WE TRIED TRANSLATIONS
Translator: Hydrogen B
Editor: Abstract
Discord: https://dsc.gg/wetried
A KNIGHT WHO ETERNALLY REGRESSES
Chapter 211: My Name Is Enkrid.
= = =
Graham, commander of Turtle Heavy Infantry 1st Company, did what he was meant to do.
"Who are we!"
At the captain's lead chant,
"Uha!"
his men roared back.
"We are the wall, the Border Guard's moving fortress!"
When their captain shouted again,
"We are the fortress wall!"
the Turtle heavy infantry practically tore their throats out with something close to a battle scream. Somehow, the message still got through. The more they abused their vocal cords, the higher their morale climbed.
Separate from Enkrid's group's exploits, Graham set out to become a wall.
That was what his company did best, and it had been the plan from the start.
What Graham had expected was the charge unit led by his old rival, Greg.
Martai's assault company and the Border Guard's heavy infantry company had been rivals for years.
But in the end, he never got the chance to face Greg.
Enkrid's five-man group had already torn Greg and his assault unit apart.
After seeing that, Graham's battle felt almost relaxed by battlefield standards.
"Raise shields!"
Heavy infantry basically had one core tactic.
Raise the shields and hold.
"Two!"
Close the gaps. Clack. Clack.
Two meant two steps forward. It was too slow for perfectly synced parade pacing, but it was uniform and stable.
The turtles crawled forward.
"Strike!"
The third command was to close in and swing heavy blunt weapons.
Every one of them carried an iron hammer with a rounded weight at the end.
Bam bam bam!
It was violence ordinary armor or leather helmets could never stop.
Crack!
One hammer slammed down on a Martai infantryman's shield. The round wooden shield split from top to bottom.
After that, the next hammer could only be blocked with his skull.
Crunch!
A shattered head, blood spraying, a body collapsing, that was the natural result.
Spears and blades could be deflected, but what were they supposed to do about hammers?
Enemy bodies piled up in front of the heavy infantry.
A few agile ones slipped between them and thrust swords in, but clink!
The heavy infantry were men loaded with plate and chain armor bought with piles of Krona.
Even if an enemy blade got lucky and pierced the chain, it still could not get through the thick padded inner layers of cloth and leather beneath.
"Die!"
One Border Guard turtle, stabbed near the side, shouted and swung his hammer.
Downward, vertical, from top to bottom. The hammer smashed into the shoulder of the spearman who had thrust at him.
"Aagh!"
Once one arm was disabled in a single hit, what came next was obvious.
He got shoved by a shield, fell flat, and was trampled to death.
Slow steps, terrifying bite once it latched on, that was Graham's heavy infantry.
Slow violence pounded and crushed the front line.
Still.
Even fighting like this,
Graham's company would not be the center of attention.
On one side, Enkrid and his group were increasing the dead with ruthless efficiency.
Five men were doing what fifty heavy infantry could not.
People called men like that out-of-standard firepower, and the one at the top among such men was called a knight.
He could not call them knights yet.
At minimum, they were junior knight level.
Graham had eyes too.
"Raise shields!"
After that, the heavy infantry's simple tactics continued. No one could stop them.
The people who were supposed to stop them had already been torn apart, blown open, beaten, cut, stabbed, and split by someone else.
* * *
The Frontier Defense Captain glanced to the side and asked quietly.
"May I ask your name?"
A detached unit had started moving up ahead.
Every one of them was quick on their feet.
Martai's second dagger, perhaps.
That was probably right.
The Frontier Defense Captain could tell at a glance this detached unit had been built to target them.
The Frontier Guard's nickname was Frontier Slaughterers.
They had earned it by slicing, cutting, and fighting well, and as a small elite special force, they resembled that enemy.
Frontier Slaughterers. That nickname now felt like clothes that no longer fit.
These days, maybe Frontier Guard was enough.
Why would it not be?
A class existed that made small-unit fights dominate battlefields and made strategy and tactics revolve around them.
Knights.
Then what happened when there were no knights? Did they fight like in the old days? No. The group form of small elite knight tactics was exactly this, organized special units.
Until now, Frontier Guard had carried that prestige, but Enkrid and the Madmen Company had cleanly buried it under their own fame.
That did not make him bitter.
Anyone could tell at a glance. That man was extraordinary.
The captain acknowledged Enkrid.
Honestly, who in the Border Guard's standing army did not?
Everyone did.
Just seeing Enkrid made people feel good. He made something boil up inside them. He was that kind of man, impossible to hate.
"No."
At the end of his thoughts, he heard the elf company commander's refusal.
So she was not even giving him her name.
Thirty-six years old this year.
The captain was not young. His pupils trembled, though no one saw it. He had lowered his head just enough that not even the elf noticed.
Officially they held similar rank, but the Frontier Defense Captain had a special status, like a 1st Company Commander.
If a Border Guard Battalion Commander had weak influence, this captain's words could carry more weight.
But the elf company commander did not seem to care in the slightest.
Not even giving me your name.
The Frontier Defense Captain, nearing middle age, folded his feelings away.
A late-blooming flutter had just arrived, and he had to send it off and go fight.
Still, lingering feelings made him ask one more question.
"Are you really in that kind of relationship with Enkrid?"
Sinar looked straight at him, then said,
"What one wants and what comes true are two different things."
Her expression was colorless. Her tone gave away nothing.
The Frontier Defense Captain closed his mouth, then spoke again.
"I'm Jenok."
A second flicker of attachment made him say his own name.
Sinar did not even nod.
By then, Torres had come up from behind and jabbed the captain in the side.
"I told you not to."
The captain did not answer.
Torres had tried to stop him before he even started.
But what could he do?
When pure love was burning, if he died without saying it today, whose fault would that be?
"Today, I'll fight like fire."
The captain said it. Torres nodded. Behind them, every core fighter in the Frontier Guard lit up their eyes.
For their captain who had just been rejected.
Their eyes shouted the slogan. Soon Martai's prepared dagger reached the promised point.
Elf Company Commander Sinar had come as support, but she had brought no subordinates. No one under her command had the skill to match the Frontier Guard's level.
The Martai detached unit commander looked rushed. Their discipline had loosened, and their formation had warped. When a commander's mind rushed, the troops below felt it.
They had also pushed speed over checking their surroundings.
The Frontier Guard slammed into their flank.
"For heartbreak!"
one defender shouted.
"Who the hell is that bastard!"
the captain shouted too.
One Martai detached fighter twisted his body sideways. He was a dual-sword warrior with long, slit eyes and a fierce face.
He led the turn, and everyone pivoted with him. It became a clash between the detached unit that had aimed for the Border Guard's main force flank and the guard unit that had just struck Martai's detached flank.
The dual-sword warrior's reaction speed was exceptional.
With both blades, he instantly targeted the neck of the elf company commander who had closed in.
His hands and feet were fast. His reactions were excellent, and he did not hesitate when flowing into attack. First-rate.
Up to that point, Sinar had stood still with one hand resting at her waist.
Then she moved.
She stepped back, drew Naidhl, and cut upward toward the point where the two swords crossed. The leaf-like blade split sunlight and split steel.
Clang!
"Where are you aiming?"
Sinar said in a bored tone, then danced with Naidhl in hand.
Each time Naidhl swung, a mist of blood rose. The cut and stabbed men dropped to the ground.
Torres had just closed in on a shield-and-sword fighter, pulled the hidden dagger from his wrist, and slit his neck.
A perfect strike at the gap between helmet and armor ripped the back of the neck open.
He shoved that blood-gushing man aside.
After killing one, he moved back to his captain, looked to the side, and saw Sinar performing a sword dance every bit as fierce as Enkrid's.
"Can anyone see that and not fall for her?" the captain muttered.
"You fall for that?" Torres asked, shaking his head inwardly.
Was that not just slaughter?
Of course this was a battlefield, and she was an ally, so it was not slaughter, it was merit.
One thing was certain. That elf was absolutely not below Enkrid or the Madmen Company.
So how could this even be a fight?
"You crazy bitch!"
A group of enemy warriors with face tattoos had been fighting there, and the one who looked like their leader screamed.
At that curse-filled shout, the captain and several members moved.
"Rip that mouth open!"
At the love-struck Frontier Defense Captain's cry, his men charged with him. This side was one-sided too.
That owed a lot to the main force's victory. The side that moved first should have been at a disadvantage. Martai's detached unit had moved first, then this side launched the first surprise strike, and on top of that Sinar's performance was brilliant.
Now was the time to think about reducing casualties, not worry about losing.
* * *
Elite-Slayer Blade.
Since when had that become his name?
His memory was blurry.
He hid his presence. He killed even his footsteps.
He pushed through dying allies and watched part of the enemy force.
One hot-tempered-looking bastard was shouting encouragement to his men while firing arrow after arrow.
Killing that one would help the battlefield too, sure.
He licked his lips and pulled back the urge.
No, he could not do that. Had he really come all this way just to kill trash like that?
He lowered his stance. He hid his breathing. Skill aside, he crawled and walked through cracks between enemies and allies.
If some clueless fool rushed him, he quietly dragged him in, twisted his neck, and strangled him dead.
Killing without sound was one of his specialties.
As he moved like that,
"Are you saying you'll give up becoming a Squire?"
a memory from the past stabbed his brain like a shard.
His last swordsmanship teacher had said it.
How had he answered back then?
He nodded without a trace of hesitation.
"Yes."
"Will you let that talent rot?"
If someone became a knight order Squire, he handled errands and dirty work for knights and junior knights. That was the beginning.
If his skill was recognized after that, he became a junior knight. If he failed there, he remained an ordinary swordsman or warrior.
After junior knight, if he could circulate Will through his whole body, he became a knight.
What had that stage been called again? Flow, maybe. Something about an unbroken current.
Not important. Knights were few, and every place divided their levels differently.
Anyway, he gave it up even while hearing there was still a road upward.
"Stupid bastard."
His teacher had been angry. He had not been.
There had been no reason to get angry.
He found killing easier than fighting, so he could just do that. It was that simple, and there was no reason to explain.
So he gave up being a Squire and left the order.
He wandered, and when he was active as a mercenary, Count Molsen approached him.
The count called the King of the Frontier.
He had thought it was an arrogant epithet, but the offer was not bad.
"Any thought of working under me?"
He nodded.
"Do you not regret failing to walk the path of a junior knight?" the count asked.
The man smiled and answered,
"I may not become a junior knight, but I can kill one."
That was his answer.
He mastered silent steps and chose sharp blades over Will. One day he saw the elves' exclusive weapon, the Needle Blade, and searched for similar swords.
The blades he found were strapped at his waist, chest, and both forearms.
They resembled stilettos, but were more like pointed awls.
A nameless craftsman who had seen the Carmen Collection made them, to punch through anything, plate, chain, whatever, and open flesh beneath.
Solid Valerian steel blades.
They were also a gift from Count Molsen, and with those weapons and his talent, he quickly earned the nickname Elite-Slayer Blade.
If a small number ruled battlefields, then should there not be a blade meant to kill only that small number?
His goal was to one day punch holes in the necks of those creatures called knights.
He had actually threatened a junior knight's life once by a hair.
He had taken a few fingers as gifts instead of a neck.
"Such a waste of talent."
He even remembered those words from the junior knight who had lost fingers.
Who cared.
Not something a man beaten by him had the right to say.
The memory blurred, and he fixed his eyes on the battlefield before him. His target was clear.
The black-haired bastard.
The one where five moved as one while tearing through the field.
The one at the front, the one who declared his own name, the one who had stood out from the very start.
The bastard named Enkrid.
He looked junior knight level. That made it even more exciting. He could kill someone that good.
Take one, hide, then take them one by one.
Men with both eyes and skill were rare. So his target would never notice him.
Like most junior knight types, he was probably arrogance wrapped in flesh.
To blind the enemy's eyes, he had put on a regular soldier's clothes and helmet and rolled in filth.
His whole body was stained with other people's blood and dust as he dragged his steps closer.
He measured distance from the blond bastard, widened the gap, ignored the axe lunatic raging on the opposite side.
Then he slipped through a razor-thin opening and took Enkrid's side.
Thrill and excitement filled him.
May not become one, but can kill one.
That line drove him.
He gripped the custom assassination dagger, killed his breath, waited for an opening, and thrust. One kick off the ground, distance closed in one burst. A killing blow.
That launch step was something he had learned in his Squire days.
He had approached in silence to point-blank range. The fight was already over.
That was what he thought as he thrust.
Clang!
Blocked?
He saw his dagger tip stopped. He saw the flat of a black-painted dagger.
"What are you?"
It came after a voice mixed with disappointment and regret, or something like that.
Then a dizzying slash came from behind. He reflexively rolled forward.
A dot flashed in front of him. No, not a dot, a sword tip. He ducked.
Dodging twice was already incredible.
The final hit was impossible to evade.
Something like a log swept in low as if scraping the ground.
Thud, crack!
"Gkh!"
It was Audin's low kick. Both legs broke in one strike.
Terrifying, monstrous strength, and technique.
He did not get launched away. He got broken exactly where he stood.
His upper body dropped straight down and his head hit the ground first, then bounced up and left him collapsed on his knees.
An involuntary trick created by a monstrous kick.
Before he could properly recover, a sword dropped above his head. He saw blue eyes.
Thud.
That was the end.
He twisted his head sideways, so the sword cut his shoulder. Dodging the blade kept him from dying instantly, but he collapsed to the floor bleeding in streams.
A life that would end soon.
The man writhed on the ground.
The owner of those blue eyes looked at him once, then turned away.
In the dying man's memory, his last sword teacher appeared again.
"Why are you throwing away your talent?" he had asked.
He should have answered then.
I did not throw it away, I never had it, you suffocating bastard.
If he had been able to climb higher, he would have done it. But everyone around him had been monsters. Nothing but monsters.
It had not taken long to realize the limits of his talent.
That was when his goal changed, from becoming a knight to becoming the one who killed knights.
The man's dream ended.
The Count Molsen blade who had lived as Elite-Slayer Blade, even forgetting his own name, broke there.
Enkrid had no way to know.
Still.
"Is he insane?"
Rem's one line said it all. He came charging into this on purpose?
That was no different from rushing into the middle of five junior-knight-level fighters.
And none of those five were sloppy.
In any moment, any situation, Enkrid chose the best move and swung his sword with full sincerity at everything around him.
Whether it became a sword that killed the opponent or only one step, he gave his best to everything. He had always been that kind of man.
In a way, this side of him might be exactly why people could call him a monster.
Among them was Jaxon too, second to none in slyness.
Jaxon waited for that bastard to commit and burrow straight into the center, then took him.
Easy hunting, maybe.
Calling it hunting felt wrong, though.
Rem thought that to himself as he smashed axe edge against axe edge.
Bang!
"Come on, then!"
No wonder Rem shouted like that.
By now, the soldiers around them had backed off fast. An open space had formed around the group.
A clearing made of corpses, blood, severed arms and legs, and spilled guts.
Standing in that clearing, Enkrid looked around and felt his muscles tremble.
Heart of Superhuman Strength, plus the aftereffects of overfighting.
Was that a problem? No. He felt stiff, but not useless.
He looked around. The sky was clear. It was not weather for rain. The smell of blood was thick, but allied morale, drunk on victory, pushed at his back.
He had come in as if isolated in the middle of enemy lines, yet now he thought he could hear Vengeance's voice from far away.
After taking in all of it, Enkrid's spirit surged again.
"My name is Enkrid."
Just one sentence.
It was only words.
But when those words sank into enemy ears, the reaction was not what it had been before.
At the center of the battlefield, around the clearing Enkrid had made, only a cold silence spread.
"Come any closer and you die," Enkrid said.
= = =
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