WE TRIED TRANSLATIONS

Translator: Hydrogen B

Editor: Abstract

Discord: https://dsc.gg/wetried

A KNIGHT WHO ETERNALLY REGRESSES

Chapter 398: Strike and Thrust

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The lieutenant with the throwing spear finally came back, still hesitating. His opponent did not pursue him. It was as if he was saying, only those ready to die should come.

He simply shook the blood from his sword, returned, and stood where he had been at first.

The horse he had ridden in let out a single neigh beside him.

Its size and gaze were anything but ordinary.

After seeing all that, the lieutenant had done nothing but back away step by step and return to the main force.

Watching that lieutenant, Rierbart brought his sword down and cursed.

"You should have fought to the end and died."

Splurt!

The skull split in half. Rierbart pulled his sword free.

With a wet sound, the blade came out, and a long stream of blood trailed after it.

"Stupid Zalban bastard."

A clear voice at his side insulted the dead man.

It was Banat, the elf warrior. Her blond hair was cut as short as a man's, and her tone carried no emotion at all, only coldness. That was her usual way of speaking. Icy sarcasm that revealed nothing.

"He was the weakest among us. I'll do it."

Banat stepped forward, but Rierbart shook his head and said,

"I'll go."

Did they really think sending a fool like that would raise their momentum? Then he would crush it himself.

Other than Count Molsen, Rierbart held the highest rank here and stood second in command.

He needed no one's permission.

Banat gave a small nod, her face as unreadable as ever. Nothing in her expression gave away what she felt.

Malten could not speak in the first place, and Benukt looked like he did not care either way.

"Just let us fight."

Giant blood flowed in Benukt's veins. And he had no intention of restraining his urge for slaughter.

"If I kill him, charge all at once."

That was how this would go. Rierbart finished speaking and moved his mount. He took the reins and sent the horse forward at a trot.

He dismounted where two corpses lay, after giving dead Zalban a brief glance. Then Rierbart checked his gear.

He tightened his sword belt, took a shortsword, and had a thick single-edged machete hanging behind his waist. It was a magic weapon, no less. He also fixed a plain kite shield to his left arm.

It was not a grip-handle shield, but a gauntlet-fixed one, slightly smaller in size.

Even so, it still looked heavy enough that only someone confident in raw strength would use it.

Every time Rierbart moved, metal clattered. He wore plate armor over a gambeson.

After finishing his preparations, he stepped forward.

Even then, his opponent only stared at him blankly.

Rierbart disliked those eyes and asked,

"Name?"

"Enkrid."

"Rierbart."

It was a name Enkrid had never heard before. Count Molsen's Five Weapons were somewhat known inside the territory, but they did not operate outside it.

Their names were not widely known.

You could say Enkrid was several times more famous than all of them.

"I think I already won."

After reaching that conclusion, Enkrid spoke.

"...We haven't even started."

"I said it because my name seems better known."

What the hell is this bastard?

Of course, Enkrid was not actually insane. It was simple provocation meant to break the other's mindset. He felt he needed it, so he used it.

His stride, the way he readied his gear, the way he stepped out and spoke, every part of it made him look like a fighter too skilled to ignore.

"So this is the Madmen Company."

"Jealous?"

Rierbart was speechless for a moment.

Jealous?

Honestly, was there anyone who truly hated building fame and making their name known?

Even if they were not consumed by ambition.

And Rierbart was a greedy man. He was also experienced.

He realized he had been played by the other's tongue.

"You're the kind of bastard I should chew up."

"I'm tough."

Was he saying he was too tough to chew?

Rierbart was skilled with words himself, so he caught the intent at once. That only made him angrier.

"Fine. I'll kill you."

Rierbart strode in and swung a diagonal slash. To Enkrid, the blade was neither fast nor subtle enough to hide an opening. He saw it, so he moved. Enkrid put power into his first strike.

Momentary Will, he drove Spark in.

Like a bright awl of light, it shot at the forearm holding the sword.

Rierbart stopped mid-swing and pulled in his left arm with the kite shield to block.

Bang!

Spark was stopped. The shield was not pierced. The material was exceptional, and so was the man using it. Enkrid withdrew Spark.

Whoosh.

Rierbart's sword came in. It was a simple thrust. Not a sudden burst of acceleration, and not a flow-breaking blade.

Instead, it was calm and precise. If Enkrid stayed where he was, it would graze his neck, so he bent backward as if falling away from it.

He expected the blade to drop right after that, so he raised Silver and prepared, but the other man pulled back the thrust and reset his stance. He raised his shield again and covered his front.

He would have had the advantage if he had just charged in, though?

Enkrid had already prepared several answers for that, but this man saw it and still did not commit?

Straightening from his backward dodge, Enkrid looked at the other's helmet.

Through the visor, he could see Rierbart's eyes.

A feint?

Was he pretending to be relaxed?

No. He was serious.

You could gather ten men who had reached knighthood, and all ten would have walked different roads.

That was why the knight's path was hard and brutal.

Following someone who came before you could never guarantee the same result.

The same held true for squires.

Each had his own road.

Among them, Rierbart's road was twice as solid as most.

He wore thick plate mail and carried a shield.

He thrust and cut, but if the opening was not perfect, he did not attack.

No gambling.

Even if there were a stone bridge built on steel pillars, he was the kind of man who would go around rather than cross it.

From that unshakable foundation, he even used his tongue as a weapon to complete the shape of his swordsmanship.

After his first taunt, Enkrid grew quiet instead.

The other man's defense was hard.

Spark could not pierce through, Silver could not cut through, and even the Whistle Dagger he threw at an opening was blocked by the helmet.

He was not tough just because he wore armor. He used every piece of that armor skillfully.

That was what made him remarkable.

And all the while, Rierbart kept talking.

"I heard your dream is to become a knight?"

Enkrid retrieved Spark and gripped Silver with both hands.

A crushing sword. He pressed down and tried to dominate with pressure. Rierbart raised his shield and received the descending blade.

Bang-

For a clash, the impact sounded oddly drained.

Silver's edge struck Rierbart's shield. At the moment of contact, Enkrid bore down with force and used the crushing sword. The other man shifted the shield angle. The blade slid off along that angle.

Block, then retreat. He endured without being crushed. His stance and technique were as solid as his armor.

"So, are you satisfied with the path you've walked so far?"

Rierbart's words came through, but Enkrid only moved for his next attack.

If crushing did not work, then he switched to a capturing sword. It became a battle of moves. The problem was that no matter how unusual the move, the other man patched everything with armor and shield.

Both shield and armor gave off a faint glow. Naturally, they were no ordinary items.

They were enchanted magical gear.

Would Severance split them?

If he could not seize the advantage in the exchange of moves, he would load power into a single strike again. If he packed into it the intent to cut through anything?

It would be imitation. Even if he could not truly load that intent, he could replace it with the Heart of Superhuman Strength and bring the blade down.

Enkrid moved as soon as the thought formed.

A slash layered over Ragna's technique as a base.

He added Heavy Sword Style, Rotational Slash. He drove power into the foot pressing against the ground, twisted his waist, and sent force into the sword.

Just as he gathered everything for a full swing, Rierbart, despite wearing armor, moved quickly and rushed in for a body slam.

If Enkrid completed the swing as it was, at best the ricasso might clip a forearm.

Enkrid had to step back. His stance wavered for a moment, but Rierbart did not rush him. He held his shield and reset.

Knees lowered, center of gravity down, eyes locked on his opponent, sword ready to thrust or cut at any moment.

A troublesome enemy.

"If the path you chose is wrong, what will you do?"

Rierbart said.

Enkrid watched him and thought.

His base skill already matched Enkrid's, yet he was fully committed to defense. What did that say about this situation?

Enkrid could almost see his tactic.

"The road to knighthood is harsh. A true thorn path. Like hugging a thorn bush and jumping off a cliff. Even then, if you're wrong even once, you'll never reach that ideal. That means every jump off that cliff with the thorn bush has to be right."

Rierbart kept talking, but his breathing stayed steady.

He was fighting with a long battle in mind.

He nullified the other's attacks with armor and shield. While doing so, he kept talking. He never let his breathing break.

For a man called one of the Weapons, his tactic was all stability.

Even so, it was still threatening.

Rierbart's shield and armor looked like an unbreakable wall of steel.

That was likely the intent.

More than anything, he kept speaking to shake his opponent's mind. Find a weakness, squeeze it, then stab and cut it. With words and with blade.

"Every time you take the wrong path, your talent erodes and you lose the strength to advance. That's why talent alone can't make a knight. So then, with that precious talent and luck of yours, how far do you think you'll get?"

He talked a lot, especially.

That was the basis of the skill he had shown from the start, catching and countering Enkrid's taunt at once. This man used his tongue as a weapon too.

"Knight? It's a wish that only drifts farther away. Grapes in a painting. A star you can see but never touch. Does wanting a star in the sky make it yours? You stepped into an empty dream. Fairy tales do not happen in reality."

He wielded words like spear and sword.

Instead of answering, Enkrid repeated the same attack as before.

He thrust with Spark. The opponent reacted to the momentary acceleration, so he could not pierce the shield.

He blocked the crushing sword too. He was the kind of man who could endure even if a boulder fell on him.

The same with the capturing sword. The opponent did not waver. He refused the exchange of moves and cut it off midway. He shoved his shield in and forcibly blocked the blade's path. Then he kept talking.

"When your feet rot, split, and fester from walking a thorn road barefoot, you lose them. You could simply not walk that road. Why do this?"

Rierbart was relentless. He kept talking even without an answer. Enkrid finally answered that persistence.

"You're loud as hell."

He could answer because none of those words shook him anyway.

"Loud? Look at yourself. If these words sting, then deep down you've already admitted it."

"You're so wise you could slap sages in the face."

Enkrid stepped back two paces, spoke, and reset his stance.

Left foot forward, right foot back. Back to the most basic stance. He raised the sword tip high, as if to pierce the sky.

"If the path you chose is wrong? I told you again and again. If your talent erodes and you lose your way, what will you do then?"

He was excellent at pretending concern.

"I'll do it again."

Rierbart blinked.

Had he not been saying the whole time that you could not do that?

More similar lines went back and forth.

Thorn roads, eroding talent, already too far gone to dream of knighthood.

"I'll just do it again."

People often call a fight between pure offense and pure defense a battle of spear and shield.

If that had described their swords until now, now it described their tongues.

Only their positions had switched.

With swords, Enkrid attacked and Rierbart defended.

With words, Rierbart attacked and Enkrid blocked. Enkrid repeated similar replies with steady calm.

"I said doing it again is enough."

"I'll just do it again."

"Losing my way is daily life."

"I don't need shortcuts."

"Doing it again is enough."

There was something here harder than Rierbart's armor and shield.

A declaration of will so absolute that Refusal rose on its own.

Naturally, Enkrid's "again" did not mean repeating today.

Even without that, he would keep moving forward.

Even before he had that, he had lived today, tomorrow, every day this way.

When he swung his sword until his palms split open, had he ever been certain this road was right?

He had never had that kind of certainty.

He simply repeated, walked, and kept walking every day.

And in that way, there had been a dream touched by dawn, marked with traces.

If there had been three more todays, he would have surpassed the Flow-Breaking Squire too.

The repeated today, repeated all through surpassing Eisia, had also been a door to a new world.

After that, there had been a month of time.

From the sky-piercing stance, Enkrid swung.

Capture and crush.

He mixed the capturing sword with the crushing sword. It was a technique worked by the blade in his right hand.

Flowing Sword Style was hard to apply. The opponent had staked everything on enduring and blocking, not attacking.

So he hammered at him. With everything he had.

His left hand was used to speed, so his left arm alone lashed out with momentary acceleration.

It was a trick of splitting thought and doing both at once.

He loaded his right arm muscles and brought the blade down.

Clang!

Before the ring of steel even faded, Spark thrust in.

Bang!

Spark hit the shoulder armor and failed to reach its mark. Silver, blocked by the shield, also failed to break or split anything.

That was fine.

He could do it again.

Enkrid repeated. If the other man chose long-battle tactics, that meant he trusted his stamina.

The same was true for Enkrid.

He stopped breathing. He invited his opponent into a breathless world, then repeated.

Hit and thrust, hit and thrust, hit and thrust.

Rierbart kept blocking and enduring, blocking and enduring.

Before long, their exchange of blades became a contest of persistence.

Naturally, the words stopped.

At the center of the battlefield, clang! bang! Only steel rang out.

The horn and the drums had fallen silent too, and steel alone spoke for every sound of war.

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