A Knight Who Eternally Regresses-Chapter 663: Price and Gift

Azpen and the Holy Nation had both attempted to cultivate knights, but all they’d learned was the clear limitation of shortcuts.

Of course, for ordinary soldiers, even those shortcut-borne warriors would seem like disasters—but they could never match a true knight.

Enkrid didn’t know any of those circumstances.

But he chose the proper path regardless.

He had some idea by intuition, but it wasn’t something worth worrying about.

He moved according to the theory he’d built upon the road he’d already walked.

Rophod and Pell stood in front of him, their mouths tightly shut, staring at him.

“If I ask again, the answer won’t change, right?”

Enkrid asked once more.

It was always good to reaffirm determination.

“Yes. I want to become one,” said Rophod.

“No matter how many times you ask, the answer’s the same,” Pell added. “If it’s about talent, sure—you might see it that way. But I’m not stopping here.”

Rophod answered plainly.

Pell had a bit more fire in his voice, but Enkrid nodded, unconcerned.

Rophod clenched his jaw.

Even if he lacked in provocation techniques, he wouldn’t lose in this.

If there was a path to knighthood, he would take it.

No matter the training, he’d endure it.

Rophod’s resolve shone like a star.

And Pell wasn’t any different.

“I’ve got talent too. Maybe not as much as the commander... but still.”

They said an Idol Slayer sword ultimately devours its wielder.

But he’d chosen to wield it because he believed he could overcome it.

So he would.

Was a shepherd of the wild going to stop here?

Endurance and patience were the foundation of any shepherd.

His determination was more than enough.

It showed in both of them.

Enkrid calmly gathered his thoughts and spoke.

“Drop your swords.”

“...What?” Rophod, tense, answered with confusion.

“Disarm yourselves,” Enkrid repeated.

There was an odd sense of foreboding in his words.

Pell and Rophod exchanged a glance.

Barebody training?

Isolation technique?

They’d done that plenty already.

Around then, Anne stepped into the training yard.

“Why’re you calling a busy woman like me?”

“I’m calling you to do your job.”

“What the hell are you planning now...”

Following Anne, Seiki arrived, light-footed and almost bouncing with every step.

The Ragged Saint was with her.

“If I guide them, their skills will improve faster,” said the Saint.

Guide what, exactly?

“I’ll go first,” said Seiki.

Go first at what?

Identical questions surfaced in Rophod and Pell’s heads.

Audin came to Enkrid’s side, carrying a thick iron club.

It looked small in his hands, but the thing was thicker than most men’s forearms.

And he wasn’t the only one—Rem had one too.

“I was against this,” Rem said.

“I chose another path,” Lua Gharne added.

“I’ll sit this one out too,” Teresa chimed in.

Rophod had the same gut feeling as the time his mother called out his name after finding the pee-soaked bedsheet he’d tried to hide.

This wasn’t good.

Pell felt the same.

He remembered getting caught stealing aged cheese from the elders during his shepherding days.

This was really bad.

Their instincts were sharp.

“You both said your resolve is firm, so if you run, we’ll just drag you back,” Enkrid said. “Ragna. Jaxon.”

“Got it,” Ragna replied.

“We won’t break your ankles,” added Jaxon from behind them.

Their escape routes were cut off.

Rophod turned to look and locked eyes with Ragna.

He knew well how merciless Ragna was during sparring.

Yet Ragna was now looking at him with something like sympathy.

“Sir Ragna...?”

“Accept it,” Ragna said, ignoring the question.

Pell realized this was his only chance.

“Run!”

But it was already too late.

With the Mad Knight Platoon’s core gathered around, what could they do?

Soon, the two disarmed, stripped down to thin undershirts, even removed their boots, and stood before Enkrid.

Rem grinned wickedly, holding his club.

“Man, I really hate this kind of thing. Hate it so much I want to die—but what can you do.”

“It’s for our two brothers,” said Audin, backing him up.

“We’ll start with full-body percussion,” Enkrid announced.

“...What are you saying?” Pell muttered in denial.

“Audin.”

“Yes, brother. I’m ready.”

It all started with drawing Will from the subconscious.

By beating the entire body, they would awaken it.

That’s what Enkrid believed.

The closer to death the beating, the better the effect.

“Are you all fucking crazy?” Pell protested again.

Rophod lowered his head in resignation.

Enkrid clearly saw the difference in their temperaments.

Rophod had accepted it logically, recognizing it was unavoidable.

Pell knew it instinctively but kept resisting.

Whack!

“Ugh!”

Pell’s legs buckled from a precise blow.

Rem, having trained with obsession to surpass Enkrid, had perfect control over his strength.

Audin, who often massaged Enkrid’s body through his own methods, was a seasoned hand at this.

His club flew and struck Rophod’s shoulder.

Bam!

“Aaagh!”

A groan broke from Rophod’s lips.

The two trainee knights were beaten head-to-toe by the clubs.

After a while, Rem muttered, “Is this systemization or standardized punishment?”

Of course, he said this after finishing the beating—classic Rem.

Not that he was wrong.

You say that now, you barbaric bastard...

Rophod and Pell shared a ❖ Nоvеl𝚒ght ❖ (Exclusive on Nоvеl𝚒ght) moment of unspoken agreement, but didn’t express it.

The next day, and the day after that, continued just the same.

“If you want, there’s always a spot for you,” Enkrid said kindly to Teresa, who stood nearby.

“I’ll pass,” Teresa declined without even taking a breath.

Not because her resolve was lacking.

She just couldn’t say it out loud, but she’d already found her own path.

Hers was very different from theirs.

The “beating” was just a way to heighten personal sensation.

If that was all, she didn’t need to be clubbed for it.

Afterward, Enkrid even guided the two in how to advance.

Not with grand slogans like “Strike mightily!”

Only someone who had walked from the foot of the mountain to the peak could speak like that.

Someone who’d carved a path and even left markers behind for others.

“If you try to counter Pell’s sharp instinct with the same method, you’ll lose. Block it your way,” Enkrid told Rophod.

Then turned to Pell.

“Same for you. Don’t try to read one move ahead of Rophod’s calculations. Flip the board. Whether it’s through athleticism or unpredictability, whatever it takes—use that.”

The point was this:

“There’s no need to hand a bow to someone who’s already good with a sword.”

Rem, listening nearby, nodded.

“True enough. That’s why I gave all my squadmates axes. They fit ‘em.”

A bit of a stretch—but not wrong.

Rem’s men, outwardly at least, all looked like reckless brutes with unstoppable momentum.

Even Ragna, Audin, and Jaxon listened intently to Enkrid’s words.

Lethal, Sustained, Versatile—Enkrid had broadly categorized them that way, with further breakdowns into Technique-focused and Training-focused types.

But now...

“Maybe it's better to divide them into Instinct and Calculation instead.”

Or perhaps Instinct and Calculation should be treated as traits within the categories.

No theory was perfect.

He believed that by refining it bit by bit, the path would open.

“Are you sure about this?” asked Pell, his whole body bruised.

Enkrid was honest—even without the influence of the fairies.

Especially when he had no reason to lie.

“No.”

“Then?”

“I believe it’ll work.”

Pell ground his teeth.

Grrrrk.

“If I get stronger than you, you’ll see.”

The grudge in Pell’s voice held the weight of a young vengeance—comparable to a lesser evil spirit.

If he were to die right now, it felt like the resulting specter might just devour a demon.

“Vengeance type?”

No, that didn’t sound right.

Enkrid shook his head inwardly.

Rophod, on the other hand, had a somber look of resignation—only to reignite his resolve.

From Enkrid’s perspective, Rophod might appear calm on the outside, but he had a fiercely competitive nature.

“Maybe temperament can be categorized by personality.”

That was, in fact, the distinction he’d made between the Training Type and the Technique Type.

Pell spent more time developing skills.

Rophod spent more time tempering his body.

There wasn’t a superior choice between the two.

Rophod hated showing off and was therefore methodical and tenacious.

Pell, in contrast, often talked about his own talent and had a flashy personality, naturally gravitating toward technique.

“Their swordsmanship can be summed up as instinct versus calculation.”

As test subjects, they were perfect.

It was a coincidence, but the two had opposite temperaments and were acutely aware of one another.

Even if this training didn’t become a definitive path to knighthood, it would still leave something behind.

“At the very least, they’ll master Ironclad.”

Normally that would be reserved for those beyond the knight level—but...

“They need to use it at the pre-knight stage.”

Foresight, Ironclad, Hardened Flesh—these were all critical.

“You can’t draw Will from the subconscious unless you can use them instinctively.”

That was the road to knighthood.

No—the prerequisite to becoming a knight.

It could be considered the foundation.

Enkrid was learning even as he taught.

And these two had already fulfilled many of the prerequisites.

“Except Ironclad.”

So all he had to do was fill that in.

Foresight might not be necessary, depending on temperament, but some basic understanding was essential.

Beyond that, they needed to develop Hardened Flesh and Ironclad.

Hardened Flesh was the skill that left the deepest impression on Enkrid.

How could he forget the moment on the battlefield when a pre-knight stomped forward and shattered the ground?

Rophod and Pell knew how to use Hardened Flesh, albeit unskillfully.

Enkrid assisted them in refining it.

They trained until their thigh muscles were on the verge of tearing—repeating it endlessly to engrain it into their bodies.

Then Rophod made a request.

“I want to share this special training method with my squad.”

Enkrid wasn’t sure yet if this training structure would truly produce knights.

But he believed it was beneficial for everyone.

“At this level...”

This wasn’t even considered advanced training in terms of intensity.

Sharing knowledge was the path to building structure—and raising the group’s overall capability.

That’s exactly what the Border Guard’s standing army had begun to do, almost by accident.

Well, they weren’t even “standing army” anymore—they were known as the Mad Platoon.

“If a structure exists, then the path becomes visible. You might not surpass talent—but you can chase after it.”

Enkrid said that aloud, reaffirming the belief to himself.

This was a process that required time.

And for some, it might be a painfully dull one.

But Enkrid repeated the present day without complaint.

That was his strength.

“You don’t look bored. Should I try sparring with you too?”

It happened on a day like that.

Esther appeared at dawn in human form, joining his training.

Sparring with a magician followed a different pattern—but it wasn’t something that disinterested Enkrid.

He had no reason to refuse.

He nodded, and Esther immediately said, “Let’s go.”

“I'm entrusting training today to you, Audin.”

“Understood, brother.”

Enkrid left Rophod and Pell with Audin.

Esther was wearing her usual robe and holding a long staff.

It was the first time Enkrid had seen her carry one.

She’d taken it after he’d retrieved a warlock’s staff during a previous battle and given it to her as a gift.

She had repurposed parts of its metal for her own use, and another portion had reportedly gone to Aitri.

“I accepted that gift well. So what we’re doing now... think of it as the price.”

As they exited the city, Esther said that.

Enkrid thought she looked vaguely bashful—but that wasn’t like a witch, so he decided it must be his imagination.

Reading a fairy or witch’s emotions was no easy task.

The two headed toward the foothills of the nearby mountain range.

On the way, a soldier stationed at a tower-like outpost recognized them and saluted.

“Keep up the good work,” Enkrid said with a passing nod.

Esther didn’t even glance in his direction.

“Do you remember how to fight a magician?”

“Yeah. If I see one, I cut first.”

“Now I’ll teach you how to fight one who’s prepared.”

Hmm?

With that, Enkrid felt a sudden dissonance—Esther no longer felt nearby, as if she’d drifted far away.

And at that same moment...

He saw it—a mud giant pulling at his ankle.

From the ground, only its hands, head, and shoulders emerged, grabbing at his foot.

It muddled the senses and immobilized its target.

A simple tactic, but effective.

Enkrid reacted the moment he perceived it.

First, he slashed the creature’s wrist.

Penna, glowing with pale blue light, sliced through the summoned being’s arm.

Muck sprayed into the air—but instead of dispersing, it congealed midair and reshaped itself into a net.

“That’s... unexpected.”

Foresight hadn’t activated.

Of course not—the opponent was a magician.

A seeker of change.

Unpredictability was their norm.

“Magic always longs for change. If the enemy can read that change, then you may as well put down your staff and walk away. Though I do enjoy making it unreadable too.”

Esther’s voice rang from somewhere.

Enkrid didn’t answer—he simply swung Penna again.

He kept his feet grounded and saw the net fly toward him.

He recalled the sensation he’d felt when cutting through Walking Fire.

“Should I dodge? No. I won’t.”

If Esther demanded unexpected changes, then Enkrid would hold steady and preserve the current flow—maintaining tactical control.

Even spells had texture—like a scent you’ve never smelled before.

It couldn’t be seen.

But it existed.

And while it existed, it defied expression.

Yet once perceived, that texture could be identified.

That was the fruit of enduring and cutting through spell after spell through countless days.

Enkrid didn’t move recklessly.

Instead, he swept his right arm up and down in repeated arcs—slicing through the spell with his sword.

The mud, now transformed into taut spider silk, was cut.

Penna’s sharpness didn’t fail, even against magical targets.

Esther chanted and hurled another spell.

“She knows.”

She’d figured it out.

Ever since he cut Walking Fire, Enkrid had learned how to see the texture of spells.

He instinctively struck at the gaps—shredding spells before they could fully form.

That made most standard magic ineffective against him.

“Spell Severance.”

With further refinement, he might even learn to suppress spells outright.

“A non-magician suppressing magic?”

This sparring was helping him toward that end.

If he ever turned against her, she’d be giving him a critical weapon—but Esther didn’t care.

Other witches or magicians would panic.

Esther, however, would mock them.

So what if there’s a technique to sever spells?

Then go further—develop spells that can still work against those who sever them.

Trying to hide knowledge was pointless.

What a bunch of idiots.

Sure, many battles had been fought over such ideas across endless time—but Esther didn’t care about that.

Enkrid sparred with Esther once a week.

And as the rumor spread through the barracks that “the black flower has beaten the witch,” spring reached full bloom.

And with it...

The Golden Witch returned.

“I’ve brought a gift, fiancé.”

The title of Golden Witch remained unchanged.

Her golden hair and green eyes locked onto Enkrid.

And with zero hesitation...

She spoke of gifts—while plucking the threads of fate.