A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

It was an honor.

Enkrid had barely survived taking a knight’s blade head-on, and while he had been bedridden for two days, his monstrous recovery ability had once again proven its worth.

Of course, he wasn’t in perfect condition.

My grip’s still weak.

Perhaps it was a stroke of luck that his shoulder had dislocated upon impact. Had he endured a moment longer, the strain would have wrecked his entire forearm and arm muscles.

His body was far from fully recovered, yet skipping the celebration wasn’t an option.

No, rather than saying he couldn't rest, it would be more accurate to say he wouldn’t have been left alone even if he tried.

“Captain!”

Starting with Helma, the soldiers who had grown familiar with him arrived one by one at his tent.

“Would you like some eel?”

Even the soldiers who had been cooking.

“You were amazing.”

A scout officer joined in.

Even those who had grumbled at him before were there.

Some looked awkward, unsure of themselves, but in the end, they all showed up.

“It was an honor to fight alongside you.”

Their voices overlapped in unison.

Enkrid simply stared at them.

They had rushed in, excitement on their faces, but as he remained silent, they all fell quiet.

No one dared to even purse their lips.

A silence lingered, and the cold winter wind seeped through the tent’s entrance, leaving a chill in the air.

Some soldiers felt their hairs stand on end.

Did I get too carried away back then?

Seems like I did.

The soldiers grew restless.

“Uh… Captain?”

Unable to bear the silence, Helma spoke.

Enkrid looked at him, expression unreadable.

There was no need to gather his thoughts.

He was simply speaking his mind, as he always did.

However, he wanted to take a moment to look at each of their faces before saying it.

It wasn’t just idle words tossed into the wind—it was sincerity.

To convey that sincerity, one must see their opponent clearly, recognize them fully, and then speak.

He had learned that from observing Krang.

And so, Enkrid did exactly that.

The weight of his gaze brought a biting cold with it, but sincerity was more important than anything else.

“I feel the same.”

Enkrid finally spoke.

They had spoken of honor, having taken a knight’s sword.

To Enkrid, fighting alongside them was a greater honor still—no, something even beyond that.

How could it not be?

These were men who had taken up their spears to protect their families, their friends, and their homes.

Some might have been swayed by a few krona, but that changed nothing.

In the end, they all fought for the comrades standing beside them.

That was why brotherhood existed.

They were all the same.

They risked their lives to scout enemy territory.

They were the army’s eyes and hands.

Without them, he wouldn’t have been able to fight as he had.

So how could it be anything but an honor?

For that reason, he had no need to hide his respect.

His lips parted, and he spoke the words that needed to be said.

“It was an honor.”

Silence followed.

Then, one of the soldiers smacked himself on the forehead.

A crisp thud rang out.

“...Shit, I’m an idiot.”

The soldier muttered, rubbing his head.

He had been among those who once doubted Enkrid the most.

Helma burst into laughter at the sight.

The soldier, seeing Helma’s amusement, straightened up and declared with exaggerated solemnity,

“Go on, Captain, I give you permission!”

“The hell are you saying, dumbass?”

Helma grabbed him by the neck and locked him under his arm.

The soldier choked out a laugh but didn’t struggle.

Then again, was it really right to call someone else Captain when their actual commander was right there?

As if reading his thoughts, a middle-aged man holding a bottle of wine chimed in.

“It’s fine.

A captain is a captain, after all!”

It turned out this man was actually the commander of the battalion.

Yet he was the first to say such a thing.

And he wasn’t alone.

Nurat soon arrived.

“Captain, are you alright?”

Enkrid heard him whispering to Kraiss as if they had known each other for years.

Nurat was the direct aide and bodyguard of Battalion Commander Garett.

Which meant he should have been calling Enkrid a company commander at most.

Yet even she called him ‘Captain’ without hesitation.

Hearing this exchange, Enkrid quickly grasped the situation.

“Hey, Captain, tell us a story.

We’re dying to hear about everything you’ve done.”

Even Garett was saying this.

Enkrid had charged into enemy lines alone and swung his blade, shifting the tide of battle from the very first day.

He had gone missing, and much had happened since, but what had left the deepest impression on the soldiers?

It was one man’s back.

One man’s sword.

The force of Enkrid’s presence.

“Captain’s Blade!”

Someone who had witnessed the fight had coined the name, and from there, ‘Captain’ became his title.

Thanks to the medic who had fixed his dislocated shoulder, another name had started circulating as well.

“They also call him ‘The Blade of Endurance,’ you know?”

Kraiss, ever sharp-eared, picked up on it.

For a nickname born from sheer pain tolerance, it sounded far too grand.

In truth, “Mad Company Commander” was still the most common moniker, but these things faded quickly.

The victory celebration lasted two days.

Enkrid, realizing the importance of rest, used the time to recover.

In other words, he ate, drank, and relaxed.

“Eel!”

“Trout!”

From seafood to roasted piglets, from wine to expensive whiskey, the feast had it all.

“To Captain’s Blade!”

“To drinking till we die!”

Garett, to Enkrid’s surprise, could hold his liquor.

Enkrid had never lost in a drinking contest before, yet Garett drank multiple bottles of strong spirits and still sang with a clear voice.

It wasn’t a one-time thing, either—some soldiers joined in like a rehearsed chorus.

“Huzzah!”

The world calls to us!

“Huzzah!”

They say we sell our blades for gold!

“Huzzah!”

And so, we sell our blades for gold!

“Huzzah!”

We are mercenaries!

“Huzzah!”

We sell our blades for gold!

“Huzzah!”

And stake our lives on honor!

Enkrid had heard this song before, wandering across the continent.

But never had he heard it sung so well.

Garett’s voice was naturally gifted.

If swordsmanship had a voice, it would sound like his—straight and smooth, yet powerful when it mattered.

Between the cries of ‘Huzzah,’ Garett finished his song and approached Enkrid.

“I already wrote a song about you.”

That made Enkrid tilt his head.

A song? About him?

“I’ll sing it for you later.”

Garett chuckled, patting his stomach.

Handsome, with an easygoing personality—he was genuinely a good man.

Marcus had placed him here for a reason.

Now that he thought about it, Greyham, the commander of the Border Guard, hadn’t seemed worried about betrayal either.

Kraiss had been the one concerned back then.

That worry now seemed entirely misplaced.

“Alright, I’ll hear it later.”

He had drunk a few cups, they had won the battle, and he had learned something from all of this.

He had taken a knight’s blade and spoken of honor.

He had celebrated victory with comrades he could call brothers-in-arms.

And that, too, was enjoyable.

Some soldiers, seeing him like this, whispered,

“He’s still human after all.”

Well, of course.

What else would he be—a monster?

“You just don’t get it. The Captain will party and drink, then be up at dawn for training.

I’d bet on it.

He’s insane!”

Kraiss, somewhat drunk, ranted, smacking his palm against his thigh.

It was probably a joke, but he was betting his manhood on it.

“Seriously?”

“If you don’t believe me, put money on it.”

Naturally, some soldiers started pooling their coins.

Enkrid ignored the first few lines of their conversation entirely.

Kraiss’s antics were predictable.

There was no need to listen too closely.

Across the table, he met Ragna’s gaze.

Ragna gave a slight nod.

Enkrid raised his cup in response.

My thanks.

It Wasn’t Just for the Ferryman—It Was for Everyone, Including Ragna.

He had forged a blade that pressed down with sheer force.

If Ragna hadn’t been there, what then?

Enkrid would have found his own path, somehow.

That much was certain.

But the truth was, Ragna’s presence had shortened that journey.

No, at this point, he understood that he needed that bastard.

If Ragna ever said he was leaving, Enkrid would at least ask if he was being serious.

That was why, when Jaxon left on some errand, he had spoken as if returning was the obvious course of action.

Is this my greed?

Keeping people around.

Holding them close.

Was that really the right thing to do?

Do I need a wall to hide my own shortcomings?

It was an extension of the thoughts he had as a child.

But that thought was useless now.

Shortcomings?

Enkrid clenched and unclenched his fist.

The pain was already fading.

His body, bolstered by Regeneration, a technique derived from The Isolation Method, was recovering rapidly.

His flesh had changed.

The way he wielded his blade had changed.

His mindset remained largely the same, but something within him had undeniably shifted.

No.

They weren’t a wall.

They were friends.

Comrades.

Sometimes teachers, sometimes fellow warriors standing beside him.

If the time came, he would ask them.

If they reached a crossroads, he would make sure to ask.

No, he would tell them.

That they could leave if they wanted.

If the path ahead was one where death was all but certain?

Then I would use today.

He had resolved to wield even his curses as weapons.

Not as before, when he had been more passive—this was a firm, proactive stance.

But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t do his best to survive the day.

If there came a time when even that was out of his hands, then he would let them go.

That was the right thing to do.

Enkrid did not agonize over it.

He did not hesitate.

He simply decided.

“Drink and be merry!”

Somewhere to his side, Helma had stripped off his shirt, baring his chest.

Only his torso remained covered.

Isn’t he cold?

His muscles were visible, scars running across his body.

“You’re my woman now!”

One of the soldiers slurred, only to be punched squarely in the head and gut before rolling onto the ground, vomiting up his insides.

Yeah, real smooth.

Enkrid smirked.

For today, he cast aside pointless thoughts.

He focused on resting.

"The mind needs rest just as much as the body, brother."

Even Audin had said as much.

For this single day, he cast aside all contemplation.

For a brief moment, he thought of nothing.

He simply was, existing in the present.

He lived through this fleeting day, one that would never return, and that made it all the more precious.

Enkrid laughed, ate, and drank.

“A cook, a cook, they call me.”

At some point, a soldier with a knack for cooking appeared, muttering under his breath.

Enkrid played along.

“And why are you telling me this?”

“Come and buy my food, sir.”

Look at this one’s business sense.

Not quite at Kraiss’s level, but respectable.

“Fine.”

“It would be an honor.”

At that, two other soldiers—who had been watching from the side—suddenly butted in.

“I feel the same.”

“It was an honor.”

…Were they copying him?

Ah. They were drunk.

Enkrid chuckled and smacked them both on the head.

“Ugh!”

The two groaned but grinned as they took the hit.

At least copy it properly, idiots.

Despite sleeping only two hours, Enkrid resumed training at dawn.

He didn’t push himself too hard—just warmed up and got his body moving.

But the sight of him, awake and training after such a night of drinking, left some of the soldiers—who were still half-dead from hangovers—rubbing their eyes in disbelief.

"He drank, ate, partied… and now he’s up at dawn training? How is that even possible?"

There was no helping it.

Enkrid’s body preferred training over not training.

Kraiss, of course, made a nice sum off his bet.

Enkrid had recovered enough.

It was time to return.

He still wasn’t walking perfectly, so Garett provided him with a carriage.

Just before departure, Garett approached him.

“Company Captain Enkrid.”

“Something you want to say?”

Usually, men like him would pester him for stories—accounts of battles, heroic moments.

It wasn’t difficult to indulge them, but having a middle-aged man staring at him with eager, shining eyes was a bit much.

He had even claimed to have written a song about him.

He still hadn’t heard it yet.

“How about becoming Commander of the Green Pearl Battalion?”

Garett made the offer lazily, leaning against the carriage and yawning.

Not a trace of tension in his voice.

Enkrid had received similar offers before.

Offers that, frankly, had been far better.

He had turned them all down.

Even the Commander of the Border Guard, the lord of an entire fortress, had made him an offer.

“No thanks.”

His answer was immediate.

Garett let out a hearty laugh.

“Figured as much.”

“Then why ask?”

“I’m retiring.”

“...Then why the hell do you care?”

“Because my replacement is going to suffer.”

Enkrid glanced at him, silently questioning what he meant.

Garett rattled off an explanation.

“Being in this position comes with a hell of a lot of pressure from the capital.

Marcus is keeping them off my back for now, but who knows how long that’ll last?

And honestly, the way things are going, we’re looking at a situation that’s not so different from a pack of rabid dogs.”

Enkrid frowned.

Was he saying what he thought he was saying?

“You’re implying a civil war?”

Kraiss cut in from behind.

Once again, it was a conversation meant for only two, but Enkrid was able to pick up on some of it.

Defeating Azpen had been good.

But it might have set something else in motion.

Of course, it wasn’t something to worry about immediately.

And so, Enkrid didn’t.

Not yet.

Right now, he was preoccupied with something else.

Digesting the weight of what had settled inside him.

Which meant he would be half-asleep in a carriage on the way back to the Border Guard.

Since the Captain himself seemed indifferent, Kraiss shrugged it off as well.

It wasn’t an issue for today.

As expected, familiar faces greeted him first.

“You’re back?”

“Drifting Teresa welcomes her Captain.”

“Brother, how was your journey?”

Enkrid let out a slow breath.

Yes.

He was home.