A Knight Who Eternally Regresses-Chapter 213: After the Ash Settles

Marcus was, without a doubt, a politician.

Olf only realized Marcus was approaching after entering the city. As soon as he received the report, he felt sick to his stomach.

His head throbbed and spun as though he were drunk.

Was the retreat that arduous?

No, it hadn’t been dangerous. A few cavalry units had shadowed their withdrawal, acting as escorts.

"He herded me into the city."

And now, they were surrounded. Is that bastard insane?

Once the shock passed, anger surged to replace it.

Yet even through his rage, Olf’s mind kept turning. Losing his composure now would be the end of him.

Could they rally and repel the Border Guard forces from within the city?

Not a chance.

They had just suffered a catastrophic defeat, their morale was in the gutter, and proper preparations would require time—time Marcus had stolen.

Time to recover.

Time to regroup.

Time to call for reinforcements.

Even so, Olf forced himself to maintain focus and called for a war council.

“Bring everyone in!”

His voice was loud and hurried, but at least it didn’t tremble. That was a small victory.

Soon, everyone who would be involved in the operation had gathered.

“We can drive them out! Give me one hundred infantry and the cavalry!”

One of his adjutants barked out angrily.

Is this idiot serious?

If driving them out was so simple, would they have been beaten so thoroughly on the battlefield?

The speaker was Greg’s successor, a fact that only added to Olf’s irritation.

“Shut up,” Olf snapped, turning away from the adjutant. No matter how carefully one selects subordinates, there is always at least one clueless fool in the mix.

That such a moron had risen to the rank of adjutant was the real shock.

“It was politics, plain and simple. They concealed their true strength well,” another adjutant chimed in, trying to soothe Olf’s anger.

But Olf had no capacity for such placation.

His body felt heavy, as though glued to his chair.

His chest weighed even heavier, and his limbs refused to respond.

The leaderless unit that had joined them belonged to Count Molsen. The bulk of their forces were from Viscount Bentra, but even Molsen’s handpicked swordsman had been killed.

Those who survived had turned back the moment they heard news of the defeat.

Their retreating figures resembled those of beaten stragglers—and the Martai forces were no different.

Olf’s eyelid twitched.

Are we just going to be devoured like this?

Outside the city, Marcus was steadily tightening the encirclement.

How long has this been in the works? Had this all been planned from the beginning?

The enemy had begun pitching tents, establishing a proper camp. Reports came that five figures now stood at the forefront, watching the city walls.

A messy pile of pins lay scattered across the strategy map. One pin had tipped over, and Olf found himself identifying with it.

"Crazy bastards."

The five who had wreaked havoc on the battlefield flashed in his mind, and his irritation flared. They were the ones who had shattered the tide of war.

Olf clenched his teeth, swallowing the nausea rising in his throat.

Defeat only truly comes when you lose your will to fight.

The mercenary spirit of the east stirred within him.

Even if they couldn’t win outright, they had to break Marcus’s blade.

“Everyone, out,” Olf ordered.

It was time to play his trump card—the one he had prepared but never dared use.

“What?”

The clueless adjutant blinked in confusion.

Olf swore silently to himself that he would kill the man once this battle was over.

If only Greg were still here.

But Greg was dead. The assault company had been annihilated in the initial clash, and Greg had led them to their doom.

The only remaining senior officer was Zimmer, the second battalion commander.

Zimmer, after a brief glance at Olf, spoke up.

“The general has spoken. Everyone, out.”

With that, the adjutants filed out of the room in a noisy shuffle.

Zimmer was the last to leave. He paused at the door and turned back.

“General?”

“I need to think. Go,” Olf replied.

Zimmer, though unarmed, placed his hand on his waist and gave a respectful nod before leaving.

The room grew silent.

“Come out,” Olf said, his voice directed at the empty space around him.

From the shadows behind him—where the light of the flames didn’t reach—something began to extend outward.

The protrusion seemed part shadow, part charred smoke spreading like a creeping fire.

As it rose, it took on a three-dimensional form.

Soon, it coalesced into a figure cloaked in black robes. The hood obscured their face entirely, leaving only pale, delicate hands visible.

“Have you made up your mind?”

The figure’s voice was like a clarinet, clear and melodic.

Dealing with a mage, they say, is akin to bargaining with the devil. Olf was well aware of this.

Nothing comes without a price.

“I have,” Olf replied.

The price for this contract would not be small. But he couldn’t simply sit back and allow the city to fall.

Enkrid.

He remembered the black-haired man who had spoken his name on the battlefield. The one who had carved through Martai’s forces, his blade a whirlwind of destruction.

Olf knew why he had lost.

If he could break the sword that had caused his defeat, perhaps there was still hope.

***

“This siege alone isn’t going to solve anything,” Enkrid muttered, sizing up the height of Martai’s walls.

"Do we have to climb it?"

The Border Guard didn’t have siege engines like mangonels, trebuchets, or siege towers. The only tools they had to attack the walls were ladders—and even those hadn’t been brought along.

It seemed clear Marcus didn’t intend to storm the walls.

So, brute force then?

The gates were visible—thick, dark brown wood reinforced with iron. There was no moat to complicate matters.

"If Audin swung his hammer with everything he’s got, maybe he could break through part of it."

The gates looked sturdy, but then again, so did Audin’s arms—perhaps even more so.

"At night, scaling the walls might not even require ladders."

Time and weather had worn the stone, leaving cracks and uneven surfaces that could serve as handholds. It wouldn’t be impossible to climb, provided someone was determined enough.

Enkrid pictured the events of the night ahead.

"If I can climb it..."

Then Rem, Ragna, Jaxon, and Audin could follow. With just five of them over the wall, Audin could open the gates while the others held the position.

"But what if archers are stationed to guard the gates?"

That would be a problem. Dodging arrows wouldn’t be enough; they’d need shields.

The plan wasn’t perfect, but it wasn’t without precedent. Similar formations and tactics had been used before, but this time, everything felt different.

The sheer power of their team, the control Enkrid held over every phase of the fight, and the cohesion between the five—it was a new experience.

Experience fosters growth. Enkrid was growing again, realizing what could be achieved with their combined strength.

Knights were figures who could sway the course of battle by themselves. That was the essence of their role in war, and Enkrid was beginning to understand it intimately.

“Why are you worrying about that?” Rem asked, scratching his ear lazily.

“Trying to act like a commander,” Enkrid joked, eliciting a snort of laughter from Rem.

“Our noble commander of fewer than ten men, shall we eat first?” Rem grinned.

The battlefield was littered with corpses, gore, shattered bones, and severed limbs. It wasn’t exactly the most appetizing setting. Still, hunger couldn’t be ignored—not before another battle.

“Let’s wash up first,” Enkrid suggested.

Nearby was a well the farmers outside the city gates used. If the water had been poisoned, it would be a problem, but there had been no time for such measures.

They drew water, stripped off their armor, and poured it over their heads, letting the grime wash away. The cool water splashed onto the stones they had laid down to avoid stepping in mud, a detail Enkrid appreciated.

“Looking good,” Finn said, appearing out of nowhere with a thumbs-up.

The group stood there, wearing nothing but their undergarments.

“Indeed, quite the sight,” Kraiss added dryly, standing beside the Pixie Captain. Behind them, Dunbakel stood with her usual stoic expression.

Kyarr-rr-rr.

Esther, the sleek black panther, perched nearby, blinking her blue eyes as though observing every detail of the scene.

“Where have you been?” Enkrid asked, ignoring the stares and muttered commentary.

The panther casually scratched her neck with a forepaw, clearly uninterested in answering.

"Figures," Enkrid thought. Esther being absent wasn’t exactly a cause for alarm.

“Captain, if there’s ever an opening in your squad, let me know,” joked a soldier waiting for his turn at the well.

The troops had been given some time to relax and clean themselves. With no immediate combat looming, everyone was loosening up, though they remained vigilant. The Border Guard had a reputation for professionalism, after all.

“Are you serious?” Enkrid asked, smirking as the soldier grinned.

Even if the offer were genuine, there was no way Enkrid could take him. His squad didn’t need random recruits—it was already a group of elite misfits.

"Lucky for him, he won’t become Rem’s toy," Enkrid mused.

After washing, Enkrid tended to his armor. Bloodstains had seeped into the leather, leaving permanent marks, so he applied oil and set it aside. He also checked his gauntlets and boots, ensuring everything was in working order.

“You might want this,” said a soldier from the first company, handing Enkrid a small clay jar.

“What’s this?”

“Linseed oil. It’s rare.”

“Why are you giving this to me?”

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“Respect,” the soldier replied simply before walking off.

Enkrid shrugged and began applying the oil to his sword.

Rem appeared beside him, holding out his axe.

“See? It’s chipped,” he said, grinning.

Considering how much Rem had swung the weapon, it was remarkable it was still intact at all.

“This thing’s thirsty for some of that oil. Feed me, feed me!” Rem mimicked the axe’s imaginary voice in a mockingly demonic tone.

Enkrid ignored the absurdity. “Go ahead and use it.”

The amount of oil was more than enough to share.

After finishing with his sword, Enkrid unsheathed another he had picked up on the battlefield.

The weapon wasn’t particularly special, but it had belonged to a commander. The original owner hadn’t even drawn it before Jaxon’s silent thrust had taken his life.

"What was that move called? Lethal Thrust?"

It was a technique Jaxon had perfected—erasing any trace of intent before striking.

Enkrid had seen it up close, his heightened perception catching the moment Jaxon’s blade accelerated with almost supernatural speed.

"If I can replicate that..."

Beyond Jaxon, Enkrid saw lessons to learn in everyone: Ragna, Rem, Audin—even the enemies they had fought.

The end of each battle brought a reflexive review, a step toward growth.

“Already back to training?” the Pixie Captain asked, approaching quietly. Her expression was unreadable.

“It’s fun,” Enkrid replied simply.

“Enjoy it while you can. There’s no fighting for now—orders are to rest,” she said, smirking. “Fiancé.”

“Understood,” Enkrid replied.

The sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows over the rows of Border Guard tents.

"This won’t end with just setting up camp," Enkrid thought, sipping the apple cider he had hidden away.

“Thought you finished that,” Rem grumbled.

“Here,” Enkrid said, tossing him a small bottle. “You earned it.”

Rem laughed. “So did you. Didn’t think you’d keep up with us.”

Enkrid clenched and relaxed his hand, confirming his muscles had recovered. He had pushed his body to its limit, but it was worth it to hold his own among these warriors.

“You’ve grown, Captain,” Rem said, his voice unusually soft.

Enkrid smirked. “I was always taller.”

Rem shook his head, grinning. “Is that supposed to be a joke?”

Ragna added casually, “Even jokes can be honed with practice.”

Enkrid sighed. Between the fighting and their banter, this group would drive anyone mad.

As Audin began a quiet prayer, Enkrid decided not to interrupt. These men had followed his orders without question, after all.

“I can fight too,” Dunbakel said suddenly, breaking the silence.

“I know,” Enkrid replied. But she hadn’t been ready before, and sending her out prematurely would have been a death sentence.

Settling onto a thick mat, Enkrid closed his eyes, letting exhaustion take over.

As sleep claimed him, he felt the familiar warmth of Esther curling into his arms.

Hours later, in the stillness of pre-dawn, the panther slipped away from his embrace.

A strange energy blanketed the camp—an aura that felt like an extension of Esther’s mysterious world, something otherworldly and magical.