A Knight who Eternally Regresses - Chapter 2

Chapter 2: Zoetrope

Through the eyeholes of his leather helmet, Enkrid saw a black dot flying towards him.

He lifted the shield fixed to his left forearm.

Thud.

He felt the brunt of a heavy weight.

His forearm was sore from only partially deflecting the blow.

Enkrid brought his sword down on the helmet of the man who had thrown the spear.

Thwack.

The blade fell onto the shoulder of the man who had reflexively twisted his neck.

A heavy sound rang out as the blade hit the shoulder armor, and Enkrid’s grip tingled.

“Guh, I’ll kill you.”

The enemy soldier muttered, then swung his spear with a shortened grip.

It was a skillfully executed move.

Without a second thought, Enkrid kicked the man’s stomach with the sole of his boot.

“Ugh.”

The struck man lost his balance and fell.

It was a melee, but it was much closer to a brawl.

When the front lines of friends and foes intertwined, it was natural for allies and enemies to become indistinguishable.

Thus, to fall meant to die.

Turning his gaze from the fallen enemy, Enkrid gripped his shield handle tightly and looked for his allies.

Losing one’s head in the chaos meant death. Mimicking a berserker in such chaos did not make one a berserker but a corpse.

The reason Enkrid had survived for so long with his mediocre talent was that he knew his place.

‘Don’t stand out.’

He blocked another incoming blade with his shield.

The metal edge dented as the blade struck the edge of the shield.

The oiled wooden shield twisted.

At best, it seemed it would be useless after a few more hits.

‘Keep the attacks short and simple.’

After blocking, Enkrid put strength into his sword-wielding hand and swung.

Thud.

Soon, he felt a heavy impact in his grip.

An unlucky enemy soldier took a blow to the head and tumbled to the side.

An ally’s spear then deeply embedded itself into the fallen enemy’s chest.

The gambeson, made thick with layers of cotton and linen, couldn’t withstand the impact of the spear and was punctured.

The struck man struggled desperately.

Thump! Thump! Thump!

The ally soldier repeated the same motion relentlessly.

Regardless of resistance, the spear was thrust powerfully from a distance.

Thunk.

Eventually, the spear pierced through the armor and embedded itself into the unfortunate enemy soldier’s torso.

“Gak.”

The enemy, spewing blood, trembled and clutched at the spear that had pierced his stomach.

“Shit, let go! Fucking let go, you bastard.”

The enemy soldier held on to the spear to the very end, and the ally soldier had to abandon his weapon and pick up the one used by the enemy.

Having confirmed this, Enkrid stepped back and took a deep breath.

“Huff, huff, huff.”

He took in his position, the positions of his allies, and the positions of the enemy, picturing them in his mind.

‘Standing out means death.’

If he tried to penetrate the enemy lines with his skills, he would become mere fertilizer scattered on the battlefield. Just like the enemy soldier who had died with a hole several times larger than his navel.

The man had rushed forward in excitement, but his skills were mediocre.

Perhaps he had become overconfident after killing a few less fortunate and less skilled enemies on the battlefield.

Or maybe it was just bad luck.

After all, he had been caught by Enkrid’s blade, which wasn’t even aimed at him.

The ground, hardened by days without rain, was like stone.

Blood was scattered over it, but that didn’t alleviate the dryness. It had been too long since the last rain.

A thirst parched his throat, and the smell of blood rose from within.

Enkrid swallowed dryly and looked for his squad members with his eyes.

Of course, looking didn’t mean they would appear.

Instead.

“Uaaaaaah!”

Someone screamed.

Two steps away, he saw one of his squad members thrusting a spear.

‘What are you doing?’

The thrust itself was fine, but the man tripped over his own feet and fell.

Thump! He fell, dropping his weapon in the process.

‘Are you praying to be killed?’

The fallen man, barely able to lift his head, looked like he was praying while prostrating.

Enkrid cut off his thoughts and moved.

Stepping forward, he raised his shield, held his breath, and tensed his muscles.

Thud. Squelch.

The opponent’s blade scraped against the shield. A heavy impact spread from his forearm throughout his body.

Barely blocking the blade, the oiled wooden shield split.

Enkrid threw the broken shield forward and swung his sword with all his might, left and right.

Once from right to left, and then a big swing from left to right.

Whoosh, whoosh.

Clang!

The timing of the swing from left to right caught the enemy’s weapon.

Sparks flew as blade met blade, and the enemy’s weapon slipped from his grasp.

That was the moment Enkrid had been waiting for. He trusted his physical strength, honed through relentless training, more than his mediocre swordsmanship.

He had trained as much as any first-rate mercenary.

This was the opportunity his strength had created, but he didn’t rush in. Just as there are opportunities within crises, there are also crises within opportunities.

“Waaaah!”

The enemy, having lost his weapon, hesitated for a moment before raising his arms and charging.

He must have thought he was a bear.

Enkrid pretended to thrust with his sword, then dropped it to the ground and ducked, flipping the charging enemy over his back.

Armor, helmet, various armaments, and the weight of an adult male were all loaded onto his back.

It was heavy.

The moment he hoisted the enemy on his back, his waist and thighs screamed.

Ignoring that scream, Enkrid straightened his back with all his might.

“Ugh!”

The enemy’s body flew backwards.

There was no need to look back at the fallen man.

The position Enkrid stood was one step inside the frontline formed by his allies.

On this side, one could usually encounter only three types of enemies.

First, the unlucky ones who ended up at the front because they were pushed forward.

Second, the fools filled with arrogance from several days of fighting.

Third, the real deal who lead the battle because they are confident in their skills.

The man he had just flipped was of the first type.

Having charged into the enemy lines in resignation, he was as good as dead.

Enkrid picked up a sword from the ground.

He saw the ally who had tripped over his own feet clumsily getting up.

He also saw that half of the man’s helmet was neatly split.

Blood was flowing from his head.

‘Lucky bastard.’

Mere moments ago, he, who was about to die, had been saved only due to Enkrid’s intervention.

In many ways, he was a lucky fellow. Moreover, he was someone Enkrid knew.

“Bell, did your head get split so you lost your mind?”

Enkrid asked.

The soldier with the half-split helmet, Bell, wiped the blood flowing over his eyes and replied.

“Krh, shit, damn. Barely survived.”

“If you barely survived, at least cover my back.”

In the midst of the battlefield, it’s difficult for an ordinary soldier to read the overall situation. A Squad Leader and Decurion’s main role is not to command but to relay orders to the decurion squad.

However, Enkrid had read the situation.

More precisely, he felt it.

‘This is bad.’

For countless long years, he had lived with the blood and blades of the battlefield.

Those days hadn’t granted him talent in swordsmanship, but they had given him a sense of the flow of battle, albeit it was that of a rookie.

To be honest, it was purely instinct.

Still, that instinct had saved him multiple times.

‘This seems fucked up.’

“Ugh, alright then.”

Bell, wiping the blood from his head, responded and moved with a speed that was neither fast nor slow after picking up his weapon.

Bell, holding a spear, took two cautious steps forward.

Thwack.

A flash pierced through his head.

It was between the halves of the split helmet.

An arrow flew in and lodged in his head. The impact sent his eyeball flying, striking Enkrid’s leather armor.

‘Ah.’

Bell died without even letting out a short gasp, mouth slightly agape.

Enkrid turned his gaze away.

To the far sky, precisely, the void. An indescribable space in between.

He saw a flashing light and a dot.

The moment he saw it, he knew it was going to pierce his head.

Enkrid closed his eyes.

How many can remain detached at the moment of death?

Enkrid was no exception.

As soon as he closed his eyes, his past life, like the dream he had last night, popped up and tried to pass by like the commonly mentioned zoetrope.

He felt time slowing down.

The noise of the battlefield faded, and even breathing seemed to slow down.

Thud, thump!

That feeling soon vanished. The zoetrope disappeared, and the noise of the battlefield returned along with normal breathing.

“Are you offering a prayer of thanks for killing you?”

It was one of his subordinates.

One of his Decurion squad.

He had pushed Enkrid aside, and the arrow had lodged in the ground.

“Rem.”

Enkrid called his name.

“Some bastard with the eyes of a hawk or feathers or something came to this battle. Watch out for the arrows.”

“Like being careful will stop me from getting hit?”

“I’ll go deal with him, just wait a bit.”

That guy was refreshingly insane.

Enkrid thought so and nodded.

“What, you haven’t given up on life, have you? Skipping training and napping all day today.”

Rem said.

“Is this your concern?”

“If I saved someone who wanted to die, I’d feel uneasy.”

“Damn it, who wants to die?”

Eating sword meals wasn’t the same as a suicide wish.

“You usually fight well, but at crucial moments, you close your eyes.”

“Do you think I want to close them?”

It seemed like they had a similar conversation before.

Rem held an axe in his right hand and a broken spear in his left.

He was skilled with various weapons, including swords, axes, and blunt weapons, which allowed him to be armed this way.

He raised his axe-holding right hand and scratched his head with his thumb.

It didn’t look refreshing.

Because he was scratching over his helmet.

“Shit, this helmet smells fucking awful.”

“I agree with that.”

“If you feel like dying, focus harder.”

Rem said.

He often said that. Enkrid knew what those words meant.

Rem often said that at the moment one feels like dying, during that zoetrope moment, a person can focus to a superhuman extent. He advised using that in combat.

Damn, as if that was possible.

That was a talent.

To open one’s eyes and face the opponent, doing what needs to be done in that instant between life and death.

“Focus, my ass.”

Enkrid said.

“Well, if you could learn by dying hundreds of times, that’d be great, but you only have one life. See you again then.”

Rem chuckled and leaped back into the battlefield.

He was good at fighting.

Enkrid refocused on the battle.

He fought with an ally soldier by his side. That was the routine.

Enkrid thrust his sword forward.

If he was lucky, it would pierce, and if he was unlucky, it would be dodged.

If neither.

Thud.

It would just be a hit with the tip of the sword.

The tip of the sword, unable to pierce the enemy’s armor, pushed the enemy like a blunt weapon.

“Hmm.”

The struck enemy groaned and stepped back, and a passing ally’s war hammer hit the enemy’s head.

Bang.

He cleared his mind of any distractions.

Just dealing with the swords, spears, and clubs flying towards him, not to mention blocking, dodging, and swinging his sword, made his nerves burn up.

Feeling insecure without a shield, he picked up an axe from the ground to use as a makeshift shield.

He continued to block, strike, and stab, surrounded by allies. Whenever there was a gap, he showcased the crude swordsmanship he had learned.

Moving his left foot forward, shifting his weight, keeping the tip of the sword straight without relaxing his arm.

It was a thrust.

With moderately tensed muscles, focus, and a sense to seize the moment, it could have been successful.

Ting, tiddly tiddly ting!

Enkrid’s thrust was only half-successful.

‘Tch.’

He aimed for the gap between the helmet and breastplate, but the enemy moved, causing the thrust to miss.

He managed to create a long cut on the enemy’s neck, but it was hard to consider it fatal.

The bloodied enemy turned his venom-filled eyes towards Enkrid.

Those eyes were filled with malice. The enemy silently gritted his teeth.

‘Danger.’

The battlefield instinct spoke.

As Enkrid backed away, another ally soldier filled the gap.

The enemy crouched silently and punched the shin of the ally blocking his way with a fist holding a knife.

Crack.

It was the sound of bones breaking.

“Ugh!”

As the ally with the broken shin fell, the enemy soldier drew a dagger and stabbed it into the ally’s neck.

He stabbed and withdrew smoothly, as if it were a scene set in a play.

Blood spurted, soaking the enemy’s breastplate.

The enemy simply pushed the dead soldier aside.

‘Ah.’

Zoetrope.

The boundary between life and death.

Beyond the light-emitting lamp, countless images darted by. Those images were Enkrid’s life.

Like the dream he had last night.

At the end of that life, as everything passed by, the enemy’s blade pierced Enkrid’s neck.

It was the same thrust he had demonstrated.

It was a perfect thrust, at least in Enkrid’s view.

A burning pain surged from his neck throughout his body.

Enkrid faced the moment between life and death and realized what Rem’s mentioned concentration was.

But it was too late.

‘Was it something you had to die to learn?’

He cursed Rem inwardly and closed his eyes, thinking.

No, his heart moved on its own.

Longing, craving, yearning.

‘I wanted to be good with the sword.’

‘I wanted to be a knight.’

‘I wanted to be a hero.’

In the end, Enkrid, who couldn’t become any of those, was supposed to earn a decent living and settle down in a moderate village to build a house and live.

But he didn’t do that. He couldn’t.

The passion boiling in his chest wouldn’t allow him to.

Until the very last moment, he squandered the money earned from the blood on the battlefield on places like fencing schools.

‘I could have done better.’

If there was more time.

During the time others slept, the time those so-called prodigies or geniuses played, he thought he should swing more.

At the last moment of the zoetrope, the face of the person he had saved single-handedly for the first and last time popped up.

“The amulet will move according to the knight’s wishes.”

The gift of the amulet came from the village chief of the slash-and-burn village.

The old woman with a few missing front teeth, making a whistling sound as she spoke.

Regret and longing mixed, filling his chest with an emotion he had never felt before.

Regret.

‘Would things have changed if I had swung the sword a few more times?’

The word death settled in his body. Beyond the closed eyes, he saw a black river.

And Enkrid regretted taking a nap instead of swinging his sword that afternoon.

Perhaps if he had done a bit more then, the last thrust might have been successful.

A faceless boatman sat on a ferry over the black river.

The boatman asked.

“Do you really think so?”

Hm?

“You’re interesting.”

Erm?

“Then let’s do that.”

The mouthless boatman said. It was unclear where the sound came from. The area around the mouth was just dark, as if wearing a black mask.

Enkrid couldn’t say a word.

He lost consciousness and opened his eyes again.

Clang, clang, clang.

It was the sound of the night guard striking iron.

Precisely, the sound of a ladle hitting a pot.

The familiar sound that woke up the morning.

“……”

Silently looking to the side.

“Did you have a shitty dream or something?”

His bunkmate, Rem, got up from the makeshift bed and shoving his feet into his boots, grumbled.

“Ah, a bug.”

A bug in the boots.

Enkrid blinked.

It was too real to be called a dream, as events whirled through his mind.

“Ptooey.”

Rem spat on the bug he had shaken off and crushed it with his foot.

On the floor, a mix of the bug’s body fluid and saliva remained.