Eternally Regressing Knight-Chapter 489 - The Path of Grime

Chapter 489 - The Path of Grime 

"My mother was ready to cut my manhood," declared a Westerner, his face adorned with tree-leaf patterns. "If she had a daughter, she'd have tried to pair her with the honorary hero."

This brazen statement elicited laughter. The one joking about offering her daughter earlier was none other than this man's mother. Since she lacked a daughter, she'd considered removing her son's manhood—a bizarre jest that caught everyone off guard, including Enkrid, who couldn't help but smirk at the timing.

But the man wasn't done. "Lucky Fish carries a peculiar scent that attracts Belopters. If one goes missing, we sometimes use it for tracking. It's handy for that purpose."

This peculiar dried fish, called Lucky Fish, was more than food; it was a keepsake, a charm of sorts. While it served as emergency sustenance, its cultural significance made it a revered item in the West.

"In the old days," the man continued, "many hunters went missing. Without proper burials, their souls couldn't join the Sky God, so finding their bodies was vital." Lucky Fish's scent often led to the lost. Over time, scattered tribes coalesced into communities. These groups formed families and eventually established the Western tribes we see today—an evolution chronicled both in myths and anthropology.

"Here's a gift," the man added, his cheerful smile free of shadows. Enkrid accepted the small cloth pouch with gratitude. Even Dunbakel, who had sampled the fish, nodded in approval, declaring it delicious.

"Do beastfolk enjoy it, too?" the man quipped, laughing heartily, his grin now free of the darkness that had once lingered on everyone's faces.

The heavy burden Enkrid noticed upon arrival had dissipated.

The villagers' laughter now felt genuine, untainted.

Enkrid watched this scene of joy, his mind drifting to memories of the city of Oara—a place where children's laughter dispelled dark clouds.

The warmth of the present moment brought a single thought to mind:

"The reason I wield a sword?" Enkrid reflected silently.

"To see people smile like this."

It was a simple answer, one that encapsulated his journey thus far.

The day passed with training, sparring matches, and teaching others.

Evening arrived, bringing a hearty meal of tender boiled beef and turnip stew.

As Enkrid enjoyed the quiet, Rem approached him with an update.

"They say it'll take over a month," Rem began.

Fresh from a bath and dressed in a finely crafted leather garment gifted by Jiba's mother, Enkrid raised an eyebrow.

The West's leatherwork was exceptional, rivaling the craftsmanship of mainland metalsmiths.

"So?" Enkrid replied, shaking the water from his hair.

"We'll have to wait," Rem reiterated, clearly referring to their return journey.

"Why?"

Rem's answer was clear:

"To beat that directionally-challenged bastard senseless."

Understanding dawned immediately. Rem wasn't one to take a beating without returning the favor. Even if magic rituals were in progress, the score needed settling.

The following days passed with training and exploration.

Enkrid taught willing learners, sparred with eager twins, and marveled at the persistence of Westerners seeking to better themselves.

It was a place of growth, community, and quiet joy—a reminder of the many reasons Enkrid chose to fight.

Encrid was a teacher who spared no effort in teaching.

Compared to Rem or others, he could undoubtedly be called an excellent teacher.

It was only natural.

His path had been painstakingly carved out step by step, chewing through every challenge carefully because he lacked innate talent.

Those with talent were taught in ways that suited them.

Likewise, those without were taught in ways tailored to their needs.

If one doesn't climb a mountain, they can't see the view from the top.

And if one rushes to the summit in a single leap, they miss the scenery along the way.

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Encrid had done both: he climbed steadily, step by step, savoring every moment.

Naturally, this made him an effective teacher.

But—

"You need to build your stamina first. Run, from morning to night."

"Here, you pretend to swing an axe but aim to trip your opponent instead. Practice the correct posture and basic skills every morning until noon."

He wasn't a soft teacher.

Hard work was mandatory for achieving what one desired.

Encrid didn't compromise on this.

If you didn't want to do it, you were free to quit.

Many did.

Yet, no one resented or blamed Encrid for it.

Even after quitting, they lingered nearby, grilling meat, simmering stew, or just hanging out.

The Westerners even devised a card game using twenty wooden cards reinforced with leather, each decorated with drawings of animals and flowers.

"It's called Bak-tu," someone explained.

Sometimes, they bet using Kronas.

Though bartering was more common here, people would often trade quality leather or beast teeth instead of coins.

Necklaces strung with such teeth were also seen.

While the continent called them savages in need of enlightenment, these people had their own culture worthy of respect.

That's how Encrid saw it.

Was it uncomfortable to accept?

Perhaps, or perhaps not.

These were matters a sword couldn't resolve.

A sword could protect people, slay monsters, or lead one to war, but it wasn't a tool for addressing culture or politics.

Such things were best left to others.

He didn't need to involve himself.

He simply hoped things would turn out well.

As Encrid passed the time, the morning sun rose, and Rem arrived.

"What're you doing?"

"Just watching."

Ayul and Juol accompanied him.

"Will LuaGarne and Smelly come with us?" Rem asked, looking past Encrid.

Dunbakel, who was nodding off on a small rock, perked up immediately upon hearing "Smelly," recognizing it as his nickname. It seemed his obliviousness only applied when it wasn't necessary.

"Where to?"

"We're heading somewhere with the captain."

"I'm coming."

Luagarne chimed in from the side.

Although she found the Westerners amusing and stimulating, her strongest interest lay in Encrid.

His existence continued to baffle her.

How does he block curses?

She couldn't grasp the principle or the reason.

He hadn't learned sorcery, nor did he possess any magical tools.

As for his swordsmanship?

How could one explain its development?

Even now, he seemed to have reached his limit—both in talent and skill.

Further dramatic improvement seemed impossible.

He could grow slightly stronger and tougher, but only marginally.

That was his ceiling.

It had been evident from their first meeting.

And yet, this man stood in the liminal space between knight and squire.

How?

She didn't know.

Occasionally, a person would break through their limits through sheer fortune.

Cases beyond even a Frog's ability to analyze talent?

They existed—often attributed to divine intervention or a goddess's kiss of fortune.

But this isn't luck.

To Luagarne, luck was the result of preparation.

Without preparation, even fortune was meaningless.

In her eyes, Encrid prepared every day, tirelessly.

Born without innate gifts?

That didn't matter.

"I'll become a knight."

That's what he declared, and he simply moved toward that goal, without hesitation or doubt.

Luagarne shuddered with admiration daily.

She felt this fascination growing with each encounter.

Where could I ever find another like him?

Nowhere.

Then I must follow him.

Initially, her motives were partially selfish.

She'd hoped to secure him as a spiritual partner.

But those desires had long since vanished.

Now, she simply wished to stay by his side, to see where his path led, how he walked it, and how the world changed with each step.

I'm curious.

That insatiable curiosity was what drove her to follow him so closely.

"Alright," Smelly (Dunbakel) agreed, nodding without much thought. It wasn't like she had anything better to do.

"Let's go, then. It'll probably take about a month," Rem announced.

A month?

That sounded long.

Encrid considered this and asked, "You're not going to tell us where we're going?"

"Didn't I mention it?"

"No, you didn't."

"Ah, that's because the captain was spouting nonsense yesterday."

Only someone like Rem could shift the blame so effortlessly.

Ayul nodded as though it made sense—accepting absurdity as a matter of course.

There was a saying in the West: When the husband sings, the wife follows.

Rem blaming others and Ayul nodding in agreement was an irritatingly fitting image.

Encrid waited patiently for an explanation, and Rem, sensing no further need for excuses, finally elaborated.

"There's something called the Path of Grime."

It was a tale rooted in ancient traditions, passed down through time.