A Knight who Eternally Regresses - Chapter 777

WeTried Translations

Translator: Hydrogen B

Editor: Abstract

Chapter 777: Not Quite a Scarecrow

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Matching swords came at him in an irregular rhythm. Enkrid blocked every attack with Duskforge.

It was not a matter of having the speed advantage. He worked his feet, making the paths traced by the opponent's swords longer.

Ting. Ti-di-di-ding.

The opponent worked his feet as well, closing the distance while swinging his swords. Their paths overlapped and crossed, and countless sparks flew between them.

Then their blades met in something like a Bind, and the man spoke.

"Not bad."

Their swords were pressed together, their faces close enough that they would have smelled each other's breath if they got any nearer. Enkrid kept a flat expression and drove his knee up.

The man stepped back before Enkrid's knee could strike his groin. He pushed off the ground in short taps, moving with a lightness that rivaled an elf's.

It also reminded Enkrid of Jaxon.

Enkrid had already guessed that the man would not simply retreat.

And he was right.

Needles shot from the sole of the foot that had pushed off as though retreating, and both swords in the man's hands were thrown forward a moment later.

Something had also been done to the blades, because a wave of heat washed over Enkrid's face before they arrived.

Acceleration of thought split apart the opponent's tricks and let him recognize each one.

He saw Duskforge becoming a breakwater that stopped the waves. It was the Wave-Blocking Sword, realized through optimized thought.

'I'm the one using the sword.'

A sword was a tool in the end, and swordsmanship was the art of using that tool well. There was no meaning in separating the two. Therefore, mixing Flash and the Wave-Blocking Sword was likely the right path.

With that brief thought, Enkrid blocked every attack.

He swept Duskforge low enough to nearly scrape the ground, creating a gust of wind that pushed the needles away. He then tapped the two flying swords aside with the pommel, redirecting them.

Heat pouring from the blades brushed his cheek. It felt like pressing a hot pot briefly to his face before pulling it away.

At the same moment, the swords he knocked aside rang out with a clang.

"You're quite skilled."

The man had thrown his swords and was already sprinting in, closing the gap. His fingers curled as though he intended to grab something, seeming intent on tearing or gripping and breaking it.

Enkrid read his aim again.

'Pretend to grab, then stab.'

With what? A hidden blade. That was how he would do it.

It appeared to be a technique more advanced than a hidden knife. Several short-bladed daggers were actually concealed inside the man's sleeves.

Enkrid swung Duskforge down as though crushing him beneath it. It was a heavy downward cut layered with Pressure, swordsmanship that hemmed in an opponent with force.

The man ignored it and moved his hands. This much pressure would not freeze his body. Anyone who enjoyed close-quarters fighting frequently encountered situations like this.

'So this is my victory again.'

There was no need to display any skill greater than what he had already shown.

The man was certain as he continued reaching out with both hands. The blades hidden in his sleeves slid out, brushing against his skin in response to the movement of his muscles. All he had to do was catch them and stab.

Yet the time it took felt terribly long. When one focused too intensely, an instant could seem prolonged.

It was the mystery brought about by acceleration of thought.

'Though it feels a little too long for that.'

Was it because he had rested recently and his body was in such good condition?

Within that stretched-out time, the man looked into Enkrid's eyes.

Two blue eyes without the slightest wavering stared directly at him. There was neither shock nor surprise.

There was only a faint trace of interest in those calm eyes.

'What is he relying on?'

At that point, the man realized what Enkrid was counting on. The hand that had been holding the sword pressing down on him had already taken hold of another sword and extended it upward.

That blade was twice as fast as it had been moments ago. Since he was already moving forward, he would not be able to dodge it.

'No, I've already been hit.'

Time had seemed more drawn out than usual not because his concentration was excessive, but because his ability to perceive his surroundings was breaking down.

In other words, it was merely the strange sensation caused by his skull being split open.

"Gk."

Even so, he barely managed to turn his head aside, so the blade of Penna that Enkrid thrust out sliced along the side of his head. From the mouth upward, just under half his face was cut away.

Following their exchange of attacks and defenses, feints and calculations, the man with half his head cut away staggered back and dropped heavily to the floor. Enkrid merely watched him.

'Is this one going to start growing something from his body too?'

He did not. The man simply opened his mouth, speaking with his split lips hanging loose.

"Indeed, you deserve recognition."

It was not something one would say while dying. He had not failed to accept his death, nor was he denying defeat.

That made him quite unusual.

The man toppled over as he spoke, and black smoke began pouring from him as his body scattered apart.

"Doesn't seem like a dream."

Enkrid muttered, then felt a voice resonate through his body and looked around. It was not a thought spoken with the mind, but words resonating through his vocal cords and flesh.

The senses honed as a Knight told him that this was reality.

A path stretched out before him. Walls blocked the left and right, while a dim ceiling had appeared overhead at some point.

It felt as though he had entered a cave.

Torches were set into the walls at regular intervals, lighting the area.

What had his fallen opponent meant by that recognition?

And what was this situation?

All he knew was that he had to move forward.

Standing still was not going to accomplish anything.

'It feels like I've entered a maze.'

Something seemed to be making a mess of his sense of direction.

It also made him wonder whether Ragna always lived like this.

In any case, Enkrid moved forward. Before long, he saw another person.

"Did you struggle so desperately because you wished to die?"

Could this even be called a person?

A Knight holding its own head atop a ghost horse greeted Enkrid.

It was a high-ranked Demon Creature rarely seen even within the Cursed Ground, a headless rider known as a Dullahan.

The face of the one atop the ghost horse was not distorted like a Demon Creature's. It simply was not resting atop its torso. It was an elderly face with a white beard about a finger's length long, tucked beneath one arm against its side.

Blue veins stood out on its short neck stump, and its face was flushed red, making it look exceptionally hot-tempered. Its body, merged with the ghost horse, also looked large and sturdy.

"This Donapha shall put an end to your struggle... Kiaat!"

Instead of responding, Enkrid swung his sword. He pushed off with his left foot and closed the distance.

His body raced forward in a lowered stance, breaking through a wall of air. At the same time, thought stretched out and Duskforge settled into his hand as though its parts had meshed together.

He awakened his senses and brought it straight down in a vertical cut.

The opponent could not dodge. No, it would not dodge.

It was an insight seen in the realm of the sixth sense, beyond the five senses.

It was a clean, uncluttered slash. Its honest trajectory was worthy of being used as a textbook example.

It was also extremely fast, packed with the force generated by twisting his entire body.

It was a strike woven from Flash and Vortex.

The Dullahan tried to meet it by swinging a large axe, but failed. As it moved both arms, the head tucked beneath its side fell to the floor and rolled away.

Thud. Roll, roll.

"You wretch. You wretch."

The rolling head continued to babble, its mouth still moving.

The exchange was over in an instant. Enkrid held his finishing posture and briefly reviewed the fight.

The opponent had revealed its tactics through its speech, attitude, weapon, and stance.

'An enemy that enjoys powerful, heavy strikes.'

How would such an enemy react upon seeing an honest sword stroke with a straightforward trajectory?

Enkrid predicted its actions, then split its body vertically with a powerful strike that went beyond that prediction.

He also reviewed what needed improving in his own swordsmanship.

'I used too much force, so transitioning into the next movement felt a little awkward.'

It was because he had tried it for the first time. Enkrid knew he did not possess Ragna's talent.

Still, he had come this far. If he practiced it a few more times, it would work out.

If he kept at it, things would come together somehow. It was all right even if the path ahead was no longer clearly visible.

The road he had walked and the experience he had accumulated gave him confidence.

"How dare you do this to this Donapha!"

The name Donapha sounded quite old-fashioned. Thinking that, Enkrid raised his sword and brought it down on the head.

He had never encountered a Dullahan before, but when he split its head open, both head and body scattered away like black fog.

That made two.

Enkrid pulled the sword free from where it had embedded itself in the floor.

"Impressive."

He met the third opponent a little farther down the passage. This time, the path was shorter.

The opponent had come out to meet him, but Enkrid had no way of knowing that, nor did he care to know.

Donapha's death was also why the opponent had been able to come out and meet him, though that was something Enkrid could not know either.

"You beat Donapha? I suppose you had a favorable matchup."

She continued saying whatever she pleased, without regard for anything Enkrid might say. Her torso was unnaturally long, enough to evoke a snake.

She was as tall as Audin, but she did not seem large. Rather, she resembled a supple spear shaft. Her arms were as long as her waist, giving her an unusual build, and lean muscles densely covered her entire body.

And stranger than her build was the way she dressed.

She wore tight-fitting cloth instead of armor, but she looked like a thoughtless older sister who had stolen her younger sibling's clothes.

They did not fit her body and clung tightly to her.

Enkrid could not help saying something.

"Where did you steal those clothes?"

He had not intended it as a provocation, but murderous intent filled the woman's face.

"I shall chew that tongue of yours to pieces. Mock me again when that time comes."

Speaking in that old-fashioned tone, she charged.

She was no ordinary swordswoman.

She rushed forward with her stance lowered until her chest nearly grazed the floor. Her speed was as fast as an arrow.

A thump rang out, followed by a roaring noise in the space she had crossed.

With her chest almost touching the ground, the woman twisted her waist. Her snake-like torso, like a flexible spear shaft, displayed impossible flexibility.

It was an attack that added irregularity upon irregularity. In her hand was a falchion, a single-edged blade with a wide flat and a curved tip.

Her sword traced an irregular path from the floor upward.

The flexible, lean muscles packed into arms as long as her waist bent and whipped fiercely, as supple as Ruagarne's whip.

Clang!

The woman's sword was stopped by the sky-blue blade Enkrid held level with the ground.

Bright red sparks flew between them.

Blocking her irregular attack once was manageable, but blocking it twice, three times, continuously, was extremely difficult.

She knew that herself, so rather than deciding the fight with a single blow, she specialized in chained attacks.

When the weapon that struck her opponent's blade bounced back, she used the recoil to add more speed. Feeling the Load build in her arm muscles, she drew out Will and concentrated it in both arms.

As she did so, the falchion grew faster and its irregularity deepened.

Attacks delivered in an abnormally long chain would fluster an opponent focused entirely on defense.

Their hands would soon become tangled.

Her long arms flexed, and the blade tip, accelerated by the same principle as a whip, came crashing down over Enkrid's head.

Bang. Bang. Bang!

Whenever an attack followed, the sound of her arms and blade tearing through the air spread through the cave.

Before long, the cave was filled with nothing but thunderous noise.

Bang, clang! Crack! Boom!

The sky-blue sword blocked every attack in her chain. Enkrid deflected some attacks and redirected others, but he never faltered.

The woman attacked and attacked again without taking a breath, pressing on until she could no longer endure.

All she gained was a slight graze on Enkrid's cheek.

The blade brushed his cheek with a flick, and red blood, blood the woman herself did not possess, beaded along the wound in tiny droplets.

Because of the speed at which they had moved, the blood quickly scattered into the air.

She needed to catch her breath and compose her Will. Drawing back the falchion she had swung mercilessly, the woman leaped away.

Flutter.

Enkrid's cloak, shortened during the violent movement, caught the wind and fluttered.

The woman saw Enkrid hold the sky-blue sword level with the ground and raise it to his mouth.

His blue eyes seemed to push back the yellowish torchlight filling the cave. At the sight, her spine went cold.

It was the unease conveyed by instinct.

Only Enkrid's eyes were visible beyond the blade covering his mouth, and then his voice reached her.

"My turn."

What?

The woman hurriedly twisted her waist and raised her sword to block the slash from the man who had already closed the distance.

The sword he swung as soon as his words ended struck her falchion, and their positions were reversed.

She had to defend while he attacked.

"Tch!"

Unlike Enkrid, she could not endure for long. From the beginning, she possessed only tactics focused on attack.

She was weak in defense.

Of course, it took someone of Enkrid's level to see that.

"You."

With half her neck cut through and black fog pouring from within it, the woman collapsed to the floor.

Her gaze turned toward the man who had cut her. He had stopped swinging his sword and was swishing his hand through the air several times.

She had realized it even before seeing it, but now she was certain.

"You!"

She shouted in anger.

Enkrid looked at her with an indifferent, calm gaze.

"You were a good opponent."

The woman screamed in fury.

"You're using me as a training scarecrow?"

Her rage widened the wound in her neck, causing even more fog to pour out. After that, she could no longer speak.

She scattered away into fog and vanished.

Enkrid looked at where she had been and took another step.

She had been right.

The first opponent used personal tactics centered on a hidden knife, so Enkrid had faced him with Enkrid-Style Orthodox Swordsmanship as his foundation.

The second opponent favored powerful strikes, so Enkrid decided the fight with a single blow.

And the woman who had just fallen before him specialized in overwhelming opponents through continuous, irregular attacks.

Enkrid identified each opponent's specialty and made it an opportunity for training.

"Not quite a scarecrow, though."

Muttering that, Enkrid found it somewhat amusing.

Every opponent who appeared possessed exceptional swordsmanship, and every one of them had a different specialty. It made for satisfying training.

He was used to sparring with Rem, Ragna, Audin, and the others, so facing opponents like this felt refreshing.

After taking a few more steps, he met the next opponent.

Crackle. Pop.

A woman had built a campfire inside the cave. She leaned a longsword still in its scabbard diagonally against her body, warming herself by the fire as she hummed with a peaceful expression.

Hmm, hmm.

The moment Enkrid saw her face, he stopped.

The distance was not great. If he had wanted, he could have swung his sword at once.

But he did not.

"Oh, you're here?"

Sensing his presence, she welcomed Enkrid as though greeting a friend she had not seen in a long time.

Enkrid felt something similar, and at the same time, he thought he understood who was behind everything happening here.

He spoke.

"Knight Aoara."

As befitted the name of the sword she held, Knight Aoara smiled.

To Enkrid, the smile was clear and genuine.

It was the same smile she had worn when the final battle in the City of Aoara came to an end.