Eternally Regressing Knight-Chapter 464 - Blocking the Gate

Chapter 464 - Blocking the Gate

The short-haired blonde junior knight subtly let her sleeve drop as she sensed a presence near the gate.

A thin blade hidden within her wrist slid into her grip.

It wasn't out of fear but rather a habit born from caution. With a hint of wariness, she spoke.

"Do you have something to say?"

Rem, the barbarian of the West and a companion of Enkrid, leaned casually against the gate. His gaze was indifferent, revealing no discernible emotion.

In an unperturbed tone, he asked,

"Where did you learn that poison technique?"

The question came out of nowhere, but the junior knight understood immediately. West, barbarian, someone she once saved—it all clicked. She also knew that the poison technique she employed wasn't ordinary.

The poison wasn't singular. For instance, Jaxen used toxins derived from plants, animals, and minerals, combining them into synthesized poisons—arsenic, belladonna, poisonous mushrooms, and countless others.

However, what the blonde junior knight used was different; it was poison crafted through sorcery.

While it shared similarities in refinement and application, Rem silently noted the distinct difference.

The manufacturing process isn't remotely the same.

It was the kind of technique one couldn't use without a mentor—particularly the kind Rem recognized.

The junior knight, recalling Rem's prowess on the battlefield and perceiving no malice in his inquiry, answered without hesitation.

Her poison sorcery wasn't a primary skill, and the question didn't feel like an intrusion.

"I saved someone who was injured by chance, and I learned it then," she replied plainly.

"They said something about owing you their life, perhaps?" Rem asked.

"Probably? They were... unusual. I'd say their proud demeanor left an impression, despite barely clinging to life."

The blonde junior knight shared the memory, her voice tinged with faint amusement.

Rem, meanwhile, pictured a certain someone from his past, someone who would likely spout strange nonsense even after being rescued.

"I see. That's all I needed to know."

Rem simply wanted to confirm that the technique hadn't spread through improper means. Deep down, he doubted that it had, but asking provided clarity.

Having asked, he felt it marked a sign.

The remnants of his old world appearing even here felt like a prelude to his eventual return. This battle, he realized, had been like a cleansing ritual before a significant endeavor—a trial to ward off misfortune.

Truthfully, it was more than half my life on the line.

His ribs still ached, and the bruising along his side made walking uncomfortable. With no further reason to stay, Rem turned to leave. As he did, the blonde knight spoke.

"Thank you."

The sincerity in her voice prompted a wry response from Rem.

"That person, they left with a beaming smile, too."

The blonde knight chuckled softly at his remark.

There would be tears one day, but until then, she would live with laughter, as Oara would have wanted.

Rem stepped out of the house and looked at the sky.

The sunlight poured down, not warmly but oppressively, like a heavy weight pressing down. Despite the rain the day before, the air remained damp and stifling.

Yet, everyone bustled about without complaint, moving with determination.

As he walked through the city, taking in the sights, a familiar sight greeted him at the inn's entrance—a figure even more diligent than the rest.

"What's this? Hands trembling like that—what are you doing?" he called out.

It was Enkrid, gripping a sword and slowly practicing his swings.

Every movement was deliberate, an effort to control even the smallest muscles.

It was the kind of training used to dissect and refine techniques.

Rem had tried it a few times but found it tedious and unnecessary for his style.

Oara's fight, though inspiring, hadn't taught him anything new.

But Enkrid was different.

He would internalize every detail, savoring each lesson.

Rem understood this, yet some instinct compelled him to tease.

"Repetition," Enkrid replied flatly, unaffected by Rem's jab as he resumed his training.

In front of him, Luagarne stood with arms crossed.

"You should be grateful for the body you were given," the Frog remarked.

Having observed Enkrid, she considered his physicality a foundation of his capabilities.

She had seen him replicate the knight's strike—a feat that could have ruptured muscles or drained excessive Will, leaving him defenseless.

Yet, Enkrid's body endured.

The phenomenon fascinated her.

How could he withstand such strain without succumbing to the Curse of Emptiness?

The curse described the state of lethargy that followed overexertion of Will, akin to burnout. Enkrid, however, defied these norms.

Anyone else would have collapsed.

Even the seasoned Roman had collapsed after wielding his brute-force greatsword to crush a bipedal spider beast.

If not for Aishia shielding him afterward, Roman would likely be among those honored at today's funeral.

Yet, Enkrid stood unscathed, swinging his sword as if nothing had happened.

It was nothing short of miraculous.

For Luagarne, no curiosity could rival this.

Enkrid divided his time evenly between sword training and meditation.

Needing the latter, he now sat cross-legged on the dirt outside the inn.

To passersby, he appeared idle, staring blankly at the sky.

His gaze indeed followed the clouds—thicker than usual today. Low-hanging gray masses suggested rain by the afternoon.

Though his gaze rested on the heavens, Enkrid's mind raced.

How did I block that?

The Beelrog fragment had lunged low, aiming beneath his knees—a surprise tactic. Ordinarily, he would have dodged. But Oara had responded by bringing her sword from overhead to intercept the strike, redirecting her attack to crush the Beelrog's head. The fragment retreated swiftly, realizing its misstep.

The Beelrog's agility was remarkable, but Oara's swordsmanship had stunned Enkrid more. Her movements, once incomprehensible, were now becoming clear.

His attempts to mimic the knight's techniques had broadened his perspective.

It's the same as before.

Her sword traced connections between points like an artist sketching lines.

At any moment, she could react and adjust mid-strike, like a hand reaching for a cup only to pull back and change course.

React as you go. No predetermined target, just adapt.

The concept fascinated Enkrid. Could he strike with full force while maintaining such adaptability? Oara had done it. The possibility no longer mattered—he had witnessed it firsthand. Her style defied conventional forms, drawing efficient lines in real time.

It was a swordplay that rendered elaborate tactical feints meaningless, summoning only what was needed, precisely when it was needed.

The technique Enkrid witnessed was one only possible for knights: a form of swordsmanship relying on extraordinary reflexes honed by their physical prowess and Will.

It was a skill exclusive to knights, developed after one became a knight. Before attaining knighthood, Oara must have relied solely on fundamental techniques to defeat her opponents. In a way, it was reminiscent of Rem's style—an instinct-driven approach that drew out deeply ingrained habits.

Clouds intertwined, twisted, and moved like Oara's sword. Enkrid swung his own weapon in response, and the gray clouds shifted again. Fragmented pieces of Balrog took unpredictable trajectories, the red rod in their grasp slashing at sharp angles. The heat emanating from the rod—barely a sword by definition—scorched Enkrid's skin. The ever-changing cloud transformed once more, becoming Ragna's blade, then morphing into the spear thrust by the eastern Mercenary King.

"Experience it."

The Mercenary King's words echoed in his mind—advice that proved invaluable.

Enkrid knew what he had to do.

"Master everything you possess," he muttered, almost to himself.

"Did you have some strange dream?"

When Enkrid opened his eyes, Rem stood three paces away, his gray hair disheveled.

For a barbarian from the western lands, he was uncharacteristically clean, though his role in the unit—splitting rebellious nobles' heads with an axe—was hardly refined.

Rem was known for sharing tales of the Belopter, the Dusksky, the black meteor's landing site, man-eating tribes worshipping strength, and the River of No Return, yet he never spoke of himself.

He avoided mentioning his personal history, as if by design.

"You're heading west, aren't you? When do you leave?"

Enkrid asked.

"I could die if I go as I am now—no, I'll likely die regardless."

"Did you behead someone there too?"

"Not quite. Let's just say I have my reasons."

Enkrid looked up at Rem.

Normally, he wouldn't be curious, but something about the axe-wielding madman's tone suggested a hint of fear.

It piqued Enkrid's interest—so much so that even Luagarne, who had been nibbling on insects nearby, raised her head.

"Gurrrk," she murmured, the sound akin to a human saying, "Oh?"

"Mind if I tag along?" Dunbakel asked, her voice cutting through the moment.

Even she, usually consumed with her training, showed interest in Rem's hesitance.

The sight of Rem, a man unshaken by anything, faltering, had created an irresistible spectacle.

"You're all crazy," Rem said with a scowl. "Why would you want to come?"

"Just for the experience. I've never been west," Enkrid replied casually.

"You're not busy?"

Enkrid wasn't. The Border Guard would remain secure unless Aspen acted, and there were no signs of immediate trouble.

Even Krais, who might have sent a warning through Krang, had been silent.

Ragna, now equipped with a knight's power, could handle himself even if he wandered across the border.

"I'm not busy," Enkrid finally said.

But Rem's response was unsettling.

"Did I ever say I'd come back after going west?"

His tone was almost a threat—a warning to let him go quietly if they wanted him to return.

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The challenge stoked Enkrid's competitive spirit.

"I'll just stop by for a bit," he replied, concealing his true intentions.

"You're really coming along?" Rem grumbled before shaking his head in resignation.

"Do as you wish."

And so, Dunbakel, Luagarne, and Enkrid prepared for the journey west.

They rested for three more days to recover fully.

Despite two bouts of rain, the skies cleared noticeably—perhaps due to Oara's defeat of the domain's core.

It was a bright, cloudless day when they departed, the sunlight as harsh as ever.

"Are you leaving?" Aishia asked, falling in step with them.

"Yes," Enkrid replied.

"Did you say your farewells?"

"Roughly, last night."

He had informed Roman of his departure two nights earlier, but Roman had urged him to wait another day.

"Stay one more day," Roman had insisted.

Enkrid had no reason to refuse.

It wasn't an urgent departure, and the rain that had begun to fall made leaving less appealing. "Fine," he had agreed.

Now, after a morning spent stretching and inspecting his equipment, he found himself short of Whistle Daggers—every single one had been thrown in battle and rendered unusable. Though he considered acquiring more, the blacksmiths in the area had unanimously refused.

"We have nothing to sell you," one obstinate craftsman had said, his tone implying it wasn't a matter of stock but a deliberate decision.

As they left, Aishia made an unexpected admission. "I had almost given up."

"On what?" Enkrid asked, matching her pace.

"On trying. I thought living on one meal a day with my brother was enough. But it's not."

Her determination to move forward had returned, and she credited Oara for it. "Because I saw Oara's back," she said.

As they neared the city gates, Roman appeared, a massive sword resting on his shoulder. "I still don't understand," he said, his resolve clear. Behind him stood Milio and the unit, alongside a short-haired squire. Their presence made it obvious: Enkrid and his party wouldn't be passing through the gates easily.

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