A Knight Who Eternally Regresses-Chapter 735: Brunhilt, You’re a Genius

A ceiling made of woven branches, dry leaves, and scraps of leather covered the waist-high dugout.

Sunlight filtered in awkwardly—only halfway.

"In places where the ceiling is thicker, it must be pitch-black even during the day."

Humans can’t live without light.

So clearly, they didn’t stay inside here all the time.

The structure wasn’t conventional.

Inside, there were chambers carved like ant tunnels—hollows meant to hide people.

Of course, Harkventyo hadn’t bothered to explain anything.

These were simply things Enkrid noticed as he looked around.

His Lua Gharne-style tactical swordsmanship naturally attuned him to the environment.

Even if a fight were to break out between him and the man before him, one flick of the wrist could end it.

But that didn’t mean he should neglect to analyze his surroundings.

He was reminded of an old adage:

“The deadliest sword that kills a knight... is carelessness.”

"A burrow perfect for hiding."

Not built for battle—but for survival.

Inside the recessed chamber, bundles of herbs lay drying on the ground, but they had clearly been left too long and were shriveled.

Earthenware, made by hand but left dusty, was neatly arranged on one side.

In a corner stood a wooden table, roughly crafted.

There was even a bed, though Enkrid would’ve bet Kraiss’s daily wages that it wasn’t filled with quality straw.

"We don’t have much to offer. It’s a poor place," Harkventyo said.

Enkrid saw unease and suspicion in his eyes.

Still, the man didn’t outright ask him to leave.

He poured water into an earthen cup and placed it on the table.

The water was clear.

It tasted good.

"They’ve been here a long time."

Enkrid could tell from the structure.

This wasn’t a temporary stop.

They must’ve stayed for years.

Signs of survival wisdom were everywhere.

The use of Nightmare Berries, the unfinished traps strewn around...

Dried leather, herbs, and an unfamiliar pungent aroma filled the air.

To live, three needs must be met:

Food, clothing, and shelter.

"Food comes from hunting and gathering."

And even though he saw no sign of weaving, their clothes were intact.

"There must be a traveling merchant who deals exclusively with this village."

Enkrid had seen such peddlers before—those who profited by trading only with hermit villages.

Harkventyo exhaled slowly again, burden in every breath.

Tension was still carved into his face.

Then, clenching a fist, he asked:

"Did you come from the South?"

Enkrid read his expression but replied as if unaware.

"Just passing through."

Though it was summer, the mountain breeze made mornings and evenings chilly.

Even now, in the heat of midday, the semi-basement house was a little stuffy.

Sweat glistened on Harkventyo’s forehead—a duet of heat and nerves wearing him down.

He exhaled deeply again—this time a breath of release.

"I figured. If you were from the South, we wouldn’t even be talking."

To put it simply, these were fugitives from the South.

Harkventyo was their representative—more or less the village chief.

Hermit villages like this were often formed by those who had broken the law or fled oppressive lords.

Running to another city didn’t guarantee escape from pursuers, and not everyone had the cunning to hide among crowds.

So, rather than live beside thieves, some chose to live among beasts and monsters instead.

Harkventyo ran his fingers through his gold-colored beard—a habit, clearly old.

"It was livable, until the beasts got so aggressive."

Weariness clung to his face.

Of the fifty or so villagers, half were women, children, or the elderly.

They hadn’t survived on brute force.

"Traps and herbs."

Apparently, the plan had been to lure the beasts in and kill them by dropping them into pits.

Crude, yes.

"Against ordinary beasts, it might have worked."

Enkrid thought so too. 𝐟𝕣𝗲𝕖𝕨𝗲𝐛𝗻𝗼𝐯𝗲𝚕.𝗰𝚘𝐦

But now?

After what he’d seen of these beasts—using delaying tactics, even coordinating...

Even if they lured them into pit-like homes, how many would actually fall for it?

Most wouldn’t follow all the way in to be buried alive.

They had traps and poisons, yes, but—

"Leave them alone, and they’ll all die."

No intuition needed.

Just remembering the leopard-beast watching from afar made it obvious.

Survival was unlikely.

Originally, they had lived on the border of monster and beast territory.

But at some point, the beasts had crossed that line.

"The beast pack must’ve wiped out the monsters."

That’s what the situation suggested.

Rare, but not unheard of.

"You can tell the club-wielding guys outside to go home. Even if you bring this place down, I won’t die."

"...Sorry. Everyone’s just on edge."

The house he’d been "invited" into showed signs of life—but enough dust had settled.

It had been meant as a trap.

But Enkrid didn’t blame them.

Who living in hiding would welcome visitors?

During conversation, he asked some questions—just idle curiosity.

When he asked why they’d settled in such a dangerous place, Harkventyo answered that a rare herb grew nearby—one that fetched a high price.

As expected, a skilled merchant had found them and opened trade.

Their dream was to save up coin, hire mercenaries, and eventually establish a frontier town.

A bold dream. One worth rooting for.

"Planning to stay a few days?"

Harkventyo had lived a life where asking for favors was unnatural.

Slavery was still rampant in the South, and he had been born into it.

He’d lost his parents and escaped.

Some of the villagers had nearly become slaves themselves after their land was seized.

It was a miracle they had come this far and carved out a place to live.

Their hardships could fill volumes.

How many crises had they faced just to stay here?

Enkrid didn’t need to hear each tale to understand.

Even after he’d driven the beasts away, no one cheered.

A few sighed with relief, but most still watched warily.

It was obvious.

They had fought tooth and nail just to survive.

Favors and dependence were rare in their lives.

"I’ll stay."

Enkrid nodded without hesitation.

"It’s not much."

Harkventyo added, almost apologetically.

But Enkrid already knew.

The shape of this place and the people—it all reminded him of home.

The place he’d grown up had been just like this.

It didn’t feel foreign at all.

***

The place meant to trap him became Enkrid’s lodging.

And perhaps because of how he’d dispatched the beasts, a few children came poking around—curious eyes like glass beads.

One girl with soot on her face approached him directly.

"How strong are you, mister?"

Her name was Brunhilt.

If she wiped her face clean, her skin would be pale.

Big eyes, long arms and legs—she’d grow into a beauty.

Enkrid was sitting on a stump-chair near the village’s edge, soaking in the sunlight.

Outwardly, it was sunbathing.

Inwardly, he was reviewing his swordsmanship.

But he didn’t consider her a bother.

"Very."

There’s no easy way to answer vague questions.

So the reply was vague too.

"Can you beat my father?"

She called Harkventyo her father.

There were more than six children who did, yet no wife in sight.

So it wasn’t hard to guess she wasn’t his blood daughter.

Harkventyo was large and muscular.

"He could make a living swinging a sword on the continent."

But he stayed here.

Out of duty? Out of responsibility?

Enkrid couldn’t know.

As for the question—Enkrid could face a thousand Harkventyos and win.

But his answer was brief.

"Yes."

"Wow, you're really strong."

A child’s world is small.

Especially one who grew up in a village with barely thirty houses.

Enkrid looked into her eyes.

He didn’t expect anything.

He hadn’t decided to give anything.

It was a whim.

A way to untangle his mind, still knotted up.

"You use a spear?"

She held a crude stick wrapped in monster sinew, topped with a blunt shard of metal.

Still, it was a spear of sorts.

"Yep!"

Her eyes lit up.

She seemed more relaxed now.

His plan had been to track the beast pack’s trail and eliminate them—but none had shown for half a day.

It was now the morning after his arrival.

He’d been thinking of expanding his search radius.

So, having a brief distraction wouldn’t hurt.

"Did anyone teach you how to use it?"

"No one really teaches. But I’m good on my own."

That kind of confidence might bring a smile to an adult’s face.

But in this village, few had the heart to smile at a child.

She was at that age—on the edge of needing love and acknowledgment.

Could kindness, a little guidance, give her something meaningful?

He didn’t know.

He was just in the mood.

"Watch this!"

Brunhilt gripped her crude spear in both hands.

Unusual grip.

Most people would spread their hands along the shaft.

She held hers close together, near the bottom—making the tip drag on the ground.

"You can block this, right?"

"Try it."

A bit of praise and effort would do her good.

One wild dog beast could kill her easily.

Brunhilt turned her body, dragging the spear along like a whip.

Enkrid’s pupils widened slightly.

She twisted her waist, coiling the shaft like a lash, and launched the tip with precision.

She was aiming for his abdomen—accurately.

Not bad.

To generate enough power, she spun her body, using centrifugal force.

Even with a weak body and crude weapon, this was her best possible attack.

The wobble of the shaft came from malnourishment and lack of muscle.

Still—she used even that weakness.

Tap.

Enkrid caught the shaft just below the head.

Even if she were ten times stronger, she couldn’t harm him.

"Whoa. You caught it with one hand!"

Her eyes sparkled brighter.

She had seen Harkventyo use a spear—but purely in technique, she was a level above him.

"She’s gifted."

Without guidance, she had figured out how to wield a spear.

Even without real combat experience, or proper sparring, she could judge distance.

She understood how to move the shaft, how to use her body.

"Brunhilt, you’re a genius."

He said it without thinking—words someone had once said to him.

It brought back memories—of the hardship those words had sparked.

So he added quickly:

"Ah, but... don’t take it too seriously."

All of it had been reflexive.

Her performance had surprised him that much.

"Really? I’ve never heard that before."

"No?"

"Nope."

No one around her had ever said it.

In this little village, who had the time or energy to pay attention to a child’s efforts?

It was unlikely anyone could.

And a thought crossed his mind—

"Swordsmanship is used by people."

The heart of weapon skill lies in technique.

Even if it’s not a sword but a spear, teaching her wouldn’t be hard.

Maybe he’d teach her a bit.

Just a little.