A Knight Who Eternally Regresses-Chapter 284: If They Lack Experience, Make Them Gain It. If They Have Weaknesses, Eliminate Them

A few small-scale battles had subtly altered the atmosphere of the battlefield.

"Are they fighting or not?"

The Black Blades and the cultists' army couldn't help but wonder.

They had expected fierce battles, but it felt like all the momentum had been drained. It had happened over a dozen times now.

But charging in recklessly wasn’t an option either.

"The Master of the Demonic Realm has said—never trust thieves."

It was obvious that the Black Blades were up to something behind the scenes. The Tarnin Viscount’s forces were no different.

"Don't engage first. Just hold the line."

"Ah, are they attacking again today? Don’t they ever get tired of this?"

At Lykanos's remark, Tarnin stuffed a piece of jerky into his bread and grumbled.

He was someone who never stopped eating, not even for a moment.

The tension that had existed before was gone.

The Border Guard standing army had been acting so erratically that it was only natural for the enemy to lower their guard.

But Lykanos was different.

"Something's wrong."

He couldn’t pinpoint exactly what, but years of experience on the battlefield told him that the enemy was up to something unusual.

A deep sense of unease gripped him.

An intense, overwhelming dread.

The Fat Viscount beside him was rambling on about something again.

Something along the lines of "We should just attack and finish them off already! We outnumber them!"—nonsense.

"Shut up."

Lykanos wasn't the kind of fool who ignored his instincts.

The viscount screeched something back at him, but he ignored it.

"Prepare for defense."

Lykanos had no choice but to stick to the same strategy.

There was no other way. Neither the cultists nor the Azpen forces could be trusted.

Getting stabbed in the back?

"That wouldn't be very fitting for the Black Blades."

His faction was destined to become the continent’s greatest band of thieves.

A group like that couldn't afford to get caught in an obvious trap.

And so, beneath a cleared sky, with crisp winter sunlight shining down, another day of battle dawned.

***

"Pain stands before me!"

"Kill the pain!"

Bell found the battle cries growing stranger by the day, but before he knew it, he was shouting along with them.

"A pain worth dying for!"

It had gotten even more bizarre, but it wasn’t just the chants that had changed.

The soldiers’ movements were different.

There was no longer any need to bark out curses mixed with commands.

It was only natural.

These were men who had already been trained—mercilessly beaten and battered by the Mad Platoon.

Those who hadn’t even received basic training were never included in the ranks to begin with.

That had been Kraiss’s decision.

"We’re already short on manpower as it is."

Bell had thought it was some novel kind of bullshit. Real battlefields don’t work like that, he had wanted to say.

Of course, he had never actually spoken those words aloud.

"Just do it."

Enkrid was behind it, and Graham had approved it.

"The point is this: If they lack experience, make them gain it. If they have weaknesses, eliminate them."

Mixing untrained soldiers with the trained ones only weakened the overall combat strength.

So instead, they hammered the trained ones into shape.

Like iron strengthened under a smith’s hammer, they would forge themselves through the crucible of real combat.

That was Kraiss’s theory turned into reality, and Bell was proof of it.

Soldiers, more soldiers—troops tempered by hellish training, then hardened under the hammer of actual battle.

"The flower of the battlefield is—!"

"Infantry!"

"The flower of pain is—!"

"Unholy delight!"

Corrupted chants, heated shouts, and an inferno rising in their chests.

"Kill them all!"

Bell roared.

If the previous battles had been a single step forward, this one was two.

Where they had only tested the waters before, now they struck first.

And Bell was at the forefront.

He locked eyes with a mercenary from the Black Blades.

The man glared at him from beneath his iron helmet, his gaze filled with murderous intent.

The mercenary swung a massive sword down at him, a heavy, powerful strike aimed directly at his head.

Bell didn't react.

If he stayed like this, he would die.

Instead of blocking, he stomped his left foot into the ground, twisted his waist backward, and tensed his arms.

His muscles bulged, his veins stretched taut.

With his entire body coiled like a spring, he thrust his spear forward.

This was a move he had refined over days of practice.

A lunge thrown with his whole body, twisting as he struck.

"Is this guy insane?"

The mercenary hesitated but still followed through with his downward slash.

It was like they were both asking to die together.

As long as he struck first, he would win.

The mercenary planned to let the force of his attack kill Bell while dodging the weakened thrust of the spear.

But his sword never completed its arc.

Two soldiers flanked Bell from the sides, raising their heavy round shields over his head.

Clang!

The blade struck the shields instead.

And then—

A piercing attack landed on the mercenary’s body.

Thud!

The sharpened spearhead tore through gambeson and leather, drilling a hole straight into his stomach.

The spear shaft stuck out of his torso like a gruesome decoration.

"Y-you... crazy bastard..."

Blood bubbled from the mercenary’s lips as he gasped.

His grip on his sword loosened.

He staggered, clutching the spear impaling him, then collapsed backward.

As he slumped sideways, the tip of the spear scraped against the ground.

He died seated at an awkward angle.

"That’s called strategy, you dumb ape."

Bell scoffed and let go of the spear.

Pulling it out would take too much effort.

Instead, he stepped back and grabbed a fresh spear.

Each team consisted of three men.

One to pierce, two to block and hold the line.

"A single spearman supported by two shield-bearers forms a unit."

A hastily devised strategy, but there was no reason it wouldn’t work.

Most of the grueling training they had endured was to enhance their individual physical abilities.

The tactic itself wasn’t complicated.

And so, the Border Guard standing army and the Tarnin Viscount’s forces clashed in their first major battle.

"Slash them down! Smash them with the shields! Crack their skulls with maces!"

"Archers! Are you just going to stand there and watch?"

So far, the battle had been fought infantry against infantry.

But now, the enemy deployed their archers.

"Bastards. Kill them."

The Venzance archers had been waiting for this.

A platoon of sharp-eyed, quick-footed soldiers nocked their arrows.

With furious precision, they loosed their shots.

Thwip-thwip-thwip!

Fifty longbows fired in unison.

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Arrows rained down, piercing into the exposed flanks of the enemy.

"Fall back! Fall back!"

Bell shouted, stepping away from the melee.

The Border Guard forces swiftly withdrew.

To any observer, it was an impressive sight.

The overall numbers on both sides weren’t drastically different.

The standing army had just over a thousand men.

The Tarnin Viscount’s forces had swelled to over twenty-five hundred.

More soldiers had gathered from somewhere, swelling their ranks.

Of course, not all of them were engaged in battle.

Both armies had deployed only a fraction of their troops.

The Border Guard had committed about 250 soldiers.

The Tarnin Viscount had sent in close to 400.

The numerical advantage was clear, and the enemy forces included elite mercenaries.

Their overseers loomed behind them, weapons in hand, ensuring they fought to the death.

But despite all that—

The outcome was undeniable.

"A trained army will always overcome individuals."

From atop the hill, Kraiss muttered.

Finn, acting as his bodyguard, frowned.

"What kind of bullshit is that?"

"Just the truth."

"I should be guarding the captain, not playing bodyguard."

Finn grumbled.

Meanwhile, Enkrid was busy with his own task.

***

"Here."

Jaxon trudged forward, speaking as Enkrid turned his head.

"Ragna?"

"Why are you calling me?"

Good. If Ragna was here, then everything they needed was here.

His gaze landed on Teresa, her face obscured by her helmet.

Is she really fine?

She had been given the option to back out, but she had refused.

"I am Teresa the Wanderer. My sword and shield go where they must."

With Jaxon leading the way, the Mad Platoon didn't bother to conceal their movements.

There was no need.

A full-scale battle was raging elsewhere, drawing all eyes to the chaos.

And so, every scout they encountered along the way was slain.

A dead man had no tongue to deliver messages.

While the Black Blades and the standing army were busy tearing each other apart, Enkrid’s unit pushed forward toward the cultists’ camp.

"I was getting sick of waiting."

Rem spoke, his eyes gleaming. It was as if he suffered from a disease that required him to take a life at least once every three days.

"Move."

Enkrid commanded, stepping toward the crude wooden palisade ahead.

As they approached, a deep growl rumbled through the air. A stench, thick and musky, struck their noses.

Eyes turned.

Yellow, glowing eyes.

A wolf beast, crouched low on four legs, baring its fangs.

Grrrrrrr!

The moment their gazes met, the beast lunged, kicking off the ground with a powerful thud.

It became a streak, a blur of white fangs flashing in the front lines.

It had appeared from the left—right where Dunbakel was positioned.

Just as its claws raked through the air—

Clang!

A metallic screech rang out.

The beast met a sliver of silver in midair.

Of course, it was Dunbakel’s doing.

Her scimitar, drawn in a fluid arc, carved a crescent through the air.

A diagonal slash of silver severed the beast from its right shoulder down to its left hind leg.

A spray of blood and entrails splattered onto the ground as the wolf beast split in two, its twitching corpse collapsing.

Blood splattered in all directions.

"Could you at least make it clean?"

Rem muttered, watching the mess.

Dunbakel flicked her scimitar, sending droplets of blood pattering onto the ground.

"That was clean."

"You really don’t know anything, do you?"

Rem scoffed.

Grrrrrrr!

Even before Rem finished speaking, more yellow eyes appeared in the shadows.

They had swept through the enemy scouts in broad daylight, and now the beasts were swarming in response.

The foul stench grew stronger, clogging their noses. The area already reeked of waste and rot.

It wasn’t that the cultists had predicted the Mad Platoon’s movements.

This was an unforeseen dagger striking at an unexpected hour—

“Would they really come here?”

It was a thought that had lulled the cultists into carelessness.

And so, the sudden emergence of the wolf beasts was not a countermeasure but mere coincidence.

The beasts had simply been stationed here to guard the camp’s perimeter.

The cultists' base was nestled between uneven hills, the terrain jagged and filled with natural hiding spots.

Now, from those dips and ridges, more wolves emerged.

Dozens of yellow eyes rose from the landscape.

Corrupted beasts, their maws dripping with saliva, fangs bared from all sides.

Grrrrrr!

Rem raised his twin axes, holding them level with the ground.

"Watch. This is what clean looks like."

Then, he lunged.

There was no time for words.

He moved half a beat faster than the beasts could react.

In an instant, he closed the distance, appearing right in front of the nearest one.

A downward swing.

His axe arm bent mid-motion, the edge cleaving through fur and flesh.

A wolf’s head flew into the air.

Then another.

And another.

Rem moved as he always did.

Slashing, cutting, splitting—anything in his path.

"How the hell is that clean?"

Dunbakel muttered. Enkrid silently agreed.

It was anything but clean.

But it was devastating.

"Brother, you are truly... ferocious."

Audin murmured.

That was exactly what it was.

The wolf beasts, loyal to their duty as sentinels, were shredded apart.

Enkrid adjusted his sword belt as he watched cultists emerge from behind the palisade.

A small but necessary preparation.

No matter the opponent, no matter the battle—one must always be ready.

He tightened his grip.

"Ambush!"

A cultist shouted.

Enkrid took a stance, looking as if he would immediately draw his sword and charge.

Some of the cultists panicked and reached for their crossbows.

"The Master of the Demonic Realm watches over us!"

With a fanatical cry, they aimed and prepared to fire.

At that moment, Enkrid, instead of drawing his sword, flung both hands outward.

To an observer, it would seem like a random, senseless movement.

But the result was anything but.

Whiiiiiish!

A shrill whistle cut through the air.

And then—

Four crossbow-wielding cultists clutched at their throats, blood gushing between their fingers.

It was the Whistle Dagger.

"Guh!"

One of them fell to the ground, their throat torn wide open.

A gaping wound that bled freely, leaving their mouth agape in a silent scream.

Four of them had their skulls meet the dirt.

"You sure know how to deceive people."

Jaxon muttered behind him.

His tone was hard to read—whether he was impressed or mocking.

Enkrid didn’t care.

Feigning a sword draw only to unleash daggers instead—it was a simple yet effective tactic.

Everything had been a setup for that single move.

Positioning was preparation.

Deception was preparation.

"Awoooooo!"

A chilling wolf’s howl erupted from deep within the cultist encampment.

A sound infused with a sinister power, causing a momentary stiffness in the body.

"Can someone shut those mutts up?"

Rem growled, his axes dripping with dark, sticky blood.

His grin was all teeth, stark white against the blackened gore.

A perfect image of terror.

No one here was frozen in fear.

Even Dunbakel only grumbled.

"Lopping off heads doesn’t make it clean."

"M-Master of the Demonic Realm..."

One of the cultists stammered, his jaw trembling.

"Huh? What was that? I can’t hear the nonsense of someone who worships a shitty god."

Rem cupped a hand to his ear, mockingly.

Then, with a manic gleam in his eyes, he threw himself back into the slaughter.

From the enemy’s perspective, he had gone completely mad.

Enkrid and his team did their part.

Jaxon set fire to the supply tents.

Ragna cut down enemies who tried to rush Enkrid from behind.

Teresa and Dunbakel dashed left and right, crushing both beasts and men alike.

They didn’t need to make a prolonged stand.

The moment Enkrid saw the black smoke rise, he signaled the retreat.

He flung a Whistle Dagger high into the air.

Whiiiiiiiiiiiish!

At the prolonged, shrill sound, the entire unit began falling back.

The plan had always been to hit hard and pull out before things got out of hand.

While the enemy’s commander wasted time bolstering his personal guard, they had torched his supplies and escaped.

Simple but effective.

"Rem!"

Enkrid called as he withdrew.

"Go on ahead!"

Rem remained behind.

Was he just enjoying himself too much?

Half of it was that.

The other half was necessity—someone had to hold the rear.

Four larger, twice-their-size wolf beasts were closing in.

Either someone cut them down or stalled them long enough to escape.

"I hope you drop dead here."

Jaxon muttered with false sincerity.

"Or maybe I should stay behind."

Ragna suggested.

That was unacceptable. If Ragna stayed, they wouldn’t see him again before winter ended.

Enkrid wasn’t worried about Rem.

This was Rem, after all.

There was no way he couldn’t slip away.

"We’re going ahead."

Enkrid decided.