A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

Enkrid felt every hair on his body stand on end.

At any moment, his opponent’s blade could come for his throat.

Would he be able to block it?

Rather than letting the question take hold, his body moved first.

He adjusted his footing and placed his hand on the sword belt—ready to draw at any instant.

In his mind, dozens of attack patterns emerged and vanished just as quickly.

What if I throw a Whistle Dagger to distract him?

Or should he charge in and suppress him with the Heavy Blade?

Would The Giant’s Strike be an option?

His One Point Focus activated instinctively, and he refused to even blink.

He saw his opponent’s eyes.

Yellow. Amused.

That amusement alone was enough to kill.

Yes, it really could.

But so what? Would that change anything?

His focus burned hotter. His vision sharpened.

Every attack he could think of would be blocked. He knew that.

So? What did it matter?

Raised hairs, a pounding heart, trickling sweat, an unnatural chill in the summer heat—

Enkrid pushed it all aside.

The last time he had faced a knight of this caliber, his only chance had been to attack first.

Because he hadn’t even been confident in blocking a single strike.

Back then, it had been his best option.

And now?

He had been beaten down, broken, and battered, yet he had never stopped moving forward.

Every day, without rest, he swung his sword until his palms burst open.

Not a single day had been wasted.

The sun rose anew each morning, but Enkrid had never allowed his days to blend into meaningless routine.

Will it work?

A deep hunger surged within him.

Would it be okay to go for it now?

He wanted to.

His fighting spirit burned, and everything else disappeared—only his opponent remained.

Is this arrogance? Hubris?

Before he had even become the troublesome leader of the Mad Platoon, his endless training had started to feel like something that had happened a lifetime ago.

Back then, even Enkrid had felt something akin to confidence.

How could he not?

He had swung his sword like a madman, over and over again.

He had refused to acknowledge that effort didn’t always grant equal rewards to everyone.

Or maybe he had known—but had simply ignored it.

The confidence he gained among mediocrities had once driven him to challenge stronger foes.

"How strong am I now?"

That was what had led him to seek out a worthy opponent.

His steps back then had been fueled by nothing but blind belief that he must have improved.