WE TRIED TRANSLATIONS

Translator: Hydrogen B

Editor: Abstract

Discord: https://dsc.gg/wetried

A KNIGHT WHO ETERNALLY REGRESSES

Chapter 159: You See as Much as You Know

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Ten Whistle Daggers. The wide leather armor had a thin inner lining so it didn't chafe.

Good armor. He was quite happy with it. It wasn't like his old one that blocked spells, but for physical attacks, it would do fine.

Miserable to wear in the dead of summer, though.

If he needed it, he'd wear it. What choice was there?

Between the leather layers, thinly hammered chainmail had been woven in a lattice pattern. Heavy, but the protection would be second to none.

"My masterpiece," the blacksmith had said, and rightly so.

He'd offered it at half price, but the armor itself couldn't be cheap. The cost of mending the leather, the cost of hammering each individual chain link thin, one by one. Nearly a year to make a single piece, he'd said.

"Use it well."

The blacksmith with his reddish-dark face. It was his gift.

Enkrid couldn't accept something like that for nothing, so he'd hounded Kraiss over it and paid what it was worth. The blacksmith silently took the pouch of Krona.

Anyway. Along with the armor: two daggers sized to strap at the ankle, a Guard Sword at the back of his belt, eight throwing knives packed along his thighs and sides. The Whistle Dagger sheaths he crossed in an X over his chest.

The angle that made for an easy draw, he knew from experience. One he'd used for years.

He packed a spare knife too, the kind for any odd job on the road.

A shortsword, maybe? If his main blade broke, it would make decent backup.

All this packing added up fast.

He'd need a thick blanket for sleeping outdoors, and probably a small pot. The pot Kraiss could carry, but there was plenty else to prepare. Charcoal to last through cold nights, thick cloth, a wooden spoon and fork, a thin copper-iron plate for grilling food over a fire.

By the time he'd tallied it all up, his pack was going to be heavy.

The biggest reason Enkrid had survived this long, despite his mediocre swordwork, was this kind of preparation. A habit like that doesn't just disappear.

They were only four, granted. Formidable four, yes. Frog traveled alone sometimes.

Enkrid knew the dangers of the road too well to cut corners. That much settled him.

"You're taking all of that?"

Ruagarne tossed something from beside him, somewhere between a jab and a compliment. Enkrid didn't spare it a thought.

His own peace of mind came first.

"Yes. A little sorry I can't take more, honestly."

Gauntlets, shin guards. He armored himself thoroughly. Then he sharpened each knife edge by edge and polished every blade with oil rendered from mutton fat.

The blades gleamed.

"Trying to reflect sunlight in broad daylight?"

"Sharp observation."

Frog had been watching from the side and throwing in the occasional comment. Enkrid answered without looking up. Like they were trading lines in a comedy routine.

"Why do I feel like my spot's been stolen?"

Rem talked nonsense from beside them.

That one he ignored.

"Why don't you answer me?"

Rem's tone went sulky.

Can't just leave that alone. If I ignore his grumbling, he'll start causing trouble.

"I did," Enkrid said.

"When?"

"Silence was my answer."

What kind of nonsense is that. Rem's face scrunched up oddly.

Enkrid absorbed the reaction without missing a beat. Which is to say he ignored it.

"Hmph."

Rem let it go. He lost when he fought with words. He'd learned that lesson more than once.

Mission or no mission, this was just how things went.

Enkrid did what he always did. Mornings, he threw himself into training. Evenings, he prepared for departure, managing equipment and sorting through various tools. Watching him, Frog was half-astonished.

Is he tough, or just dense?

He simply did all of it. Training and preparation both were no small tasks.

No hesitation. No suffering.

When he drilled through what he called the Isolation Technique, suffering would show at the edges. And then that strange smile would follow.

Maybe he's just a pervert.

Could be.

Being told he couldn't become a Knight hadn't drawn so much as frustration from him. Not even a flinch. Three months of watching, and not a single false note.

So this was a strange one. No, truly strange.

Gurgle.

That's why she found it interesting. Good-looking too, so there was something to enjoy just watching him.

Where did someone like this fall from?

"He's mine."

Ruagarne had been crouched in the training ground shade, watching. The Elf Company Commander had appeared at her side at some point, the elf's shadow spilling just past the edge of the shade.

"Who said anything?"

Ruagarne responded without looking up.

"Kyaa."

From the shade on the opposite side, Esther sat alone and bared her fangs.

She does that at the drop of a hat.

None of her business, so Ruagarne let it go. Ruagarne was Frog, and what mattered to Frog was desire and want, interest and stimulation. That stimulation was right there in front of her, and her mood was good enough that she wouldn't kill someone outright just for poking near her heart.

Though they'd touched her heart. So she'd kill them halfway, at least.

* * *

Between training sessions, Enkrid didn't forget his other duties.

"You're going on an operation? Four people? Frog too?"

He'd reported to the Battalion Commander, who asked back but quickly gave his approval.

"Unusual," was all he added.

"So, how is it? Being told you can't become a Knight."

As Enkrid turned to leave, the question came at his back. Before giving his salute, he answered without turning around.

"Yes. Thank you for the gift."

Was there malice in his thoughtfulness?

No. There wasn't.

Even if there had been, it had still been a good opportunity. They'd said it was a dream he'd never achieve. That didn't apply to Enkrid. He'd come this far chasing the very thing he'd always failed to reach, and this was just the process of stitching that shredded dream back together.

"Gratitude?"

"Yes."

"I see."

A dull exchange. He stepped back outside with a salute.

The Elf Company Commander trailed after him. Lately, he kept running into her.

She must have nothing to do these days.

He was thinking that when she spoke.

"Fallen for me again?"

He said no and walked away.

Back at his things, he threw himself into preparations again.

"You're just excited to go out. I can tell, you're excited."

Rem needlessly picked a fight.

"If your body's that restless, want to spar?"

Enkrid deflected it smoothly.

"Gladly!"

A clean bout, a satisfying exchange of blows.

Clang! Clang!

One thing that was better than before: Rem's face showed a different emotion now. Something like satisfaction.

That alone was its own kind of reward.

Enkrid activated Heart of Superhuman Strength and brought his sword down onto the axe. Rem's feet moved in a flash, bleeding the force off sideways.

First time. Rem had used something resembling the Soft and Flowing Sword Style.

"Redirecting?"

"What, am I not allowed?"

"No."

Fair enough.

The result: a heavy axe blow broke through Heart of Superhuman Strength and Enkrid lost.

After that he sparred with Audin, then Ragna. Jaxon showed up again with free time to spare, and they went at it too.

"Your training is lacking."

Training increased.

Meaning Jaxon had willingly stepped in to help. Dynamic vision. Reflexes. All of it in service of the Sense of Evasion.

"Still not there yet."

Results were still lacking. But repetition was the point.

That was the whole of it, really. Personal preparations were roughly finished, and until the day before departure, he threw himself back into training with the same mindless intensity.

"Now that you have more, you need to organize it properly." Ragna said it midway through a session, which wasn't like him.

Enkrid thought it was worth hearing.

"I will."

Between sessions he added more time for meditation. Ruagarne, when the mood struck, would crack the whip or check his form for a bit, but mostly she remained a spectator.

Enkrid didn't mind.

He was busy stacking what he had, layer by layer.

Basics. The Basics of swordsmanship and the Basics of training. Among the five styles, that meant the Northern-Style Heavy and Fierce Sword Basics, and the Isolation Technique. Underpinning all of it: the Blade Sense. Opening the Gate of the Sixth Sense to see one inch into the future. But that, too, didn't activate on its own. Focus Point had to back it up.

I'm not a genius.

A frog fallen entirely into the well of today. A mayfly that climbs out of the well to race toward tomorrow. Because of that, he struggles. Because of that, he crawls forward if he has to.

Enkrid hadn't changed. He was relentlessly, utterly the same. A wandering pilgrim chasing a faded dream, and the pilgrim only walked, and walked.

Grinding and honing what was his, steadying his heart, then grinding and honing again.

Grasping rhythm, building force in the Heavy Sword Style. Growing a little more familiar with the Heart of Superhuman Strength.

And then it was the day before departure.

"They say the monster packs have been wild lately. Merchants who used to travel in groups of ten won't go out unless there are more than twenty now. Is it really okay to go like this? Well, it'll be fine, I guess."

Started to sound worried, then didn't.

Kraiss glanced from Frog's face to Finn's to Enkrid's as he said it, twisting his words into something that trailed off awkwardly.

While listening to Kraiss talk, Enkrid headed out for his usual sparring session.

His opponent was Rem. He stood facing him at a distance, drew his sword and leveled it. Rem picked up his axes and rolled his wrists.

How many times had they done this?

They'd sparred often, lately.

"Today you'd better give me more of a show."

He'd been sulking for no clear reason. Partly, Enkrid had stepped out to do something about that.

If he was going to sulk this much, he should just come along.

Why stay behind and stew.

The season was halfway into summer now.

Enkrid felt the shift in temperature. The subtle change in the wind. A moment when the air turns. A moment when the distance between them is measured.

That moment. That instant. The gap splits.

And at the same time, everything he'd learned through the repetition of today rose thread by thread and settled into his body. Things absorbed as time passed. The line connecting point to point. A circle drawn with himself at the center, the domain of the sword. Rhythm, or what was called tempo, the timing of attack, defense, counter. Following the opponent's gestures and breathing to see one inch into the future.

Enkrid lowered his hand slightly. Instinct, and something the future told him he had to do. The sword's tip tilted a fraction further forward.

Between rays of sunlight, two axes stopped.

Rem's nose was visible. His eyes were visible. The sweat running down his forehead was visible.

Forgetting himself and facing the man in front of him, Enkrid found the most rational path, the fastest path. The point where their domains touched. The tempo and timing that favored him.

Feet riding the rhythm lifted from the ground.

The sword split through sunlight, falling from above to below.

The axe moved.

The man holding the axe moved with it.

A pale, hazy shape. Something like that appeared.

In Enkrid's eyes it looked like an evil spirit. Or a ghost.

Either way, the spirit's axe came flying.

Slash.

A vision of his neck being cut. Just before the illusion reached him, Enkrid's sword fell from above too. Thunderous. Loaded with the weight of Heavy Sword Style, accelerating all the way down.

Thud.

Cut anything? No.

His neck? Fine. What the axe had cut was an illusion.

"...That. Hmm. You've learned how to make a man take things seriously, haven't you?"

"You dodged."

Turning around, there was a bloodstain on Rem's cheek.

No sensation in the hand, but he'd cut him. Just a graze on the cheek.

A tremor ran through his whole body. Something close to awe, a beast's cry spreading outward from somewhere inside him and turning into vibration.

Come to think of it, this was a first.

Rem. Ragna. Audin. Jaxon. Not a single one of them had ever received so much as a scratch from his sword.

"That's it."

Ruagarne leaped to her feet and clapped her palms together. The sound was flat and dull. But her face was unmistakably pleased.

"Right, so, just now..."

Words didn't come easily. Was it an unusual experience? No. There had been times like this. He'd lived through it before.

Mustache. The first time he'd faced him. And when he'd been so completely absorbed in fighting Mitch Hurrier that Focus Point had activated fully.

The experience of concentration breaking through some kind of barrier.

Of course, what he felt now was richer than either of those times. He had learned more. He had mastered more.

"You see as much as you know," they say.

And so he saw. As much as he knew.

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