A Knight Who Eternally Regresses-Chapter 295: What’s Your Dream?

Enkrid paused and lifted his head.

The sky was overcast, thick with dull clouds.

"Looks like something’s about to fall."

How many times had today repeated?

This was different. Before, he had always kept track of how many loops had passed.

Each day, he had marked time in different ways.

But this time, he hadn’t.

Why had that changed? Why was he perceiving things differently now?

"Because my vision narrowed."

He had thought he could cut through the problem in one swift motion.

Even Enkrid, a seasoned warrior, was still human—he had grown impatient.

And impatience narrowed his vision, blocking out the broader situation.

Like a racehorse, blinders fixed to his eyes, charging straight ahead.

Who put them there?

The circumstances had.

And the Ferryman had stirred the pot just a little more.

"So I fell for it."

Or had he learned from it?

No, he had learned.

There was always something to be gained, no matter the situation.

Enkrid gazed at the darkened sky, felt the wind, and inhaled the lingering stench of battle.

He didn’t just see and hear—he absorbed.

For a moment, he forgot the eyes on him.

He forgot where he was.

Even the current battle faded into the background.

And he recalled.

He went over all the todays he had lived and relived.

This was the first time he had done something like this.

The child’s steps were slow, but even so, it was a fleeting moment.

Yet within that brief span, he recalled everything.

"The Ferryman’s words were a problem, yes."

"But I was the bigger issue. I focused too much on one thing."

"One-pointed focus narrows vision."

People around him watched, confused.

A child running across the battlefield was strange enough.

But Enkrid, a warrior once locked in combat with enemy commanders, stepping forward alone?

Even stranger.

Then, instead of going toward the child, he stopped.

That was the strangest thing of all.

Everyone watching was thrown into chaos.

"The hell is he doing?"

A soldier on the enemy side muttered.

"Just watch."

A mercenary from the Black Blade group smacked the soldier on the head.

No one, friend or foe, knew what was happening.

How could they?

On one side, a lone child ran.

On the other, the hero of the Border Guard had suddenly stepped forward.

It was absurd.

Still, the spectators assumed Enkrid would either catch the child—

Or cut them down as an enemy.

Humans predict the next event based on context.

That’s called expectation.

And yet, Enkrid was moving beyond expectations.

Beyond prediction.

"It’s going to snow."

He muttered, standing alone in the battlefield.

But no one heard him.

Everyone was too busy watching, paralyzed by confusion.

Even the old mage, who was maintaining the spell-link to the scroll, was deeply focused.

If he lost focus even briefly, the tether to the magic would sever.

Then he wouldn’t be able to trigger the scroll remotely.

The child had no time to process anything.

He ran because he was told to run.

"I want to live."

The boy’s thoughts were desperate.

From the moment he had been captured, he had instinctively known—he would not survive.

But a sliver of hope pushed him forward.

Maybe, somehow, he would make it.

Maybe fate would grant him a miracle.

No one could predict luck.

"I just have to live."

His survival instinct didn’t cry—it didn’t scream.

It simply moved his feet forward.

Meanwhile, Enkrid, after reflecting, finally realized what he had overlooked.

The scroll—

"Someone is watching and triggering it. They can’t be far. I’m within their direct line of sight."

"They didn’t expect much from this plan, but it’s turned into something effective. Why?"

"Because they know me."

His intuition flared.

This wasn’t the time to focus.

If someone was watching him, he had to hide his intent and buy time.

"How do I hide my intent?"

Divert attention.

Redirect perception.

That was the foundation of Valen-style mercenary swordsmanship.

So, Enkrid moved.

He blended in a lesson he had learned from Crang.

Crang had a knack for drawing attention, for controlling a room with sheer presence.

Enkrid mimicked that.

A flick of the hand. A subtle shift in posture.

He shifted his injured leg back, channeling power into his right foot for [N O V E L I G H T] a lunge.

To anyone watching, it was obvious—

"He’s about to leap."

Crang had used words to capture attention.

Enkrid used movement.

He placed his hand on his sword grip.

"He’s drawing his blade."

"He’s about to strike."

That’s what everyone thought.

The child finally noticed him.

"Ah. I’m going to die."

His steps slowed.

The old mage locked onto Enkrid in his field of vision.

The spell was moments from activating.

The boy needed only five more steps.

Enkrid moved.

What he did couldn’t be called swordsmanship.

It wasn’t a technique.

It wasn’t even a skill.

And yet Valen had called it a craft.

A performance.

Valen-style mercenary swordsmanship—Distraction Slash.

A flinch.

Enkrid, in the middle of his lunge, suddenly twitched his shoulder and turned his head sharply to the side.

At this distance, no one could see his exact expression.

But the body language was clear—

Shock.

Surprise.

Humans didn’t need words to convey intent.

"You don’t hide intent. You cover it."

All he needed was a moment.

The mage’s concentration wavered.

For just an instant, his mind flickered—

"What’s he looking at?"

Everyone, everyone looked.

Even Lykanos.

Even the enemy commanders.

Even Audin and the rest of Mad Platoon.

It was perfect.

And there was nothing there.

Only wind, dry and sharp, carrying dust.

"It’s a trick!"

Lykanos shouted.

Too late.

Enkrid moved.

The Sense of Evasion was instinctual.

Enkrid overlaid it with intention.

Combining all the todays he had lived, he sent forth his fastest blade yet.

His left-hand grip was controlled, firm.

His extended muscles were fluid.

His body felt heavy.

As if the air itself had turned to sludge, pressing against him.

His skull burned. His eyes burned.

He saw the child’s wide eyes.

The snot dripping from his nose.

The way his mouth hung open.

Everything was slow.

Enkrid, alone, moved freely in this frozen world.

The wind howled as his blade slashed through the air.

His sword cut through the strap holding the scroll.

A precise stab, followed by a curved slice—

Every strap was severed.

Fine cuts appeared on the child’s body.

It wasn’t finesse.

It was pure speed.

He couldn’t afford to be delicate.

Tick.

The scroll spun through the air, severed.

Enkrid caught the boy and leaped.

His left shin wound burst open, but now wasn’t the time to care.

The old mage hadn’t completely lost focus—

But his delay had been enough.

A flash.

The scroll ignited in light.

Enkrid rolled, shielding the boy.

Heat licked at his back.

Like a tongue of flame, scorching him.

His back burned.

But he was alive.

The boy, in his arms, was alive.

"Hah."

Exhaling, his breath stirred the child’s hair.

They were both sprawled on the ground, panting.

"Ah..."

Everyone was silent.

No one could find the words.

Not even his own allies.

Still holding the boy, Enkrid caught his breath and asked—

"What’s your dream?"

"W-what?"

The boy was barely coherent, not sure if he was alive or dead.

His pants were wet.

He had pissed himself.

Ignoring the filth soaking into his armor, Enkrid asked again—

"What do you want to be when you grow up?"

It was a simple question.

Enkrid hadn't asked it with any deep meaning.

It was just something that had come to mind—an attempt to reassure the child, perhaps sparked by a distant memory.

Yet—

"Y-yeah, an herbalist! I'm going to be an herbalist, just like my mother!"

The child spoke, his trembling voice filled with something beyond fear.

His eyes—those wide, terrified eyes—now held life.

They spoke of tomorrow.

He was a resolute child, one who had moved toward death with steadfast steps, all for the sake of survival.

Enkrid had once dreamed of becoming a knight.

A childish dream that had carried him to where he stood today.

He had often asked himself why he wielded a sword.

He had never found a definitive answer.

But today—today, his sword would be swung for a child who had a dream.

"Then do that."

Enkrid rose to his feet.

He shoved the child behind him, almost tossing him.

"M-my back, my back—"

The boy’s voice trembled.

"Run. Don’t look back."

Enkrid answered without hesitation.

Then, without missing a breath, he shouted—

"Ragna!"

Come cover me.

No need for explanations. Ragna would handle it.

Enkrid turned his gaze forward.

The spell had failed to activate.

Lykanos was charging, face twisted in rage.

Behind him, red-eyed fanatics sprinted forward, clutching their thin, spear-like swords.

Had they taken something? Their bodies were swollen, muscles pulsing unnaturally.

Thickened legs pounded the ground as they surged forward like rabid beasts.

"Kill him!"

Lykanos roared, tossing aside the scabbard of his flanged sword.

He had seen Enkrid’s strike. He knew that if he took it lightly, he would be the one to fall.

His own injuries didn’t matter.

Enkrid also raised his sword.

A longsword of shimmering blue light, held firm in his left hand, pointed forward.

He met the charge head-on.

Four swords from different angles—left, right, above, below—closing in.

And straight ahead—Lykanos.

It looked as if the five blades would strike simultaneously, but they weren’t perfectly aligned.

There were differences.

And he saw them.

Dots and lines connected in his vision once more.

His muscles coiled, and he struck.

Read 𝓁at𝙚st chapters at ƒrēenovelkiss.com Only.

Clang! Clang! Clang! Clang! Clang!

Five swords recoiled violently.

It was an overwhelming display of speed and precision—

And yet, not a single enemy blade touched Enkrid.

Before they had even attacked, Enkrid had moved.

His left foot slid outward. His right foot kicked off the ground, stepping into a slope-like motion.

He twisted his body just slightly—

Deflecting the two swords from the left.

Then, a step and a half back—

Deflecting the two from the right.

And lastly, he caught Lykanos’s thrust on the flat of his blade, letting it slide past.

"A mistake!"

Lykanos had anticipated a gap to strike—

But Enkrid hadn’t relied on his fastest sword.

Instead, he had attacked at what seemed like a reasonable speed.

And that was the mistake.

Because in that instant, Lykanos realized something terrifying.

"This bastard—!"

His swordplay—his speed—had never been this fast before.

Suddenly, his strikes were rivaling Lykanos’s own.

Before, his sword had been decent—but this?

It was now comparable to Lykanos’s fastest blade.

The truth was, Enkrid had honed this speed through countless repeated days—

But to Lykanos, it looked like he had just seen his technique and copied it in a single glance.

An impossibility.

But Lykanos himself had once seen other swords and imitated them through relentless training.

So was this bastard the same?

It didn’t matter.

What mattered was that his enemy was now matching him.

He thought he could end this fight in a few exchanges.

But things never went as planned.

Crack!

A sharp impact split the air.

Slash!

The sound of flesh and armor splitting followed.

Boom!

Then—

"AARGH!"

A death cry and a violent crash.

Something had crashed into the battlefield, tearing through friend and foe alike.

It wasn’t an army.

It was one person.

Blonde hair whipped in the wind.

A warrior, tall and broad, had discarded their helmet, swinging a massive sword.

Their red eyes carved lines through the air, trailing behind their blade.

The greatsword looked like it was bending from the sheer force of their swings.

A brutal, relentless storm of steel.

Boom! Whack!

A downward slash. A sweeping cleave. A sudden thrust.

Every strike was a killing blow.

Men who had been carefully trained—who had taken drugs to boost their strength—were being cut down like wheat.

"Kuaaaagh!"

Even that wasn’t enough to slow the golden-haired warrior.

"I’ll handle this."

Ragna’s voice came as he swept past.

A shower of blood rained onto his golden hair—

From a soldier bisected by an upward slash.

"Shit."

Lykanos gritted his teeth.

This was bad.

This was dangerous.

This was threatening.

And yet, this wasn’t over.

The Black Blades weren’t the only ones here.

"Now!"

The Wolf Bishop had been waiting.

If they waited any longer, they wouldn’t be able to seize the advantage.

"Destroy the heretics!"

At his command, the fanatics rose.

There weren’t many of them—

Because they weren’t the real force.

The beasts were.

The Wolf Bishop turned his mind toward the leader of the beast horde.

"Kill them all."

And the monsters surged forward.

The enemy had estimated their numbers—

But they had underestimated by half.

Hundreds—no, over a thousand wolf beasts emerged from the darkness.

And they charged.

"You must act as well."

The Wolf Bishop turned to his side.

A barbarian, an outcast mercenary, spun his spear absentmindedly.

"It’s not my turn yet."

"This bastard—!"

The Wolf Bishop hated this man.

But he acknowledged his skill.

This one wasn’t here for faith or loyalty.

He had come seeking something.

Immortality. Power.

Laughable.

If he truly sought something, he would have joined their faith.

Instead, he thought he could trade for it?

The Wolf Bishop sneered.

But he had no time to argue.

He followed behind his horde.

And then—

He saw their enemies charging to meet them.

"Heavy infantry! Hold the line!"

The enemy had placed their strongest warriors in front—

But the Wolf Bishop only scoffed.

"Brother."

He called out through his mind.

And from within the horde, one towering beast rose.

Awooooooo!

The Dire Wolf howled.

It was no mere monster.

It was a calamity.

Sleek black fur, devoid of light, devouring the surrounding glow.

The world itself seemed to darken around it.

Snowflakes drifted from the sky—

But before they could land on the Dire Wolf’s back, they melted from its heat.

It was an omen.

An omen of obliteration.

The lead soldier of the heavy infantry swallowed hard.

"Can we even stop that?"

Doubt crept into his mind.