A Knight Who Eternally Regresses-Chapter 266: A Near-Certain Premonition

The assassin disguised as a middle-aged noblewoman felt her throat dry up.

Every time the blue eyes behind the black hair casually trailing her landed on her, a shiver ran down her spine.

'Here.'

The moment she stepped into the reed field, she attempted to hide.

It was her turn to shake off her pursuer and demonstrate her specialty.

And then it happened.

Boom!

The deafening sound startled her. What was that? Instinctively, she drew her dagger, its edge coated in poison, and positioned herself defensively.

A shadow suddenly loomed over her.

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It was just after the explosive sound, like a bursting drum or a lightning strike.

Though her reaction was quick and commendable, it wasn't enough.

"Is this the place?"

Startled by the cryptic question, the woman raised her head.

Flash!

Lightning cracked above her, and her thoughts were cut short.

A person with two heads could hardly think coherently, after all.

Using the Heart of Might, Enkrid launched himself forward, shortening the distance and vertically cleaving the assassin’s skull.

It was simple but entirely unexpected by the assassin.

Shouldn't this have been the time to catch his breath, remain cautious of hidden assassins, or prepare for traps?

Instead, he closed the distance and split the woman's head in one decisive move.

Blood sprayed everywhere, painting the reeds and splattering onto Enkrid's clothes.

He glanced at the sword in his left hand, admiration flickering in his eyes.

'This was just a blade I carried around?'

Once again, he realized the dwarf’s craftsmanship was extraordinary.

While it lacked the mystical aura of a famed sword, it was sturdy and sharp enough to impress.

The thick blade gave him confidence—it could deflect most attacks without issue.

More than just a functional weapon, it was practical to the extreme.

He didn’t even need a separate guard sword. This blade was versatile enough to handle any situation.

Enkrid stood still in the reed field, admiring his weapon. Then, lowering his left hand, he drew another blade with his right.

Shink!

The blue-tinged blade slid out—a demon sword, now tempered into a fine and unyielding weapon.

With Tutor in one hand and the other sword in the other, Enkrid let his arms hang loosely at his sides as he scanned his surroundings.

The assassins were well-hidden, disappearing completely among the reeds.

But was that a problem?

Not for him.

If anything, he was curious.

What made them so confident to attack him like this?

Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!

Three small orbs flew overhead, exploding just above him.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

A dull, gray powder rained down onto the dry reeds, causing them to wither and collapse.

It was poison dust.

But Enkrid was no longer standing there.

The loud, showy strike that had eliminated the middle-aged assassin wasn’t for nothing.

Enkrid’s tactical prowess was already exceptional.

Why wouldn’t it be?

The Valen-style Mercenary Swordsmanship was built on personal tactics, emphasizing adaptability and efficiency.

His physical abilities, honed to a new level, combined with his heightened perception, combat experience, and the lessons he’d gained from countless regressions, all culminated in a deadly force.

Above all, there was this:

'These guys are worse than Jaxon.'

One of his past sparring partners, Jaxon, was a master assassin.

Jaxon’s strikes were silent, swift, and utterly devoid of presence.

The countless days Enkrid spent trying to sense and react to Jaxon’s movements hadn’t gone to waste.

His sharpened instincts now encompassed everything in his vicinity.

If it felt like someone was there, they were.

If it seemed like something was flying toward him, it was.

With a light step, he darted away.

All manner of projectiles rained down on where he’d been, but it was futile now.

A black-bladed thief named Jack, clutching twin whistling daggers, gaped as Enkrid suddenly appeared before him.

“When did he—?”

Enkrid drove his sword forward.

Thud!

The blade pierced Jack’s throat.

Enkrid withdrew the sword and sheathed it briefly.

Shink!

Grabbing the dying man by the collar, he flung him aside.

The assassin’s body flew, a crimson arc trailing from his neck as it sailed through the air.

Enkrid had already moved far from the poisonous mist by the time Jack hit the ground.

Silent but swift, his body blurred through the reed field.

Swish! Swish! Swish!

The reeds fell with rustling sounds, leaving a clear path in his wake.

“Shit!”

One assassin cursed, breaking the vow of silence every assassin was trained to uphold.

Who could blame him?

That wasn’t a man—it was a monster.

Even for elite assassins from the Black Blade, this was beyond their capabilities.

If they wanted to kill someone like that, they’d need the Master of Geor’s Dagger, the continent’s most fearsome assassin.

But the thought was fleeting.

Before he could process it further, Enkrid’s wide blade decapitated him.

Swish, thunk!

The severed head floated into the air before landing in the reeds.

The remaining assassins, hidden among the reeds, felt the chill of fear creeping up their spines.

Even so, they didn’t stop.

They couldn’t.

If they wanted to survive, they had to kill him. That fact hadn’t changed.

Poison darts, throwing knives, axes, and exploding needles all hurtled toward Enkrid.

He parried what he could, dodging the rest with terrifying precision.

His heightened senses seemed almost precognitive, forewarning him of every incoming attack.

‘Half a step back.’

One assassin approached silently from behind, a technique honed to perfection, but Enkrid’s instincts were sharper.

With a swift pivot of his waist, Enkrid drove his elbow into the assassin’s skull.

Crack!

The sound echoed, clear and brutal.

The assassin, a master of silent kills, now lay lifeless with his head split open. The pressure burst his eyes, which rolled grotesquely across the ground. Blood and brain matter oozed from the fractured skull, with a hint of pink brain tissue peeking out, like a macabre gesture.

Enkrid didn’t spare a glance at his fallen opponent. He knew the blow was fatal.

He swung his gladius with force and launched it forward.

The arc of his left hand drew a perfect circle in the air, and the spinning blade embedded itself into another assassin’s head with a sickening thud.

Two assassins, seeing an opening, coordinated their movements. They hurled a net, aiming to entangle him.

Swish!

The net seemed to blot out the sky, but Enkrid was already pulling his thrown blade back into his hand.

With the Heart of Might and a combination of precise steps, he countered effortlessly.

The Lunge, a forward step used in swordsmanship, served as the foundation of his movement. To it, he added the Slope Step, typically used to evade attacks by advancing diagonally.

But Enkrid wasn’t one to stick to rules. He blended in Passing Step and Gathering Step without hesitation.

Combined with his overwhelming strength and the resilience of his thighs, the result was explosive.

What began as a forward lunge turned into a rapid charge, the blade piercing through with devastating force.

The wide horizontal slash that followed didn’t just cut—it tore through the reed field, creating a clear line of destruction.

Simply put, Enkrid was wielding his swordsmanship against the entire group of assassins.

The difference? He extended the range of his techniques beyond their traditional scope.

Unbeknownst to him, his movements resembled the battlefield tactics of a knight fighting against overwhelming numbers.

Swordsmanship, at its core, had become a tool for slaughter.

This outcome wasn’t surprising.

Enkrid had reached this point by mastering every technique he learned and adapting the knowledge shared by those around him.

He even incorporated Flowing Sword Techniques, a style designed to compensate for physical limitations through weapon mastery.

Of course, strength remained relative.

“Urgh!”

For the assassin caught by his blade, it was nothing short of a grim reaper’s strike.

Despite wearing armor enchanted with impact-dampening spells, the assassin felt two of his ribs snap.

The spell’s protection had been shattered—not through finesse but sheer, overwhelming force.

Enkrid’s strength had grown exponentially, bolstered further by the Heart of Might.

Even Frokk, known for his monstrous power, couldn’t compare.

'What kind of brute strength is this?'

The assassin’s thoughts were cut short as Enkrid launched his second attack without pause.

Combining precise steps with the Heart of Might, Enkrid vanished from the assassin’s view.

What should have been a simple sidestep became an almost supernatural teleportation to his opponent.

In an instant, Enkrid disappeared with a faint whoosh, only for a blue lightning-like strike to cleave through the assassin’s skull.

Another foe fell.

The field filled with poisonous smoke, but Enkrid remained unfazed.

He didn’t even bother holding his breath as he surged through the toxic haze. With a single thrust using the Zimmer Thrust, he eliminated another assassin.

“Wha—this lunatic...”

An assassin, clutching an antidote in his mouth to survive the poison, uttered his final curse before collapsing, his body already claimed by death.

Enkrid, with both swords hanging loosely at his sides, continued his advance.

Rustle.

Swish.

Reeds were sliced into countless pieces as Enkrid’s blade swept through the field. The path he carved left no doubt as to his location.

But it didn’t matter. In fact, he wanted them to see him. It was easier to pinpoint their positions when they reacted by attacking instead of remaining hidden.

The outcome of the battle was clear.

Out of over fifteen assassins from the Black Blade, only two remained.

"You misstepped."

The leader of the group, an elite assassin, finally spoke.

His name was Barcelo, a man who had drifted to the Black Blade from the Eastern Continent. He was once considered a rival to the assassins of the Geor Dagger Guild, a name whispered with fear across the land.

He was the best of the best.

Barcelo’s signature move involved using clawed weapons to ambush his target and tear their skulls apart.

But now, he found no opening against Enkrid.

No matter how many times he shifted his position or concealed himself, Enkrid’s gaze casually but unmistakably flicked toward him.

‘He sees me?’

How was this possible? How could his presence, masked to perfection, be detected?

Barcelo felt paralyzed.

Meanwhile, the second surviving assassin had already decided to flee. His mission was to report what had happened, not to die here.

But as he ran, his escape was abruptly cut short.

With a choking gasp, his neck snapped.

A thin cord had caught him mid-step, crafted from meticulously treated leather, oiled and reinforced through a special process. Despite its fragile appearance, it was incredibly durable.

The assassin’s body hung momentarily before collapsing to the ground. The one holding the cord stepped forward.

It was Jaxon, his reddish-brown hair glinting in the light.

“I’m a bit late,” he muttered, already moving toward where Enkrid was fighting.

Another figure, however, had beaten Jaxon to the scene.

“Am I late? Or is my dear love just too fast? Love is always quick, striking silently at the heart before one even notices. No, I don’t think I’m late at all,” the Pixie Captain said, standing at the edge of the reed field.

Enkrid sensed the Pixie Captain’s presence but chose to ignore it, focusing instead on the last remaining opponent.

The leader stood motionless, aware of his inevitable fate.

Enkrid had recognized him from the beginning.

This one was different—his movements, his ability to conceal his presence, everything about him stood apart from the others.

Finding him wasn’t difficult. Enkrid’s intuition had long surpassed ordinary limits. Even when breath and presence were masked, he simply knew where his opponent was.

Such instincts, combined with his Perceptive Techniques, might seem like cheating to his adversaries.

But what could they do?

Jaxon, standing nearby, was a prodigy who had not only been born with extraordinary talent but had refined it through relentless effort.

The lessons Enkrid had learned from Jaxon, repeated through countless regressions, had now matured into second nature.

“This one’s mine,” Enkrid said, addressing the Pixie Captain. He had deliberately left this opponent for himself, like saving the best dish for last.

Barcelo, the leader, stepped forward. He fitted clawed gauntlets onto both hands, their sharp edges gleaming ominously.

“If I kill you, will you promise to let me live?”

The cold, immediate answer he received told him everything. He had no way out.

Even so, he had one final trump card.

Would this mysterious knight be able to counter it as well?

Tap, tap, tap.

Barcelo began running through the reeds. Poison gas billowed to his left, and corpses littered the ground.

Enkrid, meanwhile, sheathed one of his short swords and gripped a long blade in both hands, steadily closing the distance.

There was no lightning-quick charge this time.

He moved at a deliberate pace, his blade cutting down reeds as he advanced.

Tap, tap, tap.

The sound of Enkrid’s steps intertwined with the rustling of crushed reeds, forming a haunting duet.

Barcelo quickened his pace, lowering his stance as he prepared to strike.

The reeds blurred past him as he made his move, his claws leading the charge.

This would be decided in a single strike.

Barcelo muttered silently to himself, unleashing his secret weapon.

From his chest, a third arm suddenly burst forth, ripping through his clothes. It was long and skeletal, grasping a slender dagger aimed directly at Enkrid’s heart.

At the exact moment Barcelo’s claws met Enkrid’s blade, the dagger shot forward.

But something was wrong.

‘What?’

Barcelo’s right hand, fitted with claws, wouldn’t move.

The clash with Enkrid’s sword had forced his claw to twist in an unnatural direction, disrupting his third arm’s strike.

The dagger and claws collided mid-air.

Clang!

At the same time, Barcelo’s left claw aimed for Enkrid’s head, but the knight ducked under it.

By the time Barcelo realized what was happening, Enkrid had lowered his stance even further, looking up at him.

Barcelo saw two streaks of blue light.

Like falling stars, the twin arcs left trails of light as they descended.

His body tried to resist, but it was futile.

Slice!

Enkrid’s sword severed all three of Barcelo’s arms in one smooth motion.

A burning sensation erupted in Barcelo’s torso as the blade pierced him and then carved upward.

“Aaargh!”

His scream was silent, heard only by himself as his severed arms fell to the ground.

Enkrid’s mind briefly registered the absurdity of the third arm.

‘What the hell was that?’

But his body had already acted on instinct.

The fluidity of his movements came from a mastery of the Flowing Sword Techniques, enhanced by the precision and sharpness of his blade.

With seamless steps, he advanced, piercing Barcelo’s abdomen and slicing upward, ending the assassin’s life with terrifying efficiency.

To Barcelo, it was a monstrous display—a storm of blades that left no room for retaliation.

With the final assassin dead, Enkrid exhaled deeply, surveying the bodies strewn across the field.

“What’s this?”

Jaxon approached, holding a small leather pouch. He casually searched one of the corpses, pulling out a pair of similar pouches.

When he loosened the strings, a fine, glittering powder spilled out.

“Familiar stuff,” Jaxon said, inspecting the contents.

Enkrid immediately thought of the powder he had found on the Black Blade courier in Martai—and the substance Frokk had consumed to enhance his strength.

The two powders felt eerily similar, with the same distinct scent.

Jaxon, ever meticulous, would undoubtedly notice the connection as well.

“Did you interrogate Frokk yet?” Jaxon asked.

Enkrid shook his head. That task was still ahead.

The Pixie Captain chimed in, grinning mischievously.

“I hope I’m invited. I’ll sulk if you leave me out.”

Enkrid nodded. Despite her light tone, her emerald eyes burned with a seriousness that suggested this was no ordinary issue.