A Knight who Eternally Regresses - Chapter 41

Chapter 41: Focus Point

Enkrid aimed for the opponent’s eyes, slashed at his shoulder, then moved his sword to cut near the thigh, and pushed the blade forcefully.

He kept his eyes wide open, observing the enemy’s movements, gestures, and footwork, predicting the next move.

He anticipated the enemy’s strikes, positioning himself defensively to block them all. Sparks flew between them, clearing a part of the fog. Through the gap, two gleaming eyes appeared.

‘Shoulder.’

The enemy’s attack line aimed for his shoulder again. Enkrid then pulled back his left foot which had been positioned forward.

In an instant, his left shoulder tilted back, and the enemy’s sword shot forward fiercely. Pivoting on his right foot’s big toe, he rotated sideways, avoiding the attack. The blade grazed past his shoulder.

Seeing an opportunity, Enkrid adjusted his stance, lowering his sword diagonally and then raising it.

When holding a sword, the side facing the opponent is the front blade, and the side facing oneself is the back blade. Raising the sword from a lowered position makes it a back blade strike. Enkrid aimed the back blade of his sword at the enemy’s chin. He predicted the enemy would dodge.

‘Even if they dodge, it will create an opening.’

He could then spread the next attack line as intended.

This was a tactic he had honed through countless real battles. He aimed to seize the initiative with one step and a connected attack.

“You arrogant bastard!”

The enemy growled, swinging the sword horizontally after the shoulder stab. Enkrid had to duck quickly, causing his upward slash to miss its mark.

Clang!

He had to pull his sword back quickly to block the next attack, lifting it above his head. The enemy had pretended to swing horizontally but then raised the sword to strike down. It was a downward strike. Barely managing to block it, their swords locked, with both men stopping in place.

“Do you think you can catch me with just one step?”

The enemy snarled, pressing down with his sword from above.

“Why, is that not allowed?”

Enkrid replied bluntly. Mitch Hurrier, as he had introduced himself, showed his anger through his eyes and expression, excelling in displaying his rage.

“You don’t want to die gracefully, do you?”

“No, I wish to die of old age.”

Enkrid’s sharp retorts rivaled Rem’s, maybe even surpassing him. A thick vein bulged on Mitch’s forehead.

“Fine, I’ll cut off your limbs and stuff you in a sewage pit until you die of old age.”

“No, I plan to die of old age with all my limbs intact, next to my great-grandchildren.”

“You bastard!”

Thud!

Mitch kicked forward, but Enkrid blocked it with his foot. They were forced two steps apart. Enkrid swung his sword as soon as the distance widened, while Mitch used his foot to rush forward. Mitch’s body, moving at terrifying speed, left a long afterimage. Seeing this, Enkrid adjusted his sword’s trajectory, bringing it down.

Clang!

Their swords met again. The blades clashed, creating a grating sound. Enkrid tried to push Mitch back with force, but it felt as if their swords were stuck together.

Mitch twisted his wrist upwards, lifting his sword towards Enkrid’s head, positioning it parallel to the ground.

In an instant, Mitch twisted the blade close to the hilt, the strong part of the sword, wrapping it around Enkrid’s sword tip.

Mitch then pushed his sword forward. Even while seething with anger, Mitch’s swordsmanship remained precise.

Clang!

The sound of clashing swords filled the air. If Enkrid stayed in that position, his throat would be pierced. He mimicked Mitch’s movements, twisting his wrist and lifting his sword.

Clang!

Sparks flew between them again. Mitch flicked his sword away. Without a moment to catch his breath, the next strike followed.

This time, Enkrid initiated. A diagonal slash from the upper right to the lower left. It was a move he had drilled countless times, a technique honed through rolling and tumbling in real combat. A graceful line formed as the slash aimed for Mitch’s body.

Step, timing, stance, strike.

It was a textbook-perfect slash. Mitch blocked Enkrid’s sword with his own. Enkrid felt as if he was slicing through soft cotton. Mitch’s sword bent gently, deflecting Enkrid’s blade, then reversed, aiming its back edge at Enkrid’s head. Mitch drew a small circle with his sword, twisting his wrist.

“Hup!”

Enkrid, gasping for breath, barely managed to twist his body sideways.

Whoosh.

Mitch’s sword cut through the space where Enkrid’s head had been. Though he dodged, it disrupted his stance. Mitch’s sword slashed Enkrid’s right forearm. The wound wasn’t deep, but blood flowed freely. There was no time for conversation.

‘Abdomen.’

He had to deflect a thrust aimed at his belly, then avoid a diagonal slash targeting his thigh. He blocked, dodged, and swung his sword at openings. Attempting a horizontal slash to push the enemy back, Mitch remained relentless.

Instead of retreating, Mitch raised his sword and continued to close the distance. They were in the distance where swords conversed. Enkrid found himself on the defensive, focused on blocking and dodging.

‘Upper, diagonal, thrust.’

He poured all his trained basics and real combat experience into his attacks. Thrusting, slashing, pulling back, blocking, and using his feet whenever he saw an opening. Mitch read all his moves, blocking what he could and dodging the rest.

Meanwhile, he inflicted several wounds on Enkrid. First the forearm, then the shoulder, and the thigh, adding minor cuts. Enkrid barely dodged, escaping by the slimmest margin.

One attack, which sent his helmet flying and cut his forehead, felt like sheer luck that he survived.

Blood from his forehead splattered everywhere due to his vigorous movements.

‘Next, the shoulder.’

There was no time to breathe, no time to think. Only blocking, dodging, and attacking. Even amidst this, he occasionally counterattacked. For every three or four hits he took, he managed one strike, but he could continue attacking, so he focused.

One wrong move, and he felt he would die. Mitch felt the same. When he first saw the crazy bastard who raided the camp, his skills had seemed mediocre. Even after a few exchanges, Mitch had seen his limits.

But now?

In just a few days, his skills had improved so much that Mitch questioned if it was the same person.

Perhaps they were twins?

Whenever he had such thoughts, the enemy’s sword targeted his gaps. Mitch realized that one thrust, which grazed his cheek, could have pierced his neck.

‘This bastard.’

Mitch focused. He had no time to think about what was happening around him or where he was. He concentrated solely on killing his opponent. Enkrid did the same. Blocking and dodging. Dodging and blocking. He saw openings but hesitated to exploit them.

If he hesitated to thrust his sword into a gap, he would find himself on the ferryman’s boat on the River of Swords. Even though he would repeat today upon death. Enkrid never intended to waste any of today. He gave it his all. That’s why repeating today had meaning.

‘Chest, no, abdomen.’

He dodged a feint thrust. Blocking and deflecting a sword descending like an eagle. His deflecting skills were crude, more like blocking than parrying. Enkrid’s Northern-style swordsmanship focused on overpowering the opponent with strength.

Mitch, on the other hand, combined Correct Sword and Flowing Sword techniques.

Correct Sword pushed the opponent along a fixed path and then countered. Flowing Sword created openings by deflecting the opponent’s attacks.

Clang.

The clash of swords released heated energy. Enkrid focused entirely, not letting a single nerve rest. Even blinking could spell defeat. In this sword exchange, Enkrid’s mind was free of thoughts of flagpoles, victory, or even swordsmanship. All that remained was to cut, thrust, and swing at his opponent. Everything else disappeared, leaving only one thing.

The sword and I. M and the sword.

The opponent’s sword. The sword and the opponent.

The sword in my hand, the opponent with his sword.

Eventually, he forgot even himself and his opponent.

Self-forgetting.

Only the sword remained.

Swinging, cutting, thrusting, blocking, and dodging filled Enkrid’s being. A surge of exhilaration mixed with a craving for more.

Clang! Clang! Cling! Clang! Shrrring!

The sounds of clashing metal filled the air. But nothing lasts forever.

Knowing this.

‘Just a bit more.’

He wished this moment would last. Enkrid instinctively knew this was not a moment easily encountered by merely repeating today.

He had experienced it once before. A clean strike with no resistance, cutting through the opponent. He had strived to recall that experience. It wasn’t easy. He hadn’t succeeded since.

The same now.

Forgetting himself and leaving only the sword, he wished this moment would last forever. But everything had an end.

Thunk.

As he brought his sword down with the essence of Northern-style swordsmanship, his opponent expertly deflected it. The force went outward, creating an opening in Enkrid’s chest.

Stab!

The opponent didn’t miss the opportunity. The blade, now a scorching hot iron, pierced through Enkrid’s chest.

“Huff.”

With the sword lodged in his chest, Enkrid’s arms halted. His limbs trembled. Having exerted himself fully with complete focus, his muscles were strained. Enkrid, with trembling arms and his sword lowered, lifted his head. He saw his opponent, drenched in sweat.

“I remember now,” Enkrid said, blood trickling from his mouth.

“Finally?”

“You were the one holding the torch, right?”

With the sword piercing him, memories slowly resurfaced. The encounter had been that memorable.

“Mitch Hurrier, squad leader of the Duchy of Azpen.”

“Enkrid, squad leader of the Kingdom of Naurillia.”

Both were soaked in blood and sweat. Enkrid’s forehead bled profusely, and his body was drenched as if he had been caught in the rain. The same was true for Mitch. They silently regarded each other. For the first time, Enkrid felt no animosity towards the one who had stabbed him to death. He only felt a desperate desire to fight again.

Mitch Hurrier was expressionless, but his eyes revealed a change. The rage had subsided, replaced by an indescribable emotion.

“The dream is over.”

Dream? Oh.

“It was a lie. A swordsman’s wish isn’t to die of old age, is it?”

“Just die already.”

Mitch spoke, then yanked his sword free. The blade, like a heated skewer, tore through his chest again. The pain was so intense it made his mind go blank. Enkrid, enduring the pain, knelt on one knee. Blood gushed from his throat, pouring out of his mouth. Without having to spit, the blood surged out.

“What’s going on? Is this an enemy?”

By now, a group of Azpen soldiers surrounded them. One of them spoke as he approached.

‘I didn’t even see them.’

Enkrid glanced around. He was surrounded by enemies.

“Yes, he sneaked all the way here. Seems to specialize in ambushes.”

“You look disappointed, squad leader.”

“No, I’m not.”

Mitch said, staring at Enkrid. Honestly, he was disappointed. Such an opponent was rare to find. It felt like he had stepped into a new realm, risking his life.

Naturally, he felt regret. But his opponent’s face showed no such emotion. He seemed relieved, excited like a seven-year-old holding a wooden sword.

“What are you?”

Mitch asked, bewildered, but Enkrid wasn’t listening anymore. He was dying, and his mind was dominated by one thought.

‘Ragna, you crazy bastard. It’s not the fear of death that’s needed.’

The necessary condition for the Focus Point wasn’t the concentration at the moment of death. It required an opponent who could match your abilities and emotions, someone with whom you could engage in a life-and-death struggle.

An opponent who could elevate you, making you pour everything you had into the fight to survive. Such an intense battle, where taking your eyes off for a moment could end it all.

A true rival was needed. In that sense, Mitch Hurrier was perfect. He was a worthy adversary. Enkrid realized this as he lay dying. The sensations and experiences he just had were exactly what Ragna meant by the Focus Point.

He had achieved it. And he had the chance to relive it, to recall that sensation and experience by repeating today. Being able to recreate that moment he wished to last a bit longer.

That was the Focus Point.

Would it be easy? No. But he would keep trying until he succeeded. Mitch Hurrier’s existence made it possible.

Enkrid understood this.

So how could he not be excited?

Seeing the path ahead again, Enkrid died with a smile.

“Was he a lunatic?”

Mitch tilted his head, puzzled by Enkrid’s smile as he died.