WE TRIED TRANSLATIONS

Translator: Hydrogen B

Editor: Abstract

Discord: https://dsc.gg/wetried

A KNIGHT WHO ETERNALLY REGRESSES

Chapter 501: A Stimulant

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Esther swept her black hair back with one hand.

The strands rose and fell back down like a curtain of ebony.

Between the parting curtain, a pretty pair of lips, full on both sides and tinged pink, opened and a word slipped out.

"A gift?"

He had not quite called it that, but Enkrid nodded loosely.

His manner was ordinary, yet Esther's eyes caught the light in a way they usually did not. Like a star fallen from the sky.

There was something else too, something like a lift in her mood, though he could not say why.

Was she in good spirits?

People were like that sometimes, for no reason at all.

The way some mornings you woke up feeling unusually fresh and clear.

Enkrid had the things he brought spread out of his pack and across the floor.

Killing the Apostle had left him with quite a haul.

Sacred Objects among them, but other relics too.

He knew by instinct that they were magical items.

A few of the drawstring pouches he had not even opened.

"Poison, or something close to it."

That was what Hira had told him. He had been ready to leave it all in the western lands, but he had been told a sorcerer would be glad to have them, so he had brought them along.

Some were intact, others were shattered.

A cracked pearl necklace, a ring split in half, a handkerchief embroidered with a weeping woman, Magic Beast fangs.

A few of the pieces were genuinely rare.

Esther saw that at a glance.

The Apostle Enkrid had faced in the west had not put up much of a fight, but had he been properly prepared, he would have been a sorcerer who could have slapped Count Molsen across the face.

The gap between a prepared sorcerer and an unprepared one was simply that wide.

On top of that, Enkrid had charged in without warning and backed the man into a corner.

Sorcerers tended to read fast-shifting situations worse than swordsmen.

Either way, these were the things that Apostle had carried.

He had been a lunatic and a necromancer who had devoted his entire life to converting healthy land into Cursed Ground.

Calling someone mad, or mad-seeming, was sometimes another way of saying you were looking at a genius you could not understand.

His specialty was fiddling with corpses, but he was as gifted as he was unhinged, and the insane project he had set his heart on had been right on the edge of completion.

Then, by bad luck or someone else's good fortune, he ran into Enkrid and Rem.

Esther opened one of the pouches with her slender white fingers and began placing the items Enkrid had spread on the floor inside it, one by one.

"Not bad."

Her eyes were already measuring the value of the relics.

Sorcerers were people who threw themselves into research and inquiry. No one who walked that road would dislike items that could advance their spells and studies.

Still, where had he gone and what had he done to come back with things this rare?

From a talisman, cracked but capable of warding off curses and most other negative forces, to amulets charged with sorcerous power in the western style.

It looked very much as though someone had cut a sorcerer's throat and stripped the body.

Well. That was probably exactly what had happened.

"Knowing how to fight a sorcerer came in useful."

Hearing Enkrid say it flatly confirmed it.

"I see."

Esther finished collecting the items and returned to her seat.

She looked idle, but she was not. She was busy in a way that would prevent her from doing anything else for some time.

While Enkrid had been away, she had discovered that part of a curse she once received had permanently eroded her World of Spells.

When you sewed a torn doll back together with thread and needle, the seam always showed. The erosion was that seam.

A sorcerer's World of Spells had to be flawless at all times. But what happened when the caster herself felt that the world she had built was wrong?

It was like playing chess with the knight and bishop removed.

As time passed, the eroded section would not get better. It would get worse.

Esther had two paths in front of her, and she had to choose.

The first was to somehow repair the eroded world.

It would take a long time, but it was not impossible.

Using the chess example again, it would be like a swordsman fighting with a limb missing.

And if she accidentally drew on the eroded part?

She would destroy herself. Best case, she died cleanly. Worst case, she became something that could neither die nor live.

So what was she supposed to do?

The first path was to manage her spells carefully and live within those limits. It was the easier road.

The second was harder.

Rebuild the World of Spells from scratch.

Not sewing the torn doll back together, but taking it apart and making a different doll entirely.

An ordinary sorcerer would not even dare think of it, but Esther could see the way.

And for that, she needed various relics, things imbued with another sorcerer's original spells. The very things Enkrid had just brought back in abundance.

"Enki."

Esther called to him from her seat.

Enkrid turned, and the dark-haired beauty finished her thought.

"Welcome back."

The items he had brought were impressive, remarkable even, but the feeling that rose in her first was simply that he had come home.

Seeing him made one of the two paths stand out clearly, the way a god of magic might send down a teaching.

Esther herself had not understood it until now, but watching Enkrid come back, she thought she did.

She had been waiting for him.

Spend your time moving forward, even just one step, rather than sitting still and deliberating.

Was walking the harder, steeper road a problem?

That man always said so, through his actions, through his life, through everything else. He was still saying it now.

If you believe the path is right, what does it matter that it is difficult?

A faint smile crossed Esther's face. Enkrid noticed it and tilted his head slightly.

Were the things he brought really that valuable?

He had heard a sorcerer would be pleased, but were they actually that rare?

The smile faded quickly. She closed her eyes. She had set out on a new road, toward rebuilding her world.

It was not something Enkrid or anyone else could know.

The night deepened. Sinar had gone home with her gift, and Esther sat with her eyes closed.

Enkrid found a spot and lay down. Beside him, Rem dropped onto the bed with wet hair and spoke.

"Looks like those bastards ran off."

"...Go to sleep."

Rem rumbled twice more and was out. Enkrid closed his eyes. Sleep came quickly. Deep and dreamless.

* * *

"Your greatest strength is probably your adaptability."

Ruagarne said it early in the morning while Enkrid was working through the Isolation Technique.

The rain had stopped and the temperature had dropped noticeably. The morning air was fresher and crisper than it had been in a long time.

A good morning for training.

Not that he was the type to skip training because of heat.

Which meant this was not training done out of relief at being home. Not comfort driving him back to familiar ground.

Sleeps well anywhere, eats well anywhere, keeps moving anywhere.

That was one of the things Ruagarne had observed about Enkrid.

It had been true on the way to the west, true while they were there, and true here in the city once called Thousand Bricks, now renamed Ohara.

Enkrid gave a short nod and went back to what he was doing.

He was doing deep squats with his legs spread wide, lowering down and coming back up.

Balanced across his shoulders was a stone rod that Audin had made himself. Rod was probably the wrong word, it was too thick to wrap one hand around. Pillar suited it better.

Watching him, Ruagarne named his strengths as adaptability and stubborn persistence.

Either way, just watching was enjoyable.

She had seen and taught a great many people, and none of it had been this entertaining.

Ruagarne knew very well how useless so-called talented people could be.

She had seen plenty who swung a blade a few times, decided swordsmanship was easy, and spent the rest of their time drinking.

She wanted to show those types Enkrid.

Look.

Even if the sky split in two tomorrow, he would move the same way.

That constant attitude, that state of mind, didn't it stand out?

Stone pillar across his shoulders, sweat dripping off him, and his eyes showed no sign of being eaten away by pain.

You did not need to be told. You could feel it.

He always craved more. Always wanted it.

Ruagarne brought up tactics. She wanted to teach him how to fight properly, beyond what his body alone could do.

Tactics were the art of fighting.

There were times when instinct had to carry you, but otherwise it was obvious that the person who had thought things through and prepared would have the advantage.

"Before a fight starts, it helps to know exactly what you want. Why do you think that is?"

She threw the question out.

"So that instead of charging in blindly, you can calculate toward an objective."

Fast answer. He had been thinking and puzzling over things on his own, that was why. What an excellent habit.

"Half right. The other half is so you do not get drunk on the blade."

There was a saying about getting drunk on the sword. Someone who enjoyed killing was nothing more than a murderer.

But talented fighters became murderers with surprising regularity.

Stab like this and the person just collapses and dies. What if you cut the throat instead? Next time, try cutting the legs.

As skill grew, so did a certain kind of fascination.

To Ruagarne's eye, Enkrid now looked more like he was approaching that moment than he ever had before.

The time when real skill arrived was different for everyone.

That was why she saw this as Enkrid's peak period, and why she had said what she said, inwardly knowing he would not fall into it.

"Understood."

Enkrid answered without argument.

He had a dream and a purpose. Those would keep him from it.

She knew. He knew. And still he nodded.

Because he understood why she had said it.

Lovely man.

No wonder everyone ended up this way around him.

Ruagarne thought she finally understood how the barracks had come to have the atmosphere it did.

Every person there gave their time to training without hesitation and moved toward challenge without holding back.

No barracks did that. No order of knights did either.

Some competed, clawed at each other, tore each other down, and fell apart.

Some trusted their talent alone and died on the battlefield.

But not here.

Some of the soldiers knew how Enkrid had reached where he was now.

Even those who did not knew that a man with outstanding skill and the rank of general was the one who met every morning earlier than anyone else.

A new recruit had seen that just the previous day.

His name was Marco, though neither Ruagarne nor Enkrid knew it yet.

He had finished the last watch shift in front of the general's barracks and was about to leave when he sensed movement inside and looked in.

Marco's pupils shook.

He only got back yesterday.

Was this not the kind of training that piled up fatigue rather than clearing it? Wasn't it inefficient?

True. But for some people, this was the best way.

And for Enkrid, the routine had become so deeply embedded that resting was what hurt him. He needed to move to shed fatigue.

That was one of the effects the Isolation Technique produced.

So Marco stood there, staring without realizing it.

"Brother, you need to sit lower."

He had been standing there gazing at the general when a voice from behind made him spin around with a start.

Standing there was a giant whose face you would not see unless you craned your neck all the way back.

Not a Giant. A person. But how had someone that large come so close without him noticing?

Audin walked past the soldier with a smile, and the general with the stone pillar across his shoulders greeted him.

"Audin."

"Have you made progress with the striking method?"

"Hit me and find out."

He set the pillar down as he said it. There was warmth in the gesture.

Behind Audin came Teresa, true giant-blood. She slipped past Marco without a word.

Neither of them said anything to him.

Marco looked back at Enkrid.

Bang.

His eyes went wide again.

The one called Audin had just driven a fist into the general's side. That was how it looked. No signal beforehand, no preamble.

He just hit him.

What was happening? Why?

"Ohh."

Hit him without warning, then made a sound of admiration.

"How was that?"

And the one who got hit was smiling.

Were they all out of their minds?

Or did you have to be a little out of your mind to fight like that?

Hadn't the training instructor Ropord said yesterday that if you worked hard enough you could end up like this?

Give me a break.

Marco had realized his talent amounted to nothing.

And it did not stop there. No talent, so was that the end? Just quit and go back to hitting people weaker than himself, the way he used to?

He did not want that. And because he did not, Marco pushed one step further. A courage he had not known was in him came surging up.

"Why did you hit him?"

Marco asked.

No one had told him to leave, and no one had stopped him from watching.

That was as good as silent permission.

Even if it had not been, he would have asked.

Marco was desperate. He needed to know. Why take the hit? Why throw it? Why smile? Just because they were both crazy?

"That is training."

Marco startled badly enough that he nearly jumped on the spot.

Where had this one come from?

A man with dark reddish-brown hair had appeared right beside him, unusually handsome in a way you rarely saw, his face putting Marco in mind of a cold, hard shard of ice.

He did not look at Marco at all and walked on.

"Something has changed."

His name was Jaxon.

"Whenever you want to test that."

The general stretched his hand out to one side, and Frog placed a sword in it.

A live blade, edge honed sharp. Whether it was a sword called Aker, bestowed by the royal family, Marco had no idea, but that it was a fine sword he could see at a glance.

For a wandering swordsman, a good weapon was as good as skill. You developed an eye for blades.

The moment the general raised the sword and took his stance,

The dark reddish-brown-haired man vanished. Just like that.

Marco blinked.

What?

He had been watching and the man was gone. Like smoke, in an instant.

And then.

Pak.

A grey-haired beast kicked through the spot where the man had been standing. More precisely, Marco had not seen all of it clearly, he had caught the extended leg, the dented earth, the clods of dirt flying up, and his mind had assembled the picture from those pieces.

The beast was grinning from ear to ear when it opened its mouth.

The voice was thick with elation.

"You're here! Wildcat!"

"Did you not leave that one behind?"

The dark reddish-brown-haired man had appeared beside the general again, from nowhere.

He held a short blade in each hand.

Axe and two short blades.

The beast and the ghost looked at each other.

Grey hair: a grin.

Dark reddish-brown hair: nothing.

A quiet exchange of looks, but Marco felt like he was standing at the center of a storm.

"That's enough."

Enkrid said it, and the two used it as a signal and crossed.

Clang, zing.

An exchange of attacks and defenses that Marco's eyes could not follow had taken place.

Their positions had swapped.

"One more move like that and you'll get skinned alive."

Rem, the grey-haired one, said it with a grin. He was now standing where Jaxon had been a moment before.

Jaxon was staring at the blade of his short sword. Half of it was gone. The edge had shattered in a single exchange.

The weapons were one thing, but the level of skill had shifted to a different plane entirely.

The broken half of the blade was buried in the ground.

"Did a few hits knock something loose in you?"

The dark reddish-brown hair asked.

"Yeah, damn right. Took a few and woke up."

The grey hair answered with a wider grin than before.

After the clash of metal came the clash of words.

The two exchanged a few more lines digging at each other, and Enkrid stepped in at the right moment.

"My turn."

It was a strange thing to say when breaking up a fight, but.

Marco saw a great deal that day and came away with something.

The place I was living in was a well.

If he had to climb out of it, what would he have to do.

He would have to roll up his sleeves and get moving.

Ruagarne watched Marco turn and walk away.

She could not read all of what was going through his head, but from his stride and the set of his shoulders, she could tell he had made a decision.

One more, just like that.

It was magic Enkrid worked without meaning to. You could not stand still around him. You felt like you had to move. And like that, he pushed people past their own limits.

What did it take to push past a limit?

You had to train with everything you had, with complete sincerity.

And for that, the one thing you needed most was a stimulus.

Enkrid was a stimulus for everyone around him. Whether he knew it himself was another question.

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