A Knight Who Eternally Regresses-Chapter 233: Because the Weather Was Nice

"Whether you believe it or not, I owe you. I’m Pel, a shepherd from the wilderness. I hope we can meet again someday."

The shepherd Pel said, as Enkrid, his back to the moonlight, gave a small nod.

Pel watched him and, unable to hold back, spoke again.

"I’ve never met a genius like you."

Enkrid didn’t bother denying it.

In fact, even if Pel had said, "Are you sure your head’s not broken?" he would have laughed it off.

That’s how much joy, how much exhilaration filled him.

The sheer elation of having discovered something new left him intoxicated, eager to test it over and over again.

"Can I cut you one more time?"

That’s why. Even as he saw Pel’s face twist into an unsightly grimace, even as he realized how unhinged his words sounded, Enkrid couldn’t stop himself.

"Uh, um, yeah... sure."

The defeated had no say. Pel did as he was told.

The once-soldier stabbed his forearm with a blade, his eyes filled with anticipation as he looked at Enkrid. Pel thought his opponent was insane.

He’d once heard the nickname Mad Platoon Commander, and now it didn’t seem like an exaggeration.

In fact, it suited him better than Former Soldier.

But then again, aren’t all geniuses like this?

Pel thought about it. Even among his own comrades, there was someone similar to the man before him.

To keep up with someone like that, would he need to go mad too?

At that moment, Enkrid inadvertently broke another man.

Of course, Enkrid was oblivious to it.

After being cut again.

"Die!"

Between the screams and wails came a sharp, undeniable force—a will, a compulsion, a pressure.

Enkrid focused his mind and responded.

"No."

He deflected it. It was his second time, but he already felt like he didn’t need any more practice.

‘It’s not that hard.’

And that was delightful.

Every time he had learned something before, it had come with countless falls, scrambles, and desperate struggles.

To learn The Beast’s Heart, he didn’t just have to overcome death—he had to truly die.

Nothing had ever been easy.

This time wasn’t easy either.

After all, today was the 400th attempt.

But rejecting this compulsion—once he understood it—felt as natural as if it had always been part of his body.

It felt like the easiest thing in the world.

After deflecting the second will, his head spun.

It was the side effect of excessive concentration.

Drip.

A nosebleed followed.

"...Are you alright?" Pel asked.

Enkrid checked the time in his mind and replied, "Can I try one more time?"

Surely one more wouldn’t hurt.

Pel’s face contorted as though he had witnessed something unholy.

In the end, Enkrid allowed himself to be stabbed a third time.

The blade left another mark on his forearm, like a line etched into flesh.

"Die."

Dizziness overtook him. His opponent’s will, compulsion, and pressure tried to suffocate his spirit, strangle his throat, and burst his heart.

Enkrid answered effortlessly.

"No."

After rejecting the compulsion and pressure, Enkrid closed his eyes. He passed out right there.

"Huh? Madman, sir?"

He thought he heard Pel call him something odd before losing consciousness.

"Commander!"

And maybe he also heard Bell’s voice shouting from the distance.

Regardless, Enkrid collapsed with a smile on his face.

***

The black river shimmered, resembling thick, dark mist.

A boat floated on the black clouds, with a ferryman aboard, holding a violet lamp.

It was the same scene as always.

The one he always saw whenever he spoke with the ferryman.

However, something had changed this time.

"You..."

The ferryman stopped speaking mid-sentence.

Enkrid looked at his face. What was once just a vague outline, barely revealing a single eye, now showed more—a pair of eyes, a nose, a mouth, and skin.

Skin the color of gray stone.

Jet-black eyes that matched the black river, a sharply pronounced nose, and dull gray lips.

Nothing about the ferryman’s appearance seemed human.

But neither did it resemble a giant, a Frokk, an elf, or a dragonkin.

And that made sense. The ferryman was something beyond Enkrid’s perception—something unknown.

Perhaps even something akin to a god.

Or maybe, a demon.

"Is getting stabbed your hobby?"

The incongruity of that question coming from such a figure was almost laughable.

Enkrid reasoned that the ferryman’s bizarre tone might partly be his own fault.

"Well, I do prefer being stabbed over being slashed," he replied.

Their conversations were always like this.

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The ferryman shifted the topic.

"Madness drives you to walk. Madness lets you see. So, how do I look?"

The ferryman’s question hung in the air.

Enkrid answered honestly.

"Unlikely to be popular—with either men or women."

Maybe demons or the offspring of demons might fancy him.

The ferryman chuckled, though no expression changed on his lips. Only his laughter echoed through the space, vibrating in the air.

As the sound of laughter filled the void, Enkrid’s vision blurred, and his mind grew distant.

The ferryman’s laughter held a strange, almost ridiculous quality, but Enkrid had no way of understanding his intent.

In the empty space where Enkrid had disappeared, the ferryman muttered over the black river.

"So, how does it feel to have crossed the wall?"

Had Enkrid been there, he would’ve nodded a hundred times over.

***

When he opened his eyes, Enkrid immediately realized that today wasn’t repeating again.

"Why the hell did you come back with stab wounds after heading out last night? Wait, you mean to tell me you got stabbed on purpose? You could’ve told me. I’d have made the cuts prettier with my axe."

The words made little sense to him, waking up to such a greeting.

Ignoring Rem’s comments, he lifted his head.

Pel must have left already.

It was likely Bell who carried him back here.

Since Bell had witnessed the fight, he must’ve shared the details with the others.

And after seeing Enkrid being carried in late at night, even if Bell didn’t want to explain, Rem and the rest wouldn’t have left him alone.

A brief reflection was enough to grasp the situation.

He now understood Rem’s words.

"Is there some kind of spirit in your axe?"

"Maybe just bloodlust?"

Rem retorted, unwilling to back down. Is this guy bored or something?

"And Dunbakel?"

"Knocked out cold."

What did he do to make a beastwoman pass out?

Dunbakel didn’t seem like someone who lacked resilience.

Of course, she wouldn’t compare to a giant, but still.

"Heading out again today, brother?" Audin asked.

Enkrid realized he’d skipped his morning training.

The sun was already high in the sky. Even with a body capable of recovery and regeneration, he had slept until noon?

My body’s under strain.

He was starting to grasp the concept of Will.

Though he couldn’t yet define it clearly, rejecting the compulsion felt as simple now as pulling a coin out of his pocket.

Of course, performing it and enduring it were two very different things.

"Snort!"

Clearing his nose, he blew out a crusted blood clot.

"Disgusting," muttered Rem, wrinkling his nose.

Rem was still armed, his axe hanging at his waist and his body slightly sweaty. Judging by his comment about Dunbakel, he had probably just finished knocking her out.

Only Rem and Audin were present, keeping watch as Enkrid woke up.

Well, Esther was also there, napping in a corner.

Since it wasn’t the first time Enkrid had collapsed, no one seemed overly alarmed.

They only asked who the opponent had been.

Of course, Bell, the messenger, hadn’t been able to provide any details.

"Who was it?"

The question referred to the opponent who had come for him the previous evening.

To Enkrid, it was a familiar face, someone he had sparred with over 400 times.

"Pel," he said without hesitation.

"Ah, Pel, was it? Figures," Rem replied, his expression unchanged.

A slip-up.

"The shepherd from the wilderness," Enkrid clarified.

The shepherds of the wilderness, an insane group who herded sheep while fending off monsters and beasts. Their name was well-known among seasoned warriors.

"Why would one of those lunatics come here?"

"I wouldn’t know."

Whether he was wandering in training or had other business, Enkrid hadn’t asked.

"Looked like you were having fun, though," Rem remarked, pressing on.

"Quite."

"You passed out smiling, Commander. Even when fighting me, I’ve never seen you collapse with a grin like that."

Passed out smiling?

Enkrid smirked and shook his head.

"Enough. Step aside."

Having missed morning training, he needed to finish it first.

"I’ll head to the market in the afternoon."

"Understood, brother," Audin replied with a smile and a nod.

No one tried to stop him. Rem, having asked all his questions, tossed his axe aside and went to clean up.

Enkrid stretched using Isolation Technique, then checked his equipment, swung his sword a few times in the air, and prepared to leave.

In the meantime, Jaxon came and went, while Kraiss entered and asked about his condition.

"You’re at the age where you should be eating good food," Kraiss quipped, adding a playful remark.

Enkrid told him to share if he had anything, enjoying the fresh start of a new day.

There had been over 400 days.

During those days, he had sparred and trained with these people. But staying in a frozen timeline wasn’t something he could enjoy forever.

So, he welcomed this new day.

Even if it wasn’t perfect, even if he alone remembered, it was a new day.

Thus, he avoided unnecessary conversation and passed through with indifference.

He had already realized why repeating the same day was a curse.

That realization allowed him to move forward, quietly letting go of the time he had endured alone.

More than anything, the satisfaction of mastering rejection filled him with fulfillment and joy.

"What’s got you in such a good mood?"

As he was about to leave, Ragna asked. He had a sword dangling at his waist, seemingly planning to join him.

It wasn’t a great sword, just one he’d picked up from a battlefield.

Perhaps Enkrid could find him a better one someday.

Ragna’s tone was rough and could almost sound confrontational, but Enkrid knew better. He answered plainly.

"Because the weather’s nice."

At that, Ragna looked up at the sky.

Yesterday had been sunny. But today, the sky was dim and gray clouds were gathering.

Soon, the clouds would darken, and rain would likely fall.

Autumn rain was often a signal of the changing seasons, a sign that summer was coming to an end.

"This weather?" Ragna asked again.

"When you’ve seen enough sunny days," Enkrid replied, a cryptic answer.

To him, it made perfect sense.

Even though he preferred sunny weather, living through 400 identical days made any change welcome.

After compressing his morning training into a shorter session, he headed to the market.

When he arrived at the inn, Allen, the innkeeper, greeted him warmly.

"It’s good to see you often these days, but are you alright?"

As the commander of a Border Guard unit, Enkrid’s position was nearly the highest rank a non-noble could achieve.

Allen was polite.

Enkrid found his comment about seeing him often oddly amusing.

To Enkrid, it had been over 400 days.

"Maybe I should stop coming before we get too familiar," he joked.

Allen laughed, thinking it a jest.

When Enkrid stepped into the training hall, the Rapier Swordsman was leaning against the wall.

"Have you been waiting?"

"I figured you’d come today."

"First?"

"No, but the others didn’t want it."

The Rapier Swordsman crossed his arms and spoke again.

"Today’s the last. You don’t have to go through this pain. You don’t need to challenge it."

"That’s for me to decide. If you’re scared, feel free to run."

Enkrid’s words, as sharp as the continent’s finest sword, were short but cut deep.

"Is that so?"

The Rapier Swordsman hated the words coward and run more than anything. Enkrid’s provocation steeled his resolve.

‘I’ll crush that arrogance.’

Breaking Enkrid’s dream might do him good.

Talent was needed to go further. From what he had observed, whatever fortune Enkrid had possessed, this was his limit.

Enkrid had drained the well of his talent dry—or perhaps even unearthed nonexistent talent.

This was the end.

As Enkrid walked past the Rapier Swordsman, he noticed something peculiar.

His gait had changed, subtly but unmistakably.

How could someone change so much in just one day?

The Barbarian soldier who had followed Enkrid spoke up.

"Our commander sometimes gets even crazier in just one day, so don’t overthink it. If he gets too out of hand, my axe might have to calm him down."

"Don’t worry, brother. He won’t die from mere pressure," added another soldier, a bear-like figure.

The usual suspects gathered one by one—blond-haired soldiers, red-haired warriors—everyone came together.

Even those who had faced him 400 days ago began appearing, like actors summoned back onto a stage.

Then Edin Molsen stepped forward with an uncharacteristically stern expression.

"I challenge you to a duel."

Wasn’t the beating he had received last time enough?

While the others thought that, Enkrid was caught up in a serious dilemma.

"What was this guy’s name again?"

Four hundred days had passed. He had forgotten.

"Uh, what was your name again?"

To Edin Molsen, this was akin to flipping a switch.

"What?"

To Enkrid, it had been 400 days. To Edin Molsen, only a few.

He forgot my name? My name?

Edin Molsen lost all composure.

"Fine! I’ll kill you!"

Clang!

Edin drew his sword and charged.

The guards watching frowned. Falling for such a petty provocation?

Enkrid regretted asking for his name. He didn’t even bother drawing his sword, instead relying on his hands and feet.

As Edin’s blade came toward him, Enkrid moved with precision, his steps trained through Illusory Sword Technique.

His smooth movements dodged the blade as though it had been preordained, leaving Edin’s sword cutting through empty air.

The movement seemed almost theatrical, as though it were choreographed in advance.

In an instant, Enkrid’s knuckles struck Edin’s wrist.

Smack!

His palm followed, pushing against Edin’s abdomen with force.

Thud!

A Balraf-style martial arts technique—a palm strike combining rotational power from the ankles, waist, shoulders, and palm.

With Enkrid’s strength added, it was far from a light blow.

But the most surprising thing wasn’t the technique itself.

The first time Enkrid had floored Edin Molsen with a single blow, it had been half a gamble.

This time, it wasn’t. This time, it felt effortless.

As he watched Edin stumble back, Enkrid glanced at his hand.

"Why does this feel so easy?"

Had Edin Molsen’s skills regressed?

No, that wasn’t likely.