A Knight Who Eternally Regresses-Chapter 227: Sparring, Sparring, and a Test

‘How did we get here?’

The rapier swordsman was accustomed to teaching.

Teaching came naturally to him, and his discerning eyes had surpassed mere familiarity—they were truly masterful.

While Frokk's talent for appraisal was a unique racial ability, the rapier swordsman’s keen judgment stemmed from an entirely different foundation—a blend of personal talent and accumulated experience.

What he saw now was undeniable. The skill had improved.

‘It’s hard to believe he’s come this far without "Will".’

Occasionally, the black-haired man displayed flashes of brilliance in his relentless chains of strikes, severing even his own retreat paths.

‘A proper sword form.’

A mix of standard sword techniques and broader strokes. He was undoubtedly progressing toward something complete.

The opponent had exceeded his expectations. Originally, he hadn't harbored even the slightest hope.

Such talent, such skill—

To put it bluntly, the swordsman had never been this wrong in his assessment before.

And that stirred something within him. It tugged at his heart and moved his resolve.

‘Guidance. Sparring.’

He’d decided that from the beginning.

Though he had once walked the path of a knight, his talent had fallen short, and he’d turned back.

Even so, he had never lost to someone without "Will". Not then, and not now.

‘The improvement is real.’

It was remarkable progress, without a doubt, and the skill was excellent. However, the man standing before him was still not ready to face a proper knight.

That was his judgment.

Steel clashed against steel in a rapid flurry, sparks flying with every collision.

Through the endless exchange of strikes, those sharp blue eyes extended their gaze.

‘His footwork.’

It wasn’t ordinary. It had surpassed human limits—of that, there was no question.

If the opponent were one of those mediocre talents who relied on their gifts while lazing about?

The black-haired man would win.

Then, what of the loss to Swiftblade?

From having witnessed that fight and now engaging directly, the swordsman knew.

‘It wasn’t about killing; it was about fighting—a sparring match first and foremost.’

Swiftblade, however, fought to kill.

And even so, the margin was razor-thin. From the rapier swordsman’s perspective, the difference was no more than who took the first decisive step. Swiftblade hadn’t even realized it.

Such growth was undeniable. It was truly astonishing.

And so—

The words "Give up" had haunted him. That’s why he had drawn his sword now.

The beginning was slow and steady.

There was no need to unleash his full potential right away.

Still, his strikes were fast and strong, blended with a flowing swordsmanship.

A swift blade with a touch of softness. Strike while yielding, yield while striking.

It was meant to demonstrate that there were techniques like this in the world.

At the same time, it was a lesson in tactics.

‘A singular form won’t suffice.’

Encouraging someone to specialize in one form alone was flawed teaching.

While it was natural to have a specialty, mastering at least five sword forms, even superficially, was essential.

Why?

Because only by knowing could one block, evade, and act.

That was why the rapier swordsman emphasized the diversity of swordsmanship.

He also sought to teach that tactics weren’t confined to standard forms.

For instance—

‘Deflect.’

As he moved to redirect the black-haired man’s blade, Enkrid’s eyes glinted. It was a feint.

Enkrid brought his sword down in a vertical slash, a strike that seemed capable of cutting through anything.

The rapier swordsman shifted his stance just as their swords were about to collide.

A flowing sword technique—avoiding contact entirely.

The thunderous strike missed its mark, slicing through empty air.

Whoosh! The sound of the blade cleaving the air was sharp and clear.

Was it a high-level technique or the refinement of mastery?

When the rapier swordsman thrust his blade forward in response, Enkrid’s stance faltered, as expected.

The momentary advantage belonged entirely to the swordsman.

He pressed his attack, slowly and deliberately. It was the art of boiling a frog.

The method of killing a frog in boiling water wasn’t to start with heat—it was to begin with cold water and gradually raise the temperature.

The foundation of this swordsmanship was pressure.

The sword spoke for him:

"You cannot surpass this. This is your limit."

Under the relentless assault, Enkrid encountered a wall he couldn’t overcome, not with his monstrous strength, his intuitive evasion, or the swordsmanship he’d learned.

Had he despaired?

No. He neither had the time nor the disposition to do so. Instead, he simply swung his sword heavily.

Yet, from the rapier swordsman’s perspective, that stubbornness wasn’t satisfying.

The sparring session had gone differently from his expectations.

In conclusion, he’d found nothing striking.

‘Was I wrong about him being a hidden genius?’

If not, then how could he have achieved such explosive growth?

And yet, why was there no brilliance in his strikes? Why was his talent so dull and colorless?

He had hoped the frog would leap from the pot, or at least kick out its legs—but instead, it was slowly drying up.

“That’s enough.”

“Huff, huff. It was an enlightening lesson.”

Enkrid bowed respectfully.

It had been a sparring session worth acknowledging. His opponent hadn’t aimed for his life or sought glory. He had simply appeared and offered instruction.

“Today, I’ll join in.”

The half-blooded giant stepped forward with sword and shield in hand.

The sparring had not pushed him to his limits. A short rest was all he needed. Enkrid nodded.

Their fight was similar to the previous one.

The ferocity and intensity were dizzying to behold.

If the fight with Swiftblade had been a duel where you couldn’t predict whether a hole would be punched through you or a limb severed—

The battle with the giant felt as though something might be crushed or shattered at any moment.

Enkrid endured.

His injuries were similar to those on the first day.

This time, the half-blooded giant demonstrated feats like gripping his sword by the blade to swing it like a club and using his shield for feints.

Enkrid countered by mixing broad strokes and standard forms, incorporating what he had learned from the rapier swordsman.

Of course, the swordsman watching wasn’t impressed.

‘He hasn’t improved.’

A true genius would show growth after just one sparring session.

But Enkrid? At best, he was average.

That fact grated on him, and his expression soured.

“Well, that’s enough for today. If you’re bored, you can take up some monster-slaying requests. The rewards are plentiful, and it’ll clear your head too.”

“That sounds good.”

Kraiss’s suggestion brightened Swiftblade’s mood.

His hands were itching for action.

More importantly, the two opponents he’d observed today didn’t seem easy to handle.

One was a bad match for him, and the other appeared to be hiding his full potential.

‘Annoying bastards.’

Even so, he couldn’t back out. If he retreated now, the Black Blade’s executioners might come for him.

He had squandered enough of the mercenary group’s resources already.

Now was the time to risk his life.

Above all, his bloodlust burned hot, making his pulse race. He couldn’t imagine walking away now and being unable to satisfy his urges for a while.

‘Ah, I want to kill.’

The sensation of piercing soft flesh—it was intoxicating.

But he couldn’t kill anyone here.

If he tried, the others nearby would foam at the mouth and pounce on him.

Each one of them had sharp eyes and extraordinary skill.

‘I’ve really landed myself in a mess.’

While he hadn’t expected an easy task, it had become thoroughly tangled.

‘I’ll just hunt some monsters.’

It was a rational decision.

Kraiss nodded and spoke to the soldier who had joined them.

“Over here.”

The soldier guiding Swiftblade led him away, marking the end of the day’s sparring.

Enkrid, on the other hand, had to be half-carried. His thigh muscles trembled, leaving him unable to walk properly.

“This will pass after a bit of rest,” Enkrid said.

“Oh, sure it will,” came a sarcastic reply.

“It might heal, but if you keep this up, it’ll ruin your body in the long run, brother. Trust is good, but overconfidence is dangerous, as the Holy Word teaches.”

Audin recited a passage, effectively advising Enkrid to take it easy and not overestimate his body.

“Yeah, sure,” Enkrid nodded, though he clearly didn’t believe a word of it.

“Let’s do some light hand-blade sparring back at the barracks,” Ragna suggested.

“Sharpening your senses will help you predict your opponent’s moves,” Jaxon chimed in from the side.

Everyone seemed to have a lot to say.

More accurately, it seemed like watching Enkrid take a beating didn’t sit well with them.

Was it different from when they were the ones beating him up?

Enkrid didn’t care.

What did it matter?

There was so much to do right now.

He had learned and absorbed techniques, but mastering them didn’t happen overnight. It was inevitable.

All he could do was take one step at a time, slowly but steadily.

The fact that his body retained something akin to talent, no longer stagnating as before, was a significant improvement in itself.

Shaking off his stray thoughts, Enkrid returned to the barracks and sparred with Ragna using hand-blade techniques.

“You really don’t stop, do you?” Finn muttered, clicking her tongue as she watched him spar despite his injuries.

These days, Finn seemed busy too, often whispering with the Fairy Company Commander and leaving the barracks early in the morning.

“Where do you keep sneaking off to?” Rem asked out of boredom.

Finn gave a vague answer, not even looking up as she organized her belongings.

“Morning dew is good for the skin,” she said flatly.

“...She’s mocking me, isn’t she?” Rem grumbled.

Enkrid silently agreed but decided to side with Finn.

“That’s just your paranoia. You have a habit of taking everything personally.”

It wasn’t revenge for Rem constantly pointing out his so-called broken head. It definitely wasn’t.

“Hmm?”

When Rem frowned, Ragna shoved Dunbakel forward.

“Go on, do your part,” Ragna commanded.

“What?”

Reluctantly, Dunbakel approached Rem.

“Oh, right. Training. Been slacking a bit, haven’t we?”

It had only been two days since they reduced their daily sparring from twice to once.

Slacking?

Dunbakel shot a glare at Rem, who responded with a satisfied grin.

“Yes, that glare, that fighting spirit! Perfect. Let’s have a proper go today—really let loose!”

Dunbakel wanted to cry, but her pride wouldn’t allow her tears to fall.

The two of them left for their sparring.

Meanwhile, Enkrid continued his tactical sparring sessions, eventually recovering enough to take on another opponent.

This time, he found someone staying at the inn and engaged them in a match.

Swiftblade, a master of sharp, unpredictable strikes, offered lessons of his own in the process.

The half-blooded giant, on the other hand, wielded heavy sword and shield techniques, blending broad strokes and defensive maneuvers.

Even the initial shield charge that had overwhelmed Enkrid before remained a constant threat. A moment’s lapse, and the giant’s monstrous stamina would press him relentlessly.

Though Enkrid’s endurance wasn’t lacking, the sheer size of his opponent was a weapon in itself.

The rapier swordsman remained consistent, sticking to his patterns.

Edin Molsen, despite his persistence, was no match. After being knocked out cold during their third sparring session, he stopped challenging anyone.

In his stead, one of his guards stepped forward.

“Your name?” Enkrid asked.

“No need to know,” the man replied curtly.

Enkrid didn’t care. Why he had waited until now to step in was irrelevant. All that mattered was that he had a worthy opponent.

Enkrid smiled at the thought.

“You’re not normal, are you?” the guard remarked.

Enkrid ignored the comment, focusing instead on the man’s swordsmanship—a flowing style that deflected and exploited openings with precision strikes.

It was familiar. He had seen it before. This was no coincidence.

‘This...’

It was the technique of someone from Azpen—a swordsman Enkrid had defeated with his left hand.

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The name was unforgettable: Michi Hurrier. The Hurrier family symbolized Azpen’s martial strength.

Did that mean this guard was a spy?

It didn’t matter.

As long as they were a worthy opponent, that was enough.

They clashed, their skills evenly matched. Victory wouldn’t come easily.

Enkrid wasn’t focused on winning.

“If you were fighting to kill, you’d have died a hundred times over,” Rem quipped.

He wasn’t criticizing Enkrid for his direct swordsmanship. It was because he knew there was more to him than that.

“What’s the point of killing here?” Enkrid replied.

This wasn’t a battlefield—it was a place for testing skill, nothing more.

“When the time comes to speak with swords, that’s all I want to do.”

Swiftblade, observing from the sidelines, often commented on Enkrid’s tendency to smile during sparring.

“Does he think this is fun?”

As their matches continued, Swiftblade found himself fixating on Enkrid.

At first, his mind had been filled with thoughts of killing him, but something shifted.

Now, all his murderous intent was solely directed at Enkrid.

The half-blooded giant experienced something similar, though less murderous and more perplexing.

‘Why does he keep challenging me?’

She was clearly the stronger opponent, and she knew it.

If Enkrid truly fought to kill, he could take down someone like Swiftblade, but not her.

Even then, Swiftblade likely had a hidden ace up his sleeve. In a life-or-death struggle, the odds were fifty-fifty.

So what was there to gain from these matches?

Why did he look so happy?

“Alright, you’re up,” the giant said one day, seeing Enkrid smiling faintly as he prepared for another round.

His expression was clear, even to someone as unfamiliar with reading emotions as her.

He looked like a child—giddy and excited, as though he were about to open presents on his birthday.

“Let’s begin,” he said brightly.

How could someone say that so cheerfully?

She didn’t understand, but one thing was certain: everything about him ignited something within her.

It wasn’t murderous intent. It was a warrior’s drive, a desire to fight.

From that moment on, sparring became an endless cycle.

Each opponent faced Enkrid over a dozen times.

Sometimes he was gravely injured.

Other times, he walked away with only minor wounds.

At the end of it all, the rapier swordsman shook his head.

“It’s not enough. There’s a limit,” he muttered, though he couldn’t entirely rule out the possibility of being wrong.

“So, let’s put it to the test. Can he overcome it? That’s what I’m curious about.”

He turned to face Enkrid.

Before Enkrid could react, countless blades erupted from the swordsman’s body.

It was a sight Enkrid had seen before.

Aisia, the red-cloaked knight, had wielded something similar.

It was Will—intangible blades forged of sheer resolve.

The pressure was immense.