WE TRIED TRANSLATIONS

Translator: Hydrogen B

Editor: Abstract

Discord: https://dsc.gg/wetried

A KNIGHT WHO ETERNALLY REGRESSES

Chapter 207: Unease and the Vanguard

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What did the men he was facing actually have?

One soldier was obsessed with thrusting.

Another was excellent at gripping the middle of his spear and swinging it like a club.

A third lacked power in his swings, but still had a knack for stabbing sharply into openings.

It was instinct, the realm of talent.

Still, Enkrid felt their training was lacking.

Their stamina was poor, and their strength was worse.

Their reaction speed was decent, but that was all.

Each soldier charged in with something he had learned and drilled, holding it, raising it, swinging it.

Even with the same training, each one developed differently.

They all carried spears, yet each used one in his own way.

Enkrid took it all in.

Shaking spear tips. Shaking eyeballs.

The habit of stepping the left foot forward.

One man feinting a misstep, maybe after clumsily picking up Vallen Style Swordsmanship.

Even in that chaos, many soldiers showed traces of relentless practice.

He had felt this before, but if there was anything more terrifying than overwhelming talent.

Crunch.

It was an enemy who kept charging, teeth clenched, even after losing fingers.

Their courage was different, their nerve was different, their resolve was different. There was fierce spirit in their bloodshot eyes.

Enkrid never fought half-heartedly. He never treated an opponent lightly.

Concealing his true skill was one thing, but swinging his sword in earnest was another.

As he shifted his stance for an incoming spear point, the opponent dropped the spear and rushed him, trying to overwhelm him with raw force at once.

Enkrid remembered the battlefield where he had gained Heart of the Beast, bent his knees, and took the man on his back.

Then he used his strength to flip him clean over.

The soldier flew, landed shoulder first, and rolled across the ground.

Heart of the Beast.

A hardened heart could be fiercer than talent.

Enkrid reminded himself once more how important Heart of the Beast was to him.

Not that he had ever forgotten.

How could he, when he repeated everything he learned every day?

How could he forget, trapped in "today," when he kept reviewing what he had again and again, one thing at a time?

After that, he kept watching the soldiers' movements.

"Twist with the left foot as a pivot, then strike."

It looked like a one-handed sword thrust, but one soldier extended his spear and let go, throwing it like a javelin.

An unexpected attack, and a creative one.

Still, it was not threatening. Their time was different from his from the start.

He had Heart of the Beast, Focus Point, Sense of Evasion, and a body forged through the Isolation Technique.

It was an impressive move, but he could avoid it.

The moment he saw it, his body reacted first.

His review was done. Now he only had to work their techniques and effort back into his own body.

After that, it was a matter of time.

He pulled back and glanced behind him, but no great plume of black smoke rose into the sky.

They had set a fire, yes, but it had been put out quickly.

So they had not dealt major damage to the supply base. Still, the enemy would remember being hit even while prepared.

And even if the damage was small, the supply base catching fire was a blow in itself.

Getting out was not difficult.

"Krr."

Esther padded beside him with unusually light steps.

Lately, this leopard almost never climbed into his arms except when it was time to sleep.

As he ran and looked down, Esther looked up at him. Her eyes seemed clear and wide.

No, they even looked bigger than before.

"Kyar."

It sounded like she was asking what he was staring at.

If she had been human, she would have had a temper to rival Rem's.

"It's nothing."

Enkrid brushed it off flatly, the same way he did with Rem.

"There he is!"

He pushed through the brush and heard the shout behind him. A group of soldiers was chasing him.

Enkrid listened to their voices and roughly judged the distance.

It was the method of seeing through sound that he had learned from Jaxon.

Using those sharpened senses, he calculated their positions and range, then decided shaking them off would be easy.

He had room to spare. And another thought came at the same time.

Something he had noticed while reading the enemy soldiers' habits.

One man, that squad leader, had kept his head even in that mess.

"Bring the net!"

He shouted while trying to capture both Esther and Enkrid.

He said it while pulling back and opening distance.

If they had truly meant to kill him, it would not have been a bad move, but Enkrid saw no need and kept watching.

"Fire!"

A neat trick.

They called for a net, but arrows came flying instead.

At that command, the soldiers surrounding him briefly fell back.

A coordinated move. More than that, the way they followed that squad leader's orders showed trust in him.

Calling for a net had been a feint. Arrows were what they had prepared. Of course, Enkrid was not fooled.

Still, once he had some breathing room, all kinds of thoughts crowded his head.

He remembered the snowy day, when they were still called the Troublemaker Squad, and had set out to deal with the Gielpin Guild.

"Give the order. Then the ones who can do it will do it."

Ragna had said that.

From the enemy squad leader's actions, Enkrid had glimpsed tactical thinking, individual combat doctrine, and squad-level warfare, and realized that was not his specialty.

But he did understand one thing. He needed something else.

This battle was no different. Holding the walls alone was not the answer. Hitting supply lines like this was nowhere near enough.

This was little more than pissing on frozen feet.

Then what should he do?

If I push Kraiss.

He would get an answer.

Had he not learned it on that winter day? If he could not do it, he could make someone who could.

Even leading one unit took no small amount of work.

I could never handle being a battalion commander.

A pointless thought.

Either way, all he had to do now was return.

There was no time to suddenly learn and master strategy and tactics. But he also could not keep fighting like this forever while wearing the title of Company Commander.

I can learn one thing at a time.

You had to understand something before you could give orders about it.

At the very least, he needed to grasp a man's intent when he spoke, if he wanted to command properly.

A knight was one who walked ahead, but at times also one who became a commander responsible for troops.

And even aside from that.

If all my men die under my command.

If that happened because he had neglected his learning, Enkrid could never accept it.

* * *

"Hit again?"

Olf did not lash out blindly. His eyes were clear.

Whatever others said, he was not a dull man.

This feels wrong.

The damage was not significant. There was more than one supply route, and only the field-oven-side supply base had been touched.

Touched, literally. Not a fatal blow.

This alone could not shake the whole battlefield.

Still, the fact that they kept getting hit gnawed at him.

"That bastard?"

Olf asked. Greg, sweat dripping from his brow, answered.

"We lost him."

Greg, assault captain.

Setting aside raw personal strength, he specialized in chasing retreating enemies. Even in open battle, he was not a man easily pushed back.

In fact, before Enkrid's name spread far and wide, Greg already had the reputation of a warrior who had wiped out two colonies alone.

By the usual scale of village, city, and continent, he was clearly a city-class warrior or better.

Among Olf's men, at best two might outrank Greg.

"Lost him?"

Even Greg, whose specialty was charging, running down enemies, and smashing through them, had lost his target.

Marcus, you mad bastard. What are you plotting?

Olf asked inwardly. He did not know the enemy's intent, but there was clearly something there.

Unease built in his chest. Even so, this was not the time for anger.

"It was a clumsy trick at best. Besides, I have not even properly shown the troops I brought. If we keep tightening and pressing, they can do nothing!"

The true field commander of Viscount Bantara's Forces said so. To Olf, the man looked annoyed at the mere mention of Enkrid's name.

A relatively young face, layered with confidence and arrogance.

His expression said it all.

I am better. I only need to step in.

Inferiority complex?

Probably not. He was the viscount's commander. Rumor said he was a noble's bastard son.

Compared to that, the enemy was a street-born soldier who had puffed himself up.

Whatever the case, the unease remained.

Olf had not come here with brute numbers alone.

Naturally, he had prepared a few hidden cards of his own.

For example, there were noble private troops who had erased their heraldry before joining, and he had kept them hidden as if they were merely for show.

Since he had reserves in hand, keeping the battlefield as it was might not be bad.

The status quo itself could favor his side.

"We will observe for a few more days. Watch them for two days and see how they react. Then we strike the walls again."

Time was on his side, Olf judged.

This was a moment that called for calm, not rage.

After spending the night that way, morning broke on the fourth day of the battlefield.

Olf ate well-baked bread, fresh cabbage, jerky, and dried fruit for breakfast, then rinsed his mouth with watered wine.

If it could even be called battle, all that had happened was small enemy units coming out to poke at them.

Had his side taken heavy losses? No.

He pushed down his unease with cold judgment, wiped his face, and began putting on his armor when it happened.

"General!"

A messenger rushed into the command tent.

Every commander gathered over breakfast turned to him.

"What is it?"

Greg was still irritable after losing that big target the previous day. His tone came out rough.

"The enemy is coming out."

"...?"

Blink. Blink.

Everyone stared and blinked.

"Coming out where?"

Zimmer, commander of the 2nd Battalion, asked.

"They came outside the city."

"Why?"

It was so absurd the words in his chest slipped out before he could stop them.

"...Pardon?"

How would the messenger know that?

Zimmer knew that too.

"What are they doing out there?"

Even Greg, rough a moment ago, sounded gentler now from sheer disbelief.

"They are forming their lines."

The messenger reported exactly what he had seen and heard.

A river of silence swept through command. It felt as if a voiceless uproar shook the tent.

Why come out?

Have they all gone mad?

Forming lines? Asking for a frontal battle?

Why?

They are abandoning the walls?

Even with walls, this side has the advantage.

No, why come out to die? What are they trusting?

"Good."

A man who had stood there like a scarecrow gave his opinion. The nominal commander of the Unmarked Forces spoke.

"Looks like they got tired of being trapped and decided to resist at least once."

The commander from Viscount Bantara's Forces said the same.

It was hard to think of any other reason.

But the unease Olf had forced down began to spread through his chest like wine spilled on a carpet.

What, retreat now?

He would be mocked for the rest of his life.

If even one bard heard of it, he might be branded the Coward General.

On a battlefield, there were times a man had to step forward even in a fight with poor odds.

And now, anyone could see this side had the advantage.

So retreat?

This was not the time to pull back because of a bad feeling.

"I will commit the full cavalry. Block their front with an oblique line formation. If they are asking for a frontal clash, should we not oblige them!"

Olf said, voice heavy with force. Whatever the enemy was aiming for, they had abandoned the advantage of the fortress and marched out, so all he had to do was crush their troops.

Then this unease would vanish as well.

Did they request reinforcements somewhere?

No, unlikely. He had surrounded the city as soon as he advanced, and even if someone had slipped out to ask for aid, who would send troops?

Count Molsen? That bastard was already trying to tear up Border Guard alongside them, even deploying forces with erased heraldry.

From the center?

No chance there either. The odds of Naurillia's central army intervening were lower than the odds of a passing crow pecking out a knight's eyes.

"Let's go."

At the general's words, every commander rose.

"Give me the vanguard."

Greg stepped forward.

"Of course."

Assault Captain Greg, a warrior not easily outmatched in skill.

"I've tightened defenses on the supply routes even more. Even if they try another diversion, we will not be hit again."

Zimmer, commander of the 2nd Battalion, added that. He was meticulous, a commander who made no mistakes.

Olf nodded, satisfied.

Last was the commander of the 3rd Battalion, who led cavalry and scouts. His name was Retley.

His personal might was below Greg's, but his skill in using troops to rip open gaps in enemy formations was better than Olf's.

"Retley?"

"Yes, we are ready."

And that was not all.

"My side is ready as well. In fact, we were ready long ago. I will slit that swaggering fool's throat and end this shoddy rumor at the source."

Viscount Bantara's Forces also had cavalry prepared in secret.

There were more than fifty of them.

So then, who held the advantage in this fight?

Olf asked Marcus, the enemy general too far away to even see.

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