A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

At the break of dawn, both armies began their movements.

They stood in the same formation as yesterday.

The vast plains served as their stage, and the rising wind became their silent spectator.

This time, instead of individual duels, archers, infantry, and cavalry lined up in formation.

There was no explicit agreement, but both commanders standing at the vanguard wordlessly accepted the sunrise as their signal.

Enkrid watched, walking forward.

His steps were light, as if he were on a morning stroll.

But this wasn’t a real stroll.

He was fully armed.

Three swords and his whistle dagger—every piece of gear was meticulously secured.

There was another difference from before.

The placement of his weapons had changed.

• Silver now hung from his left hip.
• Ember rested on his right hip.
• His gladius, shortened after its tip was chipped in the last battle, was now hooked horizontally along his back belt.

With two finger-widths of its blade missing, this new position was more practical.

Would the dwarf who forged this be upset if he saw it?

Dwarves took great pride in their weapons.

Just as elves took pride in the trees, flowers, and plants they nurtured—calling themselves the children of the forest—dwarves were the children of iron and flame.

Giants, who proved themselves through blood and slaughter, were the children of hot-blooded war.

Beastfolk, who hunted for survival, were the children of the mountains and fields.

Dragonkin, who stood alone, were children of no one.

The Frokk, who staked everything on their dreams, were the children of ambition.

And humans?

Humans had no symbolic lineage.

Because they could become anything.

It was a fleeting thought.

Walking alongside the army, Enkrid checked his equipment.

• The placement of his swords.
• The state of his sword belt.
• His movement range, adjusting so the gladius at his back wouldn’t interfere.

"Block, evade, strike."

"Feint, strike, cleave."

He simulated battle in his mind, replaying yesterday’s fight.

From the outside, he must have looked like a madman flailing his limbs as he walked.

But no one glared at him.

No one complained.

Instead—

"Are you fighting with us today as well?"

A soldier, mustering his courage, asked.

The man stood at the head of a fifty-man company halted in formation.

Their commander had spoken.

All fifty pairs of eyes turned toward him.

Enkrid nodded.

He would fight.

Against the same opponent as yesterday.

It was just a gut feeling.

But he was certain.

Though his enemy had admitted defeat, the flames burning in his eyes had not faded.

That man would return.

Enkrid finished his mental rehearsal and path adjustments as he moved between formations.

Behind him, Rem, Jaxon, Ragna, and Dunbakel followed.

"Look at this weather, huh?"

Rem mused.

Enkrid glanced up.

The clouds weren’t thick enough for rain yet, but they were gathering fast.

They moved quickly—visible even from afar.

But there was no scent of rain.

Dunbakel sniffed and said,

"Won’t rain until tomorrow."

Ragna remained indifferent, while Jaxon, as always, kept his expression unreadable.

Rem, on the other hand, grinned like an excited child.

"We're going to shit blood today."