WE TRIED TRANSLATIONS

Translator: Hydrogen B

Editor: Abstract

Discord: https://dsc.gg/wetried

A KNIGHT WHO ETERNALLY REGRESSES

Chapter 621: A Gift

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Audin had abandoned even the unit drills he had been piling up and finally cramming through, and become a spectator instead.

Word went around that, thanks to this, the divine unit under his command had broken into a chorus of praise, saying the Lord had looked after them.

The god in question was probably not Sinar, but when you were getting pounded by Audin, a god's name could shift a little in the moment, couldn't it?

For Enkrid, it was the kind of story that went in one ear and out the other.

He had no attention to spare for any of that. He was too busy chewing over, tearing into, tasting, and savoring everything Sinar showed him.

The elf's native sword art prodded his inspiration without rest.

For a genius it might only be a glimpse down another road of swordsmanship, but not for Enkrid.

Inspiration stirred, elation surged, and with it a rush of exhilaration filled his whole body. The feeling that only came in moments of growth and forward movement burned through his soul like iron heated all day in a forge. There was simply no way not to enjoy it.

"Be careful."

Sinar returned again with that warning and shook out her blade. The leaf sword had changed once more. The blade split suddenly into five overlapping leaves, the flat widening like a misshapen fan.

Watching the leaf sword stretch out like that, he could feel the energy churning inside it.

'Is it magical?'

Naidhl was a Magic Sword to begin with, called a companion weapon of the elves.

Knights used Inscribed Weapons, and those who reached a certain level through Sorcery used what were called Inherited Weapons.

From what Ruagarne had told him, Frog's kind used something called a bonded weapon.

Beastfolk and Giants used Inscribed Weapons in a similar way, though the method of crafting them was a bit different, or so he had heard.

Elves were no different.

The companion weapon changed shape in answer to her will. The energy flowing through it drove the transformation.

The altered blade looked ill-suited for fighting, but the swordsmanship she showed through it was anything but ordinary.

The horizontal slashing strikes were fast and came in at angles that were hard to block, and the blows she delivered with the flat of the blade felt like Teresa slamming a shield at full force.

Even if Teresa was only at the junior knight level, she was mixed giant blood. A full-force shield strike from her was not something you could ignore.

And yet Sinar was hitting with the flat of a blade, moving at a speed that seemed to shed wind resistance like water.

Cutting and striking at exactly the same speed.

That seemed to be the point. It was a swordsmanship that rode the wind and played in it.

If the spring rain had stirred up the wind, and the summer shower had poured down in endless curtains, this one flew on the wind itself.

Was that why it was called falling leaves?

Because it shook and drifted like autumn leaves carried on the wind?

Slashes and strikes fell and flew without warning or pattern. Where spring had been green and summer blue, today she poured out a red energy.

Redder than a sunset, but not the sharp red of blood. Something in between.

Either way, he endured and lost himself in the pleasure the swordsmanship gave him, and by the time he surfaced the sparring was over.

Beads of sweat had gathered on Sinar's brow.

In the middle of winter, an elf working up a sweat said everything about how much she had poured into this session.

Enkrid, still deep in the enjoyment Sinar had given him, asked, "Is tomorrow winter?"

Sinar answered with a thin smile. "It will be interesting."

On the fourth day, what Sinar showed him was winter swordsmanship, exactly as the name implied. It was called Spark.

Her Naidhl grew thin and fine as the Spark Enkrid carried. The swordsmanship she showed after that suited the name perfectly.

The blade had been putting out white light. Now it flew like a flash, here and gone in an instant, like a spark.

Thrust after thrust, nothing but thrusting, a slashing attack that threw defense aside entirely in favor of speed.

Where the summer shower had worn you down with sheer volume and forced you to keep defending, this one felt like any hit you failed to stop would punch a hole somewhere in your body. Every single strike was lethal. It was a sword style that bet everything on offense over defense.

And precisely because every strike was lethal, there were gaps in the defense as well.

The Spark that would burn away even itself if it hit nothing. The name fit the sword art exactly.

In the elf tongue, Naidhl meant the spring sword, and Needle Blade meant the winter sword.

Looking deeper into the language, the long vowel sound stretched out in the elven word meant sword, but elves wove stress, short sounds, and long sounds together in their language, so even the closest human approximation did not carry all the meanings at once.

For a human like Enkrid, knowing this much was more than enough.

A flying ember was fast and sharp and, if you lost it for even a moment, too small to see.

Even inside the zone of concentration, all he could track was the tip.

Enkrid concentrated and blocked and deflected and dodged, and at some point Sinar's voice reached him.

"Go beyond Spark, and it becomes a meteor."

Her thrusts were that fierce, though she had not come at him with true intent, so Enkrid managed to block them.

Sinar's blade was genuinely sharp and precise.

A blade she twisted past his guard carved deep into his cheek, and blood ran freely down Enkrid's face.

"That was dangerous," Audin said. Seiki, who had somehow ended up watching, stepped forward and scattered light over Enkrid's cheek.

"It'll heal quickly."

"No need to fuss."

"I thought there'd be a lot of angry people if that face got ruined."

Seiki said something unnecessary. For all the light she was pouring out, the cut on his cheek was not healing in an instant. She had said using divine power was still clumsy for her, and it showed. A lot of the light was going to waste.

"Are you enjoying yourself?"

Sinar looked at Enkrid with an indifferent gaze and asked. Enkrid nodded, a faint smile on his face.

The cut on his cheek aside, receiving the elf's four seasons sword art had set his inspiration spinning wildly.

A new sword. A new swordsmanship. It stirred something in him. And not some half-formed technique either, but the art a whole race of elves had built across generations.

"Then that is enough."

Sinar answered and smiled. The corners of her indifferent eyes curved into a quiet smile. There was satisfaction in her face, something close to it.

That night, just before bed, Sinar called Enkrid out.

"What is it?"

"Walk with me a moment."

Enkrid did as she said.

"Off on a midnight date, are you?"

Rem tossed that out from behind. Enkrid did not answer and went out. Rem was not really expecting one.

It was a joke thrown by reflex at something he happened to see. This kind of thing had come up before, here and there. Sinar had a habit of seeking Enkrid out, and lately it had mostly been her asking him to hold her because she was cold.

Walking outside, clouds had gathered thick enough that the stars were hard to see. The moonlight was dim and wan.

Would it snow tomorrow?

The air had sharpened to a deep cold that made mid-winter feel real.

Long, thin plumes of breath rose from the mouths of the human and the elf. The two walked quietly, as if simply enjoying a stroll.

The night air carried dampness on the wind. Not a bad night for walking.

The occasional call of a winter bird drifted in, and they were passing a patch of grass still stubbornly alive despite the cold when Sinar stopped.

"Tough things," she said, looking at the grass. She turned around. The surroundings were dark, but both of them knew exactly where the other's eyes were.

Keen senses made that possible.

Her eyes, which should have been blue and green in daylight, shed a faint light in the darkness.

Meeting his gaze, Sinar opened her mouth. Her tone was flat.

"Do you truly have no interest in marrying me?"

It was unexpected. She had not made jokes in a while, and this was what she had called him out to say.

"Were we ever intimate?"

"So it was uncomfortable for you."

"Seems uncomfortable, doesn't it?"

"Then was it enjoyable?"

Enkrid remembered the moment he had first heard an elf-style joke.

'Right before I met Leona, if I remember correctly.'

You would think he would have forgotten it by now, but it was a day that stuck strangely in the memory.

He had been so flustered then. He had wanted to kick Jaxon for smirking at him from the side.

"No, I have no such interest."

Enkrid scratched his cheek and answered. It was not a particularly uncomfortable question. Just the usual teasing joke.

"Is that so."

Sinar turned away without a trace of amusement. This was the Sinar who had shown him swordsmanship like a mad elf for four straight days.

"It was fun, though."

She murmured it as she turned.

The warmth in those words was clearly different from the first time he had heard them.

"It was fun, though."

She had said something like that the first time she teased him too, but compared to then, the words she spoke now as she turned away carried no emotion he could read at all.

If there had been any lingering feeling in those words, Enkrid would have asked. Why do you say that?

But there was not, so he let her go.

The elf walked back with the same stride, the same pace, the same speed as always.

Three days later, Sinar was gone.

Enkrid thought nothing of it at first, but Sinar did not come back even after three days had passed.

"She left a letter?"

Krais had handed it to him during a rest after morning training.

"Where did you find it?"

"She had been gone without a word for three days, so I looked in her room."

"Ah. Right."

Strictly speaking, Sinar's affiliation was the Madman Knights. So no one could really take her to task for leaving, but Krais had probably just peeked in because the room was sitting empty. Krais would have sent a partner to do it rather than go personally.

Enkrid worked out the situation roughly and looked at the letter.

Sinar seemed to have anticipated that someone would read it after she left. On the outside, written in flowing script, was a message.

To Enkrid. Any other fool who reads this will turn into a sprouting potato.

That's a curse.

Looking at the elven insult, Enkrid tore the letter open. He peeled away the wax seal by hand and took out the paper inside.

She had not used especially fine paper. The contents were brief.

I will be waiting for you to come and propose.

Enkrid let out a short, involuntary laugh.

Joking until the very last moment of leaving.

What an impossible elf to beat.

"What does it say?"

Krais asked. Enkrid turned the letter around and showed it.

"Should I be impressed? But why did she disappear without a word?"

"She must have something to do."

She was with the Madman Knights now, but Sinar had never been a creature of the kingdom to begin with.

He also remembered something Crang had said once.

Some kind of obligation, wasn't it?

Enkrid did not particularly worry about Sinar. It was her judgment and her choice, and he leaned toward respecting that.

It would have been the same with anyone. The same way he had tried to make peace with it in his heart when Dunbakel had said she was going east.

That was all.

And then there was time that could be called ordinary.

"Time to train."

Morning hours, he worked with Audin, tightening and pulling and wringing out his muscles.

"Keep your head on straight. Today's going to be nastier."

He sparred with Rem.

"Everyone run."

He devoted himself to the unit's training. The one difference from before was that his time in meditation had grown longer.

'The precise sword. The heavy sword. The deceptive sword. The swift sword. The fluid sword.'

The genius called Leonessis Oniac had divided swordsmanship into five kinds.

'Then are these five the whole of swordsmanship?'

No, they were not.

Even if he could go back in time and ask Leonessis himself, the answer would be the same.

'The five are the foundation.'

Derivations were a separate matter.

Everything he had learned and studied and turned over in his mind, together with the elf's four seasons sword art he had recently taken in, was all there inside him.

Sinar had deliberately stripped away the surrounding elements and focused on the pure craft of swordsmanship itself.

'It was a sword meant to show me.'

The four seasons, four sword styles each representing a season, were all different in form. They could not be defined only through the framework of the Five Sword Styles.

Foundation, derivation, experience.

This was the moment those things came together. Enkrid felt something burst open inside his head.

It was the moment the inspiration Sinar had gifted him ripened, became fruit, and fell.

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