WE TRIED TRANSLATIONS

Translator: Ryuu

Editor: Abstract

Discord: https://dsc.gg/wetried

A KNIGHT WHO ETERNALLY REGRESSES

Chapter 133: Spring, the Season of Magic

Andrew and Mack wielded their swords.

Between them, Enri repeatedly drew the string of the shortbow he had brought instead of his crossbow.

When he found an opening, he fired.

If an enemy got too close, or he saw a fallen foe still alive, he used his hand axe to smash their skulls.

Thwack!

Though Enri couldn’t split a head open in one blow like Rem, his strikes still left enemies incapacitated.

Cracked skulls, blood oozing through gaps in helmets, eyes filled with despair or resentment—it all reminded him of the animals he used to hunt.

The thought lingered briefly before he shook it off. Sentimentality had no place on the battlefield.

This was all Enri could contribute—firing arrows, striking down enemies when necessary.

The rest of the work was handled by Andrew and Mack. While they might not match the infamy of the Mad Platoon, those two were anything but ordinary.

“You bastards think the Gray Hounds are a joke?”

One enemy soldier roared, his tone full of venom. His savage eyes matched the blood dripping from the spear in his hand, which had just claimed the lives of several friendly soldiers.

Andrew stepped forward to face him.

It took only five exchanges. Two deflections, two slashes, and finally a single thrust.

That thrust, oddly enough, reminded Enri of Enkrid. At least, that’s how it seemed to him.

Mack played his part, expertly cutting and slashing enemies to prevent Andrew from advancing too far.

“That’s enough,” Mack said.

At his words, Andrew stopped abruptly. Then, for no apparent reason, he began pounding his chest with his fists.

“Uooooh!”

What the hell was this? Why the sudden shouting? It was clear Andrew had picked up something strange from Rem.

“Come at me, you half-baked runts!”

His taunt was awkward, and his chest-thumping even more baffling. But even so, an excited Andrew fought exceptionally well.

From the rear, Enri watched Andrew and Mack, along with others around them. Spots of blood adorned their helmets.

Waaah!

The air was filled with cheers, bloodthirsty shouts:

“Kill them! Kill them!”

Desperate pleas for mercy:

“P-please, spare me.”

Amid this chaotic symphony of life and death, Enri had a realization.

This is as far as I go. Some cheered at the sight of the Mad Platoon, marveling at their strength. Others were moved to tears, overwhelmed by their presence.

Enri, however, saw his limit and accepted it. This was where his journey as a soldier ended.

“Uoooooh!”

Andrew let out a guttural cry as his blade sliced through an enemy soldier’s clavicle and throat.

Schlick.

He pulled the blade free, blood spurting in its wake.

“Aaaargh!”

The soldier’s dying screams followed the path of the sword.

Having reached his limit, Enri suddenly longed to return to his life as a plainsman, hunting under open skies.

But the plains he called home were now warzones. Maybe he could move back to the city and live as the husband of the florist widow.

Yes, the widow who had lost her husband to war and now raised her child alone. That steadfast woman.

Enri missed her dearly. He wanted to leave this battlefield and return to her at once. It felt right to end his life as Enri the soldier here and now.

“Getting sentimental, aren’t we?”

Muttering to himself, Enri cast his gaze over the battlefield nearing its end. The enemy commander had already fled, his decision swift and calculated.

At some point, his standard and escort had vanished from sight. Most of his troops had surrendered. Only a few remained defiant.

The battle, the slaughter—it was all coming to a close.

Amidst all of that,

“Long live the Madmen!”

For the first time in his life, Enri heard cheers tearing through the air like that.

It was the cry of victory.

The Azpen commander was fleeing with everything he had.

“Damn bastards…”

As a skilled commander, he understood the situation perfectly. Who had turned the tide of the battle?

Where had the winds of change started blowing?

The one wielding those axes, and a few others. This was information the Azpen forces needed to know. Someone among the enemy carried a dangerous aura.

Though he had already sent out carrier pigeons with reports, the commander felt the weight of responsibility on his shoulders.

“I thought the night would pass before this mess ended, you idiots!”

His heart sank as he heard the sudden shout. In his path stood a unit fully armed and blocking his retreat.

They weren’t his reinforcements—no, their insignia made that clear. An eagle etched onto their right shoulders marked them as part of the Naurillia Frontier Defense.

“The Frontier Slaughterers…”

The commander muttered grimly.

This was Naurillia’s elite combat unit, known for their ruthless ambushes and guerrilla tactics.

Originally meant to harass the rear and disrupt supply lines, their plan had shifted. Instead of dismantling rear encampments, the unit had laid an ambush here.

When the enemy’s retreating forces came into view, the Frontier Defense leader gave the order,

“Wipe them out.”

The Azpen commander fought valiantly, even rallying his men to counterattack.

But it wasn’t enough.

“Retreat! Retreat!”

He shouted, charging directly into the fray himself. It was an impressive display—not fleeing but fighting to buy time for his soldiers to escape.

It deserved respect. The Frontier Defense captain stepped forward to grant it personally.

Whirr, clink!

His flail spun, the iron spike at its end letting out a metallic howl.

“Let me send you off properly.”

The duel was brief. One was a master of brutal combat, while the other was a tactician unsuited to such raw encounters.

Thwack!

The spiked ball traced an erratic path before landing a crushing blow. The Azpen commander’s head shattered, brain matter and blood splattering everywhere.

And with that, it was over.

“Ugh!”

The last of the enemy soldiers fell, the final one dispatched with an axe buried in his skull.

The Frontier Slaughterers lived up to their fearsome name, leaving carnage in their wake.

Their captain issued his next command.

“Return to base.”

The Frontier Defense forces moved quickly, returning to their main unit.

Their original plan had been to ambush enemy supply lines or scatter retreating troops. Smashing the enemy commander’s head had not been on the agenda.

How did the battle even end up like this?

The captain’s thoughts were a mix of curiosity and expectation as he marched toward the battlefield. When he arrived, what he saw was the victorious Naurillia forces celebrating.

The signs of their overwhelming dominance were everywhere. At the center of it all stood the ones who had turned the tide.

Those who had broken every blade the enemy had prepared. The soldiers, the squad—the Mad Platoon.

Their name echoed through the air, shouted by jubilant comrades.

“Mad Platoon!”

“Madmen!”

“You insane bastards!”

Even Battalion Commander Marcus didn’t try to quell the cheers.

In fact, he amplified them, ensuring the battlefield knew who had earned the greatest merit that day. He sent messengers to spread the name of the Mad Platoon far and wide.

Amid the roaring accolades, Enkrid and his squad stood at the heart of it all. The troops formed a wide circle around them, chanting and cheering.

From the sidelines, Torres watched and muttered to himself.

“It really is a gathering of lunatics.”

There wasn’t a single “normal” person among them. No one would admit it aloud, but Torres knew. He’d seen it for himself.

Even Enkrid, in his own way, was insane.

For one simple reason,

“Living like that, among those madmen, is proof enough.”

And somehow, he fit right in.

The elf company commander gazed over the battlefield, watching the cheers and the flow of victory.

“Spring has its magic.”

Spring had arrived—a season of gentle breezes and new beginnings. The battle that had started before dawn ended just past noon.

By the time the sun was high overhead, a warm wind was blowing.

Spring.

Like a flower born in winter and blooming in spring, the season’s magic lay in its promise of renewal.

Basking in this magic, a man stood tall, receiving the cheers of his comrades. The elf commander’s eyes followed that man, the one draped in the energy of spring.

Enkrid.

The leader of the Mad Platoon. He stood amidst the cheers, taking it all in.

“Not bad.”

The way people chanted his name, how they sought out the Mad Platoon—it felt satisfying.

He knew full well who had shifted the flow of the battle.

It was his squad.

Rem had killed the Giant.

Audin had shattered the enemy’s formation.

Jaxon had likely contributed something as well, though Enkrid hadn’t asked yet.

And then there were himself and Ragna, who had cut down the elite mercenaries threatening their right flank.

The mercenaries, armed with swords so sharp they seemed alive, would have decimated the ally troops if left unchecked.

“We did well.”

The satisfaction felt deserved. He decided it was okay to enjoy the cheers, just this once.

“How is it?”

Rem asked, grinning from ear to ear.

“It’s fine,” Enkrid replied honestly, as he always did.

“Man, you really are an easy guy to please,” Rem muttered with mock annoyance, though there was no malice in his tone.

At that moment, more of their comrades returned.

“Andrew’s group has rejoined us!”

Despite being beaten by Rem and intimidated by Audin’s soft-spoken threats, Andrew proudly carried himself as a member of the Mad Platoon.

The blood splattered on their helmets and armor made it clear they’d fought fiercely. Enkrid nodded in acknowledgment.

“Did you cut off the enemy commander’s head? Or maybe grab the Giant’s balls?” Rem teased, shifting his target now that Enkrid was untouchable.

“I didn’t get the Giant, but I’m pretty sure I killed at least two hundred,” Andrew bragged.

Everyone knew it was a blatant exaggeration, but it was good-natured, not obnoxious.

The squad’s mood was light, almost relaxed.

“Bullshit,” Rem muttered, chuckling.

Even Ragna, normally aloof and distant, seemed calmer, as if something within him had been resolved.

Jaxon, too, wore a rare smile.

Audin, of course, was his usual serene self. Standing there, bloodied but calm, he looked like a holy knight bathed in divine light.

Holding a crimson-stained club, Audin turned his gaze across the battlefield. Despite the gruesome weapon in his hand, his presence radiated peace.

Kraiss, observing quietly from the side, thought to himself,

“How did it come to this?”

He had a habit of tracing results back to their origins.

“Maybe it started with that sparring match.”

Kraiss prided himself on being the most perceptive member of the platoon. From the moment Enkrid returned and began those training sessions, something had shifted.

Rem, Ragna, Jaxon, and Audin—the squad’s core combatants—all seemed lighter, freer, as if something weighing them down had been lifted.

“Could a single sparring match do that? It’s not like they haven’t sparred before.”

No, it wasn’t the sparring itself.

It was something else.

Kraiss thought back to watching Enkrid fight Frog. He remembered Enkrid biting the enemy commander’s ear off.

It didn’t matter if it was Vallen mercenary swordsmanship or some other technique. What mattered was that Enkrid was growing.

Dramatically.

He hadn’t yet reached the level of the squad’s top fighters, and likely never would.

But despite knowing his limits, Enkrid refused to stop. The squad had always supported him, wanting him to stand, walk, and run.

Even so, they had all known—and couldn’t ignore—that he would never truly stand alongside them as an equal.

And yet, here he was now.

“Everyone, good work.”

As Enkrid addressed the squad, Kraiss felt a lump in his throat. He looked at his platoon leader’s back and thought,

“Same as always, but also different.”

The afternoon sunlight, the warm breeze, the scent of the battlefield—the iron, blood, and death—all of it swirled together before fading away.

Kraiss admitted to himself that he was utterly captivated. Watching Enkrid felt like being under a spell.

It must have been the magic of spring.

Just as the continent’s old adages said, spring carried magic in its air. And so, the gazes of every platoon member were drawn to Enkrid.

They weren’t alone.

Marcus, the battalion commander, approached.

“Cheer for them,” Marcus said, his voice steady as he walked toward Enkrid.

Turning to face Enkrid, Marcus grinned.

“Raise your voices for the greatest heroes of this battle.”

His words carried across the battlefield. Cheers erupted, their sound breaking through the spring sky.

Uooaaaaahhh!

It was the shout of victory, a celebration of spring’s magic. A triumph born from the blood-soaked battlefield.

It was for the ones who had brought that victory. Enkrid stood silently amidst the thunderous acclaim.

It wasn’t bad at all. Not bad at all.

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