A Knight who Eternally Regresses - Chapter 119

Chapter 119: Dogfight

‘Now it’s 50-50.’

Enkrid wasn’t confident about defeating Mitch Hurrier, who still had a functional hand.

He had unlocked new potential and retraced the path his right hand walked with his left. However, could he wield it as well as his right?

No.

Could he, with one hand, handle the full force of Mitch Hurrier’s dual-handed attacks?

‘Not a chance.’

He had experienced it many times already. And yet, Mitch didn’t have any bad habits in his movements. Even trying to read his patterns was difficult.

Every time, he fluidly transitioned between techniques. Though his base seemed to be Correct and Precise Sword and Soft and Flowing Sword styles.

On the other hand, Enkrid’s foundation was the Heavy and Fierce Sword style. This left him at a disadvantage, especially since he was only using one hand.

Even though Mitch had lost his thumb, he could still wield his sword with both hands. If he got desperate, he could probably endure the pain and swing a few more times.

‘No other choice, huh.’

He would have liked to simply finish the fight by cutting Mitch’s throat. But if that wasn’t possible…

He would have to show Mitch the Vallen-style Mercenary Swordsmanship, also known as a dogfight.

“Sorry in advance.”

“What kind of nonsense is that?”

Enkrid was being sincere. He really did feel a little bad. Mitch viewed him as an obstacle, a rival.

Though they hadn’t exchanged many words, Enkrid could sense it. Mitch even remembered his name. He had been waiting for this, even looking forward to it.

What Enkrid sensed from him was the fighting spirit of someone who wanted to confirm what he had built up through the sword.

And so.

‘I’m really sorry.’

Enkrid had already seen everything. Mitch’s skill, his accumulated experience, and even his fighting spirit.

That’s why he realized he had the advantage if he turned it into a dogfight. Should he keep repeating today and wait until he could defeat Mitch with his left-handed swordsmanship?

How many more todays would that take?

No, that wasn’t the right approach. Enkrid felt there was no meaning in staying in the present “today.”

If his left hand was to improve further, it would require a new stimulus. Mitch Hurrier was a good opponent, but—

‘I’ve squeezed all I can from him.’

Though he couldn’t read Mitch’s patterns, he had memorized a few habits.

For instance—

“You’re still a strange bastard.”

Just like now, when Mitch’s left eyebrow twitched, it meant he was about to attack. No sooner had Mitch finished speaking than he kicked off the ground, lunging forward.

Enkrid expected this, no, he was certain Mitch would charge at him.

The moment Mitch spoke, Enkrid flicked his toes against the ground. The pebbles beneath his feet flew toward Mitch’s face.

Bang!

Mitch deflected the pebbles with the flat of his sword, causing him to stumble slightly.

But he continued charging.

His reactions were sharp, as always. Enkrid planted his sword in the ground and flicked his left hand toward his waist, stretching it forward.

Fweeeeeet!

It was the Whistling Dagger.

“That’s cheap!”

Mitch cursed, twisting his sword several times. His eyesight was terrifying. Tatang, the Whistling Dagger was useless as it bounced off his blade.

Before Enkrid knew it, Mitch was within striking range. Enkrid swiftly drew his sword and thrust it forward.

Mitch twisted his body, slashing his sword diagonally so fast it looked like the blade bent mid-swing. Enkrid followed the blade’s trajectory with his eyes and pulled his sword aside.

Clang, crack.

At the moment of contact, he felt he didn’t have enough strength, so he sidestepped the blade, aiming for Mitch’s hand.

Mitch was holding his sword with both hands, while Enkrid was only using one.

As soon as Enkrid felt himself getting pushed back, he attempted to deflect the blow using Soft and Flowing Sword, but Mitch sensed this and pressed down with more strength.

Enkrid dropped his sword again.

As he moved to close the distance, he heard the sound of Mitch kicking off the ground and saw his body retreat. Mitch wasn’t one to fall for the same trick twice.

Enkrid hadn’t expected him to.

Mitch had retreated, prepared his stance, and slashed downward again. Enkrid kicked the sword lying on the ground.

It was a calculated move.

Thwack.

The hilt struck the top of Enkrid’s foot, and the sword shot forward, aiming for Mitch’s neck.

Typically, you’re taught not to let go of your sword. That’s one of the basics of swordsmanship.

There were some who used Illusionary Swords and fought by letting go of their blades, but—

Kicking a sword?

Only unconventional methods could counter unconventional techniques.

“Hah!”

Mitch let out a shout, gripping his sword with one hand, and slashed down with a vertical chop. At the same time, he blocked the tip of the flying sword with the gauntlet on his other hand.

Thunk.

The sword’s trajectory was deflected to the side.

As expected of Mitch Hurrier. Though the top of his gauntlet was slightly dented, there wasn’t even a hole in it, and it didn’t look like the impact had caused much damage.

Enkrid wasn’t surprised. He had already envisioned the entire scene.

The real attack was the next one.

Mitch had lost the strength and speed of his downward strike. His two-handed chop had become a one-handed swing.

Enkrid dashed forward the moment he kicked the sword. Time-wise, he had dropped the sword, kicked it, and immediately charged.

Meanwhile, Mitch had retreated, swung his sword downward, and blocked the flying blade with his gauntlet.

Thud.

Mitch’s sword struck Enkrid’s right shoulder.

He took the hit.

At the same time, he thrust his left hand forward. In terms of grip strength, Enkrid had the upper hand.

As he reached for Mitch’s throat, Mitch tilted his head back.

No, he bent his entire waist backward, creating space between them.

Enkrid silently thanked Torres.

No training had done more to enhance the sensitivity in his left hand, and it had also helped him land this move.

He twisted his wrist, activating the muscles below it, and pop—a hidden dagger shot out. The dagger that sprang from his wrist landed in his hand.

At that moment, Enkrid looked Mitch in the eyes. His pupils dilated, and his gaze wavered. Enkrid slashed the dagger at those trembling eyes.

Slice!

The sound of the blade tearing through flesh rang out.

“Urgh!”

A groan escaped Mitch’s lips as he swallowed the pain.

“Hm.”

A low sound also came from Enkrid. It was understandable. The dagger Enkrid held had cut Mitch Hurrier’s eye. More precisely, it sliced from his cheek up to his eyebrow.

Even as Mitch lost his eye, he kicked Enkrid in the stomach and pulled back his sword.

The blade, still lodged in Enkrid’s shoulder, sliced through his leather armor as it withdrew, leaving a searing, cold sensation as it cut his skin.

The steel cleaved through his shoulder. His right wrist was already a mess, and now his shoulder had been slashed, too.

‘This isn’t good.’

Thinking this, Enkrid threw the dagger.

Ping!

Even as Mitch had lost an eye, he swung his sword to deflect the dagger. But the dagger lodged into his forearm instead.

With one eye gone, his depth perception must have been thrown off.

That was Enkrid’s chance.

Vallen-style Mercenary Swordsmanship, or dogfighting. It was about getting in close, using everything you had, even fighting dirty if you had to.

Enkrid fought that way.

He threw his sword again and charged. His stomach was still sore from the earlier kick, and his shoulder was slashed, but—

His heart pounded, pumping blood through his veins. Now was not the time for calmness, but boldness. Enkrid ran forward, fueled by that boldness.

“Hyaaah!”

Mitch let out a scream which sounded somewhere between a battle cry and a shout of pain as he swung his sword.

‘I see it.’

That meant he could dodge it. It was the same as when he had saved Leona. Like when he had dodged the flying daggers.

Activating Focus Point, Enkrid predicted the sword’s path by instinct. He slipped inside its range.

Thud.

The calculations had been correct. Instead of the blade, his face was struck by Mitch’s sword-wielding fist. But Enkrid had tucked in his chin and leaned forward, forehead-first.

So, the impact wasn’t too bad.

“If you’re going to take a hit, take it well. If you do, the next opportunity will be yours.”

That was Audin’s advice. Learning how to take a hit had always been useful. The distance between them closed.

“Yeah, come on! This is what I wanted!”

Mitch, too, dropped his sword and grabbed Enkrid’s shoulder. The wound split open, and pain flooded in, but it was still better than dying.

More importantly, the wound wasn’t as deep as Enkrid had feared. The leather armor he wore under his clothes had done its job, even while being torn.

Their hands tangled together. Two men, panting heavily, started rolling across the gravel. As they did, Mitch, seemingly enraged, opened his mouth.

“You dirty bastard, you think you can win by wrestling?”

‘Yeah.’

Enkrid did think he could win. After trading blows a few times, he had figured it out.

After learning Valaf-style Martial Arts and sparring with people trained in Ael Karaz-style Grappling, he realized that skill wasn’t just about talent—it required an immense amount of time and effort.

You had to train until it was so ingrained in your body that it would appear in your dreams.

Enkrid was confident. As long as they were locked in a grappling match, the advantage was his.

That was why he hadn’t hesitated to engage in this “dogfight.”

Crunch.

Enkrid attempted to twist Mitch’s arm, and then he bit his ear.

“Argh!”

Mitch screamed in pain. Without hesitation, Enkrid grabbed Mitch’s ankle.

He yanked the foot toward his side, trapping it under his arm. Pressing down with his hand on Mitch’s instep, he wrapped both legs around Mitch’s other leg like a pretzel, applying pressure to break it.

It took only a second.

Snap! Crack!

The horrible sound was accompanied by what must have been intense pain. Anyone who had ever experienced it would know how excruciating it was.

The force had shattered the Achilles tendon along with the bone connected to the ankle.

Without stopping, Enkrid switched to the other leg.

Whoosh.

He entangled Mitch’s other leg with his own, pulled the foot in close, grabbed it with both hands, and twisted his body like a tornado.

Crunch, snap.

This time, the knee joint bent in the wrong direction, dislocating with a sickening sound.

“Aaaaaargh!”

Mitch let out a blood-curdling scream.

Saliva dripping from his mouth, veins bulging in his eyes, Mitch managed to pull out a dagger and stabbed it toward Enkrid’s neck.

Enkrid dodged, and the dagger plunged deep into his forearm instead, before being pulled out.

Releasing Mitch’s legs, Enkrid rolled back.

It was over.

Mitch was now completely unable to fight.

“Hoo…”

Enkrid let out a long breath. He wasn’t in great shape either. Joint locks, especially applied with such force, strained his own body too.

On top of that, he had been stabbed, and his shoulder was still bleeding from the earlier sword slash.

By now, half of his clothes were soaked. It was all his own blood. Still, compared to Mitch, Enkrid’s condition was much better.

“Kraiss, my sword.”

Even though Kraiss wasn’t a combatant, he hadn’t run away. Quick to react, he scurried over with Enkrid’s sword in hand.

As Enkrid took the sword in his left hand, blood welled up from his forearm. The wound was deeper than he had thought.

“Shit, I thought I was dead, Captain.”

Enkrid didn’t have the energy to reply to Kraiss’s remark. He gripped his sword and approached. His arms and shoulder were injured, but his legs were fine.

“Platoon leader!”

Several enemy soldiers, seeing Mitch Hurrier down, reacted at last. They had been hesitant, but now they charged forward.

It was far too late.

None of them had imagined that their squad leader, Mitch Hurrier, would lose. He was a genius. A man blessed with natural talent.

They used to call him the genius who didn’t need to try. No one knew what had happened on the battlefield to change him, but ever since his return, he had trained day and night.

He was supposed to be a star that had just begun to shine. But now, without even a proper swordfight, his legs had been destroyed.

This wasn’t what their leader wanted. They wanted a fair fight, sword against sword. Most of the enemy soldiers felt this way.

“So this is it… this is not what I wanted.”

Mitch felt the same.

Lying on the ground with his sword pointing down at the earth, he locked eyes with Enkrid and spoke through bloody breaths.

“You… you…”

“This is war,” Enkrid said, and plunged his sword down.

Thud.

The blade pierced the back of Mitch Hurrier’s neck, stabbing all the way through, the tip scraping against the gravel as it emerged from the front.

Mitch gasped, wide-eyed, coughing up blood before his head slumped to the side. His neck, with the sword stuck in it like an ornament, twisted grotesquely.

“…Kill him!”

A few of the enraged enemy soldiers rushed at Enkrid.

“Idiots.”

Enkrid cursed them. In all the times he had repeated this day, he had come to realize something. Did they really think their commander hadn’t anticipated this kind of ambush?

Of course not.

If anything, they had been waiting for it. And maybe, the enemy had known that as well.

After all, the battlefield was a place where the prey and the predator were constantly switching roles.

Tactics were built on deception and trickery. The goal now was simply to buy time.

Tatata!

None of the enemy soldiers were as skilled as Mitch. With a quick flick of his sword, Enkrid pulled his blade free from Mitch’s neck and effortlessly parried the incoming spears.

His sword strikes were delicate, blending the techniques of Heavy and Fierce Sword, Soft and Flowing Sword, and even Fast and Faster Sword.

“Join up! Wipe them out!”

Vengeance’s voice rang out from behind, signaling he was still alive.

The enemy soldiers were elite, but their numbers couldn’t overcome their disadvantage.

Especially now that archers had joined the fray—there was no hope left.

“Fire.”

A squad of forty crossbowmen began turning the remaining enemy soldiers into pincushions.

Someone had rounded up the archers and brought them to the battlefield.

With that, the fight was over.

Enkrid knew this all too well.

No matter how skilled you were, there was no way to avoid an organized barrage of arrows. Seeing the tide of battle turn, Enkrid sat down.

His body felt like it was about to fall apart.

‘That was exhausting.’

But there was one thing he had gained—his left hand. Proud of his progress, Enkrid couldn’t help but smile.

He had survived the dogfight.

He survived, passed another day, and took another step forward. Though his dreams had been torn and tattered, he felt like someone had patched them up haphazardly.

He felt it in the middle of the battlefield, as the spring breeze blew through the blood-soaked camp.