WE TRIED TRANSLATIONS

Translator: Ryuu

Editor: Abstract

Discord: https://dsc.gg/wetried

A KNIGHT WHO ETERNALLY REGRESSES

Chapter 130: A Strike and Severance

“Look at this shitshow.”

That bastard—proof that skill and character don’t always align—what was his name again?

The man twisted his mouth into a sneer.

“Want me to carve you a new asshole, Enki?”

As he spoke, he stepped forward. Enkrid decided to exchange only one sentence with him before killing him.

“What was your name again?”

The man froze mid-step, his right foot stretched forward.

“…Damn bastard, still got that sharp tongue.”

He didn’t give his name. It doesn't matter. Names weren’t essential.

“Kill him.”

The unnamed scumbag gave the order, and the nine around him sprang into action.

It was as though they were what the Border Guard might become if they ever fell to corruption. Each wielded their weapons with confidence. They had the skill to back it up, no doubt.

The stench of blood clung to their blades.

Thwap!

One of them was wielding a slingshot and fired it. The move was fluid—aiming, pulling, and releasing—everything in one smooth motion.

A small metal pellet shot through the air. Ragna merely tilted his head to dodge. The pellet had been aimed right at his eye.

“A slingshot.”

Ragna muttered, and in his eyes, Enkrid saw a rare intensity. No reason to worry, then.

“Alone?”

The voice came from behind. Enkrid turned to see Vengeance. Limping slightly, his condition drew Enkrid’s gaze to his thigh.

Before he could ask how it happened, a soldier behind Vengeance spoke, their expression a mix of worry and anger.

“He got hurt saving me from that bastard.”

Enkrid didn’t need further explanation. The bastard must have pulled the same trick as always. A calculated move—target a soldier to force Vengeance to intervene, then exploit the opening to land a blow.

It was exactly the kind of vile tactic that suited him. In contrast, Vengeance had likely taken the injury to protect his comrade.

If Enkrid hadn’t arrived, what would have happened?

Vengeance would have died. He must have accepted that outcome. With someone like Vengeance, you could understand wanting to be friends.

But that bastard? A friend? Laughable.

“He’s sharp.”

Vengeance said again. At that moment, Enkrid clapped his left palm with his right fist, as if a memory had clicked into place.

“I remember his name.”

The man smirked.

“As if you’d forget my name. You just love to provoke, don’t you?”

He said, drawing his sword with a metallic ting. It was a flexible blade, one that bent easily with pressure—a rapier made of wrought iron.

The wobbly blade caught Enkrid’s eye as he spoke.

“Your name was ‘shithead,’ wasn’t it?”

Ah yes, the bastard’s nickname—it was definitely "shithead." Probably.

“…You’re going to beg me to kill you.”

The man’s eyes gleamed with malice. Was he angry? Oh, that wasn’t the intention.

Enkrid shrugged.

The two traded petty insults, fueling the tension between them. The lackey with the slingshot moved again.

Thwap! Ting!

This time, the pellet was aimed at Enkrid. Ragna, closer this time, drew his sword from its sheath and deflected the projectile. The metal glinted as it shot upward, disappearing into the mist.

“You’ve got quick hands. Would be fun to put a hole in them.”

The slingshot wielder grinned. Beside him stood a man armed with twin axes, one in each hand—a setup reminiscent of Rem’s.

“You really think you can take all of us on by yourself?”

The dual-wielder sneered at Ragna. This wasn’t good, Enkrid thought. Sure enough, Ragna responded.

“A knockoff barbarian.”

“…What?”

The ax-wielder, a man with golden hair and red eyes, blinked, failing to grasp the insult. Those red eyes, though—they glowed with a distinct, incomprehensible hostility.

Dual axes? A poor choice of weaponry.

Elsewhere, three others stood with swords, each bearing deeply grooved blades. They shared strikingly similar faces—triplets.

“After this battle, we’ll be joining the Azpen Duchy. Who knows? We might even get noble titles.”

The bastard—the “shithead”—spoke as if he was bragging. That was typical of him.

The same expression as back then, when he gloated about saving his own skin. The same air of smug satisfaction from justifying his actions in advance.

Got it.

Enkrid stopped speaking altogether.

Thunk.

He advanced, bringing his sword down. His opponent underestimated him, smirking as he casually deflected.

Ting!

The unique, flexible blade struck Enkrid’s longsword, bending downward before snapping upward toward his wrist.

A textbook technique for the rapier. An Eastern swordsmanship style, or so the bastard had once claimed.

Enkrid watched as the rapier darted for his wrist. At the last moment, he shifted his blade, redirecting the strike upward.

Clang.

‘This bastard—?’

A flicker of surprise and confusion crossed the man’s face, but Enkrid didn’t care. He simply advanced, swinging his sword as he had trained, as he had learned.

Even against a rapier, he knew what to do.

‘Start with a resolute strike.’

Just as Ragna had taught him.

Whoosh.

The blade cut through the air, time seeming to slow as he focused all his strength into a diagonal slash. The bastard tried to backstep, swinging his sword upward in defense.

Swish!

The flexible blade arced toward Enkrid’s throat. However, it never connected. The diagonal slash struck first, faster and harder.

Crunch.

Resistance traveled up Enkrid’s arm. Though the strike had been clean, he felt the impact of cutting through armor and ribs, down to the wrist that held the sword.

The rapier, still bent mid-strike, dropped to the ground with a metallic ting. Enkrid paused in the follow-through of his swing, then flicked his blade to the side.

Splatter.

Blood sprayed across the ground. The remnants of a past enemy, wide-eyed in death, stared blankly ahead.

Enkrid spoke silently to his fallen comrades.

‘I avenged you.’

There was no response. There never would be. The dead cannot speak.

The same was true for the bastard who’d just been slain. He died without leaving behind his last words. It was inevitable.

A mercenary wielding Eastern swordsmanship, a bastard with decent skill, but—

‘Compared to Frog or Mitch Hurrier…’

He was lacking. Even compared to his squad members? There was no comparison; it was laughable.

If it hadn’t been Enkrid, the right flank would have fallen into chaos, as bad as the battlefield where the Giant had appeared.

It was relative.

These killers relied on their blades to strengthen themselves by slaughtering others. Against someone stronger, they’d die easily. Against weaker opponents, they’d turn into efficient butchers.

“…What the fuck?”

One of the triplets muttered, gripping his sword.

“What do you think?”

Ragna replied, striding toward the slingshot wielder. His steps were mesmerizing, as though he defied normal movement. Within moments, he was at the slingshot wielder’s side.

“Shit!”

The man twisted, and that was his final act. His head flew into the air, frozen in a surprised expression.

When had Ragna drawn his sword? When had he swung it? His skill was terrifyingly fast, shockingly precise.

Even to Enkrid’s eyes, the rapier blade had left only a faint afterimage.

“Slingshot.”

Ragna muttered, stepping toward his next targets.

“Three swords.”

The triplets drew their weapons. They had no intention of going down easily.

In their eyes, Ragna saw the faint glint of bloodlust. Blades soaked in murder, wielded by those who sought strength through death.

Such fools were common.

Idiots who thought killing weaker prey would sharpen their skills. Ragna felt unusually motivated.

How many times had he felt such energy? Three? Maybe five? Probably less than five.

Frustration had built up in him. Sparring with Enkrid had turned that frustration into something else. A spark had ignited within him, glowing in his crimson eyes.

Leaving streaks of light behind, Ragna swung his blade.

Swish! Crack! Thud!

In seconds, the three swordsmen lay dead—throats pierced, heads split, torsos cleaved from jaw to crown.

Ragna’s blade cut through everything—swords, armor, flesh, and bone.

It was awe-inspiring.

“Pitchfork.”

Ragna’s gaze shifted to the next enemy—a man wielding a pitchfork.

It was clearly a weapon chosen to inflict pain. The man swallowed hard, realizing he’d met his match.

“Everyone, rush him!”

The pitchfork wielder shouted, spurring the remaining fighters into action. But as soon as the words left his mouth, he turned and bolted.

Enkrid’s eyes widened in surprise. Normally, Ragna wouldn’t give a second glance to someone fleeing.

But this time, Ragna moved.

Thud.

He kicked off the ground, dashing forward so quickly he seemed to vanish. His sword lashed out to the left and right, and for a moment, it looked like wings unfurling from his shoulders.

Not literal wings, of course—they were the afterimages of his blade. Those "wings" split the head of a man wielding a spear and severed the arms of a woman with daggers.

Clang!

Her daggers broke in two, cleaved cleanly by Ragna’s strike. It was an awe-inspiring display of terrifying power.

“Ahhhhhh!”

The woman’s shrieks ripped through the air.

Without pause, Ragna charged after the pitchfork wielder, who desperately turned and raised his weapon to block.

The pitchfork was forged from solid metal.

Ragna swung again, the edge of his sword shearing halfway through the shaft in a single motion. As he spun to complete the follow-up, the reversed blade sliced through the man’s neck.

Slash.

Had he put a bit more strength into it, he could have split the pitchfork entirely. With only one enemy left, Ragna turned to face him.

“Shit.”

It was the man wielding the twin axes.

“You’re the main dish.”

There was something very different about Ragna today—something even more unsettling than usual.

He strode toward the ax-wielder, his intent clear. The man bore no resemblance to Rem, but for Ragna, that hardly mattered.

“Let’s start with your legs.”

He made good on his words immediately. Ragna’s blade moved, swift and decisive. The ax-wielder was no novice, but—

The scene reminded Enkrid of himself. Or rather, his past self. It was that moment when one confronted a wall, something that no amount of effort or training could overcome.

“Gahhhhhh!”

The ax-wielder’s screams were his only response. And they weren’t enough. Ragna first slashed through the man’s thigh, then severed the tendons in both arms.

Thud.

The axes fell from lifeless hands as Ragna placed his sword atop the man’s head. At that moment, Ragna realized just how excited he was.

It was an unfamiliar feeling.

‘Is this something to get worked up about?’

Still, it wasn’t unpleasant.

“P-please spare me. I can lead you to hidden treas—”

Crunch.

No matter what the man tried to say, Ragna didn’t care. In the end, the last of the ten mercenaries fell, his head split open.

Ragna examined his sword. The blade was completely dulled, and the hilt wobbled in his grip. He discarded it without hesitation.

Then he collected the three swords that had belonged to the triplets.

“Hm, three swords, all for me.”

He strapped them on, tying two to his waist and one across his back.

“You going for the Three-Sword Style?”

“No. I’ll use them one at a time.”

In response to Enkrid’s question, Ragna shook his head before speaking again.

“Do you know what that technique I just used is called?”

His words came faster than usual—a rare occurrence.

Enkrid had no idea.

He remembered only the cutting, slashing, and overwhelming power of Ragna’s attacks. What stood out most was how Ragna’s blade had cut through anything—daggers, spears, even armor.

As Enkrid pondered, Ragna spoke again, his tone quicker than normal.

“I call it Severance.”

The name was plain, unassuming.

The technique, however, was anything but plain. It was raw and brutal, a manifestation of mastery.

“I'm going to teach it to you.”

Ragna declared. Enkrid nodded.

Vengeance, who had been watching silently, didn’t even try to hide his astonishment.

“Monsters. You’re all goddamned monsters.”

It was the only thought that came to his mind.

Meanwhile, Enkrid picked up two axes from the battlefield. Rem would need replacements after breaking so many weapons against the Giant.

Aside from the axes, there were only a few throwing daggers left from the slain mercenary with the knives.

Shame about the Whistling Daggers, Enkrid thought. He could always forge new ones later.

And so, they finished clearing the battlefield and began to regroup.

From the frontlines—

Waaaaaah!

“Audin! Audin!”

A roar of cheers erupted.

It came from the vanguard, where Audin had gone. Enkrid turned his gaze toward the sound.

The sun had risen, and the mist was starting to lift. Slowly, the surroundings became clearer. This was no spell—just the morning mist of the riverbank dissipating with time.

As the mist parted, the scene beyond came into focus. There stood Audin, utterly alone.

He was in the heart of the enemy’s forces.

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