A Knight Who Eternally Regresses-Chapter 212: A True Masterpiece

As the tide of battle decisively turned, Marcus chose not to close the encirclement but instead signaled a retreat.

Flags were waved, and horns sounded in accordance with the planned signals. The Border Guard soldiers, who had been fervently charging, halted their steps.

"Stop, that's enough for now!"

Starting with the advancing Tortoise Heavy Infantry, the allied forces began pulling back.

Rem grumbled, his axe dripping blood.

"Ah, just when it was getting good."

The smile accompanying his words made a few soldiers glance nervously in his direction.

Even Enkrid, who was no stranger to intense situations, found Rem’s aura intimidating. But surely, Rem wasn’t mad enough to swing his axe at allies—right?

He might throw a punch, though, Enkrid thought idly.

It was a fleeting distraction.

Even those called knights felt the strain of prolonged combat, and Rem was no exception.

The finesse of his axe swings had begun to dull slightly, a sign that fatigue was creeping in.

The five of them had cut through dozens—no, over a hundred soldiers.

And it hadn’t even taken that long.

Anyone who had witnessed this battle would find it impossible to forget the names of the five warriors standing in its heart.

Especially after Enkrid had declared his name aloud.

At that moment, the enemy froze in their tracks, consumed by fear. Their morale shattered, and Marcus had wisely opened an escape route for them.

Marcus watched Enkrid and his group from afar before shifting his gaze toward another signal.

A blue flag flew high—confirmation of the Borderlands Defense Unit’s success on the right flank.

The detachment has been dealt with too.

Considering the damage inflicted across the frontlines, calling this a victory seemed like an understatement.

The enemy had been defeated by five men.

A political victory. A victory of deception.

It was the triumph of a commander who had hidden Enkrid until the perfect moment.

"Are we not pursuing them?"

The question came from the second company commander, who approached Marcus, panting heavily. Marcus shook his head.

"Let them go. A cornered rat bites a cat, and even a ghoul will use what little brains it has when trapped."

Kraiss, who had positioned himself in what he thought was the safest spot on the battlefield, overheard Marcus’s words and mused silently.

"Letting them go, huh."

Was it because they were all under the same kingdom’s banner, despite being on opposing sides?

"A shame, but it’s the commander’s call."

Kraiss wasn’t one to interfere with decisions that weren’t his to make.

Even without the Mad Platoon, the heavy infantry or the Borderlands Defense could have captured the enemy commander. Yet Marcus was letting him go.

Perhaps he never intended to capture the enemy commander in the first place.

Instead, this seemed to be a calculated display of the Border Guard’s strength.

Still, Kraiss couldn’t shake his frustration.

Capturing the commander would have brought significant benefits.

The enemy leader could have been used to negotiate countless advantages with Martai.

Securing a trade route.

The Border Guard was on the verge of becoming a major trade hub, and opening a route through Martai would have been crucial.

Using the captured commander to broker such an agreement would have been the easiest path.

And that wasn’t all.

Ransom.

If the so-called "general" was indeed wealthy, as nobles often were, a hefty ransom could have been demanded for his release.

This practice wasn’t uncommon, even against enemy nations.

Martai, a mercenary city, was well-known for its wealth. Kraiss knew how they amassed their riches, and that only made it more disappointing.

They must have earned an unimaginable fortune.

At this point, Marcus was either a fool or someone utterly devoid of greed.

"He doesn’t seem like a fool, though," Kraiss thought, scratching his chin.

Marcus’s previous actions had shown remarkable cunning. Luring the enemy in by hiding Enkrid and then crushing them with overwhelming force—such a strategy wasn’t the work of an idiot.

It’s bold, even reckless. But it worked.

The aftermath of that boldness was playing out now.

A roar erupted from the blue sky above.

"Woaaahhhh!"

"Enkrid!"

"If you dare!"

A soldier thrust his spear upward.

"You’ll die!"

Thud!

He slammed the spear’s butt into the ground as he shouted.

The morale of the surviving soldiers had never been higher.

Which made the retreat all the more frustrating for Kraiss.

If they pursued the retreating enemy now, it would have been the most efficient battle imaginable.

After all, armies tended to suffer the most losses while in retreat.

The pursuing side always held the upper hand.

"Do we have any cavalry left?"

Marcus’s voice broke through Kraiss’s thoughts, and he perked up his ears.

"None, sir. We eliminated most of their cavalry. A few units had been pulled back from the start," the adjutant replied.

"If we hadn’t opened an escape route, those cavalry bastards would’ve rushed in and snatched Olf away," Marcus said.

"He has a point." Kraiss nodded silently.

The unexpected was always a possibility, but the opportunity had been there.

After a moment of silence, Marcus spoke again.

"Advance the entire army."

"...What?"

Advance?

Kraiss tilted his head, unable to hide his confusion this time. Thankfully, only Finn, who stood nearby as his escort, noticed.

"Why?" Finn asked.

"He said advance," Kraiss muttered. But where?

The adjutant standing near Marcus was equally shocked.

"Advance? To where, sir?"

"Where else?"

For the first time, Kraiss saw Marcus’s expression clearly.

It wasn’t the face of a commander basking in victory.

It was the face of a schemer, someone thrilled that events had unfolded exactly as planned.

Marcus grinned, baring his teeth in a way that reflected the sunlight.

Flash.

"Ah."

The realization struck Kraiss like a bolt of lightning.

Marcus had never intended for this battle to end without gains.

It was a moment of enlightenment, a small yet powerful jolt that coursed through Kraiss’s body.

Letting the enemy go and then chasing them down—it was a ploy to lead them back to their hoard.

Cornered rats may bite, but released rats return to their nests, where their treasures lie.

This was an opportunity to seize wealth.

Kraiss’s thoughts raced further.

Was this just intimidation? A show of force to warn Martai not to challenge the Border Guard again?

"No way."

If Martai cooperated, they could secure trade routes and various other benefits.

But if they captured the city itself, the game would change entirely.

It wouldn’t just be about trade routes anymore.

The Border Guard would gain wings.

Martai, with its nickname as the "mercenary city of the east," held immense strategic value.

Its forces, resources, and location were all assets that could be used to their fullest potential.

If they could conquer it and absorb it—

"It’s a masterpiece." Kraiss muttered.

Marcus, still grinning with his toothy smile, repeated his command.

Light glinted off his teeth once more.

Flash.

"We march on Martai."

The command spread through the ranks as the adjutant relayed Marcus’s orders.

***

The same command inevitably reached the ears of Enkrid, who stood at the front.

“Advance? From here?”

For a brief moment, Enkrid analyzed the situation in his mind: Kraiss’s observations, the current state of their forces, their morale, and the potential risks of advancing.

There were none.

Well, almost none. One nagging concern remained.

The five mages the enemy had been hiding were still nowhere to be seen.

Were they a hidden trump card, or had they simply fled after sensing the tide of battle had turned?

There was no way to know.

Rather than overthink it, Enkrid intuitively grasped Marcus’s intention.

"He’s going to take the city."

What would happen if the growing Border Guard swallowed up Martai?

"It’ll be fine, I suppose."

The aftermath wasn’t Enkrid’s concern. His role was clear: to act in the present, to do what was needed.

“If you’re tired, you can pull back,” he said softly to the others.

“Are you insane?”

“My name is Ragna. I can still run,” Ragna replied firmly.

“Ha! Brother-Captain, shall we move forward?” Rem added with a booming laugh.

Ragna, Audin, and Rem bantered in turn, while Jaxon silently swung his blade through the air. With a small grunt of dissatisfaction, he discarded it.

Instead, he bent down to pick up a relatively intact arming sword from the ground.

Noticing Enkrid’s gaze, Jaxon muttered, “The blade was chipped.”

Although the command was to advance, there was no need to rush.

Marcus’s intent as commander was clear: to maintain morale while advancing at a steady, controlled pace.

Naturally, Enkrid took the lead.

“Ragna, earlier—was that a joke?” Enkrid asked as they walked.

Ragna tilted his head, considering the question, before answering, “I only spoke the truth. My name is Ragna. I am a man who does not retreat. That’s all.”

Hearing this, Rem chimed in with a laugh. “My name is Rem!” he declared mockingly, and burst out laughing.

They were never entirely sane to begin with, but now they had crossed into the realm of true madness.

That was Enkrid’s thought as he continued walking.

The sun bore down on his back as they marched forward. Heading east, the setting sun behind them cast long shadows.

One Border Guard soldier, watching Enkrid’s back, thought for a fleeting moment that the man was glowing.

It was, of course, a mirage—an illusion akin to a trick of the light.

Yet the legend Enkrid had carved into the battlefield that day made it feel almost real.

A soldier with a knack for improvisation began to hum a song, stringing lyrics together on the spot.

The verses were crude, the melody simple—a patchwork of familiar tunes. But the final line became a rallying cry that all the soldiers joined in shouting:

“Who is the flower of battle?”

“Infantry!”

“Who is the strongest of the Border Guard?”

“Madmen!”

It was a ridiculous song, one that would surely cause a headache for anyone who heard it too many times.

As he walked ahead of the group, Enkrid couldn’t help but chuckle to himself.

It struck him, perhaps for the first time, how much his group had come to embody the pinnacle of power within the Border Guard.

Cheers and laughter echoed behind him, interspersed with chants of “My name is Enkrid!”—lyrics born of crude rhyme but resonant nonetheless.

“Enjoying it?”

Rem’s voice came from beside him, a grin plastered on his face.

The smug look was irritating, but Enkrid didn’t bother addressing it.

“It’s not bad,” he replied with a faint smirk.

***

There was no need to rush.

There was no point in letting the enemy see them coming.

Half a day passed after General Olf returned to the city.

Quietly and without a sound, like a stalking lynx, Marcus and his forces began to establish a camp in front of the city.

Olf had no capacity to send scouts back to check on the enemy’s movements.

It was understandable. He had returned as a defeated man—utterly crushed. The only reason he and his forces had survived was because the enemy had deliberately left them an escape route. How could he afford to look back now?

With his shoulders slumped in shame, Olf returned to Martai.

"That bastard," Olf muttered under his breath, grinding his teeth.

He vowed to slit Marcus’s throat at the next opportunity.

Bang!

His fist struck the wooden wall in frustration, leaving a deep dent in its surface.

“Your bath has been prepared,” said the head steward of the inner citadel.

“Understood,” Olf replied tersely.

It was time to remove his armor, bathe, and try to wash away the frustration, anger, humiliation, and self-loathing that boiled within him.

He wanted to relax, to forget.

But he didn’t even want to see his wife and daughter. Instead, he decided to retreat to his office.

"I’ll sleep on the cot there tonight. That’s for the best," he thought.

However, the moment he entered his office, he realized that sleep would not come easily.

Not long after settling in—

“General!”

The door to the office burst open. His adjutant, accompanied by a messenger, came rushing in, their faces pale with urgency.

Olf, dressed in a silk shirt, sat up from the cot he’d been reclining on.

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“What is it?”

Even before he finished asking, a cold sweat broke out along his back. His heart clenched with a dreadful sense of foreboding.

“We’re surrounded!”

The adjutant’s voice was frantic.

“By who?”

Had the Border Guard been defeated and another force decided to attack them? From where? Could this be part of Count Molsen’s scheme?

“It’s the Border Guard standing army!”

The soldier’s voice trembled, his eyes darting wildly as though unable to process what he was saying.

He was clearly on edge, but Olf had no mental capacity to worry about that.

“...What?”

Olf’s mouth hung open in disbelief.

Why are they here?

We fought them just yesterday, and they let us go. So why would they come here now?

He shot a questioning look at his adjutant, who responded with a desperate question of his own.

“What should we do?”

Drip.

Unconsciously, a line of saliva dripped from the corner of Olf’s mouth.

This was a disaster, tangled beyond reason.

Defeated, with morale shattered and his forces reduced, even the borrowed troops from allied nobles had been spent. To make matters worse, the sword gifted to him by Count Molsen had been broken in the previous battle.

That failure was on him—he had underestimated the true strength of the Border Guard.

Drip.

A second drop of saliva fell from Olf’s lips.

Neither the adjutant nor the messenger found it disgusting.

They were just as paralyzed by the unfolding chaos as he was.