A Knight Who Eternally Regresses-Chapter 222: The Soldier Who Ended the War

"I don’t know how the rumors spread, but..."

Enkrid noticed something distinctly unpleasant in his opponent's gaze.

The man didn’t seem to be here just to test his own strength. No, what filled his eyes was greed—plain and simple.

“‘The soldier who ended the war’—don’t you think that’s a bit arrogant?” the mercenary Ibarin asked as he raised his morningstar. His posture and tone were threatening, his stance clearly signaling readiness for combat.

It was as if his body was saying, "I could crack your skull with this."

Even so, Enkrid remained standing calmly and answered simply, “Perhaps.”

“So, you’re confident in your skills, huh?”

Despite his appearance of being ready to attack without question, Ibarin seemed to be probing Enkrid. That, too, annoyed him.

“Reasonably,” Enkrid replied vaguely.

Ibarin’s brows furrowed, his expression darkening. “You cocky little bastard.”

The insult was deliberate, an attempt to provoke Enkrid and disrupt his composure.

This was a trick Enkrid himself had used countless times in the past. Before he could rely on the blade at his waist, he’d often had to wield the one in his mouth to survive.

“Raaaah!”

Ibarin finally moved, charging forward with a leap and swinging his heavy weapon.

This was supposed to be “Squeezing Ibarin”? A city-level powerhouse?

The speed of his approach was almost laughable. Compared to Rem’s relentless energy, Ibarin’s movements seemed sluggish, even lazy.

Although it didn’t quite warrant a yawn, Enkrid felt he had plenty of time.

Still, he didn’t intend to take the fight lightly. If you decided to fight, you gave it your all. That wasn’t just lip service for Enkrid—it was how he lived his life.

For someone without innate talent, pushing forward with everything he had was the only way to succeed. Had he faltered even slightly on his journey, he wouldn’t be the man he was today.

"He might not be what he seems."

Enkrid remained cautious. It could be a tactic, a ploy to lure him into dropping his guard. Feigning weakness was a common skill among mercenaries.

Whoosh.

Enkrid watched the incoming morningstar closely before stepping to the side with his left foot. Twisting his body into a half-turn, he drew his sword in one fluid motion.

Shing!

As the blade left its sheath, he swung it immediately.

Ibarin, realizing his mistake, tried to pull back his weapon, but its momentum worked against him. The unwieldy swing made him stumble.

“Gah!”

Clenching his teeth, the scarred mercenary abandoned his weapon and threw himself to the side to avoid the strike.

The blade sliced through the air, deliberately missing its mark.

Enkrid suspected his opponent might feign retreat only to counterattack, so he kept his guard up and swung conservatively.

Why isn’t he attacking?

It wasn’t as if Enkrid had intentionally left an opening, but the moment seemed ripe for Ibarin to strike.

“Let’s do this barehanded,” Ibarin said, dropping his weapon altogether.

What’s this now? Enkrid wondered instinctively. Is he a fraud?

Later, he would learn that the nickname “Squeezing Ibarin” came from his famed grip strength.

But against Enkrid, whose forearms had been hardened through years of grueling training, all Ibarin left were faint handprints.

When Enkrid responded in kind by twisting Ibarin’s wrist until it snapped, the mercenary screamed.

“Gaaaah!”

The sharp cry of pain echoed through the courtyard.

Ibarin was, indeed, a fraud—a man with an empty reputation built on lies.

“Hm.”

Watching from the sidelines, Kraiss let out a disappointed sigh.

A few soldiers from the company had come to spectate, intrigued by the arrival of Enkrid’s first challenger.

Rem shook his head. “Looks like it’s all gonna be trash.”

Jaxon stayed silent, as did Ragna and Audin.

The plan had been to attract strong opponents by spreading word that Enkrid wanted to face powerful fighters. But the first challenger turned out to be a complete letdown.

“Do you want to continue?” Enkrid asked, looking down at the whimpering Ibarin.

“N-no! I’m done!” Ibarin stammered, clearly terrified.

Enkrid thought even Bell could have taken on someone like this. Turning away, he left Ibarin cradling his broken wrist.

“Don’t be too disappointed,” Kraiss said. “They say the real adventure begins once you leave the village.”

It was a saying common in the east—You can’t expect to be satisfied with the first bite.

Enkrid nodded absentmindedly, deep in thought.

Rem was fierce and wild.

Jaxon had a detached yet deadly aura.

Ragna wielded his sword with precision, combining technical skill and strategic thinking.

Audin had raw power and an unparalleled control of his body.

Despite having such skilled allies, Enkrid craved new experiences.

“Something is missing.”

It was an instinctive need to fill that void, to improve and grow.

Yet, his first opponent had been a disappointment.

“A fraud.”

Did that leave Enkrid feeling discouraged? Not in the slightest. Patience and endurance were strengths he prided himself on.

“Not bad,” he muttered.

Of the five challengers who followed, four were as unimpressive as Ibarin. They were opportunists seeking to claim Enkrid’s growing reputation.

“If I beat you, do I get to be company commander?”

“Are you really ready to fight with that body? You look trained, but not enough.”

“Aren’t you going to draw your sword? Don’t blame me if you die.”

Enkrid dealt with them all decisively. Those who approached with mediocre skills found themselves with broken limbs for their efforts.

Among them were some mercenaries with minor reputations, a wandering swordsman claiming to seek self-improvement, and even a former squire who flaunted his past achievements.

Most, however, were mercenaries chasing the nickname “The Soldier Who Ended the War.”

Seven more visitors came after them, but few were worth Enkrid’s time. Many weren’t even as skilled as the average soldier.

One, however, stood out.

“A beastman, Barakal.”

Barakal, a beastman with limited fluency in human speech, displayed exceptional physical abilities.

For the first time, Enkrid found himself truly engaged in a match.

Barakal used claws—bladed weapons attached to his hands—and his unorthodox style kept Enkrid on his toes.

He’d lift his knees to distract before swinging his claws in wide arcs from above. Sometimes, he’d crouch so low it seemed he was about to scrape the ground, then lunge forward.

These unpredictable moves were possible only because of his innate athleticism.

Enkrid observed, learned, and adapted. It was a valuable experience.

Even without repeating the same day endlessly, he continued to absorb, refine, and sharpen his skills.

Whether facing challenges or enduring monotony, Enkrid lived each day with the same unwavering focus.

***

Rem wasn’t just pushing Dunbakel—he was mercilessly grinding her down.

“If you don’t get it right, you’ll die, beastwoman.”

What had started as playful teasing now carried an unmistakable edge of murderous intent.

And why wouldn’t it?

Anyone standing beside Enkrid would feel the pressure.

The insane beastwoman wasn’t even fully in control of her own strength.

So what could be done?

When someone is driven to the edge of a cliff, they naturally gather every ounce of strength to avoid falling.

That’s exactly what Rem did—he pushed her to the brink.

And he learned something in the process.

"She’s got talent."

Her natural physical abilities were remarkable. There was a sharpness to how she used her body, flashes of brilliance.

In that sense, she was a far cry from Enkrid—or rather, completely different.

Her mind might be a mess, but her body was extraordinary. That contrast made teaching her oddly satisfying.

Not that this beastwoman would ever become anything like Enkrid.

“I’m dead,” Dunbakel muttered before collapsing unconscious after being pushed a few times too many. Endurance? Willpower? If she had anything like that, the gap between her and Enkrid would still be insurmountable.

After half-beating Dunbakel to death, Rem thought of Enkrid.

Lately, Enkrid had improved significantly.

He’d reached a level where it was hard to go easy on him, even as a sparring partner.

A single lapse in focus could mean having to take him seriously.

As Rem considered Enkrid’s growth, one word came to mind:

"Knight."

The path Enkrid sought to walk was one that Rem could have chosen for himself as well.

Of course, the knights of this continent were nothing like what Rem’s tribe would consider a knight.

Rem had been unusually introspective lately. That was why he pushed Dunbakel even harder.

By driving her to her limits, he was also pushing himself. That kind of pressure worked for Rem—it helped him focus and grow.

“Are you crazy? Lying down? Sleeping? Are you seriously sleeping? Are you taking a nap in the middle of training?”

At Rem’s relentless prodding, Dunbakel reluctantly forced herself to her feet.

If someone were to tell her that this devil was actually from a hellish realm, she would wholeheartedly agree.

***

“This bastard must be that bastard.”

Inside a small, dimly lit pub in northern Fen-Hanil, one of the key executives of the Sanctuary of the Abyss muttered under his breath.

The pub was nearly empty, given the early hour, and the man had taken over an old wooden table.

Lying on the table was a sketch of Enkrid’s face.

"The one who’s repeatedly interfered with our operations."

This was the man who had destroyed the Nol colony in a pioneer village and gone so far as to kill their priests.

When the cult sent assassins, along with a manticore and its handler, he killed them, too.

"A nuisance."

The cult executive made his decision. The nuisance had even gone so far as to spread strange rumors, practically inviting people to come after him.

“Go and kill him,” the executive ordered.

There were plenty of individuals on their side who could destroy a Nol colony. They had more than enough brute strength to accomplish that.

And there were stronger forces still.

In response to the command, a woman sitting across the table rose to her feet.

Her shoulders were twice as broad as those of an average man, and her thighs were as thick as tree trunks.

Her narrow eyes made her pupils hard to discern, and her lips were even thinner.

This warrior, cultivated by the cult, had no aptitude for magic. Instead, she had climbed to her current position purely through physical prowess.

“Yes.”

The female warrior stood, her towering stature giving her the appearance of a giant. In truth, her body carried the blood of giants, a legacy of the cult’s experiments, which had injected her with it.

In terms of raw physical strength and combat ability, she was unmatched.

"Nearly at the level of a squire-knight."

She would be more than enough to kill someone like Enkrid. There was no need for assassins. If he had spread rumors to gather people capable of killing him, she would oblige.

She would fight him and kill him—just as he seemed to wish.

***

The Black Blade Bandits Understand the Value of Reputation

“We can’t just leave things as they are after getting beaten and retreating. Even if we withdraw, we can’t simply back out quietly.”

The schemes of Marcus had already reached the main headquarters of the Black Blade Bandits.

Among those within the central faction, one member had concocted a plan that mirrored the actions of the Sanctuary cultists.

“What if we kill the one Marcus sent?”

The bandits had contracts with numerous nobles, some of whom had influence reaching the central aristocracy. Striking down Marcus’s man would damage his standing.

It was about fulfilling a contract.

And if necessary, they were even prepared to kill Marcus himself.

But first, they would deal with the upstart stirring trouble.

The so-called "Soldier Who Ended the War" rumors had even reached the bandits.

“So, it’s an open invitation to fight, is it?”

The Black Blade Bandits had no shortage of skilled fighters. From these, the central faction chose one to send.

A man with unassuming brown hair and an ordinary appearance. His nickname: Swiftblade.

His moniker came from his uncanny sword tricks, a skill so astonishing it seemed otherworldly.

“Go handle this,” the Black Blade lieutenant ordered.

Swiftblade was a madman who stabbed throats with a smile, deriving twisted pleasure from murder.

“Sure thing,” he replied.

Once, Swiftblade had been a squire. Rumors called him a tragic genius, expelled for indulging too often in killing.

Had the Black Blade Bandits not taken him in, he would have long since met his end.

“We spent quite a lot to keep him around.”

The lieutenant thought of the gold spent to placate nobles who wanted Swiftblade dead and the resources used to hide him and satisfy his demands.

A sharpened blade exists to be used, after all.

Now was the time.

The Sanctuary cultists and Black Blade Bandits weren’t the only ones to send someone.

Under Count Molsen, others had begun moving as well.

“What an amusing stunt. Is there no warrior to go and prove that the Count’s sword stands above his?” the Count mused.

Two of his children and a warrior stepped forward in response. One of them had already faced Enkrid once before.

“I’ll go,” his son volunteered.

The Count didn’t stop him. Whether the outcome was good or bad, it was important to make his presence known.

Enkrid’s story reached even those with no ties to Count Molsen, the Black Blade Bandits, or the Sanctuary cultists.

“So, that boy has improved so much?”

It was the rapier-wielding swordsman from the Locke Fried Merchant Caravan. Back then, he had kept his name hidden.

He habitually stroked the space where his mustache once was, though it was now clean-shaven, leaving his hand with nothing to grasp.

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“Apparently, yes.”

He had just wrapped up some tasks and now had some time to spare.

“Should I pay him a visit?”

He had assumed the boy would plateau, yet suddenly he was said to have improved significantly.

Maybe he’d sold his soul to a demon.

Still, he couldn’t just sit back and ignore it.

Part of it was pure curiosity.

How much has he changed?

Besides, the swordsman was already passing through the area.

“This will require quite the detour,” one of his subordinates pointed out.

The rapier swordsman stared at the map for a while before replying, “It’s on the way, isn’t it?”

It absolutely wasn’t. But after a brief pause, the subordinate nodded.

“Yes, you’re right.”

The rest of the group nodded in agreement. They understood well enough that his authority and demeanor left no room for argument.

Sometimes, you just need to relax and take your time, the swordsman mused as he began walking.

He was genuinely curious to see how much Enkrid had grown.

***

After Enkrid defeated Ibarin, a steady stream of mercenaries began to seek him out. At first, Enkrid faced each challenger without hesitation.

But Kraiss, observing from the sidelines, offered a suggestion.

“This feels like a waste of time. Let’s make a rule: only those who can at least defeat Bell will get a chance to face you.”

Following Kraiss’s advice, Enkrid implemented the new rule.

“Next!” he shouted during training.

Not just Bell but other soldiers stepped forward to face the challengers.

Sometimes the soldiers lost, but when they did, a squad leader would step in.

And if even the squad leader seemed likely to lose, the company commanders would take over.

“You’ll need to do better than that!” exclaimed the second company commander, his cheek bearing a fresh scar from a blade.

“Yeah!”

“That’s the spirit!”

“Palto! Palto!”

Cheers erupted spontaneously. The sight of such enthusiasm had become commonplace.

Even Allen, the innkeeper, who had initially been bewildered by the spectacle, had grown accustomed to it.

“More beer!” he shouted, busy selling drinks to the spectators.

Life continued in its unusual yet consistent rhythm.

One day, however, a warrior arrived who managed to defeat Palto, the second company commander.

“That’s a name I’ve never heard before,” Kraiss commented. “Impressive skill. And... she’s a woman.”

The female warrior stepped forward to face Enkrid.

Behind the inn, in the training yard, the audience had grown. Even merchants from the surrounding marketplace came to watch.

“A giant?” Enkrid asked, studying his opponent. He had never seen someone larger than Audin, and the fact that this person was a woman made it even more surprising.

“Mixed,” she replied in a husky voice. Despite the gruff tone, it was clear she was female.

Enkrid raised his sword. The tip of the blade pointed upward, with his weight balanced squarely on the middle of his feet.

His instincts screamed that this opponent was no ordinary foe.

The woman drew her weapon as well—a sword and shield.

The shield was a solid slab of metal.

The sheer weight of her equipment was a testament to her monstrous strength.