WE TRIED TRANSLATIONS

Translator: Hydrogen B

Editor: Abstract

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A KNIGHT WHO ETERNALLY REGRESSES

Chapter 648: Because It's Imperfect, It Can Be Completed

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A junior knight names their Will and trains around it for the same reason.

Once past that stage, a knight can be called intermediate. The intermediate develops refined technique and individuality.

Liervart never had it. Jamal, knight of Azpen, did.

Both had been impressive opponents, the kind he would never forget no matter how many times he relived that day.

Drawn from the library of experience, the difference between them was clear. A distinct individuality, visible at a glance.

Their fighting styles were similar. Both relied primarily on a war of attrition, but Jamal had Plunder as his individuality.

The condition for the intermediate.

Individuality. A visible, unmistakable difference in technique.

Experience built the foundation of knowledge. That foundation became theory, and theory became a system.

Enkrid was in the process of building that system.

The advanced does not cling to technique.

Rem, Ragna, Jaxon, Audin. They gave their techniques names, yet none of them were bound by those names.

They formalized things to teach him, too.

The Giant-Splitting Rem had taught was like that. Audin, Ragna, Jaxon, all of them.

And through the act of formalizing, each of them had pushed one step further. He knew because he had watched from beside them.

That was why an established theory or system was necessary.

A path walked on instinct alone could not be fully trusted. Sometimes you had to look back at the road behind you before you could move forward.

No, even when you had walked forward without your conviction ever wavering, simply looking back at the road you had traveled was useful in itself.

Even Ragna, the genius, had only pushed further after looking back at where he had been.

A sword style needed meaning, a method of expression, and a method of training.

Along those same lines, Enkrid had been sketching a training method for becoming a knight.

He had been lucky, in many ways. He said it again now.

Strip away even a few of the experiences from the life he had lived, and he would never have arrived here.

Then again, life itself was a flower that bloomed between the miracles called chance.

Just as imagining paths not taken and regretting them was pointless, there was no reason to find comfort in the road already walked.

What mattered was that the attitude he used to hold onto life did not change.

Enkrid had not changed, before becoming a knight and now. It could be said that he had arrived at the present precisely because of that.

Regardless, in this place at this moment, nothing was interfering with him, and that alone made him fortunate.

He sank deeper into himself.

The framework Enkrid had built could well be called the framework of a knight.

Of course, this alone could not fully divide a knight's combat power. Or rather, it could not determine victory or defeat.

Life-and-death fights were shaped by too many factors.

Even he had caught Jamal with a dirty trick.

By the standard I just set, I was close to beginner level back then.

Even once the system was complete, it would not be everything.

Jamal at that time had been a mature intermediate.

The difference in outcome had come from the difference in Will each of them possessed.

The size of Will.

It was not only individuality. The particular qualities of Will, divine power, and Sorcery would also influence combat.

But not all of that could be crammed into the system.

Sorting what was possible from what was not, that was something he had done without hesitation the moment he became a knight, even with the rush of omnipotence surging through him.

Now was the same.

Enkrid distinguished, divided, established, and built a system.

Whatever it turns out to be, it cannot be perfect.

But it could be completed. Completing it and moving forward was what mattered more.

Because he aimed for an imperfect tomorrow rather than a perfect today, he could complete it.

So that was what he did.

The distinction between beginner, intermediate, and advanced.

For now, framed in terms of how one handles Will.

Differences in combat power would require weighing physical conditioning, elemental compatibility, and everything else besides.

So victory or defeat in a fight was left aside.

But to fix the method of training and tempering, this kind of form was necessary.

What was established became theory. Theory became a system.

Enkrid opened his eyes. A week had passed with nothing but the elf spring, aside from the bare minimum of training. The last two days he had not left the spring at all.

"I thought you'd drowned."

A voice greeted him as his eyes opened. Ruagarne said it with her cheeks half puffed out, though the puff was not quite large enough to suggest genuine displeasure.

Enkrid blinked a few times. Droplets of moisture that had gathered at the corners of his eyes fell like sweat, and a few more traced the lines of his face as they ran down.

His skin felt several times smoother than before.

"At least there aren't hordes of elves waiting around like last time."

Enkrid said it, sensing that a fair amount of time had passed on his end as well. He had not blacked out. He had simply sunk into himself and entered a state of deep focus. He had been dimly aware of time passing.

"That is a hasty judgment," Fell said.

He was there too, standing at a slight angle.

Enkrid was still riding the elation of having opened a new world inside himself. In that same mood, he tossed out a joke.

"Squire, give me a report on what's happened."

"Who are you calling a squire?"

Fell bristled, but he did not deny it very forcefully. Maybe somewhere inside he actually accepted it.

He might even be willing to do the job, provided Ropord was not made squire instead of him.

Enkrid stood and dried himself off. His whole body was wrinkled, fingers swollen from the water until they looked like Frog's. Two straight days submerged would do that.

"Seems you were envying the shape of my fingers," Ruagarne said.

Enkrid smiled faintly, finished drying off, and dressed. He was not sure when it had been set out, but the clothes waiting for him were not his usual ones, they were elven garments.

A shirt and trousers woven from green thread. Underclothes had been included as well, and off to one side his gear and armor were laid out in a neat row.

Enkrid put on just the clothes. He had expected something rough against the skin, but they wrapped around him softly, giving a warm, settled feeling, like draping sun-soaked leaves around his body.

He was not particularly thirsty. Not especially hungry either.

"A few elves had been drifting in and out, but today there are a lot more of them," Ruagarne said.

Enkrid stepped out of the spring and walked along the path the elves were so proud of, the same path that would surely become the Labyrinth's corridors in Ragna's eyes.

Beyond it, true to Ruagarne's words, several hundred elves had gathered as if waiting for something.

Why? A rough read of the mood suggested they had assembled out of concern for Enkrid, who had not emerged from the elf spring for two days.

That seemed like a lot of fuss over something like that.

If anything, they seemed more eager and animated than when they had gone to deal with the Labyrinth, that Cursed Ground of theirs.

Not that elven enthusiasm was ever easy to read on the surface.

"There he is."

A Dryad with enchanting green eyes said it, covering her mouth with a leaf.

Some of the more timid Dryads had a habit of covering their faces when they spoke.

These were the kind who avoided even interaction with other elves, so they would not come out for anything less than necessity. This one had come simply to check that Enkrid was all right.

An elf who left home at most five times a year had waited two days at this spot just to see him.

"Shouldn't a healer examine you?"

"I could do it."

"Am I not sufficient?"

"He came out of the spring on his own. Nothing was wrong with him physically."

Elves did not make a scene. They kept their emotions restrained, their manner rational and measured.

It was not especially loud even now, though it did resemble something close to a market. Everyone had simply gathered in loose clusters.

Among them, an elf with short hair stepped forward and approached.

Ermen was nowhere to be seen, and neither was Sinar, yet no one moved to stop this elf, which meant it was either arranged in advance or this elf carried the authority.

"If you are feeling well, would you be able to come with me?"

This elf was the only one who actually had business to discuss. The rest had come purely out of worry.

Enkrid was beginning to feel it in his own skin.

"If you chipped a single fingernail, there would be hundreds of elves ready to swarm in and file it for you."

That was Ruagarne's way of putting it, a little exaggerated, but not wrong.

Enkrid, the elves' savior.

The meaning behind those words was plain.

He had become an idol that the entire elf clan watched.

"This is too much," Enkrid murmured.

Receiving goodwill, having his actions recognized, hearing cheers, none of that was bad.

But too much was too much. The moment he opened his mouth, every single elf went silent in unison and fixed on him with eyes like glass beads. Hundreds of them.

In one instant, sound vanished and only gazes remained. At this intensity, it might rival the gaze attack of Argos, the demon god said to reside in the Cursed Ground and be the progenitor of the Evil Eye.

Argos was counted among the demon gods born from the Cursed Ground: a massive creature with a hundred eyes set across its entire body.

"Where to?"

Enkrid asked, turning away from all those stares. The elf standing before him was tall, with short hair carrying a reddish tint and eyes touched by a soft orange. Both hands were covered in scars.

There was a different scent about this one.

Not grass and flowers. Ash and fire, the same smell that clung to Aetri.

A single glance was enough for Enkrid to form a guess at what this elf did.

Building the Wave-Blocking Sword and, just moments ago, establishing the stages of knighthood had sharpened his insight far beyond what it used to be.

"I've heard there is a clan of elves who work with fire."

"Yes, we are the family that forges Naidhl and the weapons of the elves. We met briefly once before. I am Lafratio."

The head of a family takes the family name. Same as Ermen.

The elf standing before Enkrid was, put simply, the finest blacksmith among all the elves.

"Elves forge companion weapons. And those weapons can produce effects equivalent to Inscribed Weapons."

Elves spoke only truth. There was no reason to lie, no reason to speak around things.

"I would like to forge a weapon for Sir Demon Slayer."

In plain terms, it meant making him an Inscribed Weapon. Rather than delight or gratitude, Enkrid rubbed his chin with mild discomfort.

"I'm sorry to say..."

He spoke plainly, because there was nothing to hide.

",someone has already promised to make one for me."

Outside of very particular circumstances, an Inscribed Weapon could not be made into two blades. The reason it was called an Inscribed Weapon in the first place was that it was forged with one's own Will carved into it.

"Then please at least allow me to offer a gift."

Lafratio said it without the slightest sign of being put off. Enkrid nodded.

No reason to refuse a gift. He had already received plenty, but still.

Something given by an elven blacksmith was a different matter.

Weapons, armor, Enkrid had a particular appetite in that direction.

He never denied the saying that a good weapon was as good as skill itself.

It sounded like something mercenaries would say, but the core of it did not change.

A knight holding a good sword.

That knight fights one with bare hands. Who has the advantage?

If there was an advantage to be had, he would take it by any means.

Enkrid had not changed. Whatever understanding he gained, his nature stayed the same. The attitude he used to hold onto life did not waver.

And so they moved past the gathered elves and headed toward the workshop.

Clang.

It was the area of fire and iron that Sinar had once been so absorbed in.

Even within the elf city, this was a corner of it, and if anything needed to be added, this district was on the opposite end from the Woodguard territory, which kept its distance from flame.

Elves pounding iron worked away at their tasks around large furnaces, each absorbed in their own work.

In an open clearing, hewn by some unknown craft from the hollowed-out interior of a tree stump, black furnaces and bellows came into view.

Elves did not smelt their weapons from moonlight or leaves.

Working iron meant fire. That was an unchanging truth, an absolute given. All of them were sweating as they shaped what they sought to make.

Aetri came to mind, almost on its own. The one who would forge his Inscribed Weapon was surely waiting for him.

Would breaking the silver-steel sword disappoint him?

It would not. That sword had been given to be broken in the first place. He could tell without Aetri needing to say so.

And that sword had also been what let him slip out of a terrifying moment.

When they met again, he wanted to tell Aetri that "Luck" had truly brought luck.

So there was no chance Enkrid would have an Inscribed Weapon made here.

"This is Penna."

But then.

"Hmm."

Enkrid clicked his tongue. His developed insight helped him read weapons too. He could tell without even holding it.

Lafratio had brought it as a gift. It was a sword worthy of being called a masterwork, on par with an Inscribed Weapon.

He almost doubted whether even Aetri could produce something better.

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