A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

“What is swordsmanship, really?”

Oara asked that question after their spar. They weren’t even in a proper training yard—it was just a backyard.

Enkrid was kneeling on one knee, clutching his abdomen.

He had dodged a vertical slash, and the follow-up thrust as well.

He’d seen that move many times before. With his sense for evasion honed, he could avoid it.

But while he managed to dodge the swordplay, Oara had immediately closed the distance after her swing and slammed her palm into his gut.

The impact pierced through his organs and felt like it burst out his back. It was a miracle he hadn’t coughed up blood.

Of course, her strike was imbued with Will—but the motion itself had been simple. Almost absurdly so.

“What does it take to subdue your opponent? Think about it.”

Enkrid nodded. As he showed proper military etiquette, Oara gave him a bright smile and walked off.

Enkrid chewed on her words. They didn’t really hit him.

Oara showed up again the next day.

“Don’t tell me you didn’t get what I meant. That’d be weird—at your level, your body should’ve understood by now.”

Tilting her head, the brown-haired knight continued like it was no big deal.

“Don’t you think you know too much? When a water jug is full, it overflows—and the water that spills over can’t be drunk.”

“And that’s a problem?”

“As long as you swing only what’s needed, when it’s needed, that’s all there is to it. You need to remember that.”

It wasn’t some thunderclap of realization. But Enkrid understood what she meant.

‘Too much knowledge is a weakness?’

Oara had said something similar again.

“You’ve got more than enough in terms of technique. Toss out what you don’t need.”

She was firm, and Enkrid hesitated. It might have been the perfect advice for him at that moment.

But why couldn’t he fully accept it?

He didn’t know. Just a gut feeling. He didn’t like it.

As he pondered, his gaze drifted to Rem, who was diligently sharpening his axe.

Shhrrrk.

The sound of the whetstone sliding along the blade rang clean and bright in the air.

Sweat beaded on Rem’s forehead. He was more focused than ever. It was rare to see him this serious.

Far more effort than he ever put into teasing Ragna or messing with the soldiers.

Shhrrrk.

That sound had been constant for the past few days, echoing in his ears.

“Rem.”

“Can’t you see I’m busy?”

Rem replied without even glancing up. Enkrid moved to stand where he cast shade over Rem’s head.

“Do you think I’m greedy?”

Shhrrrk—the whetstone moved again.

“Is that even a question?”

The reply was blunt. Like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

To Enkrid, it didn’t even feel like a real answer—it was like Rem telling him to shut up.

So he sat down beside him.

He drew Acker, Spark, and Gladius and began wiping them down with linseed oil. The blades gleamed, catching the sunlight.

Snort.

Dunbakel exhaled beside him, training her muscles.