A Knight Who Eternally Regresses-Chapter 424: A Guest

Just as Rem had made his decision, others, too, experienced a shift in their resolve.

There was no avoiding it.

"Ha!"

From morning to night.

Whether it rained or snowed, whether the weather was sticky and unbearable—

Watching that lunatic swing his sword endlessly made one reflect on many things.

If Rem had solidified his resolve for a specific reason,

Ragna, on the other hand, reaffirmed his own talent.

He had taken a step back to observe himself.

What is it that I have?

First and foremost, he had an uncanny knack for finding shortcuts. It was an exceptional ability.

And it wasn’t something that required others to acknowledge it.

Not that I’d ever make a career out of guiding people.

Ragna had actually tried being a guide before, but every single client who hired him ended up terrified.

He was a terrifyingly good fighter, but a mad guide who couldn’t tell north from south.

Some even suspected that he deliberately led people into monster-infested areas.

At one point, the mere mention of his name made the Guide Guild break out in cold sweats.

So that talent could be set aside.

Next?

The sword. Swordsmanship.

Innate talent never truly disappeared, and there were things one could recognize even without being told.

Just like his knack for guiding, he had some level of talent with the sword.

Then what am I lacking?

Knowing what he was good at wasn’t enough.

While he had no shortcomings as a guide, his swordsmanship was different.

If there were no deficiencies or roadblocks, he would already be at the level of a knight.

But he wasn’t. He had hit a wall. He could feel his flow of swordplay breaking apart.

That meant he was lacking something.

To others, it seemed like Ragna had been slacking off lately, but in reality, he had been engaged in deep introspection.

And after much self-reflection, he reached a conclusion.

The fundamentals.

Every action—swinging, cutting, stabbing—

He had to go back and walk the path he had taken, in reverse.

Even if he was a terrible guide, even he could retrace his own footsteps.

As he did, a voice from within him asked—

"Why do you want to be a knight?"

In the past, that question might have stopped him in his tracks.

But now—

"Because only as a knight can I see what comes next."

Ragna now awaited what came next.

And the closest step ahead was clear—

The knight from Azpen.

He would defeat him.

Just as Rem had strengthened his resolve, so had Ragna.

Jaxon, on the other hand, experienced no change in his mindset.

His mind had already been made up.

Instead, his body was constantly in motion. He had no time to rest.

If he failed to persuade his guild members, there would be no shortage of people eager to poison Enkrid’s meals.

Meanwhile, Enkrid continued swinging his sword.

Watching the path of his blade, Frokk murmured in admiration.

"Clean."

It was a level of precision that suggested thousands—no, tens of thousands—of repetitions.

Lua Gharne, too, had never seen someone so singularly devoted to fundamentals.

Am I stating the obvious?

She mused internally.

It did seem obvious, upon reflection.

Geniuses were born with talent, and they often grasped a technique’s essence with just a few attempts before modifying and optimizing it.

But does that mean they have truly mastered it?

Brilliant talent revealed shortcuts, but shortcuts weren’t always beneficial.

Without effort, even a genius would be consumed by their own talent.

Lua Gharne had seen plenty of such unfortunate souls.

So then—what was necessary?

Perseverance.

Talent without perseverance was like a bird chirping with no sound.

Where did that kind of perseverance come from?

What element compelled someone to repeat an action until boredom and monotony no longer registered?

"Haa."

Enkrid exhaled deeply and brought his sword down.

It was an identical motion, a perfect recreation of the previous strike.

He wasn’t visualizing an opponent in his mind.

He wasn’t sparring against an imagined foe.

He was merely practicing the same downward slash.

That was ◆ Nоvеlіgһt ◆ (Only on Nоvеlіgһt) how it appeared to Lua Gharne.

And yet, heat radiated from his body.

Not the kind of heat born from boredom or repetition.

It was a fire that only those intoxicated by their own passion could produce.

A fascinating, fascinating man.

Previously, she hadn’t looked closely enough to see these things.

But now, she could.

He wasn’t just enduring monotony.

He simply enjoyed swinging his sword.

He was utterly insane.

The title of Mourning King, which was gradually spreading, had been coined by Crang.

And Crang had once remarked—

"He’s not even human."

Lua Gharne silently agreed.

Her gaze followed Enkrid throughout the day.

Watching. Studying. Analyzing.

That was her role.

She also saw how others changed because of him.

"Recognizing one’s own shortcomings isn’t a talent."

It required a trigger. A catalyst.

And in that regard, Enkrid was a universal catalyst.

That was true for Bell as well.

Bell took great pride in his own talent.

Like Lua Gharne, he observed everyone.

But he kept a particularly close eye on Enkrid.

"This guy is insane."

The man never took a break.

This translation is the intellectual property of Novelight.

No, Bell had seen him rest before—but was that really rest?

It was already impressive that he never tired of his monotonous training.

But Enkrid trained as if his life depended on it.

"I give my all."

Many people said that.

But I’ve never seen a lunatic actually live it.

Enkrid didn’t just say it.

He lived it—every single day, without fail.

Like a candle burning away its own existence to shed light.

Bell wasn’t lax in his own training, but this?

He swallowed hard.

"If that’s what it takes, I’ll do it."

He hadn’t endured all those beatings from the shepherd elders just to fall behind now.

So Bell trained—quietly, in secret.

Meanwhile, someone in a similar position took an entirely different approach.

"Let’s have a match!"

If anyone who had known Rophod in the past saw him now, they would have been utterly shocked.

He had once been the type to constantly watch others, always swayed by their opinions rather than his own will.

Now, he moved first, utterly ignoring how others perceived him.

"Do you have a death wish?"

Ragna asked, staring at Rophod with complete seriousness.

"Don’t kill him."

Enkrid, still swinging his sword nearby, interjected.

Rophod was like a newborn bird, having just cracked through his shell to see a new world.

"He’s not serious."

He took Ragna’s words that way.

Before, he had always misinterpreted people’s intentions, leading to countless misunderstandings.

But not anymore.

He wouldn’t let himself be shaken by others’ words.

A decision was will—and will was action.

"I want to fight—to the death!"

"Even after this?"

Ragna asked indifferently.

"Don’t kill him."

Enkrid shook his head.

Rophod remained undeterred by their banter.

The two enjoyed their jokes, and it was only natural that he was the one to get beaten to a pulp.

But Rophod didn't stop there.

Even if he groaned in pain for days afterward, he would always rise again.

"Lady Teresa! A match, please!"

Rophod challenged anyone and everyone.

"I will not send you to the Lord just yet."

Teresa nodded.

She had recently gained a small revelation.

She had witnessed many people approaching Enkrid for duels.

They came from all walks of life—

Petty mercenaries, noble bodyguards who refused to believe the rumors, warriors from foreign lands, and even wandering swordsmen from the East.

Frokk and Meelun kept most of them at bay, but a few still managed to make it to the barracks.

Meelun wasn't a god; he couldn't be everywhere at once.

Enkrid personally handled those who arrived, and Teresa, watching from the sidelines, nodded to herself.

A lion always gave its all, even when hunting a rabbit.

Enkrid never fought half-heartedly.

He drew Acker and activated Will of Swiftness.

His thrust was like a flash of lightning.

Teresa imitated his approach.

She bashed Rophod with her shield.

A strike imbued with the strength of a half-giant.

Thud!

"Guhk!"

Rophod's neck twisted as he was sent flying, rolling three times before coming to a stop.

Unconscious.

Had Teresa put in just a bit more force, he would have been knocking on heaven’s door.

"Were you trying to kill him?"

Enkrid asked.

"A spar should be taken seriously."

Teresa replied, her body radiating heat.

Her eyes glowed with a desire for battle.

And Enkrid was not one to refuse a duel.

"Come at me."

Enkrid didn’t bother dodging the challenge.

To any outsider, the scene would have looked completely chaotic.

The so-called general ruling over this land fought relentlessly, as if his life depended on it.

Meanwhile—

"Let’s have a match!"

The weakest-looking man among them challenged anyone in sight.

Some of those who came seeking duels ended up wanting to join the unit.

"I wish to serve under the Demon Slayer."

No one bothered stopping them.

But in time, all of them realized the truth.

"I’ll start in the border guard reserves—No! No, wait! You want me under Rem?! I was mistaken! I’ll take up farming instead! Yes! Farming! I shall become a farmer!"

Their attitudes changed in an instant.

No sane man could ever match the madness of this group.

There was a reason they were called the Mad Platoon.

"Duel!"

Rophod shouted.

Bell watched quietly, observing.

Rem wondered when he should leave for the West.

Jaxon busied himself moving in and out of the fort.

Ragna, for once, dedicated himself to fundamental training.

And Audin pondered the constraints of his restriction.

Lord, may I undo my restriction?

It was a thought that had been plaguing him more and more frequently.

He could only wait for divine revelation.

Meanwhile, Dunbakel had come to a realization about herself.

Her flaw—her overwhelming desire to survive.

It was a weakness.

That insatiable urge to live had conditioned her to always think of escape first.

"I had no choice. I had to survive."

The survival instincts of beastmen were sharper than most.

But after being cast out of her tribe, that trait had become even more deeply ingrained.

Even when she resolved to fight to the death, the thought of survival crept in moments later.

Because she didn’t truly want to die.

"I have to overcome this."

And all it took was watching Enkrid.

Just by observing him, she understood her own shortcomings.

That was just how peculiar he was.

Thus passed another ordinary day at the training grounds.

Bell noticed someone approaching from between three trees near the entrance.

Not a familiar face.

Not a guard, either.

The man wore a simple cloth vest.

His arms bore numerous scars, his fists were hardened like steel, and his face was angular, with pronounced cheekbones.

Not a single ounce of excess fat on his body.

Bell’s gaze flicked over him, analyzing his entire frame in an instant.

Then—

"Mind if I join in?"

The stranger’s lips barely moved, but the words carried.

And in an instant—his figure expanded.

"Huh?!"

Startled, Bell swung Idol Slayer upward in reflex.

How could he not?

The man who had been approaching from a distance had suddenly appeared right in front of him.

Bell’s instincts had forced him to strike.

But the man merely caught the blade with his bare palm.

A thin line of blood trickled down his hand.

"Sharp blade."

He licked the wound.

And that was it.

Idol Slayer’s magic had failed to take hold.

"You don’t seem interesting."

The man muttered and turned his attention toward the training grounds.

The moment he stepped forward—

Rem, Ragna, Audin, Teresa, and Dunbakel all flanked Enkrid.

Rophod, who had long since lost any sense of tact, asked bluntly—

"Who are you?"

The man clearly wasn’t just some ordinary soldier.

"Just passing through."

He answered casually.

He had done nothing, yet Enkrid felt a pressure settle over him.

And then—

His instincts triggered a memory.

A knight.

A man from Azpen.

One who had torn through the tent and launched an attack.

A knight whose single strike had been almost impossible to block.

"I heard the rumors were exaggerated."

The stranger muttered, letting his arms hang loosely by his sides.

He did nothing.

He didn't raise his Will.

Yet there was no opening.

Does that mean I should back down?

Enkrid gripped his sword.

Will was a blade sharpened on the whetstone of determination.

He steadied himself, straightened his back, and placed his hand on the hilt of his sword.

And he wasn’t the only one.

Rem.

Ragna.

Audin.

Dunbakel.

Teresa.

None of them showed any signs of retreating.

The summer heat pressed down on them.

The air shimmered with heatwaves.

Sweat trickled down their bodies.

But tension turned that heat ice cold.

Just as the silent standoff reached its peak—

Another voice broke in.

From behind the newly arrived stranger.

"Enough fooling around."

A man approached, speaking casually.

But the tension did not break.

The first stranger had been the one to create this atmosphere.

But now?

It was different.

"Interesting."

The vest-clad man turned his gaze directly at Enkrid.

He had expected the atmosphere to dissolve.

But it was still there.

Maintained.

And the reason for that—

Was Enkrid.

The one at the center of all the rumors.

The Demon Slayer.