WE TRIED TRANSLATIONS

Translator: ZERO_SUGAR

Editor: Abstract

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A KNIGHT WHO ETERNALLY REGRESSES

Chapter 155: Frog Ruagarne

Frog Ruagarne stared absently at the man swinging a sword.

The blade hacked straight down—from top to bottom.

Fwoosh.

The air split with a whistle, and the iron tang tickled Frog’s nostrils. Ruagarne’s Talent-Appraising Eye fixed on the opponent’s sword and read it.

Utterly grave.

Utterly cautious.

Day after day, hour after hour—how did he still try to give his all every single swing, every single moment?

After breakfast, the man practiced cuts. The instant he kept aside the sword he worked his body.

He squatted with a boulder on his shoulders, up and down, over and over.

When lunch was over, he went back to drilling. Even on the way to relieve himself, he carried the sword along.

Sometimes he mixed in stone-dodging drills. He sometimes sparred as well. His partners were the soldiers of his own platoon, and every last one of them outclassed him.

“Past the limit… no, beyond even that, are they?”

How does the Talent-Appraising Eye work? Through observation and insight—stance, attitude, the pace of improvement.

It watches and senses such things, which boiled down means intuition.

A sixth sense, pure instinct.

And how does one judge on that plane of gut feeling? By having seen lives lived exactly that way.

Meaning experience is required.

In that respect Ruagarne ranked among the rarest of Frogs blessed with the Talent-Appraising Eye.

Put another way, she had vast experience. She had seen countless fools break their limits through sheer swordsmanship.

See enough, and one starts to sense things at first glance.

That instinct of Ruagarne’s repeated, over and over:

“That fellow can never become a knight.”

Spell out the conditions for knighthood, and first comes reaching the human limit. Even that takes talent—perhaps one in scores or hundreds—but it is merely the start.

Next is to step over that limit.

Here the odds drop to perhaps one in many thousands. After meeting the limit and crossing it, one must “awaken Will.”

Most stall here; a wall sheer talent cannot breach. The joke of it is, those most gifted usually set their own ceiling low, making you doubt whether “doing my best” is really best at all.

To put it bluntly:

“Few people work hard.”

So Ruagarne looks for two talents when he gauges someone.

First: whether he has talent with the body, be it sword or fists.

Second: whether he has the will to go on.

What is will? The strength to carve through a tedious, endless path without growing arrogant on one’s gifts.

The second gift cannot be read by hunch; it must be watched over time. Yet if the first is absent, the second needs no looking at all.

“For some reason…”

Ruagarne’s eyes kept returning to the man who swung and swung, got pummeled in sparring, and trained again.

Yes, the looks helped.

Frog taste in aesthetics is peculiar, they do judge human beauty. On that score Enkrid and every soldier near him received full marks.

“Indeed.”

And then some.

Black hair, blue eyes, upright and straight—Ruagarne would describe Enkrid as a man with a splendid back.

And what of the lad called Rem?

Judging by talent alone, Rem and the rest all passed—save for Will.

Will, well, luck meddles there.

Frog eyes see possibilities, not prophecy.

Even aside from talent, they were undeniably pleasing to watch. Rem’s gray hair and unpredictable nature were like a hiltless blade.

That is how she would introduce Rem to other Frogs: armed with perilous charm.

Jaxon was similar yet slightly different: reddish-brown hair, dull eyes—

“Ah, that is a flower that hides poison, touch it and you’re done for.”

A so-called Poison Flower popped to mind.

How about Audin?

Leaving skill aside,

“I should call you Brother, shouldn’t I?”

His eye for detail was delicate despite his size and build—a gentle bear, that was the impression.

The whole platoon had sharp instincts, most had guessed Ruagarne was a male Frog.

This big soldier knew at first glance. Everyone’s senses were keen.

“Golden hair and crimson eyes aren’t bad, either.”

Ragna, born in the north, felt like languid afternoon sunshine.

He could flare up on occasion but mostly stayed so. Raw talent? In Ruagarne’s eyes, Ragna was top among them.

Yet talent and mastery do not run in step—his experience taught that. How had such figures gathered here of all places?

“Some of them have tasted the very edge of Will, I think.”

Tasting the edge does not equal awakening it.

A knight’s road is that harsh, steep, and sheer. Many stay stuck there and stagnate.

Ruagarne’s gaze still rested on Enkrid. His eyes chased his every motion. Even while mulling over this, the greatest wonder remained the man before him.

“Hup—”

Enkrid inhaled and moved; sweat sprayed into the air with the swing.

A mid-guard horizontal cut of the heavy-sword school, or what some call a spin cut. Keeping his centerline, he pivoted on the left foot and struck with full power.

“Where did he learn that?”

He had been taught properly, his fundamentals were solid.

On top of that,

“He does not know how to quit.”

Only a few days, and not a hint of change. Steady as a rock. Geniuses sometimes leap absurdly in just days, so one wonders how Enkrid amassed even this skill.

When you cannot see your own growth, continuing to toil is hard.

Saying that it draws admiration is no lie. For a Frog, indulging desire is nearly the purpose of life.

He obeyed his desire.

Each Frog craves something different.

One stakes all on “spiritual love”, another gambles life on achievement through training.

Ruagarne was weak to “the unknown.”

Though he had lived long, he now faced an unknown he had never seen.

“Isn’t it dull just watching?”, asked the unknown.

Ruagarne gave a throaty chuckle.

His cheeks puffed.

“Do you mean you want to see my weapon?”

“More like I want a bout, not just a look.”

A man who knows no surrender challenging his limits— there were many such humans. Ruagarne had met plenty.

But—

“That one really is extraordinary.”

Never once did he waver as he crawled forward, not a single tremor.

No despair, no discouragement. He discarded such things completely—accepted what he had and acted on what he could do.

How many can preach that in words yet fail in deed?

“Maybe only this lad.”

Whatever gifts he owned, his will to advance shone—so bright he could hardly keep his eyes open.

“If the goddess of fortune flipped a coin that landed not heads, not tails, but standing on its edge—”

A coin has two faces, yet by mad odds it might land upright. Fortune always deals in impossibilities.

“If that happened—”

and the man before her awakened Will—

Exhilarating.

The unknown’s promise warmed Ruagarne’s heart. He rose to his feet.

“Shall we play?”

His interest was only natural. Others might think he stayed for Ragna,

“Seen plenty of those sorts.”

Ragna was not unknown to him.

Only the man before him was unknown enough to brand the name Enkrid into memory.

“It’s been so long.”

Frog Ruagarne, for the first time in ages, felt like pursuing even spiritual love.

“Becoming a knight.”

Now the idea was clear in his head, a milestone planted.

Face the limit. He had done that innumerable times already.

“Humans don’t know their limits. So what must they do?”

Ragna had shown the path. The answer lay in the question.

“Keep walking.”

Even if it is on hands and knees, move forward. Same words—keep doing what you are doing.

Meet the limit, smash it, move on. When the limit falls behind, awaken the unknown force called “Will.”

Plain and simple.

Enkrid knew his talent well. He always accepted, acknowledged, admitted—and never despaired afterward.

“A whip, really.”

Flat on his back, staring at the sky, Enkrid muttered.

He had assumed Frogs mostly used blades. That was prejudice, pure and simple.

The Frog before him wielded a whip.

The grip formed a loop, a ringed handle, and the length was half again as long as a spear. It curved like a snake, coiled his ankle, and yanked.

Slash, strike, dodge.

After ten exchanges the feint failed and he went down.

“Why didn’t it work?”

A puzzle to ponder; when solved it would push him further still.

“You’re quite an amusing human.”

said the Frog.

“Your name?”

Only then did Enkrid ask.

“Ruagarne—call me Rua.”

“You may call me Enki.”

Not formal introductions, just a check of names to smooth however long they would be training side by side.

Enkrid replied and stood.

He had too much to do instead of staying rested on the ground. Training had begun at dawn, it was now past midday, plenty of time to keep moving.

“One more round?”

Rising, Enkrid asked, and Ruagarne burst out a low chuckle at the offer.

“Gladly.”

Swords raised again. They tested and contested, sought new routes, pondered what Will was, searched for paths to the limit.

Such was the task.

Enkrid kept swinging after that, tempering himself. Now and then he watched Finn spar Audin—

Ael Karaz-style Grappling versus Valaf-style Martial Arts. Tame, but still informative.

Jaxon still vanished often.

Kraiss, heaven knows where he found it, pored over some map and groaned. A month after the battle ended, the days began to heat.

Stand still and sweat trickled anyway.

“Because our victory enlarged the kingdom’s borders, the triumph is hereby celebrated!”

A sort-of-festival took place: food and ale for the whole city—unlike the earlier party. Enkrid kept swinging his sword even then.

“You are a terribly boring man.”

Frogs loved festivals, to enjoy and revel was life itself.

Yet Ruagarne again watched Enkrid train through the revels, even though daily sword drills could not surpass a festival for fun.

“Why is merely watching him so enjoyable?”

She could not fathom. Unknown, thus delightful.

Time passed. Azpen surrendered and just like that, three months slipped away.

Sweat poured even while standing still.

“Summer feels a bit longer this year,”

Rem muttered. Enkrid let the remark drift past while he cut the air. Three months later, Frog Ruagarne still remained, and Finn had not gone back either.

Former scout that she was, it felt about time she moved on to a new platoon.

“No word yet,”

Perhaps the battalion commander had forgotten her, or thought she suited this place.

Not his concern.

Just swing, and swing again.

Thus three months rolled by.

“Hey, Rem. Rem.”

In those months Frog had gotten chatty with most of the platoon.

“What?”

“How did you teach him that?”

Frog flicked out his long tongue in exasperation.

“Heh, you’d have fainted had you seen him before,”

Rem laughed. Indeed, Frog too was awed—by how Enkrid had not improved. Day after day of drills and conditioning, yet Enkrid was still plateaued.

So it seemed to him.

That only deepened his admiration. Effort itself was a talent. You have to see yourself grow—swing, train, advance—to keep at the effort.

“What is really in that head of his?”

All Frog wanted was a peek inside Enkrid’s mind. For three straight months he had plateaued, or so it looked to him.

Enkrid, however, thought otherwise.

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