Eternally Regressing Knight

Prologue

A flash of light pierced the air.

Enkrid couldn't comprehend what was happening.

All he felt was a sharp pain, like a searing skewer thrust through his neck.

He realized that the leather-padded armor he wore was utterly useless.

As red-hot liquid gushed from his body, consciousness faded.

And then, his eyes opened again.

Another day had begun.

It wasn't a dream.

He had experienced it countless times already.

He didn't know why it kept happening.

It was simply the way things were.

***

The clanging sound of a ladle banging against a pot signaled the morning.

The night watch was rousing everyone awake.

It was the third morning of the same routine.

That's when Enkrid finally grasped it.

"Again?"

Every time he died, the same day repeated itself.

***

Chapter 1 - My Dream Was to Be a Knight.

Enkrid's teacher, who taught him the sword, was a kind-hearted man who rarely uttered harsh words.

"You."

The teacher leaned on his sword, still sheathed, standing it upright on the ground, and called out to Enkrid.

"Go back to the village. If you hate farming, join the local militia. You'll probably end up as its captain."

Had he listened to the advice of that seasoned veteran, things might have been different.

But he didn't.

The root of the problem lay in one comment he'd heard as a child.

"Enki, you're a genius."

When he was eleven, he effortlessly bested an older boy in a wooden sword fight.

It was then, for the first time, that someone called him a genius.

Back then, he didn't realize that the boy was simply terrible at swordsmanship.

At fifteen, he defeated a village elder in a sparring match.

The confidence this instilled in him was immense.

In his small village, there was no one truly skilled in swordplay.

The closest was a one-legged ex-mercenary who had wandered into the village.

He taught basic swordsmanship to the local kids, including Enkrid.

"You're a genius."

At fifteen, Enkrid heard those words for the second time.

This time, they came from the mercenary, who claimed to have given up a knight's title and lost his leg for a lady's honor.

"I must be a genius," he thought.

He dared to dream.

He would become a knight—a knight who would serve a ruler destined to unite the warring continent.

A knight who would bring an end to war.

Around that time, a bard's song spread across the continent, reaching even Enkrid's remote village.

The melody enchanted listeners, but the final verse stirred hearts:

The knight who will end this war!

The knight who paints twilight over the battlefield!

We shall call him the Knight of Dusk!

The Knight of the End!

The bard's song ignited the hearts of many young boys and girls.

Enkrid was no exception.

"I will be that knight," he thought.

At eighteen, confident that no one in his village could match him, he left.

He had no family—no parents, no siblings.

He had a few friends, but his obsession with the sword had always kept others at a distance.

Alone, he ventured into the world.

Thus began his life as a mercenary.

He wasn't bad at it.

His dedication to improvement was commendable.

But it took only two months for him to realize he wasn't a genius.

Defeated by an ordinary, unnamed mercenary, he was told, "You're not ready."

Believing a good teacher could make all the difference, he worked tirelessly, risking his life against bandits to earn enough money to enroll in swordsmanship schools in big cities.

He learned diligently.

He wasn't unlucky; his instructors were honest and fair.

One advised him to abandon the sword altogether.

"No, I won't," Enkrid replied resolutely.

"You're tenacious. I'll give you that," people often said about him.

Hard work never betrayed him.

His palms blistered, his arm muscles trembled, yet he swung his sword countless times.

In circles of similar people, he stood out as an exceptional hard worker.

By the time he turned twenty-five, he had some reputation as a mercenary—enough that small-town folks might vaguely recall him.

Still, a sliver of hope remained.

Perhaps he could still improve.

Then, at twenty-seven, that hope shattered.

An altercation during a journey proved it.

In just five exchanges, his sword was knocked from his hand, and a blade pierced his stomach.

Pressing his wound, he asked, "How old are you?"

"Twelve."

He couldn't believe it.

This was true genius.

"Sorry, it was my first real fight," the boy said.

He wasn't a noble or a commoner but a serf's child, holding a sword for only six months.

"Take this for your medical expenses," the boy's teacher said, tossing a coin pouch.

The wound wasn't fatal; it hadn't damaged his organs.

Still, Enkrid pocketed the pouch.

From age eleven to now, sixteen years of relentless training had led to this moment—a twelve-year-old defeating him.

He felt a pang of despair but didn't let it consume him.

"What's the point of sulking? My limbs are still intact."

Though he knew he wasn't a genius, he didn't give up.

He continued wielding his sword.

Ten years as a mercenary taught him that he could never be a great knight or swordsman, but perhaps he could become a skilled soldier.

Quitting mercenary work, he joined the military—the best option left to him.

At thirty, he found himself in the Cypress Division of the Kingdom of Naurilia.

Fourth regiment, fourth battalion, fourth company, fourth platoon—also known as the "Four-Four Platoon."

Enkrid held the position of squad leader's deputy.

Clang! Clang! Clang!

The night watch banged on metal, rousing the entire barracks.

"Damn, what a messed-up dream," Enkrid muttered as he woke.

"What'd you dream about?" a subordinate asked lazily, pulling on his boots.

"My entire life."

"Depressing."

As the soldier found a bug in his boot, he shook it out, crushed it underfoot, and spat on the remains.

Enkrid got up, donned his armor—a breastplate with throwing knives embedded near the heart, arm guards, shin guards, and layered leather armor over thick fabric.

The armor wasn't much against a sharp blade, but it was better than nothing.

He prepared for another day of repetition.

"I heard the last Squad Leader had a dream like this before he died."

Enkrid mumbled, recalling a rumor he'd heard.

"Does that mean it's my fate to die today?"

When one of his subordinates laughed, he smacked the back of the man's head.

"I'm not dying. Don't jinx it."

He stood, poured water into a pot, and tossed in a few strips of dried meat.

After that, he added some vegetables to make it into a simple stew.

It was their breakfast.

"Any plans for combat today?"

One of the subordinates sitting nearby asked, and Enkrid shook his head.

"Who knows?"

He was just a lowly Squad Leader.

Above him were four other Squad Leaders, reporting to a single Platoon Leader. And even that Platoon Leader probably didn't know much.

Enkrid's swordsmanship was mediocre, and he wasn't a noble.

That's why he remained a mere Squad Leader.

But his experience on the battlefield far surpassed that of most Company Leaders.

His subordinates respected him for that.

"So, when you were young, what did you want to be?"

One of his men approached him and asked casually.

"A knight."

"...Would you hit me if I laughed?"

"I won't hit you."

"Pfft."

"You're laughing anyway? You little punk."

Enkrid kicked the man in the rear.

The subordinate pretended to be in pain as he replied, "Still, a knight, huh?"

What did it mean to be a knight?

A knight was someone who could turn the tide of a battle.

A monster who could face a thousand foes alone.

A hero who could slay hundreds of enemies single-handedly.

Even their division was named after a knight: the Cypress Division, named after Sir Cypress.

A knight as a dream—it seemed so lofty.

"That's a bold dream you had."

"Dreams are supposed to be bold, you fool."

Enkrid casually gathered the dishes.

Today, it was his turn to do the washing.

In other squads, perhaps things were different, but in Enkrid's team, everyone shared the chores equally.

Being a Squad Leader mostly meant receiving and relaying orders. Usually, the strongest fighter in the group would take the role.

In that regard, Enkrid was unusual.

He wasn't the strongest in his group.

But he had the ability to unite people who had been cast out from other squads.

That's why other squads referred to his team as the "Troublemaker Squad 44."

Enkrid was the leader of that "troublemaker squad."

"Let me help you."

"Then shut up and follow me."

"Sure thing."

His subordinate laughed.

What kind of life had this man lived to end up here?

Though curious, Enkrid never asked.

His men appreciated that about him.

He didn't pry into their pasts, nor did he judge their present.

Nor did he demand much from them.

Perhaps that was why they followed him.

As they clattered through their dishwashing, his subordinate splashed water at the stream and asked, "Why did you want to be a knight?"

The man had come to "help" but was now playing around.

Should he say it was because of a bard's song?

Would that make him laugh?

Enkrid thought for a moment before answering, "I wanted to be good with a sword, and if I was going to do that, why not become a knight?"

"A bit of a romantic, aren't you?"

His subordinate chuckled.

"Shut that mouth of yours."

"Was that why you practic swinging your sword morning and night?"

"Effort never betrays you."

The countless hours of practice had left his palms covered in calluses.

"Even now?"

Do you still want to be a knight?

Could he?

Of course not.

He knew that better than anyone.

But he hadn't given up.

He simply endured and kept moving forward.

Enkrid understood reality well enough.

But dreams didn't care about reality.

They remained, even as they were torn apart.

"Once you're done washing, let's go."

"Got it."

It was a trivial conversation.

They returned to the barracks.

Would they engage in a skirmish with the enemy kingdom?

Or would they be sent to deal with the bandits who had been targeting supply lines?

He didn't know.

'The air feels heavy.'

The battlefield air always did.

But today, it felt especially so.

The waiting was long.

With nothing better to do, he considered practicing his sword but ended up taking a nap instead.

Some days, you just didn't want to do anything.

'I can't do as much as I used to.'

He had worked tirelessly.

And this was the result—a Squad Leader, no better than a third-rate mercenary.

When the sun was two hand spans past its peak, the Squad Leader finally called out.

"Squad 44, assemble!"

It was time for combat.

The company gathered, forming part of the army's ranks.

Enkrid's squad was no exception.

A cold tension filled the air.

Enkrid grasped a talisman hanging from his neck before tucking it back into his shirt.

'This is supposed to save my life?'

Nonsense, but soldiers often believed in such superstitions.

For Enkrid, it wasn't belief but the memory of the old woman who had given it to him, her desperate tone convincing him to take it.

'It can't hurt, right?'

The reward for risking his life had been this flimsy talisman.

He'd survived that monster hunt half by luck.

If things had gone wrong, he'd have been the one to die.

It had been a dangerous task, even for him.

A small farming village, unable to pay, had begged him for help when he'd passed by.

'What a joke.'

Risking his life out of pity—what madness.

But he didn't regret it.

Because that's what knights do.

Dreams might fall silent under the weight of reality, torn to shreds, but traces remained.

He had wanted to be a knight.

To be a hero of war.

But now, he was just another soldier.

"Waaaah!"

A roar erupted.

Enkrid joined in, veins bulging in his neck as he shouted.

The opposing army surged forward like a tide.

The setting sun painted the sky with a long streak of red.

The two forces clashed beneath that crimson glow.

Enkrid charged forward.

"Let's fight to live another day!"

His ever-smiling subordinate shouted as he rushed ahead.

Soon, spears and swords collided, ripping through flesh and blood.

Today's battle was hand-to-hand combat.