A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

The stench clinging to Enkrid’s body made it clear—the lingering presence of the wraiths summoned by the Count had left its mark.

"Hot water and a bath, please. No attendants needed."

The moment he returned to the royal palace, Enkrid bathed, ate, and slept.

Rem, Ragna, Audin, and Jaxon were no different.

After a deep, dreamless sleep, they awoke.

At some point, a healer had come to tend to their wounds, but they had all refused.

"I know my body best."

That was Rem’s response as he dismissed them.

"It is a punishment given to me."

Audin’s reaction was no different.

Ragna waved them off, and Jaxon simply acted as though he wasn’t injured at all.

The healer muttered that he had never met such stubborn patients and was about to leave when he suddenly turned to Enkrid, bowing his head.

"Thank you."

The words came unexpectedly, but the healer’s tone was heavy with sincerity.

Enkrid, still too drained to fully grasp the weight of his actions, could only watch.

The schedule had been relentless, and though the battle was over, work remained.

Preparing for war was demanding, but the aftermath required even more effort.

It was said that a general who fought well could win battles, a general who prepared well could win engagements, but only a general who managed the aftermath well could win wars.

The cleanup was just as important as the fight itself.

And now, there was much to handle.

The remnants of the Count’s forces needed to be dealt with, fallen equipment had to be recovered, and the camps had to be dismantled.

Once all of that was done, they would have to march back to the capital.

Even with the satisfaction of victory, achieving all this within three days was a feat in itself.

Though Enkrid knew little of battlefield logistics, this was where Marcus had truly shined.

He had handled it all seamlessly.

Of course, it helped that Crang had spared them from unnecessary victory speeches.

"I think everyone should rest. Do you really think hearing some pompous speech from someone who barely fought is important right now? You’d be better off using that time to wrap another bandage around an injured soldier’s arm."

Instead of indulging in grand words, Crang had gone directly to the wounded, tending to them openly.

Few even recognized him as the prince and heir to the throne.

After all, not many soldiers actually knew what he looked like.

Crang could inspire men with speeches when necessary, but now was not the time.

And so, he proved his words with actions.

Only after everything had been settled did Enkrid and the others return.

Receiving the healer’s gratitude, Enkrid found himself lost in thought before finally asking,

"Do you know me?"

"My son was on the battlefield."

The healer limped slightly as he spoke.

"If not for my leg, I would have gone too."

He turned away, his gratitude not one of personal relief.

His son had died.

No words could bring back the dead, and the healer's grief was unbearable.

But there was one small solace.

Had the battle ended in defeat, his son's death would have meant nothing.

At least now, there was some meaning to it.

While the capital overflowed with celebration—the victory of the civil war, the survival against impossible odds, the triumph of those who returned alive—there were still those who had lost family and lovers.