A Knight Who Eternally Regresses Novel - Chapter 788-789

Chapter 788

“Is this entertaining to you?”
“Are you actually finding joy in this? Right now?”
“You act as if today is your final day on earth.”
Throughout his life, Enkrid had encountered numerous combat masters, and the majority of them tended to voice the same sentiments.
But he couldn’t help his nature. At this very moment, he was having the time of his life. It was genuinely enjoyable.
“…What is the reason for your laughter?”
The question came from his most recent mentor in the art of the blade.
The instructor had traded his previous pair of fire-conjuring blades for two matching swords—only this time, the steel radiated a bone-chilling frost that could flash-freeze skin upon contact.
As the teacher rotated the weapons rhythmically in his grip, ripples of frigid air spilled outward.
It seemed like the perfect remedy for a heatwave, Enkrid noted.
That was the essence of the weaponry.
The circling steel pushed the warmth away, dropping the temperature of the immediate vicinity.
‘Does it generate cold, or is it pulling the warmth out of the environment?’
To master a relic or an enchanted tool, one had to comprehend its inner mechanics. If the design and logic were a mystery, the only path to mastery was through relentless trial and error.
That was the path his rival had taken.
“A specialized tool handled poorly is a blade with two edges that strikes the owner.” Jaxon frequently offered that wisdom. Instructor Rino navigated that danger with mastery. He possessed the rare talent of carving through his target while remaining completely untouched by his own lethality.
‘What lessons can I extract from this mentor?’
A slow-witted pupil gains nothing from their guide, while a mediocre one might seize a single concept from a lecture.
But a truly sharp student? From one single demonstration, they grasp five or even ten distinct layers.
When it came to the pursuit of knowledge, Enkrid stood alone on the continent.
Across every species, his natural aptitude was unmatched.
He was a thief of knowledge, snatching insights that his masters didn’t even intend to reveal.
‘Is he a master of misdirection?’
On the surface, it appeared so, but when analyzing his psychological maneuvers—the verbal games—Rino didn’t offer much. That aspect of his skill was unrefined. Instead, it was a handful of particular physical patterns that grabbed Enkrid’s attention.
What set them apart?
Rino extended his limbs wide, resembling a massive avian predator. The dual swords stirred the freezing atmosphere as they carved through the air.
The sight invoked the image of Balrog striking out with his wings. Balrog had previously demonstrated how to turn wings into lethal instruments.
And these particular blades—a mere graze would turn flesh to ice.
‘It is as if Balrog is merging the properties of Surtr with his own wings.’
It was a logical deduction.
Surtr, the blade that called forth obsidian flames, was a weapon that forbade even the slightest contact.
Rino’s current form perfectly captured the essence of his tools.
The movements looked like wings because they were expansive and sweeping.
That motion, which appeared unnecessarily theatrical, was actually chilling the local climate.
No—it wasn’t just cooling. It was crystallizing the air itself.
Enkrid noticed a light dusting of rime forming on his skin before he had even processed the sensation.
Currently, it was just a minor chill, but if that seemingly erratic dance continued, it would soon escalate into a physical constraint that would paralyze his agility.
He didn’t need to deliberate—instinct signaled the danger. There was no need to re-examine the logic.
There was a deeper truth to be found here. As he suspected, Instructor Rino’s true strength wasn’t in mental games.
“Go ahead, keep your smile.”
Rino spoke, and Enkrid’s grin remained.
How could it not?
People said a brilliant student could see ten things in one lesson. But Enkrid—the fanatic—thrived on the process of learning. He found the acquisition of knowledge just as exhilarating as the clash of steel or the journey forward. Furthermore, he had tapped into a fresh perspective.
‘The absolute mastery of a tool.’
It wasn’t just about knowing how to cut or how to freeze; it was about altering the very environment to serve his purposes.
‘The twin blades that blind functioned on the same logic.’
His previous set of swords produced intense heat and flames when swung at high velocity. By striking them together with precise power, he could create a blinding radiance.
Robbing an opponent of their sight in that manner—that was a signature move of Instructor Rino.
‘Incredible. Every single time.’
That was his internal reaction. However, that didn’t mean he was content to be a passive target.
Enkrid launched himself forward before the frost could settle into his marrow. He sprang from the earth and lashed out with his blade, painting a sky-hued arc through the air.
It was a basic, elegant strike—yet the teacher evaded it. He lunged sideways and glided across the terrain, leaving a trail of ghost-like images behind. Enkrid had witnessed this maneuver many times. It was an elite footwork technique.
A lateral burst of speed achieved by briefly crossing the legs to generate momentum.
Enkrid had observed it sufficiently and had even spent time mimicry-training it while on the ferryman’s vessel. The obsessive student now pursued his teacher’s ghost.
The sword, following its arc, suddenly jerked mid-motion and lunged horizontally.
“…!”
The instructor’s gaze snapped wide in pure astonishment as he brought both of his frost-rimed blades up to intercept.
That was a fatal error.
Clang!
Dawn Tempering was a weapon that, when called upon, could strike with the devastating weight of a massive claymore.
The sky-colored steel shattered both of the frozen blades and carved a deep line across the instructor’s torso. From that rupture, dark vapors began to leak out like smoke.
“You—!”
Overpowered by the sheer violence of the impact, the teacher tumbled backward before stabilizing. He landed on all fours, lifting only his gaze to address his student.
Rino was aware the strike was mortal. But that reality belonged to the time when he possessed a pulse. Now, the rules were altered. He could still vocalize. He could still move.
But that didn’t mean he was capable of continuing the duel. He wasn’t going to throw himself back into the fray.
Yet, a bitter feeling churned within him.
That specific movement from moments ago—it was his own invention. And this boy had simply mimicked it? After a single look? No—he hadn’t even seen the full execution. He had replicated it from a mere fragment.
“You pilfered my art?”
It was undeniable to any observer. Rino’s eyes pulsed with shock.
‘He witnessed it once? No—he didn’t even see the whole sequence, and he reproduced it right in front of me?’
It wasn’t just a physical step. It involved the flow of Will. Was it truly possible for someone to mirror that after one observation? He hadn’t even seen the completion of the move and yet he performed it.
Even with heightened perception, it defied logic.
The world shouldn’t contain such a prodigy. It was a string of impossibilities. At least, that was how Rino saw it.
But Enkrid—he had watched it an innumerable amount of times in a period Rino couldn’t fathom. He had practiced the motion endlessly, enduring the ferryman’s insults while training on the deck of the boat.
“Looking to fall into the water again? Training out here? I’ve never seen a fool like you.”
He had heard those words and still performed the movement hundreds of times.
“Regardless, it’s not right.”
As the spark in his eyes faded, the teacher whispered. Enkrid gave a small nod. He felt the same.
“…Horrible wretch.”
Rino labeled Enkrid with a final, biting phrase—and ended his own existence. Suddenly, a small blade had appeared in his grip. Remaining on his knees, he raised it and drove it into his own throat.
The teacher dissolved into dark smoke and drifted away.
That signaled the conclusion of the day’s first instruction.
‘His mastery isn’t in trickery. It’s in application.’
Sentiments from his past resonated in his mind.
“Your worth is determined by how you command your steel.”
For a soldier of fortune, a blade is a second soul. That was a lesson from his former captain.
‘How to truly command a weapon…’
Zzzzng.
As he pondered, Dawn Tempering emitted a soft hum.
Flaaap.
The fairy cloak drifted on its own, catching an invisible breeze.
The air within the cavern was motionless, yet the fabric stirred.
‘Have I ever actually utilized my gear to its full potential?’
He also possessed several horn-blade daggers, Penna, cloth-bound gauntlets, and the protective gear crafted from fairy foliage. That suit had even been touched by Esther’s vitality.
Settling his thoughts, Enkrid proceeded toward his second mentor.
“I am called Donapha!”
An instructor who was easily riled and preferred to end things with a single, massive blow. This encounter would be brief.
Donapha brought nothing but a heavy axe, the plate on his back, and a spectral horse.
“A radical mindset.”
He ignored everything except for a solitary axe swing. That was why Donapha’s strikes carried more weight than his physical frame should allow. It brought to mind the technique Roman had once displayed during his days as an aspiring knight. On one occasion, Roman had swung his blade with the authority of a true knight, despite his lower rank.
Roman came to mind because the warrior ahead moved along an identical path.
If Instructor Rino had lectured on the application of tools, the lesson from the second guide, Donapha, was much more direct.
“Uncomplicated thought.”
He weaponized simplicity to bypass complexity.
That directness was more aggressive than simple focus. Like a draft horse wearing blinkers, charging forward with eyes fixed only on the destination.
Blinkers are used to shut out a horse’s side vision so it only sees the path ahead, removing all distractions and allowing it to move with maximum efficiency.
‘Donapha’s alternative perceptions were likely suppressed as well.’
He was the polar opposite of the meticulous Jaxon. This was why, when Donapha committed to a swing, he often left his own safety entirely behind.
Intricate, multi-faceted thinking might serve well in planning, but during the moment of total focus, it acts as a pollutant.
Donapha purged all such pollutants. He might not grasp the underlying physics of this maze, but it was obvious by now that these entities were former knights.
Donapha, this headless rider, must have held that same mindset even when he walked among the living.
It was as if his entire existence had been tuned to the frequency of an axe stroke.
However, there was no reason to adopt that entirely.
‘That would be a step backward.’
Enkrid seized and integrated lessons from his teachers, certainly—but he processed them through his own lens.
Because he was perpetually hungry for knowledge, his form, mindset, and mental processing had all reached new heights. It was nothing short of an evolutionary leap.
‘Simplifying the consciousness only when the moment demands it.’
It evoked memories of Ragna, who always appeared so relaxed and loose. He was terrible at explaining things with words, but he had been a profound teacher nonetheless.
Simply watching his daily habits provided a wealth of knowledge.
‘That relaxed stance is a method of clearing the mind. The shift that occurs when the hand closes on the hilt—that is the transition in thought that calls forth the Will.’
It was sufficient to adopt that directness through a mental shift. Absolute focus only when required.
‘A single point of concentration is all that is needed.’
More specifically, it was a profound immersion into that point. How? By pruning away the branches of doubt and discarding the noise.
That was the takeaway from Donapha’s singular axe strike.
It is said that the blue derived from indigo is even more vivid than the source.
Just as a tiny spark from a campfire can ignite a forest.
“Ah?”
Donapha’s blade sliced through nothingness. This happened just after Enkrid had focused on parrying and evading that direct thought process.
Enkrid’s steel cut through Donapha’s midsection. To an observer, it looked like a Dullahan on a ghost horse had leaned back and charged, while Enkrid, standing his ground, shifted his weight and also lunged, the two passing each other in a heartbeat.
In that exchange, Donapha’s axe found only air, while Enkrid’s Dawn Tempering passed through the waist of the phantom warrior.
Slice.
Dawn Tempering could achieve the precision of Penna when required. This was a flat cut that utilized that razor edge.
“I have been bested, it seems.”
Donapha’s torso slid and hit the ground. His voice emerged from a spot separate from his fallen frame. As per usual, the head did the talking.
He met his end with total honesty and zero delay. Just like his combat style, his acceptance was immediate.
Enkrid moved on to find his third teacher.
All of this, naturally, was the payoff of extensive training. It was also the reward for the countless hours spent swinging his sword on the ferryman’s boat.
“Are you attempting to challenge me now?”
The ferryman had once remarked, observing his drills. He hadn’t meant it as a real question—just a bit of mockery.
The One-Edged Sword Wielder narrowed her vision the second she spotted Enkrid. She was clearly in a different league. The aura emanating from her was physical—it felt like standing before a massive stone rampart.
“So you managed to bypass Donapha.”
Her expertise lay in the overwhelming power generated by keeping up offensive pressure. That intensity showed her true caliber. Her combat rhythm was remarkably sustained.
That extended rhythm was her greatest asset.
However, it only functioned while she was the aggressor. Once forced into a defensive posture, her rhythm shattered, her breath hitched, and her movements—both hands and feet—lost their edge. The difference between her offense and defense was staggering.
‘A catastrophic flaw.’
She could find bliss while attacking, but when pushed back, her spirit couldn’t sustain the effort.
Even as she spoke, her breathing followed a specific, identifiable pattern. She drew in long, shallow drafts of air.
And even that—observing it, learning it, and making it his own—was profoundly entertaining.
In his quiet moments, like those on the ferryman’s deck, he had frequently practiced that specific breathing as a form of mental exercise. Not because he was desperate. It was just that the act of learning and mastering techniques from these souls was too much fun to stop.
“Why are you doing those breathing exercises here?”
Naturally, the ferryman had complained incessantly.
If you permitted the One-Edged Sword Wielder to strike first, she would unleash a torrent of blows. By watching her, he had learned to synchronize his breath with hers.
Then, at the exact moment her breathing faltered, he would flip from defense to attack and strike.
He didn’t just strike—he did so by mimicking her own philosophy.
“You—how could you possibly…?”
Aside from Donapha, these two were perceptive. They realized what Enkrid had accomplished and were consistently stunned.
“Just lucky, I suppose.”
He offered a non-committal reply, and the light in the woman’s eyes began to fail. Common people often meet those more gifted than themselves, but those called geniuses rarely face someone who completely eclipses their own potential.
That is why encounters like this unnerve them so deeply.
Furthermore, the One-Edged Sword Wielder’s psyche couldn’t be healthy.
Existing within the confines of the maze, held captive by Balrog—how could her mind be intact?
Enkrid finished her and moved forward. He met with Oara, had a brief exchange—and then stood before Balrog.
It was the 154th “today.”
In all those attempts, he had never succeeded in breaking the gems on Balrog’s chest. He could smash one, but never the full set of three. A blind charge was useless. To shatter even a single gem, he had to be willing to sacrifice his own life.
That was a trade Enkrid would never accept—it was suicide, not victory.
Still, he had fought and bled.
And yet, Balrog stood as an immovable obstacle.
Then, before the start of the 155th “today,” the ferryman, finally reaching his limit, at last revealed the path to breaking the cycle.
“Pay attention.”
It was as if he were saying: Fine, you win.

Chapter 789

“Bow your head and plead. Balrog will spare your life.”
Just surrender and supplicate.
Beg for the chance to breathe.
That is the path to surviving this moment and fleeing. Turn tail and leave. Meeting him head-on isn’t your only choice. Gather your strength and return to challenge him another time.
Isn’t retreat a valid strategy as well?
The boatman’s visage seemed to transform several times over as the words left his lips.
A deep emerald spark flickered within his dark eyes, and for a fleeting second, a tarnished golden glow emerged from the depths of his hood. Yet, despite these shifts, his outward demeanor remained stoic. He spoke with a flat, detached cadence, offering his advice without a shred of emotion.
Listening to him was akin to reading a dry, academic manuscript. There was no malice or hidden agenda, only cold, hard reality. Much like such a text, Enkrid found a certain logical weight to the boatman’s suggestions.
“Are you truly going to let this day consume you? To be torn apart by a hound that slaughtered its own kin and fled—that is a pathetic way to fall.”
Enkrid found some of the phrasing puzzling.
Slaughtered kin? Ran away?
Contextually, it appeared to be a scathing remark directed at Balrog.
Yet, why would he advise bowing down to such a creature?
The reasoning felt fractured, but when considering what the boatman truly wanted, the contradiction wasn’t entirely baffling.
“Escape this day.”
To be more exact: Do not let yourself be trapped in the present.
That was the boatman’s ultimate desire.
Enkrid possessed a volatile sense of wonder. Much like a sudden burst of creativity hitting a master painter, his curiosity would ignite without warning. Usually, he allowed the world’s noise to drift past him, but occasionally, a specific phrase would snag on his consciousness and demand an answer.
“A hound that killed its kin and fled? What does that signify?”
This curiosity was invariably linked to the arts of war, discipline, growth, or his personal ambitions—though the boatman couldn’t possibly track the winding path of his logic.
Not even the boatman could fully map the labyrinthine depths of Enkrid’s psyche.
In truth, Enkrid struggled to fully grasp his own nature. Such is the complexity of the soul.
Regardless, Enkrid posed the question, and the boatman provided a stiff, clipped response.
“It is of no consequence.”
The lantern held by the boatman swung slightly. That minor vibration cast a violet radiance across the space, causing the shadows to dance and stretch.
The vessel had expanded to twice its standard dimensions. This phenomenon was familiar to Enkrid.
Whenever he submerged himself in deep training even within his slumber—perfecting the lessons of the three mentors who refused to take even a single coin—the boatman would enlarge the craft.
Despite everything, one truth stood firm in Enkrid’s mind: the boatman was desperate for him to avoid a stalemate with Balrog. His actions spoke with far more urgency than his monotone voice ever could.
The intent was crystal clear.
Reflecting on it, Enkrid had been in the company of this boatman for years.
The figure was the only witness to Enkrid’s deepest truth—a reality no other living soul would credit.
Enkrid’s mind began to churn. There was no need to force the process. This was a realm of the psyche, after all—his internal domain.
In this space, cognitions moved with the speed of lightning. In an instant, Enkrid simply allowed the seeds of thought to drink deep and flourish.
If left to grow, they would reach their own inevitable fruit. It was a rhythm he had mastered through trial and error.
“The boatman is aiding my development.”
He was goading him, pushing him to scale the insurmountable.
“But why?”
The moment the query surfaced, the realization followed. He already understood. It was a conviction he had confirmed three times now.
The boatman loathed the “today” that involved Balrog. The reason was simple: it was a day defined by misery.
It was not the version of reality the boatman wished to see.
He craved a day of serenity and grace. Even if conflict was required, it shouldn’t be born of such wretched desperation.
“You will never conquer this. If you remain shackled to this moment for a century or two, this becomes the boundary. This becomes your eternal present.”
The boatman spoke once more, cutting through Enkrid’s internal monologue as if to disrupt his focus. Enkrid remained composed. To a spectator, it might look like one party was desperately pleading while the other remained cold.
“Frenzied beastman—if you seek to touch the immortal, this is not the hour for it.”
Is it not always the one who is most anxious who speaks the loudest?
Having processed the warning, Enkrid reached up to rub the back of his neck and offered a casual dismissal.
“Yeah. I’ll pass.”
His refusal was devoid of doubt. His posture was as relaxed as his timing.
“So you choose to remain in this day?”
The boatman pushed for an answer.
“No, that’s not what I’m saying.”
Enkrid gave a slow shake of his head.
“Do you… do you truly believe you can best this on your own?”
The boatman’s Resolve slammed into him, a heavy, layered pressure that vibrated through his very marrow. The surrounding waters churned violently in response to his words, and the vessel pitched.
Though this was a world of the mind, for Enkrid, it felt as tangible as the earth beneath his feet—he had full agency over his form here.
Keeping his footing easily on the rolling boat, a subtle grin touched Enkrid’s lips. It was a look of absolute conviction.
“No.”
That was his final word on the matter. The swirling river rose up to consume the boatman. The figure’s form crumbled into shimmering indigo dust and vanished. Meanwhile, Enkrid felt himself becoming light, drifting upward toward the pulsing radiance above.
“Then you must back those words with action.”
The boatman’s parting words drifted through the air like a distant shout.
Enkrid’s “no” had carried two distinct weights.
First: a promise that he would not stay stagnant in this moment.
And second:
“What makes you think I’m by myself?”
He wasn’t fighting alone.
That was the crux of it.
Or at least, something to that effect.
Past that, stray thoughts—natural fragments of his consciousness—began to reach out, intertwining like serpents locked in a circular dance.
Enkrid expertly channeled these disparate thoughts toward a single point of impact.
To prostrate himself before Balrog would mean shattering his own spirit—abandoning the very principles of his existence just to keep breathing.
In the end, the boatman hadn’t changed at all. This proposition was identical to the one he’d offered in a previous loop. Regardless of the circumstances, the boatman only ever suggested a hollow, cowardly survival.
“And where is the joy in that?”
Living such a day held zero value for Enkrid.
It wasn’t fulfilling. More than that, it was a slap in the face to the ambition he had held since he was a boy—the dream of knighthood, an achievement he had, in a sense, already grasped.
Existence and the void are two edges of the same blade. Since he was the one walking that edge, he alone would decide how he carried himself.
And to beg? That was a role for the weak. It meant handing the reins of his fate to Balrog.
Even if he survived, his spirit would eventually turn to ash. Once you’ve crawled on your belly to beg for mercy, the core of your being is gone.
If the pillar of Resolve he had painstakingly constructed were to fall—what would remain?
A stranger might think Enkrid lived only for the immediate present. But they would be wrong.
He was always a man walking toward the sunrise.
Regardless of the boatman’s advice, Enkrid had his own path to forge.
“If you continue like this, you’ll be imprisoned in this moment.”
The boatman’s warning echoed in his mind.
He grasped the gravity of it.
If the goal was merely to leave this day behind, he had discovered the method a long time ago.
As for the idea that he couldn’t do it solo? He conceded that point as well.
After attempting to break through the barrier countless times, Enkrid’s perspective had shifted and grown.
He had discarded the prideful notion that every victory had to be won in isolation.
A more fluid mind allowed him to weigh various factors, to run the numbers and determine the necessary path.
How had he mastered the ability to feel the rhythm of combat through raw intuition?
He owed that to Abnaier—the brilliant tactician who had once ensnared him, now a captive of the Border Guard.
Having lived through this day so many times, that tactical sense had become a part of his soul.
That accumulated wisdom had formed a beacon of instinct, a light that still burned bright, showing him the truth of the world.
Iteration and growth.
The cycle of thought returned to its starting point.
So—just how many “todays” had Enkrid endured?
He had lost count. The mere fact that his psyche hadn’t cracked was enough for the boatman to give him a grudging respect.
Deep down, a part of the boatman’s essence honored him for that resilience.
Of course, Enkrid would never be privy to those hidden feelings.
And so, after so much repetition, his perception had reached a razor’s edge. If he found himself stalled in time, he could already perceive the path ahead. It was a dark, infinite void—yet he trusted that if he persevered, the beacon’s glow would eventually reveal the way.
This was an accidental evolution, a secondary trait the boatman hadn’t foreseen.
The radiance pulled him in once more, returning him to the present reality.
Facing the familiar cycle of time and truth, Enkrid mentally reviewed his arsenal of knowledge.
The mastery of arms.
He practiced the fundamentals established by his first mentor.
This didn’t just cover the use of steel and tools, but the application of the refined energy he now commanded.
“If your internal strength evolves, your approach to battle must evolve with it. That’s just common sense.”
The teachings of Lua Gharne resonated in his mind.
Then, the methods of his second mentor, Donapha, proved their worth. With a focused intent, he purged all distractions. By executing his axe strokes in that specific manner, he pushed past his physical constraints.
And from the third teacher, the One-Edged Sword Wielder, he grasped how one’s Resolve and breath fluctuated with their internal state.
Enkrid endured over thirty more iterations of this day.
And eventually, at the conclusion, Balrog had uttered something peculiar.
Peculiar from Balrog’s view, at least. To Enkrid, it made perfect sense.
—Is your plan simply to take a long time to die?
Enkrid had met that question with a silent grin. He had finally perceived the nuance between the Resolve of Ragna and the others, the Resolve Balrog projected, and the Resolve he carried in his own chest—and he had finally assimilated it.
He had fought to the bitter end using that knowledge alone—but he had still fallen.
The clash had been brutal, chaotic, and bloody—yet it was merely another day that had passed into shadow.
A day that no one would ever remember, gone in an instant.
But Enkrid remembered. Those days were the bricks building a lighthouse to guide his tomorrow.
Which is why, at the dawn of the two hundred twenty-sixth iteration, he turned to Rino and spoke.
“Is this the territory of your mentor?”
“Is this the territory of your mentor?”
Within the labyrinth, there were pockets of flickering flame and stretches of absolute shadow. And these entities claimed them.
In terms of total days spent, Enkrid had been in this place for more than six months. In that span, he had analyzed his environment through sheer instinct.
This was the reality he had uncovered.
These creatures held their own lands. Did they keep a shred of their personality because of Balrog’s mercy?
No. It was for his entertainment.
The demon of conflict, who lived only for the struggle, kept them caged in the maze so they could perpetually challenge him.
That was his source of pleasure.
Shards of Balrog, broken off like jagged glass, ruled various sectors of the labyrinth. They enticed the thinking races, forced them to sharpen their blades, and eventually slaughtered them.
And for those who congregated there, he provided a space of their own.
A sanctuary within the maze, if you will.
It wasn’t a luxury suite in a bustling city—just a hollowed-out section of stone—but it was their undisputed home.
“…Hmm? You’re better informed than you look. But mentor? That’s a strange word to use.”
Having deepened his understanding, Enkrid decided that title was the most fitting.
“I’ve picked up a thing or two,” he said.
“I see.”
Rino tilted his head from side to side, letting his arms hang loose. It was the movement that preceded a strike.
Enkrid quietly manifested his bastion of Resolve. A challenge—to see if Rino had the strength to pierce it. Rino’s brow furrowed. A line appeared on his forehead, and a twisted grin spread across his face.
“Where did a brat like you learn a technique like that?”
He unsheathed a blade of fire and dropped into a combat stance. It was the kind of posture that suggested he would burst forward the moment the tension broke.
It was a refined stance—but Enkrid saw it for the trap it was.
If Rino were a member of the Mad Order of Knights, Enkrid might have offered a critique:
“You should stop trying to be clever and just focus on the purity of your form.”
His vision had become far more acute. He had coached Pell and Rophod. He had even helped Roman discover a fresh path.
He had spent his time teaching and learning in an endless cycle, distilling everything down to the vital elements to rebuild himself.
To Enkrid, the direction Rino needed to take was glaringly obvious.
Of course, he kept that to himself. The being in front of him was a foe—not a student to be nurtured.
More importantly…
“He isn’t even truly alive.”