WE TRIED TRANSLATIONS
Translator: Ryuu
Editor: Abstract
Discord: https://dsc.gg/wetried
A KNIGHT WHO ETERNALLY REGRESSES
Chapter 144: Overcoming Traps with Strength (2)
The commander of the Gray Hounds, which were reduced to less than twenty men, furrowed his brow.
‘They just charged right in?’
He had laid a trap—a delectable one.
He didn’t expect them to fall for it so easily and had intended to use the trap against them. By setting up similar traps everywhere, it would make it hard to distinguish between the real and the fake.
What would happen when they’re unable tell them apart? They wouldn’t dare charge recklessly.
That alone would be a half-success.
“In that case, they’ll retreat. They won’t attack so easily.”
This information was delivered to him directly by an ally soldier who held a favorable opinion of him.
The independent forces of the Gray Hounds were now barely a shadow of their former selves. Following successive battlefield defeats and the death of Mitch Hurrier, someone had to bear the brunt of the blame.
It was the beginning of that reckoning.
The commander, sporting a thick mustache, needed to destabilize the enemy units in the rear and limit their movements.
He had made many preparations to do so.
‘But it feels like everything’s gone to hell before we even started.’
These people stormed in the instant they locked eyes and brandished their swords without hesitation.
They slashed over and over, asking, ‘Do you want to fight?’ as if mocking him. Even without words, their bodies, actions, and attitudes made it clear.
‘As expected.’
It was a disaster.
The Naurillia Army positioned behind the main force had begun to move, throwing the command structure into chaos.
Now, what to do?
Should he abandon everything?
The death of Mitch Hurrier, son of the Harrier family? It didn’t matter. They believed their children to be disposable anyway.
Then, where did his path lie?
He couldn’t afford to let his wandering thoughts distract him.
Leave the worries for later; cast them aside for now. The mustachioed commander steadied his resolve and drew his sword.
Shing!
Without a moment’s hesitation, he unsheathed his blade and held it before his eyes.
‘All I have to do is kill them all.’
The enemy guerilla forces had broken through the trap and charged in? Was that something to panic about? No. It was something to welcome.
‘I’ll start by killing that one.’
First, the one who pierced Mitch Hurrier’s abdomen. Then, the blond swordsman beside him, followed by the one wielding the axe.
He would need to conserve some energy.
One by one, he recalled flanking maneuvers. He fixed his gaze on the opponent and assessed the situation.
Was that guy always this strong? Certain things could be discerned just from posture. His aura was extraordinary. He was unforgettable.
This was the same person who stabbed Mitch Hurrier and fled. He was the one who narrowly survived back then and lived through an assassin’s ambush.
Was he this formidable even then? Probably not.
Had his skills improved? Even so, it didn’t change a thing. He was still an opponent to be cut down.
And so were the others behind him.
The commander’s eyes gleamed.
Kraiss, observing this, felt uneasy.
‘This guy doesn’t seem ordinary.’
Kraiss didn’t have the ability to evaluate opponents and he felt uneasy. The enemy had set a trap, and he had seen through their intentions.
Kraiss decided to break it head-on. If it was his Mad Platoon, they could crush it with brute strength.
He had faith. Yet, his unease didn’t completely fade. It was just his nature. He had a habit of imagining the worst-case scenario.
And the result?
The battle would begin with the squad leader squaring off against the mustachioed man.
Kraiss’s gaze turned to the two of them.
The air seemed to grow heavy. The spring sunlight pierced through the space between them.
Neither moved. Swords drawn, they stood still.
Dust scattered in the wind.
From Kraiss’s perspective, their figures became blurred.
Clang!
The sound of clashing metal erupted. Ragna stepped aside, becoming a mere spectator.
‘Not bad.’
The sword of the mustachioed opponent was sharp. It bore the marks of rigorous training and years of discipline—a weapon forged through dedication.
It was like a finely crafted table, its rough edges smoothed to perfection.
A craftsman’s masterpiece.
That was the impression his opponent gave.
And what about Enkrid? His squad leader was rough. Even with the countless attempts to refine himself, he was still unfinished.
An incomplete vessel.
One side stood on the verge of completion. The other was far from it.
“So, this is a duel between leaders? Kinda boring, isn’t it?”
The barbarian beside him muttered. Ragna didn’t respond. Surprisingly, Jaxon answered instead.
“If you’re bored, start cleaning.”
His tone was as calm and composed as ever.
“To have so many stand by my side today, it seems like a blessed day.”
Another voice, that of the zealous priest, chimed in.
Around Enkrid and the mustachioed commander stood enemy soldiers armed with spears, forming a perimeter.
Their numbers were clearly more than three times larger. Close to fifty enemy forces.
Even those who had been hiding in the supply wagons emerged, and their gear was nothing to scoff at.
Although they weren’t heavy infantry, three among them wore chainmail.
And yet, the Mad Platoon remained unfazed. Perhaps they’d misplaced their fear or, worse, swallowed it whole and left it stuck in their throats.
Clink.
“Shall we start after that ends?”
One of the chainmail-clad enemy soldiers spoke, gesturing toward Enkrid and the mustachioed commander with his thumb.
His confidence was evident.
Despite the bodies of their fallen comrades littering the ground, he was unfazed.
“Sure.”
It was Kraiss who answered. Winning the duel first would surely tip the scales in their favor.
The duel began in earnest, Enkrid and the mustachioed commander’s swords clashing, sparks flying.
Ragna tuned out everything else around him.
It wasn’t his concern. His eyes focused solely on Enkrid’s hands, feet, sword, and movements.
Between completion and incompletion, which would prevail?
Clang!
Chi-chi-chi!
‘Completion.’
That was the obvious answer. But what happens when an unfinished vessel possesses a fundamentally superior foundation?
‘It’s over.’
Ragna came to a conclusion. The difference in skill was evident, but so was the disparity in mindset. A flawed mentality could lose even a winnable fight.
Blades, feet, swords, air, dust, heat.
Even as those elements brushed past him, Enkrid didn’t flinch. He couldn’t see them, nor feel them. His focus was entirely on his sword.
“Hah!”
His opponent, the mustachioed commander, let out a shout as he brought down his sword.
A properly trained strike following the fundamentals of the Heavy and Fierce Sword style.
Enkrid gripped his sword with both hands, twisting it horizontally and blocking while bending his knees.
Redirecting the force to the side, he deflected it.
Ching!
Sparks flew as their blades met. The opponent used brute force, while Enkrid relied on technique.
Then, the dynamic changed in their next exchange of blows. Enkrid brought his sword down with force, while his opponent deflected it skillfully.
His technique was sharp and polished. Sharper than Mitch Hurrier’s had ever been.
Not that Mitch Hurrier was on Enkrid’s mind. Enkrid’s eyes, ears, hands, and feet were wholly focused on the battle, wielding his blade with singular concentration.
He used every ounce of instinct, all of his senses sharpened.
He read his opponent’s intentions through their exchanges. After exchanging blows over a dozen times, Enkrid faced two crises.
The first was when his wrist was nearly slashed, but he parried with his sword guard.
The second was when his opponent’s feigned slashes suddenly transformed into a thrust aimed at his abdomen.
Enkrid barely deflected it, raising the flat of his blade to knock aside the tip of the piercing sword.
It was a defense that bordered on a miracle.
Had his timing been even slightly off, his leather armor would’ve sported a brand-new hole in the middle.
“Hmph.”
The mustachioed commander scoffed as his surprise attack missed. It was a declaration of intent—the intent to kill him soon. Enkrid ignored it.
After those two close calls, Enkrid shifted his stance, stepping left. The commander, unwilling to give him favorable positioning, moved his feet to match.
Circling within striking distance, the two opponents turned in a deadly dance. Enkrid deliberately shielded his left hand with his right shoulder.
Changing his posture, he gripped his sword in his right hand alone and reached for his waist with his left.
The mustachioed commander understood his intention. Years of dueling experience told him what was coming.
He was already wary of the second sword Enkrid carried.
‘The left hand.’
The moment he saw Enkrid’s left hand lower, the commander swung his sword with power.
A massive diagonal slash from the upper right to the lower left. A decisive strike of the Heavy and Fierce Sword style. It would secure his victory.
Enkrid didn’t draw his second sword.
He only pretended to.
Then, with a deep breath and preparation honed over several exchanges, he unleashed his strike.
Heart of the Beast.
Thump!
His heart roared, sending blood surging explosively through his body.
The power surged into his muscles. Doubling his usual strength, a burst of monstrous power erupted.
There was no battle cry. Only the sight of two bloodshot pairs of eyes locking onto one another.
This was the moment of reckoning.
As the heavy blade descended toward him, Enkrid swung his single-handed sword horizontally.
Clang! Crash! Thunk!
Three sharp sounds rang out almost simultaneously. The duelists’ positions shifted.
“...Was it intentional?”
“From the beginning.”
The mustachioed commander asked, still facing away from Enkrid. Enkrid answered, his voice calm.
The mustachioed commander’s blade was clean, untouched by blood. However, it was broken in two.
Enkrid’s sword, in contrast, gleamed with strength. A blade forged from Valerian steel mixed with Noirian iron.
‘A masterpiece.’
At least, it was to him.
The mustachioed commander collapsed forward. His chest split wide open, blood pouring out. His ribs, shattered and unable to protect his heart, left him defenseless.
With his heart destroyed, even Frog would’ve died. The fallen commander’s death was inevitable.
Though Enkrid didn’t know it, he had just ended the Gray Hounds’ last hope. In essence, the name “Gray Hounds” would now fade into the annals of history.
“Whew.”
Exhaling deeply, Enkrid flicked his sword clean. The opponent had focused on his left hand.
That’s why he said it had been intentional from the start.
A technique designed to implant a complex pattern into the opponent’s mind—a hallmark of the Vallen Style Swordsmanship.
‘It worked.’
He thought, satisfied that his blade moved exactly as intended. The joy of victory wasn’t his first emotion.
‘It works.’
The thrill of confirmation filled his heart first. Using dual swords didn’t mean it had to define him.
He could wield whatever was necessary for the situation. Spears, shields—whatever came to hand.
Even things he’d once abandoned now felt within reach.
‘Trying it all wouldn’t hurt.’
The thought crossed his mind.
“Not bad.”
Enkrid murmured after finishing off his opponent.
“I don’t know why, but watching the squad leader fight gets me fired up.”
Rem’s face lit up as he spoke, clearly elated. His grin spread wide, curling at the edges.
The three chainmail-wearing enemies remained calm despite their commander’s death.
“Hmm, he wasn’t someone who should’ve died like that.”
“A shame, truly.”
“Underestimating your opponent is a mistake. One should face an enemy at full strength.”
The chainmail trio exchanged remarks. Well, at least they understood. Rem silently nodded. Their words were correct.
Enkrid had fought with everything he had, but their commander had held back. If a weaker fighter was preoccupied with post-battle consequences, defeat was inevitable.
“Shall we take them all at once?”
Rem stepped forward.
Thud.
“You’re too greedy, brother.”
A large hand, like that of a bear, landed on Rem’s shoulder. Audin shook his head.
“Move your hand.”
Rem’s gleeful expression turned sharp as he spoke coldly. Audin chuckled but kept his grip firm.
“You’re too greedy, barbaric brother.”
“This bastard—”
Shing. Thud.
Rem’s axe moved, cutting down vertically. Despite his size, Audin stepped back swiftly. Tension filled the air between the two.
Audin’s ever-smiling face seemed to freeze into a statue-like stillness.
The chainmail trio watched the scene in bewilderment. What’s with these guys? Are they fighting among themselves?
And it’s over who gets to fight us?
They felt utterly dismissed. Mocked.
“These lunatics.”
Finally, one of the chainmail soldiers stepped forward. He wielded a rounded war hammer.
As he moved, a sword blocked his path.
“You’re mine.”
Golden-haired, with red eyes that exuded a fiery intensity, Ragna’s sword burned like a blaze as he clashed with the hammer-wielding opponent.
The soldier swung his large shield like a weapon—a defensive and offensive move in one.
Thump!
Ragna’s sword struck the shield and rebounded, returning to its stance like a diving swallow.
“Cutting in line, huh?!”
Seeing this, Rem charged forward.
“Breaking the rules will anger the Lord, brother!”
Audin followed suit.
And so, the battle resumed.
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