WE TRIED TRANSLATIONS

Translator: Ryuu

Editor: Abstract

Discord: https://dsc.gg/wetried

A KNIGHT WHO ETERNALLY REGRESSES

Chapter 43: Mitch Hurrier

In Azpen, three families were the cornerstone of its governance, with the Hurrier family symbolizing martial prowess. Every child born in the Hurrier family, whether male or female, learned martial arts. They assessed each child's talent, and gathered and taught only those who showed promise.

Talent was capricious, and the whims of the goddess of fortune were unpredictable. To collect this biased talent, the Hurrier family recruited people from both direct and collateral lines.

Mitch Hurrier was one of them. Born into a collateral branch with a different surname, he became a member of the Hurrier family.

From a young age, Mitch Hurrier exhibited extraordinary talent. By the age of fifteen, he could already handle a couple of adult soldiers. The following year, he surpassed the level of ordinary soldiers by leaps and bounds. At eighteen, he proved his skills by defeating a swordsman renowned enough to represent a village in a one-on-one match. At just twenty-two, he could spar with those famous enough to make a name for themselves in a city without falling behind.

There were few who could match his swordsmanship. Especially among his peers. Such an environment gifted him with arrogance.

"Why bother when I can do it a few times and get it?"

Why train until his thighs were swollen? Why swing his sword until his palms were torn?

He didn't want to. He was content with the present. He didn't strive as he did when he first picked up a sword. Yet, solely due to his talent, he became one of the top three skilled warriors in Grey Hounds.

For Mitch, this was a first.

Clang!

He deflected a downward sword strike from below. Momentarily careless, the blade grazed his shoulder. Mitch thrust his sword and kicked at his opponent's shin.

It was a technique he often used against those less skilled than himself. It's not easy to block a kick aimed at your leg when you're focused on the sword.

Even if blocked, it creates an opening. The opponent, familiar with this pattern, dodged the thrust by twisting his shoulder and blocked the kick by raising one foot. His balance remained unshaken. He had solid fundamentals.

‘He wasn't at this level before.’

Mitch recalled the moment he faced the man earlier. The man had suddenly approached and casually spoken.

"Hello, nice to meet you. How about we have a life-or-death duel since we met?"

A familiar face. It was definitely that bastard. An enemy soldier who had executed a night raid.

Despite the fog obstructing the view, how did he get here?

There was no time to ponder. The opponent extended his sword first.

Clang!

As Mitch blocked, he thought. It could be another feint. He ordered the rear to be guarded, planning to handle this guy himself. If the flagpole fell, it would severely disrupt their strategy. That's why he was here.

While the company commander of Grey Hounds was tasked with capturing and driving out the enemy’s retreat, Mitch's role was to defend this spot. The enemy soldier who blocked his kick aimed a downward strike at Mitch's head.

Mitch parried and deflected the opponent's sword, creating a cross shape with his own.

Ting!

As the blades crossed, they brushed past each other at an angle. At the last moment, both applied force, pushing each other away.

A gap of over five steps formed between them. Before attacking again, Mitch spoke.

"Were you hiding your skill?"

"Kind of."

"What's your name?"

"Enkrid."

He was someone Mitch had desperately wanted to meet. Someone he felt he needed to kill to be satisfied. That guy had come in person.

Mitch licked his lips.

"Alright, Enkrid. I'll remember your name."

"No need to. If you forget, I'll remind you."

"You crazy bastard, you're going to die here."

Mitch raised his sword over his left shoulder. After a few clashes, he could gauge his opponent's skill. Now it was time to show his real strength. He believed he could sever Enkrid’s head within five strikes.

And five sword strikes passed. Mitch's brow furrowed. His expression darkened. This was a first. If the opponent's skill was overwhelmingly superior, he could understand, but it wasn't. The opponent barely managed to keep up with him. Yet, it felt as if he knew all of Mitch's habits, blocking, enduring, and countering his strikes. Mitch increased his speed and mixed in feints. Still, it didn’t end.

After a few more exchanges, he saw only the opponent. The sword and the opponent, the blade and himself, himself and the blade.

Mitch Hurrier felt like he did when he first picked up a sword. At that moment, when he first held a sword, the feeling that only he and the sword existed under the sky. It felt like if he swung the sword, it would cut through the opponent. If he thrust, it would pierce. If he pulled back and struck, it would hit.

Mitch did just that.

He struck downward, swung around, extended, thrust, and struck again.

And so did the opponent.

Enkrid reached a state of intense focus. In that state, he exchanged swords with Mitch. Thanks to countless repetitions today, he could see through Mitch's habits. Blocking kicks and parrying swords.

Then, the opponent's sword changed for an instant. It was sharper and more vicious than before. Slashing and curving, cutting and twisting.

Clang! Clang! Clang!

With a fierce clash, sparks flew from the blades. Several strikes grazed his shoulder and side.

Though the wounds weren’t deep, blood sprayed into the air. There were at least three moments where his life was in danger.

In those moments, Enkrid’s concentration deepened. He deliberately pushed himself into a heightened state. Forgetting the surroundings, entering a world where only he and his sword existed.

A single point of focus was fully activated. In his eyes, only Mitch Hurrier’s sword was visible.

In Mitch Hurrier’s eyes, only Enkrid’s sword was visible.

They fought like madmen. Risking each other’s lives. Even to the onlookers, their attacks were terrifying.

Splat.

When they failed to slash each other's necks, both bled from the neck. Maintaining his concentration, Mitch used his ultimate pattern. Stepping back with his left foot and forward with his right, creating an unfamiliar distance.

He lowered his sword behind his hip.

"Inhale."

He took a short breath, tensing his muscles. A sword technique blending precision and flexibility. It resembled techniques that could parry and deflect.

Mitch mastered a technique involving a sudden reversal strike. A wheel cut that drew a large circle from bottom to top. By changing his stance and covering his sword with his body, he concealed the starting point of his attack, making it a nearly unblockable strike.

Adjusting his foot position to alter the distance was solely for this wheel cut. As his opponent prepared for the wheel cut, Enkrid experienced an intense state of immersion. Through that experience, he gained more than just swordsmanship.

‘I see it.’

Though not visible, he could vividly picture his opponent’s movements in his mind. In his single-point focus, his hearing became incredibly sharp.

He could hear the sound of steps, the breath taken as the sword was drawn back. Every sound collected as information, forming a mental image. He had died to the wheel cut more than ten times. Having experienced countless defeats to this very technique, the image in Enkrid’s mind was crystal clear.

It was as if he could see the hidden sword and hear his opponent’s breath. All of this combined, allowing him to read the timing of the wheel cut.

Whoosh.

The sound of the blade slicing through the wind pierced his ears. Soon, the blade soared from bottom to top in an arc. In his heightened state, Enkrid reflexively brought his sword down. Precisely on the trajectory to block the wheel cut.

Clang!

The upward blade and the downward blade met. Both applied such force that a crack formed on Enkrid’s sword with a loud snap. At the moment the swords collided, Mitch was surprised that his strike was blocked, breaking his concentration halfway.

But Enkrid was different.

With a partially cracked sword, Enkrid’s blade slid along Mitch’s sword.

Screeeech!

The friction between the blades produced a peculiar noise. Mitch instinctively raised his sword. Normally, it would have been lifted, but Enkrid pressed down with force. Naturally, it was advantageous to push down from above rather than lifting from below.

Moreover, with daily training, Enkrid’s strength was superior. In a contest of strength, Mitch stood no chance. Enkrid pressed down on the blade, then extended his left foot forward, adding more force and pushing the sword downwards.

Screech!

Mitch’s sword was knocked down. Enkrid, in that moment, extended his left foot and twisted his waist, thrusting his sword forward. The tip of the blade plunged into Mitch’s chest.

Though Mitch wore armor, the force behind the sword was immense. His chest was pierced.

However, it didn’t penetrate completely. Enkrid pulled his sword back.

Slick, the blood-stained blade withdrew.

“Huff, huff.”

Enkrid retrieved his sword, catching his breath. He had given his all in a brief moment. His limbs trembled.

Blood gushed from Mitch’s chest. He staggered back a few steps like a drunken man, then steadied himself. Mitch’s pupils seemed to dilate, but soon he widened his eyes and gathered strength.

"I should have aimed for a counter."

Mitch spoke. Blood still flowed from his chest. It wasn't a small amount. The running blood quickly soaked his clothes.

"If I had deflected and created an opening, the fight would have favored me. Don't you agree?"

"Isn't victory decided by the outcome?"

Enkrid responded with a question.

"You’re not wrong, but it's frustrating. Maybe I shouldn't have skipped training. In the end, I lost purely due to strength."

Mitch's gaze grew hazy. Even if left alone, he would die. The bleeding was increasing. Enkrid took a step forward, raising his sword.

"Stop!"

Just as he was about to thrust his sword, someone shouted and rushed at him. With a heavy sound, Enkrid instinctively angled his sword to partially shield his upper body.

Clang!

A heavy impact hit his sword. Enkrid took two steps back and looked at his new opponent. It was a man with a mustache. He stood protectively in front of Mitch.

"Protect Mitch!"

The man shouted. Enkrid looked around. Several soldiers appeared and formed a protective barrier around Mitch.

Then they sprinkled a powdered medicine on Mitch's chest. The bleeding from his chest quickly stopped.

"You bastard. Do you know where you are?"

The mustached man glared at him. He seemed incredibly angry. His eyes flicked over Mitch.

Was this guy important?

Enkrid steadied his breath, observing his opponent. His shoulders heaved, indicating heavy breathing.

But his stance had no openings.

The mustached man had just checked the flagpole and returned. He had thought Mitch would win. Enkrid's skills didn’t seem that exceptional. But the result was the opposite.

Despite having defeated Mitch, Enkrid did not let it excite him. There was still work to be done. This was a battlefield, and they were still in the midst of battle.

Romantic one-on-one duels or spars were not the purpose here. Enkrid was clear about what he had to do.

"Isn't it said that the bigger the medium for magic, the more fragile it becomes? Is that true?"

Seeing Mitch being carried away by two soldiers, Enkrid spoke. The mustached man squinted his eyes.

"You know quite a bit."

A lot.

Enkrid planted his foot firmly and kicked upward. With a burst, dirt and short grass flew up, covering the mustached man's face. The man quickly raised his hand to block and shouted.

"Stop him! Don't let him near the flagpole!"

Enkrid sprinted as soon as he saw the man’s vision obstructed.

Swish!

A bolt flew from behind. Enkrid twisted his body to the left, but one bolt struck his right shoulder from behind.

'This much is manageable.'

Enkrid sprinted straight towards the flagpole. An enemy soldier blocked his way, holding a spear. Charging like a rhinoceros, Enkrid slammed his foot into the ground five steps before, veering to the right. The bolt intended for Enkrid struck the soldier holding the spear.

"Agh! My eye!"

The unlucky soldier was hit in the eye. More than three soldiers were struck in their arms or torsos.

"Stop shooting! Stop shooting!"

A commander among the crossbowmen shouted. Enkrid, maintaining a semi-focused state, combined his heightened awareness with the sense of his blade. He listened to the sounds, creating a mental map of the enemy’s positions and actions. He reversed direction, diving into the midst of the crossbowmen, sword in hand.

"Huh!"

A startled soldier received a downward slash to his head, splitting his skull. The momentum of the slash lifted the sword back up. Enkrid swung his sword in a circle around himself.

Whoosh!

The frightened soldiers stepped back.

"Gray Hounds! Pursue them!"

The mustached man ordered. Enkrid, having charged into the crossbowmen, now dashed to the other side.

Thrust!

He pierced the throat of a soldier while moving. Picking up a fallen bolt, he threw it sideways.

Thud! The bolt hit the soldier’s armor and fell to the ground.

The soldier, who had drawn a short sword instead of a crossbow, rushed at him, only to be struck in the forehead by a throwing knife that followed the bolt. The soldier had let his guard down after blocking the bolt.

“Huff!”

Exhaling sharply, Enkrid moved through the enemy lines as if it were his own home. He had two objectives. One was to destroy the flagpole. The other was to pray that the allied commander would stop making foolish decisions and secure the rear.

"You bastard!"

The mustached man was furious. His anger seemed to have reached its peak. Enkrid darted around and finally reached the vicinity of the flagpole. He threw all the throwing knives in his hand.

Swish, swish, swish!

Five throwing knives flew towards the fluttering flag. The flag was thick and not easily torn. Seeing Enkrid throw the knives, the enemy soldiers were startled.

“Damn it!”

More soldiers cursed.

"Block him! Stop him!"

A figure presumed to be a sorcerer under the flagpole shouted. As everyone’s attention was on the knives piercing the flag, Enkrid rolled on the ground. Even though there was no immediate threat like arrows or bolts, his sudden forward roll didn’t draw much attention.

His pause allowed the mustached man to close the distance.

Got you, bastard.

The mustached man thought, certain of his victory. Enkrid was in the midst of picking up a fallen spear.

"Stop him!"

"No!"

Both the mustached man and the sorcerer shouted. Enkrid responded with action. He stomped his left foot and used his entire body’s momentum to throw the spear.

Bang! The spear flew towards the flag.

Rip!

The flag tore, creating a hole. If a magic medium was damaged, it would be rendered useless. There was no need to topple the flagpole.

Simply tearing the flag would suffice. There was no need to reach the front. Seeing the mist dissipate around him, Enkrid let out a sigh of relief. It was a sigh of relief.

“You crazy bastard, do you think you’ll get out of here alive?”

The mustached man’s eyes blazed with anger. Enkrid raised his sword, aligning it with the center of his body, and nodded.

“Maybe?”

The odds were fifty-fifty. Half a chance to live, half a chance to die. For most, those were terrible odds.

But not for Enkrid. If he failed, he could just try again.

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