrid never stopped preaching the fundamentals.
“To effectively deceive a foe, you must first master the true way of fighting.”
The basics were the anchor.
No matter which direction one traveled, the goal should always be improvement.
Action was always superior to doubt or stagnation. And to act, one had to remain among the living. Only those who survive see the dawn.
Enkrid-Style Orthodox Swordsmanship was soon adopted as the primary combat style of the royal guard.
Clemence grasped the spirit of the art, and Rophod assisted in the instruction.
“A sword only has weight when it is backed by mastery of the basics. A razor-sharp edge is useless in the hands of a child.”
Rophod, having absorbed the style, began passing its nuances to others.
Later, Enkrid shared his latest breakthrough with Aitri.
“Do all five of your styles lead toward the path of a knight?”
Aitri, recognizing the core of Enkrid’s five styles, asked the question. Despite spending his days striking metal, he was always ready for discourse when Enkrid arrived. Their conversations sharpened both their minds.
“That is the hope.”
Enkrid’s reply was brief. His focus shifted to the metal beneath Aitri’s hammer.
It was taking form. A long, slender rod.
Aitri folded the metal, hammered it flat, and repeated the process over and over. This had been going on for three days.
The smith’s eyes burned with an unnatural light, though his skin was sallow and his frame had grown thin.
It looked as if he were hammering his very soul into the steel.
“Return tomorrow,” Aitri said.
Outside of his time with the royal guard, this was Enkrid’s sole preoccupation.
Fifteen days had passed since Aitri first made his claim. Not even Rem had asked when they would be departing.
Every member of the Order understood what was happening: Enkrid was waiting for the birth of his engraved weapon.
Every period of waiting must eventually conclude—and now, the time had arrived.