WE TRIED TRANSLATIONS

Translator: Hydrogen B

Editor: Abstract

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A KNIGHT WHO ETERNALLY REGRESSES

Chapter 631: How Fantastic

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Elves trained themselves from childhood to suppress their emotions. That made it hard to find any heat in them.

Thinking back, Enkrid remembered that even when he became a knight, even when Sinar's arm had been blown off, her expression had stayed composed.

'Too calm to chalk it up to age alone.'

That was the elves' particular kind of restraint.

And one thing she had said back then refused to leave him.

"Go on ahead."

That was what she had told him.

Either way, these elves were the same. Rather than proving themselves through passion, they proved themselves through action.

What did it mean, that elf knights were walking into a place where they would die?

'Mass suicide?'

A word that did not suit the elf race at all.

They could not always be called rational and logical in how they processed and solved problems, but they tried to be, as much as they could. And yet the situation had backed them into a corner.

They knew they would die, and still they chose to fight.

Every last one of them.

'That is how hard they have been pushed.'

That was how Enkrid saw it.

Even if he had never come, they would have been planning to enter the cave. This was always going to be the beginning, and they had intended to fight until everyone was dead.

Sinar had agreed to become the demon's bride to stop exactly that. It was a tragedy the Cursed Ground had brought upon them, and it was still ongoing.

A fight to honor those already lost.

Something like a requiem played out in advance for those yet to fall.

Because walking in while knowing you would die was what it was.

But if every last one of them died without a single soul to sing them a requiem, would their resolve carry any meaning?

Probably not.

The words of those without power rarely became real.

It was not common for the powerless to raise their voices, just as it was rare to find someone who made their convictions heard through action. But even when they did, changing reality was a truly grueling thing.

Was this not an age measured by swords and blood, by iron and the battlefield?

A memory carried down from the past turned into an Evil Spirit and whispered.

"And you were going to protect them?"

The words of a wife who could no longer remember her husband's face.

There were many old wounds inside Enkrid. He could not call them scars.

They were still bleeding, so they had no right to be called scars yet.

"So what did you actually protect?"

The Evil Spirit whispered again.

Did anything change when the powerless raised their voices? It had not changed.

Without talent, he could not fall back on force.

Which was why there were so many things he had failed to protect.

Why there were so many things he had let slip away.

Why regret and sorrow still clung to him.

Even so, he had no intention of retreating. Blood flowing did not mean he could not walk.

And if he could not walk? He would crawl.

He would become a knight.

He would protect those who stood behind him.

That was why he wanted to become a knight.

Looking at these elves now made the past rise up fresh in his memory.

"Not bad."

Enkrid muttered it to himself.

He was not going to water a tree with a peace bought by laying all responsibility on a single elf named Sinar. That was how you would say it in the elven way. Though since nobody here seemed to make elven-style jokes, maybe that habit belonged to Sinar alone. Or maybe this just was not the time for jokes.

"If you're thinking of going in with us, I'll thank you in advance."

The wood giant Bran walked over and said it. His root-made feet dragged along the ground as he came, stirring up little clouds of dust. He still had tobacco in his mouth.

"Doesn't the smell bother you?"

He asked in a familiar tone. Yes, genuinely familiar, even for a Woodguard, someone who did not show feelings easily.

"I can manage. Were you planning to go in today originally?"

Enkrid checked his sword belt, confirmed the position of his blades, and gave his other gear a quick once-over as he asked.

Whether you were a soldier or a knight, keeping your equipment in order was basic.

"No, not exactly. But we would have gone in before the month was out."

Bran said.

"Then why now?"

"A trigger. A human like you showing up, that might be a god's way of saying now is the time."

It did not seem like Enkrid had simply arrived on the day of an attack. The elves appeared to have taken his arrival itself as some kind of signal.

And it was not only the elves who had taken him as one.

Ermen had just said she would end the grace period the demon had granted them, and Bran had walked over and exchanged a few words, when a sharp, sour stench poured out from inside the cave, different from anything before, followed by a deep rolling growl.

From the darkness of the cave, a head emerged, its shadow darker than the dark around it. It left its body inside and extended only its head outward, so that a brown mane seemed to float suspended in the air.

"All units, combat ready."

Ermen said it, and Bran along with several Woodguards stepped forward to block the entrance.

The Woodguards at the front appeared to be taking on the role of shields with their large frames and dense bodies. That was from a human point of view, anyway.

The floating head alone only lasted a moment. A Demon Creature crawled out from the cave, two pitch-black eyes cutting through the dark.

It came out on four legs, a beast in form. Its head resembled a lion's, and a snake's head hung at the end of its tail.

The tail swept through the air once and cracked against the ground.

Hiss, crash!

Dust billowed up where it struck.

A Manticore. Not an ordinary specimen, either.

'Unusual variant.'

That was the conclusion from the domain of his sixth sense, observing the creature. He judged by instinct, then looked again with his eyes to find the reason behind it.

'Poison on the tips of the claws.'

The claw tips were black. More than black, something viscous clung to them, leaving faint marks on the ground with each step.

'Scorch marks around the mouth.'

No whiskers. The skin around its mouth was dry, and its lips looked like thick hide.

'Could breathe fire.'

No. Would breathe fire.

Ruagarne had said all fights began with observation. He had heard something similar when he used to wander in search of sword techniques. Jaxon, too, had said that nothing was more important than seeing clearly before you fought.

He was still reading the Manticore's condition when one of the elves opened the engagement first.

He had thought the wood giants stepping forward was meant to act as shields, but several elves planted their feet on the giants' backs and climbed up.

The giants bent their legs slightly to give them a foothold.

Everyone moved with extraordinary swiftness. Eight elves, standing on the giants' shoulders, heads, and backs, drew their bowstrings in unison.

Creak, creak, creak.

Arm muscles swelled as they pulled, fingertips turning pale. Eight archers took aim. All of it happened within a breath and a half.

The wood giants lowered themselves, the elves climbed, they aimed.

No one gave an order to loose, and yet the eight elves released almost simultaneously.

Someone had mentioned that even young elves helped make arrows because hands were short.

There was no reason to doubt the quality of arrows made by young elves. They were sturdy, with properly set fletching.

At the same moment the strings snapped.

Fwiiing.

Eight arrows flew as one. It was similar to when they had entered the forest.

Enkrid's mind naturally accelerated, watching the arrows in flight.

Two aimed for the eyes. Two more targeted the body, specifically the shoulder joints of the front legs. The remaining four were aimed at the tail.

He could not help but admire it. The marksmanship was anything but ordinary.

The Manticore's response, by contrast, was simple.

Thwump.

It closed both eyes, flicked its tail, and twisted its body once.

That was all it needed. Its hide was too thick for arrows to pierce.

"I call upon the spirit of wind."

One of the eight committed to it and borrowed the power of a spirit. From what Esther had told him in passing, that too was a form of spellcasting.

It meant borrowing the power of a spirit from another plane, and elves were said to be particularly gifted at that sort of thing.

Currents of air formed around that archer's body. Her green clothes fluttered with a rustling sound.

"Obs, Wigor, Inhavito."

Below her, one of the dryads stretched out a hand and murmured the words. He did not know their meaning, but he had a sense of what she was trying to do.

Green light gathered at her fingertips and touched the arrowhead. The tip soaked up the glow.

The archer who had borrowed the wind's power drew her bowstring again, and this time she barely needed to strain her muscles at all. She pulled back lightly.

Then loosed before there was even time to exhale.

Foom.

It came with the sound of air splitting. An arrow moving far beyond ordinary speed aimed straight for the Manticore's forehead.

By Enkrid's reckoning, it was moving too fast to dodge.

The arrow would strike the Manticore's forehead. A fixed future. That arrow had the force to pierce even that hide, borrowing the wind spirit had made it so. And at its tip, vital energy, the lifeforce of the forest, was condensed.

There was reason for expectation to flicker behind the elves' eyes. No chance to confirm it, but hope must have been there.

Or maybe their restraint meant none of it showed.

Either way, the hope was there inside them. And it went unfulfilled.

The arrow stopped a finger's breadth from the Manticore's forehead.

"Telekinesis."

Ermen murmured it. Surprising enough to warrant a reaction, yet her voice stayed flat even now. She was, privately, a little surprised, but elf restraint kept it from her face.

The Manticore snorted, and crimson fire flared in that breath, burning the arrow shaft.

The burning arrow fell to the ground with a crackle.

Embers scattered with little popping sounds, and the smell of char mixed into the already foul air.

Eight sword-bearing elves stepped forward.

"Shame we couldn't see it at least once before dying."

"Agreed."

Two of them said it as they moved.

He did not know what they wanted to see.

Among those eight was the elf who had spoken to Enkrid about glory, the one who stood a head taller than the others.

That elf used a Naidhl with a wider blade than the rest.

The Naidhl's base form was said to be the Sword of Spring, but each elf's Naidhl was slightly different in shape. Among them were some that were not Naidhl at all, long blades with an edge on one side only.

Grrrk.

The Manticore paid them little mind. There was arrogance in it, the ease of something strong.

Telekinesis, fire breath, poisoned claws.

As a guardian protecting a demon, it was more than adequate.

This one Manticore alone might be enough to wipe out every elf gathered here.

Of course, they were not fools, and they had prepared as best they could.

The arrow empowered by a wind spirit, the spell channeling vital energy, those were part of it.

"At least three will die."

The words came from Frog, who had the ability to read talent and assess situations while factoring in environmental conditions.

"Should I handle it?"

Fell asked.

"No."

Enkrid answered and took one step forward. Truth was, the Manticore had been watching him for a while. Even when blocking the arrows, even when the eight elf swordsmen stepped up, part of its attention had been angled his way.

Instinct, detecting a threat.

Enkrid walked slowly. Without noticing it, his stride had come to resemble an elf's. Quiet, and with emotion held back.

Shhk.

He drew the silver-steel sword as he walked. The blade caught sunlight in that foul-smelling space and reflected it back, trailing a faint golden glow.

"Move aside. Beast."

He said it as he approached.

He walked between the eight elves. No one stopped him. Whether it was straw or a dry twig, if it was a chance, they had to take it. They had no reason to refuse an outstretched hand.

Why had Sinar not told him?

He could guess.

'She intended not to transfer the demon's curse to him.'

And she had judged that what lay inside that cave was beyond what he could handle.

Was that a lack of faith? Or a conclusion reached through cold logic?

'Or maybe.'

Maybe it was genuine concern.

Enkrid might be able to kill a demon. But he might also fail.

The outcome was unknown. If things became unmanageable, the demon would kill everyone. At minimum, it could deal Enkrid a fatal wound. She might have decided that all of this could become an obstacle standing between him and the dream he was chasing.

"I can handle it on my own," said Sinar's phantom. But this was only a phantom. He had no idea how the real Sinar would answer.

So.

"I have someone to meet inside. Step aside."

He could just ask her when he found her.

Will threaded through Enkrid's voice. A Manticore, naturally, could not speak. It could not understand a word he said.

And yet it was pushed back by the momentum he carried, and took one step to the side. The Manticore realized almost immediately what it had done and opened its mouth wide.

I'm not afraid! That seemed to be what it was trying to say.

Khrrgh.

A roar rang out. The roar of a Demon Creature carried fear with it.

But right now it sounded more like a scream wrung from something that could no longer hold itself together.

The mouth did not only produce what might have been a roar or might have been a shriek. Fire rose from it, and a ball of flame came hurtling forward.

Compared to Walking Fire, it was almost quaint.

The silver-steel sword's golden light split the fireball.

Thwack!

The divided flame sputtered and died.

Fire driven back by Will could burn nothing.

Telekinesis gripped his limbs. The Will of Refusal activated on its own. The remaining force he shook off with raw strength.

Then the poison-tipped claws came swinging.

The savagery behind that swing was real, but set against the Four Seasons swordsmanship Sinar had shown him in sparring, it was only the thrashing of an animal.

A human sword, faster and stronger, drew a line from the Manticore's head to its tail.

Even at the last, the snake at the end of the tail thrashed and snapped, but the arc Enkrid had drawn kept going straight through the snake's head as well.

Where the elves had shown the feat of hitting small targets with arrows, Enkrid could do the same with a sword.

Yes, once it would have been out of the question. Now it was not.

So that was what he did.

Shrrk.

The Manticore split open, black blood pooling like a small lake, its organs scattered carelessly across the ground.

"Fantastic."

Ermen said, watching it happen. Still dry, still flat, but with something like wonder barely visible beneath the surface, the way elves spoke.

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