WE TRIED TRANSLATIONS
Translator: Ryuu
Editor: Abstract
Discord: https://dsc.gg/wetried
A KNIGHT WHO ETERNALLY REGRESSES
Chapter 147: If You’re Certain of the Path You Take
“Where the hell are they?”
The Azpen Duchy’s detachment, which included three Proto-Knights, couldn’t find any trace of the enemy forces.
Shouldn’t troops be stationed here to guard the rear?
Or at least some sign of movement—tracks, scattered remains, or even scouts?
Weren’t they supposed to be heading toward the Cross Guard? Then why wasn’t anyone here? There were no reconnaissance units to monitor their movements either.
Typically, before a proper battle, scout parties would clash. They’d hurl insults at one another, exchange a few volleys of arrows, and then engage in combat.
But without an encounter, there could be no engagement. And for that purpose, part of their force had been diverted.
This included three Proto-Knights. They had redirected a significant portion of their main combat power.
Even though they’d stationed a giant and some special units elsewhere, losing this much strength from their main force was no small matter.
They needed a fight.
And yet...
Crunch, crunch.
Pebbles scattered under the Commander’s feet.
There was nothing. All they had encountered so far were a few Ghouls that had crawled out near the riverbank, and the faint remnants of a campsite abandoned three days prior.
“What about Hawk’s Talon?”
“No contact,” came the reply.
The guerrilla unit assigned to monitor this area and regroup with them had vanished entirely.
“They’re dead, aren’t they?”
The Proto-Knight Commander asked bluntly. His lieutenant hesitated, glancing nervously before responding.
“Yes. It... seems that way.”
‘Seems that way?’
What nonsense. Of course, they were all dead. The Commander considered the situation. Should he take this opportunity to hit their rear?
What might happen then? Would they panic like a horse with its tail set aflame?
He found himself growing curious about Naurillia’s response. The decision came quickly.
“A signal fire!”
A sharp-eyed messenger came sprinting toward him, having just crossed the mountain. The Commander turned his gaze back in the direction of their main force.
Signal fires were only lit in dire circumstances. What could one being lit now signify?
“Return at once.”
The Commander didn’t hesitate.
That decision saved them. By reuniting with the main force, they narrowly avoided annihilation.
After rejoining Marcus’s battalion, Enkrid spoke less and less. The soldiers around them stole glances at the Mad Platoon, but no one dared strike up a conversation.
“You’re back, huh?”
The most they got was a curt acknowledgment from Vengeance, who casually threw out the words.
Enkrid gave a brief nod and kept walking. He thought to himself as he walked. And as he thought, he sank deeper into himself, reflecting on the battles they had fought.
‘I didn’t use the Sense of Evasion.’
The Heart of the Beast required lengthy preparation to draw out its full potential. Still, he had fought by piecing together every fragment of his abilities.
‘Plant the left hand on their head and cut with the right.’
The foundation of his tactics had been a combination of feints and the strength of the Heart of the Beast.
He had taken some pleasure in the battle itself, especially since certain elements of his dual-sword technique had proven effective.
So, what now?
Review and repetition.
There’s always always something to learn—even from victories. Always.
Crunch, crunch.
The unit crossed the gravel-strewn path, heading toward the rear of the main force.
The march continued for three days. It was a monotonous cycle of eating, walking, and sleeping. Only then did the familiar sight of their camp come into view.
Of course, Enkrid didn’t care whether the camp was in sight or not. He was busy reviewing the fight, replaying it over and over in his mind.
‘Fundamentals.’
What about the mustached swordsman?
He had been a textbook example—precise, sharp, heavy when needed, and light when appropriate. His movements shifted seamlessly depending on the situation.
That was the difference fundamentals could make. Was winning or losing the issue here?
Of course, losing could be a problem since it was a fight where defeat meant death. But throwing away a winnable fight? That would be meaningless.
One must always give their best.
Each step forward must be firm, no matter how small. To build a better tomorrow, one must strive for the best today.
Winning didn’t quench the thirst or extinguish the hunger for improvement.
Had he thought that mastering the fundamentals meant the journey was over?
‘Was I being arrogant?’
Life had a way of presenting unexpected lessons.
Looking back at the days when all he could do was struggle and flail, Enkrid couldn’t believe how far he’d come. He reflected on his mistakes.
Honing the basics was the most natural and necessary of tasks. Wasn’t it clear from his time training in the Isolation Technique?
Daily repetition. Practicing the same movements over and over.
Whether it was Valaf-style Grappling, the Heavy and Fierce Sword Style, or the Soft and Flowing Sword Style, everything came back to one thing: fundamentals.
The thought ignited a restless fire within him. His hands itched, his heart raced, and his skin prickled with anticipation.
Even in the middle of their march.
Shing!
Without warning, Enkrid unsheathed his sword.
Raising it, he swung it vertically with precision. The blade’s motion was straight and clean, as if crafted by a master artisan.
A flawless downward strike.
Whoosh!
He swung the sword mid-step, halting to focus on the technique. If anyone else had done this, it might have caused an uproar, but this was Enkrid.
“What’s going on? Are we under attack? Oh, it’s just Enkrid, the Squad Leader.”
“Yeah... He’s a bit... you know?” A soldier twirled his finger near his temple.
“That’s the Mad Platoon’s leader for you.”
“Let’s just keep moving.”
The other soldiers shrugged it off.
Incidents like this weren’t unusual.
Besides, the Mad Platoon’s exploits in previous battles had earned them near-legendary status.
There was even a touch of admiration in the soldiers’ gazes.
‘Maybe that’s why they fight so well, they’re so obsessed with training.’
These were the thoughts lingering in the minds of onlookers. Even the commanders of other squads left them alone.
Hadn’t Battalion Commander Marcus issued specific orders to treat them differently?
No guard duty. No meal preparation rotations. Given their achievements and unique standing, such concessions seemed reasonable.
The soldiers around them simply turned a blind eye. As for the members of the Mad Platoon, they paid little attention to the stares.
Ragna silently watched his Squad Leader practice. He had been planning to talk to Enkrid after they returned, but now he realized it wasn’t necessary.
“Focus on the fundamentals again,” he muttered to himself.
Enkrid had already demonstrated the proper cutting technique.
Teaching had barely begun. There was so much to build upon, so much to learn.
Would his guidance serve as an insurmountable wall, or would it become a guiding beacon?
Ragna needed to show and teach him.
He had a lot to say, reminders of the basics that were often forgotten once one’s skills improved.
Ragna mulled over the thoughts that weighed on his mind. Ragna pondered deeply, formulating what he wanted to say to his Squad Leader.
As the gravel path beneath them gave way to solid ground, he suddenly stopped in his tracks.
“Yes, that’s it,” he murmured to himself.
However, he realized something else. Enkrid didn’t need his nagging.
The man was already reflecting, filling in his own gaps, and improving himself. That’s just the kind of person he was.
Ragna stood still, an electric shiver running through his entire body. He thought about the things he had overlooked, forgotten, or dismissed as unimportant.
But Enkrid—he gathered all those fragments, every detail, and used them as building blocks.
Watching that, Ragna felt a fire ignite within him, a spark of inspiration that made his chest burn.
Ridiculous, he thought.
And yet, seeing his Squad Leader made him want to pick up his sword and train, too.
“Have you lost your mind? What are you mumbling about?”
It was Rem who interrupted him, tilting his head like a curious beast.
“Did you hear the voice of some ghost?”
On the other side, Audin, the ever-devoted clergyman, joined in with a good-natured chuckle.
“What’s this? A lone prayer? Did the Lord answer you, brother?”
Ragna wanted nothing more than for them to leave him alone. But Rem was persistent, and Audin was far too earnest.
“Hey, what’s wrong? Did a ghost get into your head? Hey, big guy, shouldn’t you exorcise him or something? You got any punches for dealing with spirits?”
“Ha ha, brother, possession doesn’t happen so easily, not in a disciplined unit like ours. My guess is he was praying. So, what did the Lord say?”
Ragna clenched his fists. He was growing desperate. Desperation quickly turned into a murderous aura.
‘Should I just cut them both down?’
The surge of intent was so palpable that both Rem and Audin stopped in their tracks.
“Hey, you’re not thinking about leaving your head here, are you? Need help with that?”
“Brother, are you upset because the Lord didn’t answer you? If so, a little sweat never hurt anyone.”
The Squad’s rule was simple: If killing intent flared, it meant a fight was inevitable.
This was the ironclad code of the Mad Platoon. Unless Enkrid stepped in to stop them, they would go through with it.
Shing!
Ragna drew his sword, and Rem immediately reacted.
Clang!
Their weapons collided, sparks flying as their auras clashed between them. Audin, standing nearby, couldn’t just watch.
With the recoil of Rem’s axe, Ragna redirected his momentum and slashed toward Audin’s chest.
Audin backstepped, slapping the flat of the blade with his palm to deflect it. It was a skillful maneuver—one worthy of praise.
The three of them quickly became entangled in a flurry of strikes and counterstrikes.
Meanwhile, Jaxon, who had been watching silently, sighed.
“Idiots,” he muttered.
But his gaze eventually shifted to Enkrid, his Squad Leader, standing apart from the commotion.
For a brief moment, a flicker of dissatisfaction crossed his face.
Jaxon had his complaints.
He had taught Enkrid the Sense of Evasion, and while Enkrid seemed to understand its principles, his progress in applying it was slow.
In contrast, Enkrid had mastered the Heart of the Beast far more quickly.
‘Why is he so slow with my technique? Is he not taking it seriously?’
“Annoying,” Jaxon grumbled under his breath.
No one responded.
Rem, Ragna, and Audin were too busy fighting, while Andrew and Mack had wisely distanced themselves from the chaos.
Finn, on the other hand, watched the madness, wondering whether this squad was even functional.
Only Kraiss seemed completely at ease, going about his duties as if nothing unusual was happening.
When Kraiss received orders through the Elf Company Commander, it didn’t go unnoticed.
“Why you?” the Commander asked, his tone dripping with annoyance.
Kraiss shrugged.
“If you try to involve the Squad Leader right now, it’ll just piss him off, and the squad will follow his lead. Things will get ugly fast.”
“Uglier than this?”
Kraiss glanced at Enkrid, who was still swinging his sword in quiet concentration, and then at the trio locked in their brawl.
Jaxon sat brooding, while Finn looked more confused than ever.
“Yeah,” Kraiss said with absolute certainty. “Much uglier.”
The Commander sighed and moved on.
The Commander didn’t waste time on unnecessary jokes or side comments. Instead, he spoke plainly.
“The main force is withdrawing to the city.”
Kraiss tilted his head, curiosity piqued.
“You want our Squad Leader, don’t you?”
The Commander gave Kraiss a sidelong glance, his green eyes—like polished emeralds—radiating an almost inhuman beauty.
There was something unsettling about those eyes, as if they were detached from mortal emotions.
Kraiss couldn’t read the expression, but he could sense the underlying intent.
“Of course I do.”
The Commander’s words carried no hidden meaning. He wasn’t speaking as a man, but as a soldier.
With that, the Commander turned and walked away.
A chill ran down Kraiss’s spine, and he instinctively rubbed his arms.
He returned his attention to his Squad Leader, waiting for Enkrid to finish his endless sword drills.
By the time Enkrid stopped swinging his sword, the day had nearly passed. The squad was setting up camp for the night.
Kraiss, for all his curiosity, didn’t understand the purpose of Enkrid’s relentless practice.
Could walking and swinging a sword at the same time really help anything?
He had no idea.
Meanwhile, Rem, Ragna, and Audin had finished their impromptu skirmish much sooner than expected.
None of them looked entirely satisfied, though. Perhaps they knew they’d gone too far to stop themselves from fighting again later.
Or maybe the absence of the Squad Leader’s intervention had made the fight feel hollow.
Who could say? Kraiss didn’t care to find out.
“Squad Leader.”
When Enkrid finally turned his sweat-drenched face toward Kraiss, he spoke up.
“We’re being recalled to the city.”
“Hmm?”
Kraiss knew his Squad Leader wasn’t fond of long explanations, so he kept it short and to the point.
“When our plan worked, the enemy redirected some of their forces to the flanking route and the main force launched an assault. They’ve already taken the Cross Guard.”
The crux of Kraiss’s original strategy had been simple.
The Mad Platoon would strike from behind, while the unit known as Hawk’s Talon—or whatever they called themselves—would be drawn into the fray.
Meanwhile, Marcus’s Battalion would only need to pretend to advance on the Cross Guard.
It wasn’t even necessary to commit to the assault. The mere appearance of an attack was enough.
After all, no commander would want to endure the humiliation of their city being attacked.
Kraiss’s plan had relied on this predictable reaction. By feigning aggression, Marcus’s battalion could justify their retreat to their original stronghold.
The plan had worked almost perfectly.
What Kraiss hadn’t accounted for was the overwhelming efficiency of the Mad Platoon.
‘I knew they were good, but this is...’
The Mad Platoon had surpassed all expectations.
As an elite independent unit, their impact had been devastating, arguably more effective than even the Frontier Slaughterers.
In the meantime, Marcus’s battalion had regrouped, while the main force had launched a decisive assault on the Green Pearl Plain.
This deviation from Kraiss’s expectations had taken things even further.
‘They actually went through with the attack?’
He had assumed they’d consolidate their gains and stop there. But instead, they had pressed the advantage, crushing the remaining forces and expanding their territory further.
The result had been a decisive, crushing victory.
Now, Marcus’s battalion and the Border Guard Regulars had been ordered to return to the city.
Perhaps some part of the leadership was concerned that the enemy might launch a desperate counterattack. Or maybe it was simply an acknowledgment of their accomplishments, a reward for a job well done.
Rather than explaining all of this, Kraiss opted for brevity.
“They said we’re going home.”
“That’s not bad,” Enkrid replied simply.
Enkrid seemed satisfied.
This campaign had been full of hard lessons and new experiences, and he wanted time to reflect and incorporate what he’d learned.
As someone who lacked natural talent, he understood the importance of relentless effort.
For someone like him, improvement required constant struggle. Enkrid glanced at Jaxon, who had been glaring at him from a distance.
‘What’s his problem now?’
He could sense Jaxon’s irritation, but he had no intention of addressing it. Let him stew. It wasn’t like this kind of tension was anything new among his squad.
“Going home, huh? Too bad we didn’t get to see a Knight fight.”
Rem’s voice was laced with mockery as he teased Enkrid. Enkrid nodded, unfazed.
“Too bad,” he replied. But in truth, he didn’t mind.
As they walked, Enkrid glanced down at his calloused hands. The weight of the two swords at his hips felt familiar now, as did the armor on his body.
A soft, feline noise broke the silence.
Meow.
The squad’s leopard companion had reappeared, padding silently alongside them.
Enkrid, surrounded by his squad and walking his chosen path, felt a quiet sense of certainty.
If you’re certain of the path you take, there’s no need to question your destination.
“It’s fine,” he murmured to himself.
Looking up, he felt the gentle warmth of the spring sun on his shoulders, as if the world itself was offering its quiet approval.
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