A Knight Who Eternally Regresses-Chapter 276: The Traveling Performance

"Hey, I’m Laivan," the middle-aged man said, his voice trembling as he introduced himself. Enkrid didn’t bother to process the statement. He’d never been one to deliberate over his actions. He followed his instincts and chased his dreams, which had brought him to this point.

Enkrid swung his sword upward, the blade glinting in the torchlight. The strike wasn’t swift or sharp; it was deliberate, heavy, and forceful. The blade, once called "Tutor," now honed to near-perfection, tore through Laivan’s arm with a dull, sickening sound.

The slowness of the cut left Laivan fully aware of the sensation, unable to look away from his arm being severed. He felt the heat and sharp pain before the reality of his loss settled in. His arm, once part of his body, now lay twitching on the floor, blood spurting out to emphasize its disconnection.

"AAAAARGH!" Laivan’s scream echoed through the vast cavern, the sound bouncing off the walls in a ghastly symphony. Blood sprayed wildly, some landing on Enkrid’s armor and face. He didn’t flinch, his expression unchanging as the warm liquid trickled down his cheek and dripped onto the ground.

As Laivan thrashed in agony, Enkrid watched impassively. Then, he spoke, his tone indifferent. "Esther, can you stop the bleeding?"

"Not hard," she replied, extending her hand. Flames ignited at her fingertips as she cauterized the wound. The searing heat burned the flesh, filling the cavern with the smell of charred meat.

"AAAHHH! PLEASE! STOP! I BEG YOU!" Laivan’s voice cracked, his desperate pleas filling the chamber. Enkrid briefly wondered how many times this alchemist had heard similar screams from his victims before dismissing the thought entirely.

"Why... why? I only did what they told me to do! It was just a few coins of gold!" Laivan wailed. Blood loss and the excruciating pain had left him a trembling mess. Enkrid raised his sword again.

"The leg next," he said, his voice devoid of emotion.

The blade struck with a sickening thud, severing one of Laivan’s legs. The limb skidded across the floor, joining the twitching arm in its declaration of independence. More blood sprayed across the room, painting it red under the flickering torchlight.

Once again, Esther moved in to cauterize the wound with her flames. Laivan’s shrieks pierced the air, his voice hoarse and broken, his body convulsing in pain. His tears mixed with blood, and fragments of broken teeth spilled from his mouth as he bit down hard in his agony.

"It hurts, huh," Enkrid remarked.

"That’s how it goes when you burn someone with fire," Jaxon replied, his tone as detached as Enkrid’s. To Jaxon, this wasn’t torture—just a pragmatic process, like disposing of trash. Even he, who had a functional knowledge of interrogation and the human body’s limits, found Laivan’s endurance impressive.

Finally, Laivan’s eyes rolled back, his body trembling uncontrollably. On the verge of death, he could barely form words. Enkrid leaned closer, pressing his sword against Laivan’s forehead. Even in his near-catatonic state, Laivan flinched at the touch, hypersensitive to any new sensation.

Enkrid pressed harder, dragging the blade slowly down Laivan’s face to maximize the pain.

"Is there a way to reverse what’s been done to those people?" Enkrid asked, his voice calm but commanding. Jaxon thought it was a perfectly timed question—one that no one could ignore in such a moment. Even trained assassins would succumb before reaching this level of agony.

Laivan’s body convulsed as he struggled to respond, his eyes darting frantically. Despite his broken state, his mind was still calculating, his value lying in that fractured intellect. After a moment, he stammered out a reply.

"Th-th-there’s a way... I-it’s possible..." His words were slurred and weak, but clear enough to understand.

The moment the words left Laivan’s lips, Enkrid swung his sword vertically, splitting the alchemist’s head in two. The blade cleaved through flesh and bone, leaving no time for protest. Laivan’s body slumped, his brain spilling onto the ground in a grotesque mess.

"Why?" Jaxon asked reflexively, his curiosity slipping out before he could stop himself.

"Why ask when you already know?" Enkrid replied, his voice steady. Jaxon nodded, understanding. Laivan’s claims had been lies, a desperate attempt to save himself. The twisted experiments and shattered lives in this cavern were irreversible. Not even the continent’s most powerful healers could undo the damage.

The addicted woman biting at her own arm, the dead boy lying cold on the ground, the abominable hybrids of human and monster—none of them could be saved. Even if Laivan had been taken alive, his value as an alchemist couldn’t outweigh the horrors he had wrought. His experiments, his notes, and the stench of death that followed him were enough to condemn him.

"Wouldn’t he have been useful alive?" Shinar asked, her tone practical.

"He looked ugly," Enkrid answered bluntly.

"Fair enough," Shinar replied, nodding in agreement. Esther, too, gave a solemn nod, adding, "He was foul, inside and out."

Magicians and alchemists, those who walked the path of the arcane, understood the importance of balance—of respecting the natural order. But Laivan had strayed far from that path, losing himself in a mire of depravity. His research notes, scattered throughout the cavern, reeked of corruption and madness.

To Esther, Enkrid’s actions appeared almost detached, as though driven by something beyond anger or vengeance. What, then, compelled his blade to strike? She didn’t ask. She would find the answer herself through observation, through study. Asking would yield only superficial answers.

In truth, Enkrid’s motivations were simple. Killing Laivan was like cleaning dirt off his hands. It was necessary, and he didn’t feel the need to justify it. The argument that the blade should bear no blame for the actions of its wielder was nonsense to him. The one who acted held responsibility, and Laivan had acted of his own volition.

Even if Laivan had been a king, Enkrid would have killed him just the same, consequences be damned. It was the way he lived, the way he followed his dreams.

Finn couldn’t have known this, but if he had, he would have dismissed it as madness. he might have even shouted, "You think he’s the only one like this on the continent?" But Enkrid didn’t care. He would cut down every person like Laivan he encountered. That was what his sword was for.

"Well, he’s dead now," Finn said with a shrug. "No point dwelling on it. What’s done is done."

Enkrid remained silent, while Jaxon merely nodded, respecting his commander’s decision. He had gained what he needed from the situation. The alchemist’s life had been a small price to pay.

"Honestly," Jaxon thought to himself, "I probably would’ve killed him too." It wasn’t a calculated decision—it was emotional. And for the first time in a long while, Enkrid had acted on raw emotion.

The Grim Reality of the Task Ahead

"Some of the company commander’s troops have entered from outside. Let them handle the cleanup, and it would be better to keep the surviving addicts locked up," Shinar suggested.

They all knew what would happen if the addicts were let loose—they would wreak havoc in their frenzied states.

"Fine," Enkrid replied.

Shinar glanced at the papers she held, scanning the common language scribbled across the thin sheets. "There are more villages like this. Looks like this is going to be quite the extended excursion. What do you think?" she asked. Her question was concise, but it carried many implications.

Enkrid understood immediately. Jaxon, ever loyal, would follow his orders, and Finn would obey Shinar’s commands without question.

"One of the villages was even raising monsters," Enkrid noted grimly.

Shinar’s findings were illuminating, not because they had uncovered nothing but because there was too much to process. Their enemies’ operations were extensive, requiring a methodical approach to dismantle.

Enkrid’s mind worked swiftly. If they didn’t strike with precision and small, elite forces, they would risk losing valuable evidence and research, allowing their enemies to flee.

A full company would be needed to combat the Black Blades effectively. After all, this village alone had housed a lightning-wielding witch. Preparing for similar threats was essential.

The Black Blades were no ordinary band of thieves; their network was vast and well-prepared. This village wasn’t unique—it was part of a larger, more sinister operation. Some sites sold slaves, others bred monsters with drugs. This particular village housed a rare mage, marking its significance.

Enkrid made his decision. "Let’s go," he said simply. If more places like this existed, they needed to be eradicated. They would strike silently, efficiently, using their strengths to dismantle the operation piece by piece.

Even if Esther didn’t take the lead in every encounter, her presence alone provided assurance. And, most importantly, if they didn’t act now, the Black Blades would simply regroup and hide again.

"Don’t you want to know who’s at the top of the Black Blades?" Shinar asked.

"Do you know?" Enkrid countered.

"I’ve learned it’s one of the kingdom’s nobles," she replied.

Jaxon listened intently. This wasn’t new information to him—he had deliberately leaked tidbits to draw out the Black Blades. Still, he was eager to uncover the identity of their leader, more so than he’d care to admit. Even if he had been separated from a beloved wife by war, he would rather confront the Black Blades’ mastermind.

After leaving the cleanup to the soldiers, the group set out. The cavern’s horrors lingered in their minds. The company commander who entered later shook his head at the scene.

"This is horrifying," he muttered.

Some of the younger soldiers couldn’t hold back their nausea, retching onto the ground. The stench of vomit mingled with the cavern’s already foul odor.

Scenes like this reminded Enkrid why he wielded a sword—to ensure such atrocities couldn’t continue.

The Mountain Path

The group began their trek up a mountain trail. Though steep and rugged, it was the quickest route to their next destination. Finn proved invaluable as a guide, navigating the terrain with ease.

Another Village

The next target was another village under the Black Blades’ control. This one was run by four men who had grown up together, known as the Bolun Brothers. Each was bald with a menacing demeanor, the epitome of banditry. Skilled fighters, they had turned the village into a base for their thieving operations.

As Enkrid approached in broad daylight, the eldest brother addressed him. "How did you get in here?" he asked, rubbing his shaved head.

The second brother squinted suspiciously. Something was off. The village was unusually quiet despite housing dozens of men. How had this stranger arrived unnoticed?

Enkrid calmly adjusted his sword belt and rested a hand on his sword’s hilt. "If you have any grievances, say them now. I’m on a tight schedule."

The third brother, with his large, bulging eyes, rolled them in disbelief. "Tight schedule?"

The youngest brother, the quickest to act, silently moved backward, gripping the end of a hidden weighted net. It was his weapon of choice, often used to great effect in their fights.

The third brother, an expert with poisoned darts, readied his weapon, while the eldest and second brothers prepared for hand-to-hand combat.

A tense silence filled the space as the brothers and Enkrid locked eyes. Despite their attempts at intimidation, the hall where they stood felt stiflingly small.

Finally, the youngest brother threw the net.

Enkrid remained still, watching the net and the brothers as if they were mere points in space. He visualized the trajectory, the connections between them, and moved. With precise steps and a swift motion, his blade struck the net’s weights, entangling it midair.

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The entangled net rebounded, its trajectory altered. Enkrid’s blade followed through, leaving deep cuts on the throats of the youngest and third brothers. Blood poured from their wounds, drenching the floor.

The second brother’s eyes widened in rage. "You bastard!" he shouted, lunging at Enkrid with his blade.

The fight ended swiftly. Enkrid deflected the incoming attack, flowing seamlessly from defense to offense. His blade found its mark, piercing the second brother’s forehead with a sickening crunch.

The eldest brother, wielding a heavy axe, roared as he swung with all his strength. Enkrid pivoted on his left foot, dodging the blow and countering. The clash of steel reverberated through the hall, followed by the sound of breaking bones. The eldest brother’s arms gave way under the force, leaving him defeated.

"Who... who are you?" the eldest asked, his voice trembling.

Enkrid, catching his breath, released the Heart of Might technique and replied coldly, "Why does it matter? You’ll be dead soon."

With that, his sword struck true, offering no mercy.

The fight was over.

Jaxon, somewhere nearby, had already dealt with the bandits guarding the village center. He had donned a relic he’d scavenged, moving with lethal precision. By the time Enkrid arrived, the resistance had been eliminated.

Yet, as they searched the village, no hidden secrets emerged.

"What is this place? Just a staging ground for their forces?" Enkrid mused aloud, his brow furrowed.

Finn, ever perceptive, stepped forward. "Let me handle this," he said.