WE TRIED TRANSLATIONS

Translator: Hydrogen B

Editor: Abstract

Discord: https://dsc.gg/wetried

A KNIGHT WHO ETERNALLY REGRESSES

Chapter 232: I Felt Like I Could Die from Joy.

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Just because you chose a path and decided to walk it did not mean you had to keep your eyes fixed straight ahead.

Had the great merchant Rengadis not said it himself?

"Keep your eyes wide open, watch the ground, and watch your surroundings. You never know where someone might have dropped a Krona."

He was probably not the kind of man to stoop for every little coin. People called him a great merchant, after all.

Still, the point of his words was clear.

If you found a pouch of gold on the road, you picked it up.

If you knew you would be sleeping rough on a journey, it was smart to gather dry branches along the way.

If one stone could kill two birds, then that was how you threw it.

Enkrid did exactly that.

'Will.'

Setting that as his goal did not make him dull or stupid.

He did not become a racehorse that only ran forward.

In this repeating day, what could he do before the Shepherd came at dusk?

Sparring, fighting, and thinking.

He narrowed his work to those three.

He learned the basics of Flowing Sword Style from Ragna and trained alone over and over.

After that, he learned more Valaf-style Grappling from Audin.

Their reactions were almost identical.

"Have you learned this somewhere before? Or have you been secretly swinging a sword on your own behind my back?"

"When did you train your martial arts this much? Brother, you really do make me proud."

Enkrid gave each of them a vague nod.

He had trained while trapped in this day, but he had still trained alone, so it was not a lie.

In truth, he did not hear words like that often. He put more weight on training than sparring.

Thinking alone, working things out alone, swinging his sword, moving his body.

When his mind stopped turning, he drenched himself in sweat and pushed his body to the edge with the Isolation Technique.

"Brother, are you trying to make me say you should not overdo it?"

Had he really pushed himself that hard for Audin to worry? Enkrid answered flatly.

"When I move my body, my head works better."

"That is true. The brain needs blood flow to think."

Jaxon muttered from the side.

It was only a guess, but judging by Jaxon's former line of work, or maybe if he still did it on the side, he likely knew the human body better than anyone here.

"Yeah, that is exactly it."

Enkrid had learned it through his own body. If his head did not work, he moved.

If moving still did not solve it, he sat down and thought.

By the time this repeating day had passed around a hundred and eighty times, Enkrid had engraved the basics of Flowing Sword Style into his body, honed Valaf-style Grappling further through Audin, and learned more from Jaxon about handling all five senses.

If he had to spend the time anyway, he might as well sort through what he had and sharpen it.

And that was not all.

On top of swordsmanship, martial arts, and sensory training,

what he learned from comrades and subordinates grew sharper, keener, and bolder.

His senses became more acute, his concentration sharper, and his judgment more daring.

Even so.

Pik!

He still could not avoid being grazed by the blade.

The sword brushed the back of his hand and whipped back. It came snaking in, rooted in Quick Sword Style and Illusionary Sword Style.

'Once it is drawn, blocking it is hard.'

If he were skilled enough to dodge and block everything without a single graze while overwhelming his opponent, then maybe he could win untouched.

For that to happen,

'I would have to become a knight right now.'

The opponent before him was better than that bastard called Swallow Blade.

What if it were a mixed-blood giant?

'It would probably come down to who lands the fatal blow first.'

What did it mean to gauge an opponent's level?

It meant that if Enkrid had truly tried to kill him, he could have done it many times already.

Through nearly two hundred repeats of this day, he had not wasted even one. That was why it was possible.

But winning without even being grazed was still hard. It felt like a separate problem.

Was it impossible unless he became a true knight?

If not, then he had to spend the whole night on defense.

He had already tried that too.

Midnight passed, and the same day began again.

'Enough defense.'

Spending all day dodging and blocking through Sense of Evasion was meaningless.

Then what should he do?

From then on, there was only real combat.

Enkrid fought, then fought again.

If there was a conscious span of resistance after being cut, then he made full use of the time before that as well.

He spent that time finding a way past this wall after defense and evasion, learning through his opponent, and internalizing what he had learned on his own. He was neither bored nor impatient.

There was no reason to be.

His mind was absorbed in learning something new every day.

Even if resisting the thing dwelling in the sword was meaningless, he ignored that.

He chased the joy in it. Naturally, that made Enkrid realize many things in many ways.

'All this time.'

Had he learned too many scattered things?

As he fitted each one into himself, even Enkrid could feel he was becoming sturdier than before.

Still, he had no time to get lost in that.

Even with this repeating day, each day was busy. There was always something to do.

Thinking, working things out, moving his body.

If someone saw him, they would call him exactly what he was, completely insane.

"What is it? What keeps you moving like this?"

Even the Boatman asked him that.

Even though this day repeated, why could he not let even one day pass idly?

It was not that he could not. He chose not to.

Enkrid enjoyed this.

More than flailing in darkness, chasing a faded dream and unable to see even an inch ahead.

Even with the road blocked, even with a wall in his way, there was light beyond it now, and that gave him a fiercer ecstasy than ever before.

Even if suffering and pain followed.

Enkrid felt the joy of growth again.

He had never thought he was stagnant, but a chance to move forward was always joy, always ecstasy.

That joy kept him moving.

After another wound opened on his wrist.

The moment a cut appeared on the back of Enkrid's hand, the Shepherd frowned.

It was the face of someone in a situation he absolutely did not want.

Enkrid brushed the back of his hand with his other hand.

When he wiped away the bead of blood, more seeped from a wound about two finger joints long.

By now, he was used to the scream, like a banshee clutching his earlobe and shrieking, like a ghoul shoving its head into his gut and howling.

That did not mean it was painless, but he could keep it from showing on his face.

That was why his tone stayed calm.

"Does that sword have a name?"

"...Huh? Are you okay?"

The Shepherd looked startled instead. This was far from the first time, so Enkrid cleanly ignored the reaction.

"The sword's name."

He only repeated his question. The Shepherd worked his lips, then answered.

"It is called Idol Slayer."

It was the kind of sword that would have a name. Of course, it was one he had never heard.

He still had no idea how that sword's power worked, or how the thing inside it killed.

He had asked related questions too, but it was hard to get an answer.

For that man, this was their first meeting today, so even if Enkrid asked, he could not answer properly.

'It would not have helped even if I heard it.'

'Will' was something that could not be explained, taught, or passed on.

Among those ideas, what they called Baptism was almost a kind of superstition.

Baptism did not always make someone realize 'Will.'

"If a talented person is pushed to the edge of death, would they realize it? If they were cut by a blade forged from willpower, would they understand that feeling?"

Baptism was a method handed down from that question.

So listening was pointless. Whatever that sword was, it was certain that if you had 'Will,' you would not die.

That sword was something forged from 'Will.' So he stopped asking and kept at it. He decided he would realize it by going through it.

"Th, then can you forge it? Do you know how to block it?"

The Shepherd asked, and Enkrid shook his head. As his survival time against that sword grew, this question always came.

Then today repeated again.

After that, Enkrid pulled a few tricks.

For example.

Instead of spending all day blocking and dodging, he did things like stopping the opponent from drawing the sword in the first place.

Thuk! Tak, tuk.

He struck up under the chin with the heel of his palm. As the Shepherd dodged, he turned that rising hand sideways and whipped a hand blade at the back of the neck.

The Shepherd tucked his chin and blocked that too. He had talent in martial arts.

As Enkrid traded hand techniques, he stepped on the opponent's foot before the man realized it.

The instant his foot was pinned, the Shepherd's hand twisted.

He had talent in martial arts, but it was not his specialty.

He was a swordsman.

When the Shepherd reached for the sword grip, Enkrid grabbed the same grip with him.

It was the result of closing into range, even inside a dagger's effective strike zone.

'Valaf-style Grappling, Pommel Press.'

One of the secret techniques that prevented the opponent from drawing the sword at all.

It was a technique he had just learned and drilled until it settled into his body.

"...I lost."

The Shepherd's competitive streak surged and he tried to draw anyway, but even that failed.

He knew drawing his sword was dangerous, and still attempted it.

Then Enkrid cut it off at the source. It was enough to admit defeat.

"No, let's go again."

But Enkrid stepped back and said that instead.

Only after retreating to sword distance.

Chring.

Enkrid drew his own sword.

"It is sharp and keen. Be careful."

Hearing him say his weapon was no ordinary blade, the Shepherd bit his lip hard for a moment, then drew his sword as well.

Ting!

He drew in one motion and aimed forward.

"Even a graze kills. Assume it is coated in deadly poison."

Two moons wove two shadows together. At that strange angle, the Shepherd's shadow looked larger than Enkrid's.

'How kind of you. Telling me not to get grazed at all.'

Enkrid had heard this same kindness from this opponent again and again. He nodded.

It was the signal to come, so the Shepherd settled into stance.

A more cautious stance than before.

He had no choice.

This opponent had bound his sword with fists and feet.

Then sword and sword bared their fangs at each other.

Kang!

Steel met steel, and sparks flew.

He had watched many things, how this man used his sword, his foot habits, all of it, yet every time Enkrid crossed blades with him, it felt new.

'He improves while fighting.'

Talent. Something Enkrid did not have.

Knowing that did not make him jealous.

He was simply glad to see the opponent change.

In this repeating day, every day brought a new opponent.

And for that reason, winning without being grazed by that sword was impossible.

Enduring all night and winning were different things.

He had no intention of taking a stab on purpose, but he also had no intention of spending a day doing nothing but endure.

This time was the same.

Pik.

A light wound, and the scream began.

Soon his heart stopped and his mind burned white.

It felt like someone was jabbing his skull with a red-hot poker.

Extreme pain. Horrific pain. And Enkrid died.

He died. Died. Then died again.

He died more than three hundred times.

Death after death, then more death.

Every time, he used Valaf-style Grappling to stop the sword from being drawn at all.

As he kept doing it, his skill naturally rose.

Of course, all of that was only secondary.

'Still not catching it.'

In pitch-black darkness where nothing was visible, Enkrid became a wanderer who had lost his way.

He could see light far away, but he could not grasp it, and he could not get closer.

Did that change anything?

No. A missing path changed nothing, so Enkrid kept walking in silence. He crawled. He struggled. Yet because he could still move forward, that alone made him a pilgrim, a wanderer who could keep walking.

"Stupid bastard."

The Boatman's words.

Whenever he popped up, this was all he said.

Stupid bastard.

Dull bastard.

Ignorant bastard.

Did he never think about how it might hurt the one hearing it?

Of course, Enkrid was not hurt at all.

So he walked through another dull autumn day.

He picked up a fallen leaf from the road.

Then one day, while he walked and walked with that leaf against his chest, light brushed his hand.

'Die.'

A voice reached him through the screams.

Enkrid reacted to that word on instinct. No, this was the word he had always cried out against, with full sincerity.

He looked calm on the outside, but he had been writhing and thrashing the whole time.

That struggle had always been one thing, and it always ended in one wish and one yearning.

'No.'

No. He did not want to die. He would not die. No matter what that blade tried to do, he would not die.

That was the will in his words.

He died this time too. But it was a different death from before.

The pain was the same, though.

"Eh? But you said you did not have it?"

For a while, a very long while, he endured.

How should he describe it?

Humans do not have tails. If one suddenly appeared, it would obviously be hard to use.

Then to use it, you would need practice.

On that road where only black darkness had settled, at the moment he understood what he had to do.

In one sense, it was the domain of sensation. In another, it was something intentional.

What was 'willpower'?

What was 'Will'?

'As I want it.'

When the Shepherd's sword cut him, if what that sword declared was death, if what that sword imposed was death,

then Enkrid had only one thing to do.

On the four hundred eighty-fifth repeat of this day.

Even after overwhelming the opponent with sword and fist, when he still failed to stop a slash grazing his shoulder.

Enkrid felt a will telling him to die.

It was a one-sided assault, a pressure dwelling in that sword.

A formless force that squeezed his heart and burned his mind.

Because he felt it clearly, he could reject it.

When he could not feel it, he had to die without knowing anything. But now he felt it.

If you saw a hand coming at you, you knocked it away to show your intent.

In the same way, he could show his own will.

"No."

He spoke out loud and showed his will.

Something he had not known before realizing it.

Something he could never have predicted before willpower, before Will, turned into that formless force.

"Ah."

The Shepherd opened his mouth in shock.

From the wound on his shoulder, Enkrid knocked away the 'will of death' that was entering.

He had merely been cut and muttered to himself. No formless pressure burst with a thunderclap. No light poured down. No magical phenomenon appeared.

Even so.

Anyone who had touched the power called 'Will' would have felt it, because he had peeled away that formless coercion and intent.

The Shepherd knew it, and Enkrid knew it too.

Now the Shepherd's sword could no longer be fatal to Enkrid. It could no longer harm him that way.

Aside from the physical edge of the blade, the 'willpower' in that sword could no longer kill Enkrid.

Enkrid recognized what he had just knocked away.

It was someone's entire life, someone's existence, someone's bitter longing.

Which meant someone had planted 'Will' into that sword.

And he had just shattered it.

"...Did you just realize it now?"

The Shepherd was quick.

"Yeah."

Enkrid did not deny it. Honestly, he even felt a small urge to say it had not happened now, but across more than four hundred repeats of this same day.

Of course, he could not say that.

"I lost."

The Shepherd let his arm fall. The sword tip in his hand touched the ground.

His expression was empty. It almost looked relieved.

Enkrid knew this day had ended.

Two moons still shone on the two of them.

Among the long shadows, Enkrid's now looked larger. The moons had shifted, and the shadows shifted with them.

Enkrid murmured inwardly.

'So this is Will.'

This was not all of it. Only a tiny part.

All he could do was 'Refusal.'

Even so.

"I am going crazy."

He felt like he could die from joy.

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