WE TRIED TRANSLATIONS

Translator: Hydrogen B

Editor: Abstract

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A KNIGHT WHO ETERNALLY REGRESSES

Chapter 664: You're Back, You Mad Fairy

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"A gift, you said?"

Rem muttered.

He said it because she had drawn Naidhl and was carrying herself like she was about to charge. As if in answer, Sinar spoke.

"If it's a gift for a madman, then obviously it's a spar, isn't it?"

Ah. Fair enough.

Her words had a cadence that could pass for a song if set to music. Her voice was that clear and lovely, like a raindrop falling into a still lake.

After the lodgings got wrecked that one time, they had been moved a little ways from the training ground. Breaking things and fixing them again was fine, but Krais would never stand by and watch Krona get wasted so obviously.

Light fell like seeping water over the training ground, tucked into one corner of the barracks when viewed from above, set a short distance from the main lodgings.

"Don't take her lightly or you'll regret it, Sister."

Audin said.

It was late afternoon on a warm, sunny day. Wildflower pollen drifted from the far side of the training ground, and a mild breeze carried the mingled scent of grass and blossoms.

The kind of season where you could doze off just lying still, and a short walk was enough to lift your spirits.

The two standing in the training ground right now were both in high spirits. Enkrid was excited about the word gift, and Sinar was excited just to be back.

Standing at the center of the training ground, Sinar made it clear to everyone that she had changed significantly. The first sign was a smile. Her lips moved, and a faint smile settled there.

A smile like that alone was enough to inspire a personal guard willing to die for her.

The fortunate thing was that at least no one here was the type to volunteer for that duty on the strength of a smile alone.

"She's smiling?"

"Smiling?"

Rem and Ragna stared and said it in turn.

"You've learned how to smile, Sister."

Audin smiled back at her.

"That's a good look on you."

Teresa said, genuinely surprised.

"Huh?"

Ropord felt his head swim for a moment, then collected himself.

"Is she possessed by an Evil Spirit?"

Fell muttered, refusing the spell that was clouding his mind. Even without magical power, a smile like that might as well have been magic.

The continent had no shortage of examples.

The most famous was the story of Pelor the painter and Zelor the alchemist. The two brothers had fallen for the same village girl at the same time, and her beauty was said to be of the kind that any king who laid eyes on her would have made her his queen on the spot.

The painter and the alchemist both knew it.

Then a prince saw her, and then the king, and then the most powerful noble in the realm.

The king, wanting her for himself, killed his own young and handsome son. The noble went to war against the king just to have her.

With the city burning and the kingdom on the verge of collapse from civil war, Zelor did in his desperation what he should never have done. He brewed something called a love potion and gave it to her, and it killed her.

Pelor was so crushed by grief that he neither ate nor drank nor slept, and spent a fortnight painting before he died.

That painting became the famous Dortea Portrait, a legendary work said to make any man who looked at it unable to tear his eyes away, burning with the urge to possess it.

"I, the Golden Witch, have not lost yet."

The elf spoke, the one who would certainly have driven Pelor or Zelor to stake their lives all over again.

And from what she said next, it was clear she had picked up the rumors despite having only just arrived.

Though that made sense. The migrated elf clan had kept their ears open and their mouths shut all this time, which meant they knew quite a lot.

Especially anything to do with the idol who had saved their people, that goes without saying.

When Enkrid came out into the city, there were elves who would slip out quietly just to watch him. Jaxon had caught them at it more than a few times.

Some had even tried to mount a full occupation of his lodgings before their queen arrived, though every attempt had failed.

Getting into the lodgings where Enkrid stayed was already no simple matter, and beyond that, no elf had managed to fool Jaxon's senses or pass through the magical barrier Esther had put up.

Since they could not act directly, every elf in the clan sharpened their ears and gathered every scrap of news drifting around them.

"Word is everywhere that the Black Flower won."

The moment Sinar heard that, her sprint back was inevitable.

In any case, catching sight of Naidhl, Enkrid steadied his excitement and fixed his gaze on the blade.

He remembered the Sinar of before, the one who had handed him the Four Seasons Sword, and the one who had been caught by the demon.

Sinar raised Naidhl and shook it loosely above her head. As she tapped the blade in small motions, the wind around it shifted direction and the smell of flowers vanished.

She kicked off the ground and moved. An elf's steps were always swift.

To Enkrid's eyes she seemed to suddenly loom larger, and he immediately stretched time with high-speed thought and swung his sword.

Then the tip of Sinar's blade came down toward the top of his head. The instant he registered it, he twisted his waist and turned his head. A reflexive evasion followed. With his feet still planted, he drove against the ground with strength that pushed past human limits.

His body slid sideways in one long, fluid motion.

Anyone watching would have called it remarkable. Even so, he did not dodge the blade completely. It was not a mortal blow, but even accounting for the fact that this was a spar, Enkrid felt the heavy contact as it grazed his shoulder.

How?

Between the blade he could see, there had been another he could not sense. A cut that felt like Ragna's crushing strike fused with Jaxon's silent thrust.

"Winter's Gentle Breeze."

Sinar said it and stopped.

Enkrid looked at her. She looked back at him.

He felt a faint heat clinging to her entire body.

She had gritted her teeth and prepared this gift. She would not have stepped forward with anything less than real skill.

She had seen him face the One-Killer, and so she had spent every day since cutting herself to the bone in training to match it.

I let my guard down.

He had not been drunk on the feeling of omnipotence. He had not been arrogant. He had simply underestimated Sinar.

If I can change, so can anyone else.

He had already learned that from Rem. Why had he forgotten? That was what made it carelessness. Enkrid saw it clearly now.

The elf standing before him was a genius among geniuses, the finest her clan had ever produced.

Sinar truly had inherited the talent of her mother and the talent of her father. The only thing that had held her back was the slow, unhurried sense of time particular to elves.

Because they lived so long, elves paid for it by losing passion. Only in one moment of their lives would the Spark flare up. The Igniculus.

So Sinar's change was only natural. Her Spark was still burning.

"How did you do it?"

The one who had lit that flame asked.

"What fun would there be if I told you everything?"

Sinar answered with a sly look. Her appearance lent such force to everything she did that even this came across as elegant rather than smug.

Enkrid replayed the moment and reached a conclusion.

An extreme, killing-blow Craft type. That was the shape of Sinar's swordsmanship. It was what she had honed, and it had always been the core of her talent.

More than that, it was a precisely tailored counter built from days of thought aimed directly at the Wave-Blocking Sword.

Part of why the migration had been delayed was likely this.

"I nearly became a flower torn from its branch before it could bloom."

Was that about the swordsmanship? Curious, Enkrid asked.

"What does that mean?"

"The same as nearly becoming a fruit that never ripened."

Enkrid tilted his head. Was there some deeper meaning in there?

Sinar looked at him and switched to more direct words.

"It means I nearly became a widow without even spending my first night."

A high-purity elven joke, the kind he had not heard in quite a while.

"You're back, you mad elf."

Rem said it with something like admiration. Coming back after all this time and saying that right off the bat, truly impressive.

"Let's go again."

As always, Enkrid brushed the joke aside with easy, unhesitating cheer.

"If I win, do I get to marry you?"

Sinar was an elf with no concept of giving up, especially when it came to jokes. She paid no attention to how the other person might react.

"Are you serious?"

"No, I wouldn't force it. That wouldn't make for an enjoyable night."

She seemed to have grown bolder since before the demon was dealt with, the content running a little hotter. But separate from that, her skill and technique were the real thing.

When it came to discussing new swordsmanship and the next step forward, what Sinar brought was something like a rebuke: refine what you already have first.

Complacency shatters. The direction of thought shifts. Was that frustrating? No, it made things more enjoyable. The moments of sweating and pressing forward, each step taken, this time spent alongside people who could argue with depth and real conviction.

All of it was endlessly good.

That day, Sinar used the same technique three more times and then shook her head.

"Any more and I'll be exhausted. You little sprout."

"What kind of title is that?"

Enkrid's mouth fell open on its own.

"I'm acknowledging that I'm your elder. And it's not you who'll be exhausted, it's me. Ah, if I do collapse from exhaustion, will you hold me again? That embrace was quite warm."

Sinar carried on in high spirits, her tongue sharper than her sword. Enkrid did not bother competing with a tongue so inspired. A good tactician knew when to fight and when not to.

With a sword in hand, there were times to charge in recklessly. But in a battle of words, Enkrid was a seasoned veteran of a hundred campaigns.

He pursued a tactical retreat and shut his mouth.

That evening everyone gathered, and since they were all together, they roasted a whole pig and ate. The meal had been Krais's doing.

"It feels like a company dinner. Roasting a whole pig seems exactly right."

The eating capacity of those who had become knights was not something to compare with ordinary people. Even a whole pig would probably fall short of feeding this group.

Even Jaxon, who looked on the surface like he ate sparingly, put away plenty at meals.

The energy they burned was simply different.

At the long table set out in front of the new lodgings, Enkrid felt Krais's thoughtfulness.

This is saying: if you get tired of training, eat here.

A separate dining hall had been built, and outside there was also a table made of stone. That table sat before him now.

Chipped and cracked in places but still serviceable, a hulking mass of rock with no aesthetic consideration whatsoever.

That told him something: Krais's thoughtfulness extended to broken furniture as well.

"If I ask you to please stop drawing blades mid-meal, will you listen? You won't. So from now on, eat separately from the soldiers."

She had not actually said that, but receiving Krais's consideration was close enough to hearing it.

These days Krais was very busy.

There was talk of asking the elves to help dig another well. On top of that, she was working on trade deals and trying to finalize a new contract with the trading city.

And apparently that was not even the end of it, since she was said to be in talks with the Holy State as well. Enkrid had heard the plan and could guess Krais's intentions, but he found it all tiresome.

He had stamped his seal on some documents a few times. What was certain was that he had no interest in any of it.

Lately he had been wanting to hand all authority over to the castellan entirely.

Not that Graham the castellan would have any desire to receive it.

Was there really no one suited to that kind of work? There must be someone. If not, Krais would be the one suffering, so she would find a way.

As everyone ate and drank, the conversation was, naturally, about technique and swordsmanship.

Among those topics, it was only natural that the system for knighthood Enkrid had recently established became the hottest subject.

As it happened, there had been no occasion for all of them to gather like this, so while they had each spoken with Enkrid separately, this was the first time everyone had sat together to talk.

Then, when the conversation turned to swinging the sword naturally without fixating on the techniques or specialties that defined a senior knight, Rem went first.

"Striking naturally, you ask? What is there to say? Like I said before, you just hit. Just hit."

Rem opened, and after listening to all of it, Enkrid could clearly see the distinct quality each of them carried.

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