A Knight Who Eternally Regresses-Chapter 211: My Name is Enkrid

The commander of the Tortoise Heavy Infantry, Graham of the 1st Company, was doing his job.

"Who are we?"

At the captain's lead:

"Woohah!"

His subordinates echoed back.

"We are the wall! The moving fortress of the Border Guard!"

Once again, the captain shouted:

"We are the wall!"

The heavy infantry soldiers strained their vocal cords, producing guttural roars that somehow conveyed their resolve. The louder their shouts, the higher their morale soared.

Regardless of Enkrid’s group's actions elsewhere, Graham and his men were determined to be a fortress.

This was, after all, what his company did best and the plan they had prepared from the beginning.

Graham had anticipated that their old rival, Greg's assault company, would be their opponent.

The Martai assault company and the Border Guard heavy infantry had a long-standing rivalry.

However, Graham never got the chance to face Greg himself.

Enkrid’s group of five had torn through Greg’s assault company before Graham could engage them.

After witnessing this, Graham’s battle proceeded with an unusual calm for a battlefield.

“Raise shields!”

The tactics of heavy infantry were simple yet effective.

Raise shields to hold the line.

"Two forward!"

Close the distance step by step. Thud. Thud.

"Two forward" meant two deliberate steps forward. Their pace was slow, unified by their training, and unwaveringly stable.

The tortoise crawled forward.

"Strike!"

The third command was to strike at close range with their heavy blunt weapons.

Every soldier was armed with a hammer capped with a rounded metal head.

Thunk! Thunk! Thunk!

The force was unstoppable, capable of smashing through leather helmets and basic armor alike.

Crack!

One hammer crashed against a Martai soldier's wooden shield, splitting it vertically in two.

The next hammer inevitably found its way to the soldier's skull.

Crack!

The sound of bone shattering and the spray of blood as the soldier collapsed was expected.

No amount of finesse could counter the brutal, relentless force of hammers.

Corpses began to pile in front of the heavy infantry line.

A few clever enemy soldiers managed to evade and strike back with swords, but ting!

The Border Guard heavy infantry were clad in chainmail reinforced with plates, paid for with countless krona.

Even if an enemy blade pierced the chainmail, beneath it lay layers of thick padding and leather inner armor.

"Die!"

One of the guards, whose side had been nicked, swung his hammer down in a vertical arc.

The hammer smashed into the shoulder of the spearman who had dared to attack.

“Arrgh!”

With one arm incapacitated, the spearman was shoved backward by a shield and trampled to death.

Though slow-moving, the tortoise had a fearsome bite once engaged.

Their measured violence rippled across the battlefield.

And yet, Graham knew this wouldn’t bring them much recognition.

After all, Enkrid and his companions were rampaging elsewhere, doing in moments what fifty heavy infantry could not.

Such people were called "outliers" in military parlance. Among them, the apex were referred to as knights.

Though it was too early to call them knights now, Graham recognized their potential.

“At least junior knights.”

Graham had a discerning eye.

“Raise shields!”

The simple yet effective tactics of the heavy infantry continued unabated, and no one could stop them.

Anyone who might have tried was already sliced, crushed, or impaled by someone else.

The Borderlands Defense Captain turned to the side and asked cautiously:

"May I ask your name?"

Ahead, a group of swift-moving soldiers had begun advancing.

Martai’s second dagger, prepared specifically to target them.

That much was clear.

The Borderlands Defense Captain understood this unit had been organized to counter their own specialized troops, nicknamed the Frontier Slaughterers.

The moniker had been earned through their prowess in slicing, cutting, and dominating battles as a small, elite force.

Yet now, the nickname felt ill-fitting.

"These days, just being the Borderlands Defense is enough."

Why wouldn’t it be?

The age of knights had brought about a shift in warfare. Small units now dominated battlefields, and strategies and tactics revolved around them.

When knights were absent, smaller elite forces like theirs were created to mimic the tactics of knights.

The Frontier Slaughterers had once carried that torch, but their renown was now eclipsed by Enkrid and the Mad Platoon.

Not that the captain minded.

“You can tell just by looking. That one’s extraordinary.”

He acknowledged Enkrid’s prowess.

Frankly, who in the Border Guard wouldn’t?

Enkrid was the kind of person who inspired you just by being there—a man who stirred something deep inside you.

But at the end of the captain's musings came an abrupt rejection from the Pixie Company Commander standing beside him.

“No.”

No name would be given.

At thirty-six, the captain was nearing middle age, and his pupils trembled slightly—though no one noticed, as he kept his head slightly bowed.

Officially, their ranks were equal, but the Borderlands Defense Captain held a unique position of influence.

Not that it mattered to the Pixie Commander, who seemed utterly indifferent.

“They won’t even give me their name...”

The captain let out a quiet sigh and resolved to let go of his fleeting fascination.

However, a lingering feeling prompted one more question.

“Are you really connected to Enkrid like that?”

Shinar stared at the captain for a moment before replying.

“What one wishes for and what comes true are often different.”

Her expression was devoid of color, her tone emotionless.

The captain hesitated, then softly said:

"My name is Jenok."

It was the second time his lingering emotions compelled him to reveal his name.

Shinar didn’t even nod in acknowledgment.

Behind them, Toros jabbed the captain in the side.

"I told you not to," Toros said.

The captain didn’t respond. Toros had tried to stop him before he even started, but what could be done?

When emotions flared like this, holding back wasn’t an option. If he died without saying what he needed to, who would take responsibility?

“Today, I’m going to fight like my life depends on it,” the captain declared.

Toros gave a small nod, and the core members of the Borderlands Defense Unit exchanged determined glances, their eyes blazing with purpose.

For their heartbroken captain.

Their rallying cry echoed across the battlefield as Martai's ambush unit closed in on the promised point of attack.

Shinar, the Pixie Company Commander, had joined them as reinforcements. However, she had no subordinates accompanying her; none of her soldiers were skilled enough to match the Borderlands Defense Unit’s strength.

The Martai detachment's commander looked visibly flustered. Discipline had broken down, and their formation was in disarray. When a commander panics, it inevitably affects their soldiers.

Focused more on advancing speed than situational awareness, the Martai detachment pushed forward.

This 𝓬ontent is taken from fгeewebnovёl.co𝙢.

The Borderlands Defense Unit took this opportunity to strike.

“For unrequited love!”

One of the defense soldiers shouted.

“Who the hell is that idiot?!” the captain bellowed in response.

Among the Martai detachment, a dual-blade warrior turned his body swiftly. His slitted eyes and sharp gaze marked him as their leader, and his movements signaled the others to follow suit.

The two forces clashed—Martai’s ambush unit targeting the flanks of the Border Guard’s main force, and the Borderlands Defense Unit countering to strike Martai’s own exposed side.

The dual-blade warrior moved with exceptional speed, closing the distance to Shinar, aiming for her neck with both swords.

His reflexes were extraordinary, his movements smooth and confident. There was no hesitation in his attack. He was clearly a first-rate fighter.

Shinar, who had been standing still with her hand resting lightly at her waist, finally moved.

Taking a step back, she unsheathed her blades and parried the crossing swords aimed at her. Her leaf-shaped blades caught the sunlight, cutting through both the enemy’s strike and the air itself.

Clang!

“Where do you think you’re aiming?”

Shinar’s voice was dispassionate as she danced with her knives.

Each swing of her blades painted the air with blood mist. The soldiers she struck fell one by one, lifeless.

Toros, meanwhile, stayed close to his captain. He had just finished dispatching an enemy soldier, slipping a hidden dagger into the vulnerable spot between helmet and armor to tear open the man’s neck.

Blood poured out as the soldier collapsed.

Having finished his kill, Toros glanced at his captain’s side, only to see Shinar weaving through enemies with a deadly grace that rivaled even Enkrid’s skill.

"How can anyone not fall for that after seeing it?" the captain muttered.

“You fell for that?” Toros replied, shaking his head internally.

“That’s not beauty. That’s slaughter.”

Of course, this was a battlefield, and Shinar was their ally. On this ground, it wasn’t a massacre—it was brilliance.

One thing was clear: this Pixie Commander was no subordinate to Enkrid or the Mad Platoon.

This fight wasn’t a contest.

“You crazy bitch!”

Among the enemy, a warrior with facial tattoos, likely their leader, roared furiously.

The captain’s eyes lit up at the insult, and he shouted:

“Tear that mouth apart!”

Fueled by their captain’s call to action, the Borderlands Defense Unit surged forward. The fight was completely one-sided.

The momentum from the main force’s victory had rippled across the battlefield.

Martai’s ambush unit had moved first, making them vulnerable, and the Borderlands Defense’s surprise counterattack was made all the more devastating by Shinar’s unmatched display of skill.

It was no longer a matter of whether they would win. The only question left was how to minimize casualties.

***

The Blade That Slays the Elite.

That had been his title for as long as he could remember. Exactly when it started, he couldn’t recall.

The man moved like a shadow, silent and deliberate. Even his footsteps made no sound.

As he weaved through the dying soldiers on both sides, his eyes locked on a few targets among the enemy ranks.

One stood out—a savage-looking man rallying his subordinates while firing arrows in quick succession.

He considered targeting him but quickly dismissed the thought, licking his lips to suppress the desire.

Why waste effort on such a small fry? He hadn’t come this far for something so insignificant.

Lowering his stance, he controlled his breathing and slithered through the chaos. Skillfully, he slipped between the gaps in enemy and ally lines, crawling and walking unnoticed.

Occasionally, an oblivious enemy would stumble upon him. Those were silently dragged aside, their necks twisted or throttled until they stopped moving.

Killing without a sound—it was one of his specialties.

As he crept closer to his target, fragments of memory surfaced.

"Are you giving up on becoming a squire?"

It was the voice of his last swordsmanship instructor, echoing in his mind.

His response had been firm, without a moment of hesitation.

"Yes."

"You’re just going to waste your talent like that?"

Becoming a squire for a knight meant taking on all the errands and menial tasks required. It was the first step.

Those who proved themselves would be recognized as junior knights. From there, the path forked: some became mediocre mercenaries, while others advanced to full-fledged knights by mastering "Will," the flow of energy throughout their entire being.

The process had a name. Was it "Flow"? Or something akin to "Unbroken Stream"? He didn’t care.

What mattered was that he had forfeited the path, despite the open invitation to climb higher.

"Idiot," his instructor had snapped. But the man hadn’t been angry.

Why should he have been? Fighting was simple, but killing was easier. If he preferred the latter, there was no need to make a fuss about it.

And so, he had abandoned his path as a squire and left the knightly order.

Wandering the lands, he eventually worked as a mercenary. That was when Count Molsen approached him.

The man, known as the "King of the Borderlands," bore a haughty title, but his offer was sound.

"Would you consider working for me?"

He had nodded.

"Do you regret not walking the path of a junior knight?"

The man had answered with a smirk:

"I can’t become a junior knight, but I can kill them."

That was his truth.

He had mastered silent steps and sharp blades instead of Will. One day, he had seen the elegant weapons of the fairies, needles that pierced with precision, and had searched tirelessly for something similar.

The blades he eventually acquired now hung from his waist, chest, and forearms.

Resembling stilettos with needle-like tips, these weapons were forged by an unknown craftsman inspired by the legendary Carmen Collection of assassin blades. Made from pure Valerian steel, they could pierce anything—plated armor, chainmail, or flesh—and leave gaping holes in their victims.

These blades were a gift from Count Molsen himself. With them, the man had earned the title, The Blade That Slays the Elite.

If small units could dominate the battlefield, then a blade designed to eliminate them was a natural counterbalance.

His ultimate goal? To one day pierce the neck of a knight.

He had already come close, wounding junior knights and even severing a few fingers as trophies.

"What a waste of talent," one fingerless junior knight had muttered.

What did he care? Those defeated by him had no right to complain.

He refocused on the present battlefield. His objective was clear.

"That black-haired bastard."

Five fighters wreaking havoc as one.

At the forefront was the man who had introduced himself. The one whose presence had stood out from the beginning.

Enkrid.

The man’s blood boiled with excitement. This target was at least on par with a junior knight, perhaps even beyond. The thrill of killing someone of his caliber surged within him.

"Kill one, then vanish. Repeat one by one."

It was a simple plan. Few possessed both the awareness and skill to recognize him, let alone counter him.

As with most junior knights, his target would likely be blind with arrogance.

Dressed in a standard soldier’s uniform and helmet, his body caked in dirt and blood, the man approached Enkrid with calculated steps.

He ignored the blonde-haired fighter’s position and the berserker swinging an axe on the opposite side.

Sliding into the perfect range, he positioned himself at Enkrid’s flank.

The anticipation was intoxicating.

"I may not become one, but I can kill them."

He gripped his custom assassination dagger, holding his breath as he prepared to strike. In a single bound, he closed the distance. This would be the killing blow.

As he thrust forward, the ground beneath him seemed to crack.

Clang!

"Blocked?"

The edge of his blade was intercepted by a dark, polished dagger.

"What are you?"

The question carried hints of disappointment and curiosity.

Before he could react, a slash from behind grazed his shoulder. He instinctively rolled forward, narrowly avoiding a fatal blow.

A faint dot appeared in his vision. No, it wasn’t a dot—it was the tip of a blade. He ducked.

Surviving twice in a row was a feat in itself, but the third strike was unavoidable.

A log-like force swept through him.

Crack! Snap!

"Gah!"

Audin’s low kick shattered both of his legs with terrifying precision.

The man’s body collapsed forward, his upper half folding awkwardly to the ground.

The sheer force of the kick had broken him, both literally and figuratively.

Before he could process what had happened, a blade descended toward his head.

Blue eyes locked onto his as the sword struck.

Thud.

It was over.

Though he managed to twist his head slightly, deflecting the blow to his shoulder, blood poured freely as he crumpled to the ground.

He writhed, knowing his life was nearing its end.

The owner of the blue eyes spared him only a glance before turning away.

As he lay there, dying, the words of his last swordsmanship instructor surfaced once more.

"Why are you abandoning your talent?"

He should have answered then.

"I didn’t abandon it. I never had it, you fool."

If he had the talent, he would have climbed higher. But the world was filled with monsters, and he was not one of them.

Recognizing the limits of his abilities had come quickly. From then on, his dream had shifted—not to become a knight, but to slay them.

His dream ended here.

The nameless blade of Count Molsen broke with him.

Enkrid would never know.

But in the end, Rem summed it up with a single line:

"Was he insane?"

Charging into a space dominated by five near-knights?

Every single one of them was a monster in their own right.

Enkrid, above all, acted with unyielding sincerity in every action—whether swinging a sword or taking a step.

It was this trait that made him a true monster.

In the midst of this chaos stood Jaxon, watching for the perfect moment to strike.

Rem, meanwhile, clashed with an enemy axe-wielder.

Clang!

"Come on! Bring it on!"

Rem roared, his voice echoing across the battlefield.

Around them, soldiers withdrew, leaving a clearing littered with corpses, severed limbs, and spilled entrails.

Standing amidst the carnage, Enkrid felt his muscles twitch. The strain of using the Heart of Might was catching up to him, but it was manageable.

He glanced at the sky. The weather was clear, the air thick with the metallic scent of blood.

Somewhere in the distance, Venzance’s voice rang out.

Despite the chaos, Enkrid felt a surge of confidence.

"My name is Enkrid."

It was just a statement, a simple declaration.

But as the words reached the ears of the enemy soldiers, they didn’t respond with their usual jeers.

Instead, a chilling silence spread across the battlefield.

"Come closer, and you die," Enkrid warned.