A Knight Who Eternally Regresses-Chapter 253: A Night of Stimulation

Once you’ve realized something, you must act on it immediately.

“If even a small clue comes to mind, act on it. If you wait, you’ll lose it. And what’s lost usually doesn’t come back to you—it becomes someone else’s. Even the tiniest revelation must be etched into your body through action.”

Enkrid remembered this as a brief lesson. It had been imparted by a tanned instructor at a swordsmanship school in the southern gateway domain.

He lived by those words now.

Without hesitation, he got up.

It didn’t matter that they had just returned to the domain, or what he had done earlier, or that it was supposed to be time to sleep.

None of that mattered to Enkrid.

He walked outside into the night.

The sleet had stopped, leaving the ground muddy. A torch mounted nearby burned brightly, casting its light around.

Fwoosh.

The wild horse Enkrid had rescued watched him silently.

Without a word, Enkrid passed by the horse and stopped in front of the barracks, where he began moving his body.

“What muscles are most important when swinging a sword?”

The whole body was vital. The forearm muscles allowed for variations in grip strength, while a sturdy core served as the foundation for centrifugal force in a strike.

“What about cutting through flames?”

His thoughts led him back to the moment he had cleaved through fire.

Casting a spell through a scroll had been remarkable, almost mystical, but in the moment, all that mattered was the fact that a fireball had been hurtling toward him.

He recalled his movements then:

The sword swung down, perpendicular to the ground.

“The back.”

In his mind, Enkrid visualized the muscles of his body separating, dissecting themselves into their roles.

His senses unified into a singular, intuitive awareness.

By observing and reflecting on his body in this way, Enkrid turned the act of training into a process of discovery and refinement.

He mimicked the motion of chopping firewood—a movement he needed now—and carefully monitored the shifting of his muscles.

This was the beginning of change, the foundation of growth.

Inside the barracks, the Mad Platoon watched.

Dunbakel, who had been drooling absentmindedly, quickly slurped it back and stood up.

If I copy that, maybe I’ll figure something out too.

“Don’t,” Audin said, stepping forward to stop her.

He turned his attention to Enkrid, observing the man’s almost frenzied movements under the moonlight.

How does one find joy in such chaos?

Audin murmured a prayer to his god:

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“How can You bring such joy to one so burdened by sin?”

He stepped outside.

What Enkrid was doing wasn’t simply following instructions or adhering to teachings—it was the process of finding joy in self-improvement.

By reflecting on his weaknesses, identifying them, and pushing himself toward growth, Enkrid was walking a path that brought profound satisfaction.

To Audin, it was a marvel to witness.

Despite having taught the Technique of Isolation to countless others, he had rarely seen anyone embrace it with such enthusiasm.

Most treated it as a means to an end, but for Enkrid, it was an end in itself.

“Focus on weight, balance, and your breath. Inhale deeply and expand your belly. If your center is off, none of it will matter, Brother,” Audin instructed as he stood beside Enkrid.

Enkrid absorbed his words like a sponge.

Where before his training had been driven by habit and inertia, tonight he felt like a ferryman steering his boat with purpose for the first time.

Audin chuckled as he taught, the sound so hearty that it turned heads among the nearby soldiers.

“What’s he doing?”

“Didn’t they just get back today?”

“Why is he holding a rock and... dancing?”

“Is the Mad Platoon insane because they fight well, or because they’re literally mad?”

The murmurs from the soldiers were tinged with confusion. To them, this scene was anything but normal.

Back inside the barracks, Rem silently shut the door.

“Don’t let the cold air in,” he muttered.

Dunbakel frowned, disappointed that she couldn’t see more of what Enkrid was doing. She wanted to understand what drove him.

“Hey, just ignore it,” Rem said. “What kind of person loses their mind so gracefully? It’s embarrassing to watch.”

His words drew no response.

Dunbakel, unable to contain herself, slipped outside. Rem didn’t bother stopping her.

Rem had too much on his mind.

How could anyone act like that?

Enkrid had fought on the battlefield, displayed absurd strength, and saved lives.

He had ignored the cheers of those he rescued, shown no greed for a cursed axe, and dismissed the gold and jewels as though they were meaningless.

Now he was meditating one moment, drooling, and then rushing outside to train like a lunatic.

Is he normal?

No, but that abnormality stirred something in Rem too.

He glanced at the flaming axe in his hand.

The weapon had once held a curse, but Enkrid had cleansed it.

Rem thought back to what he had left behind when he abandoned his tribe.

Someday, I’ll reclaim what I lost.

The thoughts churned in his mind, spurred on by Enkrid’s actions.

Even Ragna couldn’t tear his gaze away.

After Enkrid left, Ragna stared at the door, lost in thought, even after Rem had shut it.

Is this what it feels like?

To feel one’s blood boil?

If blood actually boiled, humans would die, yet it felt like it.

Sitting on the edge of his bed, Ragna’s heart pounded as if urging him to grab his sword and start swinging.

But he didn’t move.

His training sword, made hastily at Border Guard, was barely usable.

Strength.

Ragna already knew his weaknesses and how to address them. He just needed better tools.

If the dwarf blacksmith could forge what he envisioned, he would be unstoppable.

The image of Enkrid burned in his mind.

It wasn’t envy or resentment, but an undeniable urge to push himself further, a reaction to the overwhelming presence of someone like Enkrid.

Not only the men, but also Teresa felt the pull.

From behind her mask, her eyes flickered with restless energy.

What drove Enkrid to such extremes?

The answer lay within her:

The joy of battle.

Her instincts as a warrior, the blood of a giant, stirred within her.

Kraiss, still inspecting the jewels and various items from the chest, glanced up.

Everyone here was odd, one way or another.

Through the open door, he could see Enkrid and Audin outside, with Dunbakel nearby.

Dunbakel paused in a half-crouched stance, her posture wavering. Audin laughed as he placed a firm hand on her shoulder and pulled her upright.

“That hurts!” Dunbakel complained. Pain was a powerful motivator—it loosened tongues and corrected mistakes.

“It’s supposed to hurt, Sister,” Audin replied. “That’s why you need to fix your posture.”

Nearby, Teresa muttered something under her breath, too quiet to hear. A few soldiers standing around glanced curiously at the scene, while the wild horse observed indifferently.

Kraiss felt a flicker of concern but dismissed it.

In his hand was a ruby known as "Crimson Flame," a gem of extraordinary value.

“This could fetch hundreds of gold coins.”

He thought back to the grave they had raided—the so-called tomb of an adventurer—and the claim that similar graves existed across the continent.

“Should I become a treasure hunter?”

No.

Even the best swordsman wouldn’t survive a single misstep in one of those traps, and Kraiss had no interest in knocking on heaven’s door—or swimming across the rivers of hell.

"Staying with Enkrid seems safer."

Enkrid was a harbinger of chaos.

While sticking with him might lead to more graves and mysteries, it would also mean facing situations like these again.

And yet, wasn’t the Border Guard Guild providing stable income already?

Kraiss shook his head. He didn’t need to dream of wealth—he just wanted to live comfortably, buried in gold coins.

Looking outside, Kraiss muttered to Jaxon, “Everyone’s crazy here, don’t you think?”

The irony was lost on Kraiss, who seemed unaware of his own eccentricities. Usually, Jaxon would ignore such comments, but this time he responded.

“Maybe.”

Kraiss turned to him in surprise.

“What’s gotten into you?”

Jaxon’s gaze burned, cold yet intense, like ice with fire beneath.

His master’s words echoed in his mind:

"What do you seek from the art of killing?"

At the time, Jaxon hadn’t understood the question.

"You enjoy this too much. I’m not sure I’m doing the right thing teaching you... not that it’s my business."

Those words had stayed with him.

Jaxon had enjoyed learning the techniques of death—refining his skills to take lives. But somewhere along the way, he had buried that joy under layers of necessity and purpose.

Now, watching Enkrid train under the moonlight, something deep inside Jaxon stirred.

“Ah...”

It was like the first time he had held a sword.

The desire to grow, to master the sensory arts, to revisit and refine every technique—it all came flooding back.

The barracks remained quiet, but within each individual, there was a profound shift.

“Whatever,” Kraiss muttered, shaking his head as he returned to his own thoughts.

The night passed, and by the following morning, Enkrid was awake at dawn.

Where once he had taken joy in using the power of rejection, he now found exhilaration in refining the Technique of Isolation.

Every movement of his body felt like a special kind of stimulation.

After finishing his morning training, the lord of Martai invited the group for a meal.

“Let’s eat,” Enkrid said, gathering everyone.

As they sat down to the feast, the lord asked, “I should thank you again, but what were you doing last night? Why were you out under the moon like that?”

Enkrid offered a simple reply: “It was a good night for training.”

He didn’t elaborate. Explaining the need to seize even the smallest insight, to mold one’s life around such fleeting moments, would fall on deaf ears.

The lord sighed. “Fine, forget it.”

The meal was a banquet: perfectly roasted lamb, marinated pork ribs, catfish stew, butter and cheese, diluted wine, and clear water.

But the star of the table was the bread—soft, white, and fluffy, earning Martai its reputation as the domain of bread.

“Damn, this is good,” Rem said, visibly impressed.

“Where’s the blonde one?” the lord asked, referring to Ragna.

“Still sleeping. He’s not a morning person,” Kraiss answered casually.

Enkrid paid it no mind, and the lord let it go. After all, these were the Mad Platoon—eccentricity was expected.

After the meal, they resumed training.

The echoes of the previous night’s stimulus lingered, driving them to push themselves further.

Once they were done, they bathed and finally made their way to the marketplace.

Kraiss, as their guide, remarked, “I’ve already scoped out the area.”

It was a habit of his to learn the lay of the land, including escape routes.

Their first stop was a small tavern.

Martai’s marketplace was bustling but narrow, with crowds of people and new buildings under construction. Among them was a round-roofed temple.

Rem, noticing the temple, said cautiously, “Captain, maybe we should check that out.”

Enkrid ignored him and entered the tavern with Kraiss.

“This place has great bread—rusks, they call them. Toasted with sugar and butter. Really good,” Kraiss said, giving a thumbs-up.

It was a kind of bread absent from the morning banquet, and as Kraiss promised, it was excellent.

Hard rather than soft, it was made by toasting bread twice, giving it a unique crunch.

They ate rusks and tender braised duck for lunch, focusing on the simple pleasures of eating and drinking before heading to the dwarven blacksmith.

As they ate, the tavern door burst open with a loud kick.

Bang!

A stranger entered, glaring around the room before barking, “What are you looking at? Bring me a plate of bread!”

Then, as he sat, his gaze locked onto Enkrid.

From the way he glared and carried himself, it was clear—he was looking for trouble.

Unable to suppress it, she pushed the door open and stepped outside.

If she didn’t spar with Enkrid right now, she wouldn’t be able to sleep.

Whether it was an odd hour or not didn’t matter.

The door slammed behind her as she left.

What’s her deal now? Rem thought.