A Knight Who Eternally Regresses-Chapter 221: Because They Endured the Time of Training

When Enkrid stood silently atop the platform, the gazes of the soldiers undergoing training carried a hint of something akin to resentment.

“If you’re going to run back, at least pretend to rest. It works better that way,” said Rem.

And so, he did as instructed.

Did that become the driving force that pushed them to run harder?

Who could say for sure?

“Listen, I’m an expert when it comes to grinding people down,” Rem declared.

Enkrid simply complied, doing nothing more than silently observing as Rem took the reins.

It wasn’t entirely untrue. Rem certainly knew how to push people to their limits.

If not, there was no way these soldiers would have such haunted, hollow eyes after just a week of training.

As the troops sprinted into the training grounds, their eyes gleamed with an eerie, almost predatory light.

Swoooosh.

The downpour added to the effect, making their eyes appear even more menacing.

Though the incessant rain was hardly pleasant, Enkrid thought, “Not bad.”

Their hardened gazes pleased him. With every step they ran, their eyes burned brighter with a fierce resolve.

There was no longer a need to idly watch from the platform.

Before this day and its repetition, Enkrid was already half a crazed training fanatic.

Day after day, he swung his sword until his palms bled.

Why would now be any different?

If anything, restraining himself had been the hardest part.

The thought of Count Molsen alone made him yearn to swing his blade, even as he ordered the soldiers to keep running.

Outside of his personal training sessions, Enkrid pushed his body to its limits, both on and off the platform.

“This guy... It’s like he thrives on brute force,” Kraiss murmured quietly, watching from the sidelines.

Moments like these had become routine.

Enkrid was satisfied with the sight of the soldiers’ anger-filled gazes and with the sense that he was progressing steadily toward his goal.

“Let’s start wielding weapons now.”

After a week of endless running, he finally allowed them to pick up arms.

There was no formation training, no tactical drills, no combined maneuvers. None of that was Enkrid’s specialty, nor was it his concern.

His focus was on honing their foundational abilities.

From afar, Marcus observed it all.

“All I did was give him a title,” he muttered. “Why does he put in this much effort?”

His adjutant nodded in agreement. “Indeed.”

“Any deserters?” Marcus asked.

“...It seems they’d love to,” the adjutant replied hesitantly.

Marcus raised a brow. “Does it seem that way?”

“They don’t even have the strength to run away,” the adjutant concluded.

As the old saying went, if you don’t leave your soldiers enough energy to escape, they won’t even try.

Enkrid’s training ensured precisely that.

To Marcus, Enkrid seemed like someone who enjoyed the cheers and admiration of others. But more than that, there was something else driving him.

Enkrid was a man who ran straight toward his purpose.

If there was work to be done, he would do it—regardless of applause or accolades.

“What does it take to become a knight?”

Sharpening one’s sword seemed like a good place to start.

And so, he sharpened it. Every single day, in the same way.

Watching him, it was impossible not to admire his determination.

What, then, was he working so tirelessly for now?

“It’s like he’s been waiting for the title of Training Company Commander.”

It was as if he had been waiting for this moment all along.

Now, it seemed he took as much enjoyment in malice and hostility as he did in admiration and acclaim.

“Or perhaps... he just enjoys tormenting others?”

The thought wasn’t entirely unreasonable.

Marcus could only thank his luck that he didn’t have to step onto the training grounds himself.

***

Bell had a connection to Enkrid.

He had saved Bell’s life, and they had crossed paths several times afterward.

Thus, Bell thought:

"He’ll go easy on us."

Surely, a reasonable person would.

Enkrid was not an ordinary man, after all. He wouldn’t expect everyone to endure the same grueling training he went through.

Surely, he’d take it easy.

That’s what Bell believed. But that belief shattered in just two days. The tower of faith he’d built crumbled without a trace.

“Haah... Haaah... Hnghh.”

Bell’s breathing was ragged, and he felt his lungs burning.

“Fall behind, and you’ll get hit, got it?”

Behind him, the mad axe-murderer grinned as he chased them down.

Swinging his axe through the air with a crazed smile, Rem didn’t have to actually kill anyone to make his threat terrifyingly real. The prospect of getting hit by that axe—or worse, enduring whatever came next—was motivation enough.

“You’d better keep running, right?”

At first, they’d only been running laps around the training grounds. But now, they were being chased by the axe-wielding lunatic. Running wasn’t optional—it was mandatory for survival.

And anyone who fell behind? They got hit and were forced to run again, repeating the cycle.

“Do you want to kill me? Then go ahead! Ambush me, attack me, I dare you!” Rem laughed maniacally, taunting the soldiers.

A few soldiers shuddered at his words, their shoulders trembling.

They truly wanted to beat him to death.

Bell wasn’t one of them. He couldn’t afford to be. His lungs already felt like they were about to collapse.

After sprinting over several hills, they arrived back at the training grounds.

“Pick up your weapons.”

What followed was a simple repetition of basic techniques.

“If you want to rest, all you have to do is fight me. Please, just try it,” Rem taunted.

Occasionally, some soldiers, fed up with Rem, would instead challenge the blonde swordsman who appeared more composed and approachable.

“So, if we survive five exchanges with him, we get to rest?”

“Only if your skills prove worthy.”

That blonde swordsman’s name was Ragna.

But Ragna was nothing like his calm exterior suggested.

You might think he’d take it easy, leaving openings in his movements.

Whack! Crack!

But his strikes with the wooden training sword were so fast, they were almost impossible to follow. If it had been a real sword instead of a blunted one...

“I’d be dead,” thought one unfortunate soldier, staring at the unconscious body of the most recent challenger.

Ragna regarded the fallen man with a bored expression and muttered, “Weak.”

Weak? Bell thought indignantly. It’s not that we’re weak—you’re just absurdly strong!

But Bell kept his mouth shut. The urge to retort burned in his throat, but he swallowed it down.

“If you’ve got a problem, come at me. Please, I’m begging you!” Rem goaded.

Bell’s simmering anger cooled at Rem’s words.

If you challenged him, you’d die. That much was clear.

The daily routine continued. Mornings were spent in grueling sprints, afternoons swinging weapons until their arms felt like they’d fall off.

It was simple but torturous training. And the fact that they had to repeat it every day turned it into a living hell.

“Could he be a demon?” one of Bell’s comrades whispered before falling asleep.

Bell silently agreed. A demon bastard.

Not that they could complain much—Enkrid’s training was even harsher than theirs. His sessions were longer, tougher, and more relentless than anything the soldiers endured.

“Come watch this duel, brothers.”

Enkrid fought a massive religious soldier. Then he sparred with Rem—the so-called axe-murderer, a nickname the soldiers had given him.

He also fought Ragna and Jaxon.

Enkrid put up a good fight but didn’t win any of the matches.

No, he usually ended up beaten to a pulp.

Audin, for instance, swept Enkrid’s legs out from under him, then followed up with a spinning kick that came out of nowhere with unexpected speed.

The blow sent Enkrid flying—quite literally. He soared through the air before crashing into a pile of training weapons at the edge of the grounds.

Boom!

His landing created a splash in the mud, which had turned into a swampy mess after days of rain.

For a moment, everyone froze, hands instinctively halting mid-motion.

“Resting? Then die and rest,” Rem barked at the soldiers. Meanwhile, Jaxon poked their sides, urging them to keep moving.

Despite reflexively swinging their weapons, their eyes remained fixed on Enkrid’s fallen form.

But the devil of training rose again, looking like he had crawled out of hell itself.

His head was bleeding, his body covered in mud, with clumps of filth dripping off his limbs.

Their gazes were drawn to the mess clinging to his arms, then to his face.

Is he okay?

That thought crossed everyone’s mind.

“Hmm. That hurt,” Enkrid remarked casually.

He’s insane. Bell thought, suppressing the words rising in his throat.

“Sword-mad bastard.”

Bell swallowed the thought, choosing silence.

“I find it hard to hold back these days, Brother Company Commander. Especially when you charge in like that.”

Apparently, Enkrid had crossed some sort of line during the fight.

It was a scene they had grown used to seeing—shock, then horror, then eventual adaptation as weeks passed.

Summer faded into fall. For two relentless months, they trained without a single full day off, except for half-day breaks every ten days.

Then came word of a monster hunt.

“Lately, there’s been an increase in monsters around here. I heard reports of fanged horses. It’s time for an extermination,” the battalion commander declared.

The second company commander took the lead in organizing the operation.

“Hell, does that mean no training today?” asked Venzance, the squad leader. His eyes glinted dangerously, his entire body exuding sharp intensity.

In just two months, he had transformed.

“Fighting all day counts as training, doesn’t it?” Bell replied.

Bell had changed, too. If he hadn’t, he would’ve been on the verge of desertion.

Dying during training was a ridiculous way to go, after all.

“Let’s start with those crazy beasts,” Venzance said, hefting his new longbow. It was larger and sturdier than his previous one, a testament to his improved strength.

The entire archery unit had similarly upgraded equipment.

Marcus had spared no expense outfitting the troops. It was one of the few things they appreciated about him.

This content is taken from freeweɓnovel.cѳm.

Trusting the mad company commander with training, however, had been a disaster.

“There!” shouted one of the scouts, spotting a group of monsters approaching.

Most monsters were carnivorous, but occasionally herbivorous animals like horses underwent monstrous transformations.

Fanged horses were particularly troublesome. Their charging attacks were devastating.

“More than ten of them!” the scout reported.

“Archers, prepare!” the second company commander shouted.

Venzance obeyed immediately. Though he held the title of commander, he participated in training alongside his men. He was a man of honor.

Unlike the first company commander, who was known to skip training.

“Fire!”

Venzance and his archers loosed their arrows.

Swoosh!

The sound of the arrows flying through the air and the wet thud of impacts were oddly satisfying.

The first wave of fanged horses collapsed, their heads pierced by arrows.

“More incoming!” shouted the scouts.

This time, there was no time to fire—the monsters closed the distance too quickly.

“Engage!” yelled the second company commander.

The soldiers clashed with the monsters, slashing and stabbing with newfound strength and endurance. The two months of brutal training had paid off.

Bell felt it too. His body moved with newfound ease.

“Kill them!”

“Destroy them!”

“Wipe them out!”

With shouts of determination, the soldiers brought down the monsters, cutting through their toughened flesh and crushing their bones.

When the battle ended, the soldiers were drenched in monster blood.

Their skills had grown tremendously in just two months.

Upon returning to camp, Enkrid greeted them.

“You haven’t done your running for today yet, have you?”

Training was training. Monster hunting was no excuse to skip it.

“Damn bastard,” Bell muttered. For once, the insult slipped out unfiltered, shocking even himself.

“Care to spar?” Enkrid asked with a nod.

Bell knew there was no escaping this. If he had to fight, he would give it his all.

Training continued.

But not just training—something new had begun.

“We have a visitor,” Kraiss said, approaching Enkrid in the evening.

“First guest, huh?” Enkrid asked with a spark of interest.

Kraiss led him to the bustling marketplace.

Their visitor awaited them behind Vanessa’s Pumpkin Inn.

“So, you’re the ‘soldier from the war,’ are you?” asked a man standing in the courtyard. His face bore two prominent scars, one crossing his nose and the other cutting deep into his cheek.

His presence was commanding, and the weapon he carried—a spiked morningstar—was equally imposing.

“I’m Ibarin,” the man introduced himself. Kraiss added, “This is Mercenary Ibarin, also known as ‘Squeezing Ibarin.’ He’s famous—a city-level powerhouse.”

Enkrid smirked. “Sounds like a flashy nickname.”

“Not as flashy as yours,” Kraiss teased.

“Let’s have a match,” Ibarin said, stepping forward.

Enkrid nodded.