Eternally Regressing Knight-Chapter 488 - Loot, Bracelets, Gifts, and Food

Chapter 488 - Loot, Bracelets, Gifts, and Food

Whether or not the elder shaman woke, Enkrid kept himself busy.

This involved honing isolation techniques that tightened his muscles and applied oil to them, as well as having Luagarne strike his body with a blunt club.

Thunk!

Even with moderate force, the blow left him breathless, which was exactly how he wanted it.

The pain ensured his body toughened.

Without pain, there was no strengthening.

After enduring countless strikes, he began to suspect that the "Will of Rejection" might be manifesting in the areas being hit.

Though it wasn't entirely certain yet, he figured consistent practice would reveal the truth.

As Enkrid continued his strike training—

"Is it a hobby of yours to enjoy getting hit?"

A twin approached and asked, curious.

"I'm training to take blows to the sides," Enkrid replied with a half-joking tone.

The twins furrowed their brows simultaneously, questioning whether this was genuinely helpful training.

"Don't try this recklessly. It'll ruin your body," Luagarne interjected sagely, cautioning the twins.

"Then, how does an honored warrior like you train?"

This time, another Western warrior asked.

A man with three deep scars running from his forehead, across his left eye, and down to his cheek.

He'd once fallen victim to a shape-shifting monster in his youth.

Since then, he had been called "Three Claws."

"I started by striking with soft things, gradually moving to harder ones," Enkrid answered, straightening his back.

There was no secret to this.

When Audin had taught him, it wasn't some mysterious technique.

It wasn't even a "technique" in the proper sense.

Soft things, indeed—but not truly soft.

Audin's idea of "soft" was his fist smashing into Enkrid with just enough restraint.

Looking back, it was undeniably crude.

Would he do it again if asked?

Certainly, since the benefits were undeniable.

But did he want to?

Even Enkrid would hesitate, given the sheer pain and the initial uncertainty of its effectiveness.

He'd only followed through because Audin had egged him on.

Once the results showed, though, it didn't seem so bad.

"It still sounds painful," one of the twins muttered, before segueing into a tangent that was even more irrelevant.

The twins' father was Geonnara, whom Enkrid had saved.

"Thank you so much," they said earnestly.

Despite their rugged appearance—broad shoulders and arms strong enough to subdue a bull—their gratitude was surprisingly heartfelt.

Unbeknownst to Enkrid, the twins had much to be thankful for.

In fact, all the Westerners did.

Had Rem not returned... Had Enkrid, the Frog, and Dunbakel not come together, the worst could have happened.

Geonnara would've used his life to fuel a forbidden spell, briefly fighting as a hero before withering into a mummy-like husk, dying in agony.

The transgression against natural order would've burdened his soul even in the afterlife.

The fact that Geonnara avoided such a fate—and that their land was saved—was reason enough for the twins to express their gratitude.

"Yeah, sure," Enkrid replied casually, finding no need to dwell on it.

Was he supposed to demand repayment for saving their lives?

He hadn't done it expecting anything in return.

If anything, Enkrid himself had already received plenty.

The morning after practicing isolation techniques, Enkrid trained in swordsmanship, sparred with Luagarne, exchanged techniques with Dunbakel, and even matched blades with Geonnara.

Geonnara wasn't bad at all, wielding a battle axe in one hand and a spear in the other. Both weapons were handled at a highly competent level.

"Who do you think taught Rem?"

"I thought he said he was self-taught."

"That bastard."

"On that point, we agree."

During their sparring break, the two bonded over their mutual disdain for Rem—a strangely satisfying topic of conversation.

Geonnara was a cheerful man, as most Westerners tended to be.

The sparring sessions ended, gratitude from many—including the twins—was received, and there were even women offering to marry Enkrid on the spot.

Luagarne shook her head, discouraging the offers.

"Forget it. There's already a black-haired beauty and a fairy waiting for him back home," Luagarne pointed out, prompting all but one woman, Jiba, to abandon their pursuits.

Even Jiba's persistence seemed futile.

After news spread that the elder shaman had awakened, Rem disappeared.

With nothing better to do, Enkrid resumed his training.

Westerners gathered to watch, spar, or train themselves, filling the air with shouts and laughter.

"Take this!"

"Hyah!"

"Yah!"

Children played with wooden sticks, pretending to duel, while nearby girls engaged in a gentler game resembling house play.

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"Where have you been, dear husband?" a girl asked, playfully striking a boy with her palm in mock scolding.

It was amusing to watch, though the content reminded Enkrid of Rem and Ayul's story—a tale that would likely become a legend.

A husband who fled under the cover of night, returned home, survived, and lived a loving life with his wife.

"Not a bad title," Enkrid mused, thinking it could make for a great story.

If he'd been a bard, he might've dedicated himself to spreading such tales.

But instead, he swung his sword.

Suddenly, he stopped, a stray thought intruding.

Plunging the end of his sword into the ground, Enkrid let fragments of memory resurface.

"What was that voice I heard back then?"

It was during the fight against the Apostle.

"Trying to cut a unmaterialized opponent? That's pretty stupid."

He'd heard those words. On the battlefield, hallucinations and auditory delusions weren't uncommon.

He'd once seen a comrade scream for his mother mid-battle, only to charge forward and get skewered by an enemy's spear.

Fear and panic often triggered such visions.

Even Dunbakel had been overwhelmed by terror during their fight in the Grey Forest demonic domain.

But this voice?

"No."

Enkrid dismissed the idea that it was merely a hallucination. His mental fortitude had never wavered, and his willpower had always been strong.

If it wasn't a spell, then what was it?

He didn't know.

And since it hadn't happened again, he chose to ignore it for now.

Instead, his thoughts shifted to the spoils of battle—the things the Apostle had left behind.

Among them was a peculiar item: a silver chalice.

Intricately embossed with tree-root patterns so realistic it seemed a tree should grow from it, the chalice was filled with a deep purple liquid resembling the blood of giants.

"It reeks," Dunbakel commented, grimacing at the sharp, musty odor.

The unpleasant yet strangely compelling scent lingered in the air.

"Can I smell it again?"

Dunbakel had mentioned it several times. Anyone could tell something was off—whether it was Dunbakel, the root-carved silver cup, or both—when she spent the whole day spacing out and suddenly insisted on sniffing it again.

"Have you lost your mind?"

Enkrid scolded her gently—by which he meant adding a touch of physical persuasion. He kicked at Dunbakel's shin with his left foot and slapped her forehead with the palm of his right hand. It was a modified version of the "dual extension" style mercenary swordplay from Valen. While Dunbakel managed to dodge the kick, she couldn't avoid the slap, and with a groan, she staggered back. Even she must have realized something was wrong.

"It's strange. I keep thinking about the smell, and I feel like I need to sniff it again. I even want to run away with it."

"Resist it."

"Yeah, okay."

Enkrid convinced Dunbakel without using his fists, and surprisingly, Dunbakel complied easily. The root-carved silver cup emerged from the cultist's belongings.

Despite being an artifact of a heretical group, its exterior radiated a sense of purity. It was certainly not a cursed item from the Demon Realm.

"We should take it to a proper priest for disposal."

"It's not related to curses, so keeping it is fine," Rem advised. Naturally, Enkrid ended up holding onto it—not because of any lack of self-control on Dunbakel's part.

"Sometimes, items that can enthrall people simply by existing show up. This seems like one of those," added Luagarne, who had calmed down after nearly losing herself to plowing down cultists.

"A corrupted relic, maybe?"

Returning to the mainland and leaving it at any temple might suffice. But finding a virtuous priest?

That might be a tall order.

Such individuals were as rare as honest thieves, kind-hearted bandits, or kings who prioritized their people.

Still, a priest capable of wielding holy power?

That was more plausible.

"Maybe Audin knows someone."

Audin spent his days praying, though he always seemed to avoid priests whenever they visited the city.

Still, he might know someone.

It was worth asking later.

Several other magical tools were among the gathered items, all stuffed into Enkrid's backpack.

His load had grown heavier since departure—not an illusion.

They had also collected items from the city of Oara and loot from battles in the west.

Were they trophies?

They felt more like troublesome items they couldn't leave behind. Among them was the blade from Carmen Collection—a transparent-bladed sword meant for Jaxen.

"If we keep wandering for another year, we might need a cart instead of a backpack."

It wasn't an exaggeration.

"Good fortune is vital for long journeys," said the mother of Jiba as she handed over bracelets crafted with leather, fabric, and strands of hair. These bracelets, woven with sincerity, served as charms for luck and tools to ward off insects. The collective prayer of the women elevated them into magical artifacts. One adorned Enkrid's arm, a colorful string bracelet large enough to secure above his elbow.

Among other gifts was an oddly dried fish, its flesh hard as a rock. The tail was crispy, and the eyes had been removed from the head, leaving it looking like a makeshift club. As Enkrid examined it, the giver explained, "This is a fish from a great lake, dried for preservation. It's quite peculiar, isn't it? Let me show you how to make it easy to carry."

He demonstrated by snapping off the head and tail and tucking the pieces into a cloth pouch. Then he split the flesh to remove the dried bones with a few deft motions. What remained was a cleaned, dried piece of fish, ready for travel.

"Just tear it apart like this."

The man showed him how to shred the flesh into strips for portable dried food.

"Boil it in water, and it makes a hearty broth."

Despite being dried fish, it emitted almost no smell. The faint scent that lingered was far from unpleasant.

"Doesn't it smell nice? We coat it with powdered herbs, which whets the appetite."

The man rubbed his nose with a smile, as Enkrid silently observed. Curious, he tasted a strip. It was hard, requiring effort to chew, but his saliva softened it, revealing a savory flavor. Though he had eaten boiled dried fish before, this was his first time consuming it raw. The initial texture was unusual, but it grew tender as he chewed, leaving a pleasant, nutty aftertaste.

It turned out to be a prized food among local hunters, rich in nutrients and easy to carry. Preparing it for portability required special techniques to prevent spoilage, making it an expensive delicacy. Unlike pemmican, common on the continent, it was milder and more palatable. Pemmican often developed an off-putting smell and taste over time, earning infamy among soldiers as worse than the enemy. Aged pemmican was particularly dreadful, something to be consumed only when desperate.

"How is it? Ha-ha!"

The man's cheerful laughter was infectious.

This dried fish, rich in tradition and taste, came with fascinating stories, shared by the generous giver with undeniable charm.

"It's good."

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