A Knight Who Eternally Regresses-Chapter 432: Like a Black Lightning Bolt

Enkrid didn’t spend the time waiting for Ragna idly.

Of course not. That was just the kind of person he was.

And even now, it was the same. He had called for Rem, and they were creating friction between sword and axe.

Clang!

A silver-bladed axe blocked Acker, which had been swung at an angle, and pushed the sword away.

Enkrid braced his arm, twisted his waist, and redirected the pushing force.

Sensing this, Rem pretended to pull the axe back, then brought it down vertically.

Thud!

Once again, their weapons clashed and then separated.

Sparks flew between the blades.

Neither side yielded an inch.

After that, the exchange of techniques and defenses continued.

A relentless dialogue of sword and axe, without a moment to breathe. No human could live without breathing.

Both of them pushed their stamina to the very limit, to the point where their vision was spinning.

This was already the twelfth time such a moment occurred. The intense sparring that had gone on for hours left even Enkrid panting.

Rem was no different.

“Huff, huff, watch closely.”

Rem stepped back as he spoke, then pursed his lips into a perfect circle.

Then, he inhaled sharply. His ragged breathing and heaving shoulders calmed.

Enkrid instinctively traced the line drawn by the axe starting from Rem’s shoulder.

As expected, Rem swung the axe.

No, it didn’t stop at just one swing.

Enkrid barely managed to counter with Acker.

Ching!

Their blades crossed. Enkrid twisted his body and dodged.

Rem’s axe continued swinging in a way that made it hard to believe he had just been gasping for breath.

Rem’s axe had always been fierce, sharp, fast, and heavy.

When that unnervingly light iron axe flew in without recoil, it made your neck feel like it was about to snap.

But this was more than that.

Panting one moment and then doing this the next?

Amidst the fast, recoil-less axe strikes, another axe flew in with an irregular rhythm.

Both axes in Rem’s hands shattered tempo and rhythm, coming in an unrelenting storm. Enkrid blocked them with Acker and Gladius, feeling like he was trying to catch a downpour with bare hands.

These weren’t attacks that could be blocked just by predicting them.

Even this was Rem going easy on him.

If he hadn’t, Enkrid’s arm would’ve been taken at the very least.

“When you think it’s over, squeeze out that last bit. I call it a fistful of breath.”

Rem said this, now gasping even harder than before. His complexion had turned a sickly shade of purple. It was the result of holding his breath and unleashing every last bit of energy in his body.

Rem still taught more through action than words.

It was easier for both the teacher and the student that way.

Once his breathing evened out, Rem continued.

“You might die if your heart bursts. Or your blood vessels. Hell, you might just feel like your lifespan got a bit shorter.”

It was far more dangerous than the Heart of Might.

Originally, it was a technique meant to be used with protective sorcery, but Rem had modified it slightly.

It was possible because of the insights he had gained from using sorcery lately.

And this was a technique that would probably be even more useful in the hands of that crazy bastard in front of him.

“If you want to land even one hit, you better learn it before you go up against him.”

The spar with Ragna was two days away.

Rem expressed his intention to help with that.

There was no reason for Enkrid to refuse. So he didn’t. He got up in the morning, loosened his body with the Isolation Technique, and then learned the Fistful of Breath from Rem.

Rem didn’t hold back on advice, either.

“I’m naturally ambidextrous, but you’re not.”

“What are you trying to say?”

While teaching Enkrid, Rem was also busy honing his own skills. It was obvious just by looking.

He was sweating like never before, throwing himself into training.

This translation is the intellectual property of Novelight.

Because of that, even Dunbakel was having a hard time, and the task Enkrid had given—to form a unit—had been pushed to the side.

Enkrid didn’t press the matter.

He wasn’t the type to do something just because he was told to.

Kraiss likely didn’t consider forming the unit urgent either.

“Troop formation is important, but war isn’t going to break out right away. We’ve got at least a year of peace ahead.”

That was the time needed to stabilize the country as a king.

More than anything, after seeing the Border Guard’s policies, Naurillia had begun setting up outposts in every city connected to the capital.

The kingdom and the Border Guard were developing in similar ways.

Of course, Enkrid spent that time swinging his sword instead of worrying about such things.

In any case, regardless of forming a unit or not, Rem was swinging his axe more diligently than ever.

And amidst all that, he was still sparring with Enkrid, so some of his explanations could be a little lacking.

“I’m not actually using both hands properly right now—this is just a half-measure.”

“Explain—huff—more. Go on.”

Enkrid stabbed the tip of his sword into the ground, catching his breath as he spoke.

Rem thought for a moment, then asked,

“Can you write with your left hand?”

He couldn’t.

He could pull sparks with his left hand and activate the Will of Speed, but he couldn’t write.

“If you’re going to use both hands, use them properly. Doing it halfway is worse than not doing it at all.”

He wasn’t obsessed with dual-wielding weapons. But Rem was right.

If you have something, you should use it properly.

Otherwise, it’s meaningless.

And now, only opponents who wouldn’t fall for anything less than that remained.

Two days passed quickly, but this time Enkrid delayed things. It was because Lua Gharne had intervened.

Of course, Enkrid agreed with her reasoning.

“Postpone the sparring. You’ll ask why, right? Sure. You know well enough that a few more days won’t dramatically increase your skill. But you might be able to steady your resolve. You can’t just toss away what you learned from the Mercenary King.”

Lua Gharne never started with the answer.

You had to realize it on your own. She gave help for that—but never handed over the solution outright.

That was her way.

Enkrid dragged it out for a few more days.

In the meantime, he practiced writing and eating with his left hand.

“If you’ve built flexible and firm muscles, then using them is what gives them meaning, brother.”

Audin also helped Enkrid.

Enkrid learned a few more techniques from the Balafian martial arts style.

One joint-lock and one striking move.

Not every technique came with a name.

Ragna merely watched from a distance.

Meanwhile, despite his terrible handwriting, Enkrid learned to write letters with his left hand.

He needed to send a reply to the personal letter he had received from the king anyway.

Kraiss had seen that and had asked out of curiosity about what the king’s letter said.

“What did it say?”

It was probably something like a promise to send resources to keep the eastern king in check.

Hadn’t the ◈ Nоvеlіgһт ◈ (Continue reading) letter arrived shortly after the news of the Mercenary King?

Kraiss had been worried when he saw the letter arrive.

But his prediction was way off.

“He said he’s taken the throne, but it’s not really all it’s cracked up to be.”

“A complaint?”

Enkrid nodded.

At a Time Like This?

Was it Crang who was strange, or was it his captain who was?

Kraiss couldn’t be sure.

Either way, that was the kind of letter it was.

It basically said, If you’re going to do it, do it right.

Enkrid set down the quill in his left hand, then clenched and released his fingers.

Still not enough.

You couldn’t make your left hand work like your right in just a day. But he was beginning to understand what Lua Gharne had meant. That was why he stood and walked outside.

The sun was overhead, and the day was brighter than any other. Not a single cloud marred the sky, and the heat pricked his nose.

The scent of heated stone, dry earth, and fresh grass all mixed in the air. It wasn’t a bad day.

He had said two days to Ragna, but a week had passed.

Ragna had waited without protest.

In the meantime, Ragna had come to believe he could now control his sword perfectly.

Even when swinging with full force, he could stop it with a mere cut of a strand of hair. He could stop it perfectly—without leaving a single red mark on the skin.

If they had sparred after just two days, he might’ve ended it by slicing off an arm. But now, that wouldn’t happen.

“I’ve waited a long time.”

It was the center of the training ground. Ragna had swung his sword alone in that same spot every day.

At a glance, it didn’t look like any impressive swordsmanship was being trained. If anything, it looked even sloppier than before—just a series of loose, ragged swings.

Off to the side, Rem sat with his arms crossed on a self-made chair.

Next to him, Audin sat atop a large boulder he’d somehow dragged over.

Dunbakel, Teresa, Bell, and Rophod were all watching as well.

Jaxon was absent again today, and so was Esther.

Both of them were constantly busy.

Enkrid didn’t care about anyone’s gaze.

He raised his sword and pointed it. The tip of Acker became a dot aimed directly at his opponent.

That pressure—will turned to force—reached Ragna.

But Ragna was unaffected.

To Enkrid, Ragna didn’t feel particularly overwhelming. If anything, he seemed weaker than before.

“If you miss, you die.”

The moment Ragna opened his mouth—

It came from beyond perception. Which meant it couldn’t be seen with the naked eye—only barely sensed through instinct.

Somehow, the dark blade of Ragna’s sword traced across Enkrid’s thigh.

It was a strike from an angle he hadn’t anticipated.

The speed and timing were such that even attempting to block with Acker didn’t seem possible.

Enkrid, relying purely on instinct, barely shifted his center of gravity backward. That tilt saved him from a fatal wound.

The dark blade passed over the thin fabric of his pants. From the torn spot, blood slowly seeped out, soaking the cloth.

He understood from a single blow.

“A knight?”

Enkrid muttered.

“Just the beginning.”

Ragna remained calm. Rem, watching, found that composure all the more irritating and opened his mouth.

“Bastard’s like a damn Spenadul.”

“Spenadul” was a Western term. Literally, it meant a bastard who smokes through his asshole.

In the West, it carried a deeper meaning—expecting something from actions that served no purpose—and was commonly used to insult lazy people.

Naturally, no one here would understand it.

And even if they did, they weren’t about to react.

Ragna, with the same calm expression, held his sword. That massive black greatsword, forged from heavy, silent steel, looked lighter than a rapier in his hand.

If he swung it as-is, the blade looked like it would curve like a whip.

He didn’t exude pressure, yet anyone who saw him now would instinctively step back.

His sword looked like an inescapable divine punishment—like a black bolt of lightning falling from the heavens.

Even though the blade had not yet swung, everyone watching could already feel the weight of the sword Ragna would soon unleash.

Audin’s brow furrowed ever so slightly. This wasn’t a strike that could be blocked with a binding seal in place.

Even before the sword fell, Teresa saw a vision of her shield splitting apart.

Dunbakel broke into a cold sweat.

In her eyes, she saw her own death. If she didn’t want to die, she shouldn’t face that sword.

The hand holding the Idol Slayer trembled, veins bulging across Bell’s knuckles.

Rophod remembered the one true knight he had seen just once in his life.

Rophod had seen it clearly.

Lua Gharne stood off to the side, silently watching Enkrid.

Everyone showed signs of tension.

That was what it meant to be a knight. A walking natural disaster, one who could change the very air just by being there. A calamity.

And if that calamity stood before you, holding a sword? If that sword was aimed at you?

Frokk’s bulging eyes didn’t move from Enkrid, not Ragna, who had reached the threshold of knighthood.

To be precise, he couldn’t take his eyes off Enkrid.

He’s... smiling?

Enkrid smiled.

It was the same smile he wore when the Ferryman told him he would die now, that the wall would block his path, and that he would live this day over and over again.

No one else could possibly understand it—but that’s what it was.

Enkrid smiled.

Fwoosh.

The black bolt of lightning came without thunder. A blade without a roar, threatening to split Enkrid clean in two.

CLANG!

Of course, that didn’t happen.

Shhhk...

Enkrid raised his sword above his forehead to block, but the force pushed him back and the blade he held grazed his own forehead. Drops of blood trickled down.

He had crossed Acker and Gladius to block the black lightning right before it struck.

It was a dangerously close call, but he managed to block it.

He had turned Gladius in a rush, which caused the blade to scrape his forehead.

The steadily dripping blood was not insignificant—his face was quickly stained red.

Even so, he didn’t close his eyes.

It wasn’t some grand revelation.

Enkrid had spent his entire life searching for a way, wandering down paths, chasing after distant signposts.

A madman who had stitched together shattered, torn dreams to make it this far.

And that’s why, in this moment—he felt joy.