Eternally Regressing Knight-Chapter 486 - A Series of Coincidences

Chapter 486 - A Series of Coincidences

There are those stronger in real combat than in training.

Why is that so?

Is it due to heightened senses? Or perhaps a matter of talent?

Maybe it's because they can only concentrate fully in moments of crisis.

None of these applied to Enkrid.

He possessed none of those qualities.

His senses were average, making his responses to unconventional attacks awkward.

He lacked any spark of genius or original brilliance.

Concentration in crisis?

If he had that, he wouldn't have faced death as often as he had.

What he did have, however, was experience.

He carried the weight of countless hours of training, practice, and rehearsal.

"What if I twist like this? Or deflect like that? What if I deflect and strike immediately?"

He repeatedly tested his ideas with his body, refining them through relentless iteration.

This was after he mastered the essential forms of swordsmanship across various schools.

Without rest, without boredom, he simply kept at it.

His method could easily be dismissed as mindless, even foolish.

Yet, through this approach, he worked out practical applications of his ideas in real combat.

Lacking natural talent, he repeated every action countless times.

Through repetition, he uncovered subtle differences in technique.

Where others succeeded with ten swings, he needed a hundred.

When a hundred wasn't enough, he swung a thousand times.

What happens then?

You focus on the essence of a technique rather than its utility.

There's no other choice when comprehension is mandatory.

Why does a technique involve clashing blades at a certain point?

Why turn the body to evade the opponent's blade?

Why position the blade to press into the crook of the opponent's elbow?

The partial turn creates an opportunity to press down on the opponent's hand.

Positioning the blade in the crook of the elbow disrupts the opponent's leverage, rendering them momentarily powerless.

But is it always necessary to twist the body?

Could footwork suffice if mobility is essential?

Is gripping the opponent's hand always required?

What about counterattacking during deflection?

These are the fundamentals—the reasons behind the movements.

Enkrid repeated, reflected, and practiced these fundamentals endlessly, even at the brink of death.

This constant pursuit is why Enkrid excelled in real combat far beyond training.

His unyielding determination set him apart in battle.

His sapphire-blue eyes shone as he confronted an Apostle, a master of necromancy.

"Intangibility won't work," Enkrid thought.

The Apostle couldn't fully utilize their magical realm in an intangible state.

Their barriers and prepared spells required substance.

They relied on synthetic relics imbued with mana, artifacts made from treasures obtained in a magical land.

The Apostle suppressed their fear.

Succumbing to terror would render their incantations useless.

Their calculations began but faltered from the start.

They couldn't even see Enkrid's strikes.

Clang! Crash! Clang!

Within a single breath, the Apostle's barriers shattered.

"Should I hold out? I must."

Before the final barrier fell, the Apostle invoked another spell.

"Rise, eight siblings of Gulak!"

They opened their magical realm, summoning eight ghouls.

From the ground, mid-air, and pitch-black voids, grotesque figures emerged.

These were synthetic creations, each with unique traits: elongated arms, venomous fangs, and more.

But the Apostle was unfortunate.

Enkrid had prior experience with knight-class ghouls from the Gray Forest, a demonic land near the city of Oara.

That experience remained vividly with him.

The blue-eyed swordsman swung his blade eight times.

A diagonal cut as he stepped to the side, a horizontal slash as he drew back, a downward cleave to the crown.

He deflected an outstretched claw with his blade, thrusting immediately afterward.

Precision didn't mean sacrificing lethality.

The so-called "Snake Blade" technique demonstrated its full effectiveness.

Next came a horizontal slash that decapitated another ghoul.

A piercing thrust followed, then an upward slice that split a ghoul's head in two.

Finally, a horizontal strike removed the top of the last ghoul's skull, and with his left hand, Enkrid reversed his grip to deliver a single-handed stab.

The Apostle, despite their preparations, couldn't follow the speed of the assault.

Thwack! Crack! Squelch! Crunch!

The eight ghouls fell in quick succession, their bodies mangled and lifeless.

Eyes wide, the Apostle clutched their relic.

They saw two streaks of light—blue and silver—that seemed to stretch endlessly, their movements extending time itself.

"I'll block it."

The Apostle still had spells ready, barriers designed to absorb physical impact, and artifacts for protection.

Even their skin had been augmented to be as tough as a monster's hide.

But these defenses mattered little.

Enkrid's blade—driven by the essence of technique and brute force—tore through everything.

Slice!

The Apostle's head soared into the air before falling lifelessly to the ground.

Suddenly, a voice cried out.

"Father!"

A young man, barely more than a boy, emerged from the seer tribe in the canyon, tears streaming from markings on his face.

The boy's cry triggered a monstrous roar from the giants in the vicinity.

Roarrr!

Their muscles swelled, veins turning a vivid purple.

Their eyes glowed like blazing torches, and their skin darkened to a deep, foreboding hue.

The giants' transformation exuded an overwhelming presence, as though even sunlight and wind bowed before them.

Though much of the Apostle's will had burned away before full realization, a single command activated the synthetic relic.

It unleashed the awakening of every giant present.

"You wretch!"

As soon as Enkrid killed the apostle, he felt a force coming from behind him and swiftly turned, swinging Aker.

It was a light strike, but not something that could be easily dodged or blocked.

The angle was tricky, and it carried both strength and speed.

Thud!

But it was blocked.

It was surprising, but Enkrid didn't react.

He quickly recovered his sword, and with the same angle, he struck again.

This time, it was a powerful blow, akin to a heavy sword's downward strike aimed at the collarbone.

Instead of a slicing motion, it was more of a pushing strike.

The opponent was halfway off the ground.

While swinging the sword, Enkrid's eyes scanned the opponent's attire and stance.

A vest made of short fur, pants, shin guards, facial markings, and a black stick slanted across their back—a blade made of obsidian.

The weapon that blocked Aker was a dagger called a karambit.

It was so sturdy that it neither broke nor cut Aker's blade.

Only the edges of the dagger were slightly chipped.

The opponent's eyes were filled with resentment and curses.

He managed to block the second strike as well.

The dagger twisted to deflect the sword's force.

This was truly impressive.

Considering his talent, he might be on par with Rem.

For now, he might fall short, but left unchecked, he would quickly grow stronger.

He twisted the dagger to deflect the sword's direction, then as the sword hit the ground, he rolled backward.

Enkrid attempted to chase but stopped.

It was a warning from his intuition.

As the opponent rolled backward, an obsidian spear floated in the air.

A trick?

No, it was sorcery.

Without being touched, the spear floated on its own and flew toward Enkrid.

His sense of danger flared, prompting him to halt.

Though it was invisible, Enkrid believed there was something holding the spear in mid-air—perhaps some kind of ancestral deity, as they say in the West.

Ting!

Blocking the spear was no trouble at all.

Enkrid confirmed the spear's speed and deflected it with his blade. He then took a large step forward and, while advancing, he swung Aker over his head, rotating it halfway behind him before bringing it down, aiming to strike vertically.

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All of these movements happened in one breath.

Wham!

Once again, Aker did not strike the enemy.

The sword swished through empty air.

The opponent had withdrawn, stepping back.

As he retreated, the opponent extended his left hand.

The rings on his fingers jingled—golden bells hung from each finger.

He raised his left hand, shook it, and spoke.

"I will take your eyes."

Enkrid blinked, but nothing happened. The opponent, with his left hand still extended, froze.

Creak.

The opponent gritted his teeth and shouted again.

"Take three steps and fall!"

The first curse was that of the blind, the second that of the cripple.

Naturally, neither took effect.

Enkrid felt no sense of dread.

He only had a fleeting thought—perhaps the ferryman had a feast in front of him, wherever he was.

"Delicious!"

Or maybe he shouted something like that.

***

"You... You've swallowed the curse."

A youthful voice sounded.

The opponent glared at Enkrid fiercely, then fled.

He kicked the ground a few times, and his body faded, disappearing into the distance.

Watching him flee, Enkrid threw a dagger.

The dagger flew with a sharp hiss and embedded itself into the fleeing sorcerer's back.

The sorcerer staggered for a moment but continued running until he vanished.

He was too fast to pursue.

Still, there was a more pressing matter.

The giant and the black warrior were still fighting behind.