A Knight Who Eternally Regresses-Chapter 318

I should at least say something to everyone for their efforts.

As Enkrid got up, his head spun.

He had been lying down for too long.

He should have staggered, but he quickly corrected his posture.

The countless repetitions of today had trained his senses, allowing him to adjust to even the slightest differences in his equilibrium.

Not bad.

He could feel his body responding.

Standing upright, he turned his head left and right, scanning his surroundings.

Ragna sat nearby, his body wrapped in bandages from his shoulder down to his torso, eating porridge with one hand.

After swallowing a spoonful, Ragna’s gaze swept over Enkrid’s entire body.

Shinar's gaze followed the same path.

Both of them had the same thought.

They hadn’t noticed it while he was lying down, but now that he was up, something seemed different.

Of course, it made sense.

Among the countless cycles of today, Enkrid hadn’t just learned how to dodge.

Still, there was nothing to ask or point out just yet.

Ragna, however, was already anticipating their next spar.

His enthusiasm remained steady, undiminished.

"Is it good?"

Enkrid asked.

Ragna nodded.

No one had fed him, but Helma—or whatever her name was—and the other soldier had cooked the porridge.

It had a different taste compared to a regular meal.

Apparently, they had added eel meat this time.

Enkrid slowly stretched his body.

Two days.

Ragna also straightened up.

Wasn’t this the perfect time to laze around?

The Mad Platoon were men difficult to read, so Enkrid didn’t bother trying.

"How’s your injury?"

"It was just a slight sprain."

A slight sprain that had kept him bedridden for three days.

If it had been a fracture, he would have been dead.

Obviously.

Enkrid didn’t say any of this out loud.

That was just the way these people were.

Rem, Ragna, Jaxon, Audin—none of them were any different.

They wouldn’t change just because someone pointed it out.

Instead of replying, Enkrid moved his body.

He performed a set of movements designed to aid recovery, part of the Isolation Technique.

He felt his muscles, extended his arms, and gradually raised his body temperature.

By stimulating the uninjured parts, he quickened his circulation.

Despite the winter chill, faint steam began to rise from his skin.

"Cold?"

Move and raise your body heat.

"Fracture?"

Move and raise your body heat.

"Laceration?"

Move and raise your body heat.

That was Audin’s method of dealing with injuries.

Even Rem had once snorted in disbelief after hearing it.

But in principle, it wasn’t entirely wrong.

At least, not if you had rebuilt your body using the Isolation Technique.

It vastly improved baseline stamina.

A properly trained body, even at rest, naturally circulated blood at high efficiency.

Blood circulation promoted healing.

And by stimulating that process, the body could repair itself faster.

The reinforcement of muscle and strength further amplified recovery.

Enkrid had already experienced this firsthand.

Still, this was a bit too fast.

Even for him.

His recovery rate was monstrous enough to raise eyebrows.

Of course, she had played a role in that.

Curled up near his feet, Esther slept soundly, her head buried against her front paws.

She had spent the entire time curled against him, subtly stimulating his regenerative abilities.

It wasn’t even real magic.

Just a minor trick.

With all these factors combined, it was no wonder Shinar had been caught off guard.

"You really do have a fascinating body."

Shinar spoke from where she sat.

She was perched on a chair inside the barracks, one knee drawn up, her arms wrapped loosely around it.

Enkrid nodded without much thought.

His body heat had risen enough that he was now only wearing a short-sleeved shirt.

Shinar’s gaze traveled slowly over his form.

"It’s convenient."

Eat, sleep, recover.

Reflect on battles while everyone stares.

For Enkrid, this was just daily life.

It no longer felt strange for them all to be gathered here.

The infirmary tent was large.

It could accommodate at least twenty men.

A massive brazier sat in the center, providing warmth.

Directly beneath it, Esther was curled up, dozing.

Next to her, Ragna sat, finishing his meal.

Enkrid remained close to the brazier, stretching and moving his body.

Near the entrance, Shinar observed him.

Further inside, Dunbakel was dozing off.

She had plenty of minor cuts but no significant injuries.

From what he’d heard, the moment she learned she had fallen into a trap, she had charged straight ahead like a madwoman.

She had sprinted all the way to the frontlines.

Once a beastwoman who had worked as a pawn for the Black Blades, she had somehow settled into their ranks.

Why?

Sometimes, Enkrid found himself wondering.

Why had these people gathered around him?

Even the soldier nicknamed King Eyeball, Kraiss, was here.

He sat two steps away from the brazier, leaning back in his chair.

"It was my mistake."

He spoke suddenly.

Enkrid paused mid-movement.

"What was?"

"I failed to anticipate the situation properly. It was reckless."

His words were clipped, missing half their context, but Enkrid understood.

Kraiss had spent the entire battle desperately trying to predict the enemy’s moves.

"Predicting that would’ve been the strange part."

Enkrid was being sincere.

The enemy commander had been insane.

Kraiss’s sharp gaze flickered toward Enkrid.

There was something heavy in his eyes.

Confusion.

And disbelief.

"You almost died because of it."

Kraiss stared into Enkrid’s face.

How?

How could there not be a single trace of resentment in his eyes?

Why was his gaze always so straightforward?

It didn’t make sense.

No human should be like this.

"I survived."

Enkrid shrugged.

"I’m not a ghost."

So it didn’t matter.

That was all.

"You’re impossible."

For a brief moment, Kraiss felt something bleak well up inside him.

But he pushed it down.

What was the point?

It wasn’t as if he didn’t already know his commander was like this.

Why is he like that?

He wasn’t the only one wondering.

Even now, Enkrid’s eyes were silently asking why Kraiss was making such a big deal out of it.

He had nearly gotten him killed.

And yet, there was not a single demand for accountability.

Even Ragna, who sat next to Enkrid, seemed indifferent.

He met Enkrid’s gaze with one of his own—what’s there to ask?

Kraiss exhaled sharply.

"Forget it."

He shoved down the lingering emotions.

It was pointless.

That man wouldn’t care.

And if he cared, only he would be the one to suffer for it.

There were no krona at stake, but losses were something he despised.

He cut his losses.

And then?

He followed his commander’s example.

He started reviewing the battle.

How Enkrid had escaped danger.

How Ragna had survived.

How the enemy had moved.

And in doing so, Kraiss realized something.

He had been completely played.

Did he think he was some kind of master tactician?

In the end, all he had accomplished was nearly getting his own commander killed.

And that commander—the one he had almost killed—was the same man who had once saved his life.

Even without the bizarre innocence in Enkrid’s expression, the thought alone sent chills down his spine.

Predicting the battlefield...

It carried a cost.

And he had just learned that lesson the hard way.

Thinking back, the enemy commander had been deranged.

Sending out a unit of knight cadets would have made them cautious.

So instead, they used a mass of ordinary soldiers to take out a single elite target?

Absolutely insane.

Sacrificing a thousand soldiers just to take down one man?

And not even a knight?

No, it was possible.

He should have predicted it.

Kraiss had thought that was his job.

But he had failed.

Why?

Because he lacked experience.

No, he couldn’t just dismiss it as inexperience and move on.

This could happen again.

So what should he do?

He had to expand his thinking.

He couldn’t limit himself to conventional strategies.

He needed to imagine the most deranged thing the enemy could possibly attempt.

Something other than a dragon falling out of the sky!

That wasn’t a strategy—it was escapist delusion.

Enkrid hadn’t meant for it, but Kraiss found himself reflecting.

More than anything, seeing his commander remain so unwavering even when his own life had been at risk... it left an impression.

Never again.

He wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.

After sorting through his thoughts, he spoke.

"Why don’t we just open a salon instead?"

It was a pointless comment.

No matter how many times he suggested it, Enkrid wouldn’t listen.

"If you do, I’d visit," Enkrid replied.

Yeah, sure.

Like hell he would.

He’d just end up swinging his sword the whole time anyway.

Wow, how could he say something so casually when he had no intention of following through?

Then again, it wasn’t as if a salon was actually opening any time soon.

But if it did, Enkrid would stop by.

Because that was just the kind of man he was.

Though, knowing him, he’d probably use it as a training hall.

That would be the worst. The absolute worst.

Kraiss forced himself to stop his imagination from spiraling.

Enkrid, still stretching, had been quietly watching Kraiss's expressions shift in real-time.

It was entertaining.

Eventually, Kraiss shook his head.

Regret was regret.

But once you learned something, you had to move forward.

That was a lesson he had learned as a child.

And so, he did.

There was no comfort offered.

But he let it go.

What else could he do?

Did I even contribute anything?

The truth was, he had.

If not for him, Enkrid would have been caught in Abnaier’s layered trap.

Esther had played a role too.

By killing the mage Galaph, she had eliminated a major threat that could have blocked Enkrid’s retreat.

Ragna had also been crucial.

The knight cadet he killed—what had his original role been?

Shinar and Dunbakel had both performed exceptionally.

Without them, the first engagement could have been a complete disaster.

If the enemy forces attacking from the rear hadn’t been just a feint but a real threat, Border Guard might have been wiped out.

That would have meant supply lines cut off.

Escape routes blocked.

The battlefield would have turned into a death trap.

It was the people standing here now who had prevented that.

Enkrid genuinely believed that.

If there was anything worth saying—words that shouldn’t be hidden or held back—it was this.

Enkrid stopped moving.

He knew how to speak with sincerity.

And so, he did.

He straightened his posture.

Lowered his arms.

Glanced around, gathering everyone's attention.

Then, he spoke.

"I should at least say something to acknowledge everyone’s efforts."

Ragna, in the middle of eating, paused.

Kraiss blinked.

Dunbakel lifted her drowsy head.

Near the tent entrance, Shinar stared at him, then let out a soft laugh.

"You say that without a hint of emotion. So this is what makes you demonic."

She clasped her hands in front of her chest, amusement evident in her tone.

"That’s ✧ NоvеIight ✧ (Original source) not what I meant."

Enkrid rejected her elven humor outright.

"Wasn’t it you who suffered the most, Captain?" Kraiss asked, blinking in disbelief.

Even Esther, who had momentarily woken up, tapped her paw against the ground as if to say, You flatter us.

Ragna, watching Enkrid, only muttered, "I fought for myself," before returning to his meal.

Dunbakel nodded in agreement.

"Well, I suppose I worked hard too."

Enkrid looked around.

An elf, a human, a beastwoman, and a mage.

He meant it.

They were interesting.

"Where’s Jaxon?" Kraiss asked.

"He left for a while."

"Where to?"

"Don’t know."

"And you just let him go?"

"Why wouldn’t I?"

Well, yeah.

It wasn’t like they were the kind of people who could be stopped.

Since the Mad Platoon days, Enkrid’s stance had always been consistent.

Do whatever you need to do.

I won’t stop you.

Ragna had no interest in the conversation.

What did it matter if that sneaky alley cat was around or not?

Instead, he sat in thought.

Processing everything he had gained from the battle.

His drive hadn’t faded.

Shinar continued watching Enkrid.

Dunbakel picked up her scimitar and set it against a whetstone.

This content is taken from freeweɓnovel.cѳm.

Shhk. Shhk.

After sprinkling some water from her canteen, she continued sharpening.

A veteran mercenary’s hands.

A soldier who knew how to maintain her weapon.

Kraiss, sitting nearby, found it absurd how such an odd group of people had come together.

Each person was absorbed in their own time.

As Enkrid continued warming up, it happened.

Riiip.

The sound of fabric tearing.

Shinar reacted first.

Ting.

Her knives were drawn before any sign of movement.

By the time she was standing, Esther had already opened her eyes.

Ragna, ever composed, gripped his spoon like a weapon.

A voice followed.

"Oh? Hmm. Yeah, that seems about right. Black hair, blue eyes, and a face that’s not half bad."

The cold wind slipped through the torn fabric of the tent.

And with it, came the voice.

Fwoosh.

The brazier’s fire flickered violently, shadows dancing across the tent.

It was past dusk.

The last light of sunset had faded.

From outside, the blue glow of the moon poured in.

The red glow from the brazier mixed with it, casting strange, intertwined hues.

And where those lights met—stood a figure.

"Apologies for the intrusion."

The man spoke.