A Knight Who Eternally Regresses-Chapter 399: For My Shining Hero

Rearvart, one of the squad leaders under the Royal Capital Defense Force, knew Enkrid. They had spent several months together back when Enkrid was still in the capital.

Naturally, he recognized his face.

How could anyone forget a face like that after seeing it once?

As Rearvart stood at the front, his gaze landed on Enkrid, and memories of their past conversations resurfaced.

"You want to become a knight?"

He had scoffed.

"You should find another path."

He had even given serious advice.

There had been no response. Enkrid had simply wielded his sword. He had always been there.

Whether in rain or snow.

"Teach me the sword."

He was a man who never stopped begging for guidance.

And strangely enough, he had looked dignified doing it.

The number of people mocking him had grown.

The number of people shunning him had grown as well.

Once, a newly recruited mercenary had joined their ranks.

The mercenary group often gathered at the same tavern, and Enkrid had been there too.

At first, the rookie swordsman had been hesitant. But he had improved quickly.

He had talent.

Soon enough, he had surpassed Enkrid and humiliated him in sparring.

"Seriously? After swinging your sword for so long, this is all you’ve got? I don’t get it. Maybe you should just quit?"

The sneering face of that man was still vivid in Rearvart's memory.

What was his name again?

He couldn't recall. But he did remember the look on Enkrid’s face.

Enkrid had not been angry. He had not been devastated. He had not seemed to care at all. He had simply remained calm and indifferent.

Had he truly felt nothing?

Had he not rotted inside, layer by layer, decomposing into nothingness?

Rearvart had watched. Not with any particular intention. He had just been curious.

And the next day, Enkrid had picked up his sword again.

The number of people looking down on him grew.

"Why do you keep hovering around that guy?"

Someone had asked Rearvart. He hadn't been defending Enkrid or anything.

"That’s none of your business."

It was just annoying to be surrounded by a bunch of irritating people.

Even after that, Enkrid had not changed.

Even when he was beaten to the brink of death.

Even when others surpassed him.

He kept swinging his sword. Again and again.

For what?

A knight?

How could that even be possible?

A third-rate swordsman, at best barely touching the threshold of second-rate. How could he ever be a knight?

Only a handful of people, those whose talent reached the heavens, were ever called knights.

"Wake up."

Half out of pity, Rearvart had told him. But, of course, Enkrid hadn’t listened.

At that time, Enkrid had become somewhat infamous.

Foolish righteousness and reckless defiance.

A talent too feeble to ever change his fate.

That was all that defined the name "Enkrid."

Rearvart turned his gaze toward the enemy ranks lined up in the distance.

The moment he first saw them, one thought had struck him—run.

"We don’t stand a chance."

It was an overwhelming force. A disciplined army. The Count’s troops—now rebels. Soon, they would be his opponents.

Years of experience as a mercenary and a capital guardsman told him one thing.

Fighting here meant death.

A meaningless death.

"Why am I even standing here?"

Because of some childish sense of justice?

Because of a handful of gold coins?

Or was it something else?

Even when he had left the mercenary life behind, there hadn't been any grand reason for it.

He had found a wife. He had had a child.

There had been a woman who spoke of love beneath the moon and falling petals.

There had been a child who called him "father."

"Why do you do this? Your hands are bleeding."

He had asked Enkrid once. Why did he go this far?

Why did he put his life on the line just for training?

Why did he keep standing up, no matter how many times he was beaten down?

Deep down, he already knew the answer.

To protect.

Stand firm for those behind you. Never turn your back on honor. Uphold your convictions.

Enkrid hadn’t needed to say the words aloud. His actions had screamed them.

When Rearvart had been dealing with the aftermath of the palace incident, he had seen the bodies.

One of them had been a bastard who used to beat Enkrid mercilessly.

A man who, under the title of "instructor," had tormented and broken people. Now, he lay on the ground, cut into pieces.

"Should I call that a good death?"

The one who had killed him—Enkrid.

The name synonymous with mediocrity.

Rearvart’s eyes stung. Though no sunlight blinded him, he still felt as if he were staring at something too bright.

There existed people in this world whose radiance was impossible to look upon.

Whether you called them heroes or shining stars, it didn’t matter.

They stood firm, proving themselves through action alone.

"Enkrid."

He repeated the name in his mind.

He watched as Enkrid stepped forward into battle. The image was crystal clear. Though he shone, it did not blind him.

Rearvart could not predict the battle’s outcome. But he did know one thing.

It was fierce. As fierce as it could possibly be. It was as if Enkrid had thrown his entire life onto that battlefield.

Blood sprayed. Embers scattered across the sky.

His opponent let go of his sword and drew a secondary weapon from his waist. A machete. Enkrid responded by striking down with his blade.

CLANG!

A deafening impact rang out. The shockwave rippled outward in concentric circles.

Goosebumps rose on Rearvart’s arms. Every hair on his body stood on end. He forgot his earlier despair at the enemy’s overwhelming numbers. Instead, his eyes locked onto Enkrid’s back.

He was alone. Standing against an enemy force none of them had dared face alone. Cutting down foes as he charged forward, his sword flashing as he met the next opponent.

A blinding burst of light erupted between them.

Enkrid’s body flew back, rolling across the ground. His opponent only staggered a few steps.

Rearvart saw Enkrid lying there. But he knew—this man would not stop just because he had fallen.

THUD.

Rearvart struck his spear against the ground.

THUD.

He did it again.

"For Naurillia."

He murmured. Words that would not be heard. Words that would not reach anyone. Words meant only for himself.

For his country, for its people, for his wife, for his child—for everything, he stood here.

For those behind him, he had to fight.

One by one, the soldiers around him began to strike their spears against the ground.

THUD. THUD. THUD. THUD.

The uneven rhythm gradually found unity. No commander had ordered it.

One by one, they had simply been moved by the sight before them.

"For my shining hero."

Rearvart whispered in his heart, driving his spear into the earth once more.

And Enkrid rose to his feet.

Between him and his opponent, words seemed to pass—yet they were inaudible.

THUD. THUD. THUD.

Only the sound of spear shafts pounding against the ground echoed through the battlefield.

***

As Enkrid launched a relentless assault, striking without pause, Rearvart was the first to introduce a new variable.

He let go of his sword and swung his machete instead.

Enkrid neither slowed his speed nor adjusted his breathing.

He simply drove Silver forward. His stance wasn’t perfect, but he had ignited Heart of Might in his strike.

It was a sword swing that surpassed human limits—one infused with raw, overwhelming power.

Their weapons clashed.

The moment blade met blade, an unseen force erupted from the machete’s edge, slashing across Enkrid’s abdomen and chest.

It had come too suddenly, too closely to deflect.

Gritting his teeth, Enkrid endured the blow with his body and brought his sword down.

That was how he had ended up here.

Thrown backward, while his opponent staggered back a few steps.

His body had been sent flying, yet Enkrid quickly regained his balance.

Even as he steadied himself and stood up, the sky still spun. The ground twisted, his opponent's form distorted and blurred. A searing heat rose from within his stomach, forcing its way out.

"Urk."

He coughed up a mouthful of blood. As the crimson splattered onto the dirt, the dizziness faded.

"What the hell was that?"

He asked, wiping his lips.

"A magic sword."

Rearvart replied.

Enkrid didn’t think it was unfair.

As he rose to his feet, he noticed the thud, thud, thud that had begun reverberating through the air.

This chapt𝒆r is updated by frёewebηovel.cѳm.

Strangely, it felt like it matched the rhythm of his own heartbeat. Somehow, it almost sounded like a chant of support.

His gut ached.

His head still swam, but did that matter?

No. Not at all.

He answered his own thoughts and raised his sword.

This wasn’t over yet.

Rearvart looked down at his dented shoulder guard and breastplate.

"Is this the difference in talent?"

He dismissed the thought and focused on Enkrid.

His opponent's presence now seemed even larger.

This translation is the intellectual property of Novelight.

Perhaps it was due to sheer willpower, but more than that—it was discipline.

Of course, he could keep pressing forward.

But there was no need.

Granting a day’s reprieve wouldn’t change much.

And if he was being honest, even for the Count’s sake, granting one more day was the right move.

That was why Rearvart chose to accept his defeat.

He also acknowledged something else—if they continued, he would lose.

"You’ve won."

The words left his mouth.

It was an unexpected statement. Enkrid merely stared at him.

"The Goddess of Fortune hasn’t changed her ways."

Regret seeped into Rearvart’s voice. But beneath that regret, his words carried something far stronger—resentment toward the world itself.

"Not that it matters. Nothing will change, anyway."

"You're done?"

Enkrid cut him off.

"That’s enough for today. I’ve lost interest."

The thud, thud, thud of spears pounding against the earth still echoed.

That sound felt like a declaration. A command to protect this man—Enkrid.

More than anything, Rearvart had noticed something.

During their fight, others had drawn closer.

Rem, Ragna, Aisia, and Dunbakel.

On the opposing side, Malten, Bennukt, and Banat.

All of the core warriors from both armies had now gathered.

No... there was one more.

A first-class assassin.

A presence that defied human limits, skilled in the art of unseen killing.

Rearvart pinpointed his location.

Beneath the shadow cast by a horse. A figure subtly using the steed’s body to blend into the background.

Noticing Rearvart’s gaze, the figure stepped out to the side. He didn’t seem to care about being seen.

Of course, it was Jaxon.

"It’d be a waste to burn everything here. You need to remember—war isn’t just about sword fights."

With that, Rearvart turned away.

He raised a hand, and his longtime black stallion approached.

Picking up his fallen sword, he secured his gear onto the saddle and mounted his horse.

"You’re boring."

Enkrid threw out a taunt.

Rearvart ignored it.

"Next time, it won’t be."

For someone who had just admitted defeat, his presence remained unwavering.

Their gazes met.

Rearvart cursed the Goddess of Fortune in his mind.

And Enkrid wondered—is this really all there is?

His instincts told him otherwise.

"The battle is tomorrow. At dawn, we begin. This is the respect I grant you for your victory."

With that, Rearvart turned his horse.

Enkrid watched him go.

Would striking him down now be the right move?

No.

He didn’t do things he disliked.

And this... this wasn’t the right path.

More than that, it was meaningless.

His instincts told him.

His logic told him.

If the enemy engaged in full battle now, his side would be at a disadvantage.

If Rearvart left, Enkrid should be giving him silver coins in gratitude.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

The soldiers pounded their spears into the earth. Morale surged, but that was all.

Even if their fighting spirit burned, their numbers wouldn’t increase.

If they clashed without proper formation, the outnumbered side would suffer.

If they wanted any chance at victory, they had to buy time. They had to regroup and organize their ranks.

He knew it instinctively.

And that was why he had stepped forward in the first place.

There was no point in stopping Rearvart now.

Enkrid turned as well.

Their distance grew.

"Why are you all coming to greet me?"

Enkrid asked as he saw his comrades waiting midway between him and the main camp.

"If you died, I was going to hack them up for revenge."

"The breathless assault was impressive."

"Why the hell is every single one of them so damn strong?"

Rem, lifting his axe.

Ragna, idly biting into an apple core.

Dunbakel, glancing past him toward the retreating enemy.

Finally, Aisia.

She simply stared at him. Then, she spoke.

"You magnificent bastard."

The meaning wasn’t entirely clear. But Enkrid understood the gist.

He had proven himself.

And what had he shown?

That a mere three days were enough to crush an opponent at the level of a semi-knight.

That ◈ Nоvеlіgһт ◈ (Continue reading) he had engraved his name into the minds of all who watched.

If they lost their momentum, this battalion would have nothing left.

And Enkrid had given them that momentum.

Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud!

Spears struck the ground in rhythm with their pounding hearts.

Listening to the sound, Enkrid returned to the main camp.

No one spoke to him.

But every single person looked at him.

***

"What did you think?"

"He’s strong. Stronger than me."

"So?"

"He must die."

"Then do it."

Rearvart had returned to the Count’s side.

The Count, in his usual boredom, had asked and given his answer.

The full-scale battle had been postponed until the next morning.

That was fine.

No—if anything, it was exactly what the Count had wanted.