A Knight Who Eternally Regresses-Chapter 419: As the Heart Desires

"You're staying at Border Guard, right?"

At Kraiss's question, Enkrid nodded.

"I figured as much and made some preparations, but if you need anything else, just let me know. My utmost loyalty!"

Ever since seeing both the general and the treasure, Kraiss's eyes had gleamed like gold coins, and he had started spitting out the word loyalty in every other sentence.

Enkrid didn't hold it against him. No matter what anyone said, the man got his job done properly.

His lodgings had changed. They were larger now, with more rooms, and a new training ground had been built in front.

The Mad Platoon had always had a designated training area, but this time, the difference was fundamental.

Smooth, evenly laid stone covered the vast grounds.

To one side, neatly planted trees bore green leaves heavy with morning dew.

The sun was starting to rise.

It was summer, the season when dawn came early.

Trees, flowers, the rising sun.

Enkrid watched the leaves sway in the wind and drew his sword.

Then, as usual, he repeated his daily training.

There were no sparring sessions planned for today.

"Let's have a go when my axes are finished," Rem muttered through clenched teeth.

"My greatsword isn't ready yet," Ragna added, furrowing his brows.

"Are you seriously going to stab and cut with that thing, General Brother?"

Even Audin subtly declined.

"I'm not doing it," Dunbakel said flatly.

"I just got a new shield," Teresa chimed in, shaking her head.

"My ankle grew back, sure, but even if I had three, it wouldn't be enough to fight you now."

Lua Gharne, another potential opponent, dismissed the idea.

Sinar was nowhere to be seen.

"I'm not ready yet."

Even Bell, when called upon, shook his head, adding that he still couldn't win.

He didn't seem eager to fight.

Enkrid felt a pang of disappointment.

After all, the only thing he had done was test Acker, the legendary sword he had newly acquired.

During that test, he had split Rem’s axe head and cut Ragna’s borrowed blade in half, but that couldn't be helped.

A new sword demanded testing.

"Don't you think that's a bit unfair?" Rem grumbled.

Enkrid calmly replied, "Properly equipping oneself is also a skill."

"The king just handed it to you— Never mind."

Rem gave up on arguing. He figured using sorcery one more time would be less exhausting than trying to out-talk Enkrid.

"Come at me, western savage barbarian," Enkrid teased.

He mocked Rem a few more times, but Rem, having learned his lesson, simply closed his ears and ignored him.

Enkrid soon cleared his mind and focused on his training.

Slash, thrust, cut.

The sword moved, raising gusts of wind, rustling the leaves.

"Everything visible holds something to learn."

It wasn't always about achieving some grand enlightenment.

Repeating movements, reducing minor errors, refining technique—

With each swing, the knowledge he had accumulated blended naturally.

A continuous sequence of thrusts and cuts, followed by an instant application of Will.

"Two movements within one breath."

Ragna had performed three within one breath.

Enkrid had seen it when he cut down the spectral general in front of the count.

He couldn't replicate it yet.

What Ragna had done was beyond technique—it was near supernatural.

To Enkrid, his swordplay appeared to be the closest thing to true knighthood.

Repeat, repeat again.

If the Ferryman had been present, he would have cursed him as a tedious bastard.

A slash followed by sudden acceleration.

The sword, pressing down, moved through an imaginary battle, envisioning strategic maneuvers.

His opponents in this mental sparring included child prodigies he had once encountered, mercenaries from his past, Liravart, Rem, Ragna, Audin—

None of them were easy.

Enkrid was already among the top in the ranks of quasi-knights, but battle outcomes were different from sparring matches.

A stray blade could kill anyone.

"Never speak of victory before the fight begins."

Three of his instructors had told him the same thing.

Strangely, all three had initially refused to teach him, only relenting after witnessing his persistence turn into sheer obsession.

And so, he swung his sword again and again, sweat spraying in every direction.

To Enkrid, the closest person to knighthood was Ragna.

The way he had cleaved through the enemy standing before him—

The swordplay he had displayed while carving through the tide of spectral knights—

It was clear that Ragna had already surpassed the level of a quasi-knight.

So Enkrid asked, "Have you reached knighthood?"

"I don't know."

"You don’t know?"

"I haven’t been there yet, so I wouldn’t know."

Despite his words, Ragna exuded confidence.

The kind only a genius could possess.

His attitude said it all:

"I haven’t reached it yet, but I will."

That unwavering belief was evident in both his actions and demeanor.

Enkrid was well aware of his own lack of talent.

And he was surrounded by geniuses like Ragna.

Rem, Audin—

Even Dunbakel and Teresa had improved tremendously, beyond comparison to their past selves.

Bell had the ability to assess an opponent's skill at a glance, which was enough to be considered genius-level.

As for Squire Rophod, Enkrid had no idea why he had followed him, but even his talent likely surpassed Enkrid’s.

And Liravart—

He was a poet drowning in despair.

He sang of hopelessness, danced in the abyss of failure, and lamented his fate so deeply that he strayed into the dark arts.

"Despair! Sink into oblivion!"

The Ferryman's ghostly voice echoed.

Enkrid ignored it completely.

His stance remained firm, his mind undisturbed.

Just as he was lost in sweat and training—

Footsteps.

Soft, deliberate.

Enkrid halted his sword and turned his gaze.

The figure approached from the direction of the rising sun.

The bright morning light cast a silhouette—

Reddish-brown hair, arms swinging in a natural rhythm.

Enkrid knew that at any moment, a silent dagger could fly from those hands.

He also knew that beneath that man's clothing, countless blades and hidden weapons were concealed.

If Audin’s body was like a hammer of steel,

Then the man approaching now was a living weapon—

A walking instrument of death.

As Enkrid's skill improved, his vision expanded.

He now saw what he hadn't before—

The preparations embedded in Jaxon’s every movement.

Every step, every slight shift of his hands revealed something hidden.

Enkrid adjusted his footing.

His fingers curled around his sword belt, shifting just enough to grasp Acker.

A sword bearing the name of a knight from the kingdom’s founding legends—

A royal treasure.

"Would it be okay to break it?"

It was a gift, after all.

If Jaxon attacked now, Enkrid suspected neither °• N 𝑜 v 𝑒 l i g h t •° he nor Acker would walk away unscathed.

Among assassins, there was an unspoken ranking system—

Those who outwardly radiated killing intent were third-rate.

Those who concealed it slightly were second-rate.

Those who left no trace of intent were first-rate.

And those who approached casually, naturally, as if they were simply passing by—

They were beyond classification.

Jaxon remained the same as ever,

But Enkrid’s heightened senses told him otherwise.

"You've improved tremendously," Jaxon said as he neared.

"Not enough," Enkrid replied.

He let his arm slacken, removing tension from his muscles.

To release a sudden burst of speed, he had to remain loose.

"You mean... not enough to become a knight?"

Enkrid nodded.

Jaxon stopped walking.

With the sun at his back, his face was cast in shadow, making him appear colder than ever.

"I have a question."

"Ask."

"Why didn’t you join the knightly order?"

***

“Are you returning now?”

In the past, when the former master of Geor Dagger was still in charge, there was an unspoken rule once an infiltration mission was completed.

Everyone who could suspect the identity of the infiltrating guild member had to be eliminated.

It was no longer a strict protocol in the present.

However, the situation was different when the target was none other than the master of Geor Dagger.

The master of Geor Dagger was someone who should always remain hidden behind the veil of mystery.

“Should I take care of it?”

His lover, who was also the master's daughter, asked.

Jaxon did not answer. His lips did not part easily.

“If it’s to be done, I’ll do it myself.”

His lover nodded.

That was fair.

Then, when would it be done, and when would he return? The backlogged requests were one thing, but the greater issue was that the master’s prolonged absence had led to a lack of discipline.

There were plenty of people just waiting for an opportunity to seize that position.

Even just a quick estimate brought the number past five.

‘No, it’s closer to ten.’

This translation is the intellectual property of Novelight.

Even so, he respected the master and followed his will.

For no real reason, Jaxon was still here. He could have left before the civil war began, and he could have left after. He didn’t even have to return to the Border Guard.

There had been countless opportunities to kill those who suspected his identity.

Regardless of whether success or failure awaited him, why had he never attempted it?

There were too many questions he couldn't understand.

“May I ask why?”

It was not the question of a guild member serving a master, but the question of a lover. Jaxon hesitated for a moment.

“If you ask, I think I’ll know.”

“Know what?”

“Why I never became a knight.”

To the woman, it was a sudden and incomprehensible statement. But to Jaxon, it was not.

‘Master.’

All the way here, the words of the former master echoed in Jaxon’s mind.

***

“Are you returning now?”

In the past, when the former master of Geor Dagger was still in charge, there was an unspoken rule once an infiltration mission was completed.

Everyone who could suspect the identity of the infiltrating guild member had to be eliminated.

It was no longer a strict protocol in the present.

However, the situation was different when the target was none other than the master of Geor Dagger.

The master of Geor Dagger was someone who should always remain hidden behind the veil of mystery.

“Should I take care of it?”

His lover, who was also the master's daughter, asked.

Jaxon did not answer. His lips did not part easily.

“If it’s to be done, I’ll do it myself.”

His lover nodded.

That was fair.

Then, when would it be done, and when would he return? The backlogged requests were one thing, but the greater issue was that the master’s prolonged absence had led to a lack of discipline.

There were plenty of people just waiting for an opportunity to seize that position.

Even just a quick estimate brought the number past five.

‘No, it’s closer to ten.’

Even so, he respected the master and followed his will.

For no real reason, Jaxon was still here. He could have left before the civil war began, and he could have left after. He didn’t even have to return to the Border Guard.

There had been countless opportunities to kill those who suspected his identity.

Regardless of whether success or failure awaited him, why had he never attempted it?

There were too many questions he couldn't understand.

“May I ask why?”

It was not the question of a guild member serving a master, but the question of a lover. Jaxon hesitated for a moment.

“If you ask, I think I’ll know.”

“Know what?”

“Why I never became a knight.”

To the woman, it was a sudden and incomprehensible statement. But to Jaxon, it was not.

‘Master.’

All the way here, the words of the former master echoed in Jaxon’s mind.

“A technique without heart is nothing more than a mere killing art, you fool.”

Was that something to say to someone who had come to learn the art of killing?

“Do you enjoy killing people? Is it fun for you?”

He didn’t always feel that way, but at times, yes, it was enjoyable.

“Don’t laugh. Seeing you smile makes me feel like I made the wrong choice.”

He wasn’t even curious what choice the master was talking about.

From the very beginning, the master had always spoken in a similar manner.

“If you have something precious, even the mere art of killing can become a sword that protects someone.”

Jaxon had asked the master in return.

“Then what is it that you’re protecting, Master?”

“My daughter. My family. The fools who live for me alone. And fences—the kind that keep people like you from being unleashed upon the world.”

Half of it made sense, the other half did not.

In reality, none of it was particularly important.

It was just something to listen to and let pass.

What mattered to Jaxon was power—power for revenge.

So now that his revenge was complete, should he find a new target for vengeance?

Should he keep seeking out those who remained and kill them one by one?

Was that the right path?

Before he could judge right or wrong, he had already thought of it as something that had to be done. That was why he was here.

“Now, Jaxon Bensino, heir of Bensino. Do you want to become nothing more than a mad killer? Is your only goal in life to perfect the art of murder? Is that your dream? Is that all you are?”

The master’s words continued to ring through Jaxon’s mind.

Enkrid fell into brief thought at Jaxon’s sudden question.

‘Why, indeed?’

He had never really considered the reason before.

But thinking about it now, he could have remained in the knighthood. If he had wanted to stay in the capital and join a knight order, who would have refused him?

Crang had been ready to establish an entirely new knight order for him if necessary. Aisia had subtly suggested he don a crimson cloak.

And now, the Duke of Octo had even openly said—

“Staying in the capital and joining a knight order—what do you think? I believe it would be a great opportunity for you.”

If Marquis Baisar had offered a political connection, then the Duke of Octo had wanted Enkrid to become one of the pillars supporting this land.

Enkrid had simply brushed aside all of their proposals.

At the time, all he had wanted was to return and swing his sword in peace, morning and evening.

“Just because.”

But a more detailed explanation was needed, so Enkrid added,

“I moved as my heart willed.”

If he had to delve deeper, it was because he had never found the kind of knight he aspired to be. Enkrid had never found chivalry.

He had seen the knight orders of the capital, but had they contained true chivalry? Honor? Loyalty? Integrity?

Help the weak.

Raise your sword for justice.

A battlefield where children do not fight.

A battle fought for those who protect the rear.

The virtues once praised—now abandoned.

Enkrid had not felt the need to don a crimson cloak to walk the path he sought.

That was the underlying reason behind his words.

“There was no knight order that had what I sought.”

Feeling his explanation was still lacking, Enkrid simply laid out his thoughts.

Though his words were brief, the meaning was conveyed.

“A lofty dream.”

Rem would have said something like that.

Jaxon only furrowed his brows at Enkrid’s words.