317 - A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

317. As his body yearned for recovery, Enkryd continued to struggle and toil, endlessly repeating today's events. Dunbachel and Sinar quickly maneuvered to combat the enemy’s skirmishers, engaging in fierce battles against the invading forces. While Ragna excitedly declared he’d discovered a breakthrough—a “chocolate solution”—Saxon was also engrossed in his own matters. 'Hmm.' It had been ages since he’d caught the distinct scent of that particular industry. Although there was no actual odor, Saxon’s sharp senses melded and combined to activate a sixth sense, capturing that ‘aroma’ as nothing more than a feeling. Silently approaching footsteps, a threatening blade—these things became visible through his perception. Saxon slipped away from the ranks of soldiers unnoticed. His adversaries recognized him as well. They were a clan known as the assassins, the creators and true masters of the Azuven Assassin’s Guild, notably called 'The Swamp of Monter.' They were three assassins whose skills far surpassed that of their figurehead guild leader. Each was supremely confident in their abilities. Upon recognizing Saxon, they instantly moved into action. 'There's a clumsy one over there. Let's kill him and go.' A mere glance was enough for the three to communicate their intent. Saxon deliberately let slip his presence and sounds, intentionally luring them in. Indeed, it was a ruse—a temptation implying, despite his competence in such battles, that he was inferior to them. 'Three.' Saxon estimated the number of pursuers by the faint intent to kill that followed him. Seamlessly orchestrating a dance of seduction, he weaved through his allied battalion. The three assassins, tracking his trail, commenced their pursuit. A soldier from the allied ranks broke formation. Pretending awkwardly, a grizzled veteran clutching his spear stumbled forward. He was an oddly conspicuous soldier, and his clumsy fall attracted attention. With a thud, he hit his knees, exclaiming "Oh!" in the process. Both enemy and ally alike turned their gaze to him. Curiously enough, the uniform he wore was that of a Border Guard. Without looking, Saxon realized the veteran wasn’t truly falling on his knees, but used his thickly gloved hands to beat the ground instead. Simultaneously, Saxon sensed the incoming blade aimed at him from behind. It was a thin skewer-like sword. Observing the veteran’s antics, Saxon employed a similar tactic. "Eh!" Feigning surprise, he moved forward, stumbling in a way that could only be described as a new recruit’s clumsy fall. "You fool!" The allied commander, witnessing the scene, shouted out. In the commander’s perspective, it appeared as though Saxon had abandoned formation, nearly caught off guard by the enemy. It seemed that Saxon had barely managed to evade, so the commander had a right to be angry at this apparent breach. Yet, Saxon didn’t prolong the fight unnecessarily. He had dealt with countless battles of this nature. He had already thrown a silent throwing knife—a shadow blade—mid-fall. Thunk. The veteran raised a hand to his chest, intercepting the blade like an adornment. "Managed." Saxon muttered indifferently. His form half bent. The veteran, who had blocked the shadow blade with his hand, looked up to see Saxon’s detached gaze. His eyes were armed with pure indifference. Encircled by a red hue, his pupils were colored in a deep chestnut brown. Facing that gaze sent shivers down his spine. The family member who withdrew the blade from their hand moved their fingers. [Kill him.] The command was issued in sign language—a reflexive action for the ominous feeling creeping up their spine. Soon, the remaining two family members displayed their skills. Poisoned daggers were hurled, and toxic smoke flared up beneath Saxon. The allied commander, attempting to save what he thought was a new recruit, paused in his tracks. He was from the Border Guard. Looking closely at the supposed recruit who was stumbling, he realized it was Saxon. Truthfully, Saxon had deliberately revealed his face, signaling to stay out of it; yet, the commander couldn’t possibly know this. Even if someone dared come closer and died, it was their own fate. Keeping a cautious distance ensured survival. That was the reason for leaving the formation. Saxon could have easily hidden behind allied soldiers, turning them into shields, but he refrained. Not even Enkryd, the commander, would look at him suspiciously for this. After all, using allied soldiers as shields would displease the commander. ‘He worries about every little thing.’ Saxon felt as though the internal blade he wielded was dulling. Yet, this didn’t mean the skills etched into his bones diminished. Whizz, whizz! Knives flew through the air, and steel threads, taut and ready, aimed for his ankles. Saxon assessed and dodged them all. His senses were monstrous. Naturally so. He had taught them the feeling of evasion, the door to a sixth sense. In terms of sheer perception, Saxon was a genius, having surpassed fairy-like senses through hard-earned experience. The outcome was obvious. The assassins attempted to flee only to be pursued by Saxon, who generously gifted them with newfound throats or adorned their hearts with throwing knives. Before long, Saxon found himself far from the battlefield. As a result, there was no one, ally or enemy, who had properly witnessed their fight. Even if they had fought right before someone’s eyes, all they would've seen were things whizzing through the air. “Damn, is that the Dagger of Geor?” It was his last opponent. The person disguised as the old soldier asked as he lay dying, a look of injustice on his face. “Would knowing make it any less unfair?” “Bastard.” Blood trickled steadily from his lips. As long as the dagger embedded in his chest wasn't removed, he might survive a moment longer. However, Saxon saw no reason to grant that mercy. Yanking the dagger free, Saxon jumped back. In his last act of defiance, the man spat out a needle he had concealed in his mouth. The needle, shot through the air, missed aimlessly. “How on earth do you never let your guard down?” No matter their attitude or glint in their eye, Saxon remained unperturbed. From a slight distance, he stared back at his dying adversary with impassive eyes. As the man, trembling, succumbed to death, Saxon inspected his own wounds. Traces of poison were evident. Dark bubbles rose on his skin—a potent toxin, though not deadly to him. He was familiar with this poison. As he examined his injuries, the final assassin perished. By habit, Saxon searched the assassin’s body. There were needles, poison powders, and smoke bombs. And a tattoo marked their body. It was a single symbol. A black lily—a clue Saxon had been following. He hadn't expected to find it on an Azuven assassin. Saxon stared at it, knowing he couldn’t leave it be. That meant, for a short while, it was time to take his leave. 'A short while?' Saxon felt an odd sensation, realizing he planned to return. Since when had he lived with a home or refuge to come back to? The idea of having a place to return to—what a notion that was. Despite his thoughts, Saxon also felt determined to make it back. For now, he wanted to see what would become of Enkryd. That man had something about him that made him impossible to ignore. ‘I should at least give him a heads-up.’ A brief report indicating the need for a short furlough should suffice. * * * Enkryd drifted in and out of sleep. Knowing the importance of eating well and resting when injured and in pain, he adhered to this practice. Every time he woke, hunger gnawed at him. His body, sculpted by the isolation technique, was insistent on recovery. It was a powerful assertion. The crux of that assertion was hunger. Inescapable, ravenous hunger. "Is there anything to eat?" These were his words upon awaking, having resurfaced from the brink of death. “Pardon? Ah, please wait a moment!” A soldier on medical duty, steeped in discipline, dashed out upon hearing him. The soldier returned with a bowl of thin porridge. “I’ll feed you!” “No need.” Though his arms were heavily bandaged, he was more than capable of feeding himself. After commandeering the bowl and spoon, he devoured the porridge, prompting the medic to advise him. “You shouldn’t eat so quickly.” “I’m fine.” Even before honing the isolation technique, his specialty was digesting food. If you don’t want to die, knowing how to eat and rest properly was essential. Lacking skill and stamina? That's a recipe for disaster as a mercenary. And now? Perhaps he couldn't digest iron, but surely he could handle dirt. "Brother, eating well and, um, the other essentials are fundamental." The isolation technique was about crafting the body to perfection. Not merely building muscular density but mastering internal harmony. Hence, it included guidelines for eating and resting. Enkryd, satisfied and sleepy, closed his eyes. He intended to sleep deeply. After another bout of food and rest, he opened his eyes to see Saxon there. His hair was caked with dried blood and his expression was grim. The scents of earth and blood assaulted his senses. Seeing him immediately after the battle confirmed he'd been off doing something significant. “I need to step out for a while." Saxon said. “If I object, will you stay?” Enkryd asked without a blink, rooting the inquiry in sheer curiosity. Under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t pose such a question, but he was half-dazed with sleep. Despite the question, Saxon's expression didn't falter. He was going, that much was obvious without a word. “Go ahead.” There were certain things even a soldier couldn’t compromise on. He didn’t know exactly what they were, but he respected their presence. These soldiers had guided him to this point. Enkryd added one last remark after meeting Saxon’s eyes. “Don’t be late.” “I’m no stranger to the roads.” It was a humorless exchange, yet it was intended as humor. Neither Enkryd nor Saxon shared a laugh, but the jest sufficed as a form of farewell. After a brief exchange, fatigue once again washed over Enkryd. "I'm sleeping." “Yes.” When he opened his eyes again, Saxon was gone. Now that he thought about it, when he first awoke, it must have been early morning. This time, waking revealed Sinar sitting with a spoon in hand. “Ah.” The ethereally beautiful fairy, expressionless, nudged him to open his mouth—a clear intention to feed him. “Don’t you have other duties?” What was this fairy doing here? “When your fiancé rises from the brink of death, one must attend.” It was a typical fairy jest. Enkryd blinked at the unexpected remark before, finally exasperated, opening his mouth. The fairy unceremoniously placed the spoon inside. “Shall I chew it for you?” “You can’t chew porridge!” “It’s the sentiment that counts.” “Your society must be quite licentious.” “Is that an insult?” “Not really.” “I’m just like this with you.” Enkryd still found fairy humor somewhat baffling. He had somewhat adapted, but only to this extent. “Shall I prepare a proper fairy meal next time?” Sinar suggested with the same solemnity. “What are the ingredients?” Frok was known to eat bugs. “It’s a green nutritional porridge packed with quality fiber.” “And the taste?” “It’s truly heavenly.” “I’ll pass.” It seemed like it would be torturous to the taste buds. Meanwhile, the porridge he was eating was to his liking. Finely minced meat and onions, seasoned with spices—whoever made it did a wonderful job. After coming back yesterday evening, Enkryd had fallen ill and spent most of the day sleeping. In between, he saw Saxon off, ate his porridge, and caught a glimpse of Ragna sleeping. Dunbachel had come by, grumbling. "The fight was disappointing this time. I can do better." But why tell him that? Yes, he fought well, everyone knew. Even just by watching him get clobbered by Rem, it was apparent. “I’ll do better next time.” Why keep emphasizing it so? It was a cycle of eating, sleeping, and resting. His body demanded recovery, and he listened. Since he was awake for brief periods, he lacked opportunities to reflect on the fight. He occasionally wondered where Saxon had gone, but knowing wouldn’t change anything, nor did he particularly wish to know. If Saxon wanted to share, Enkryd believed he would. He focused on eating, drinking, and resting. “Are you diligently doing this too?” A female soldier asked when he briefly woke. Enkryd blinked twice and recalled the soldier’s name. “Helma.” Beside her was the culinary expert soldier, bandaged around his head and shoulder after getting hurt in battle. Another face stood awkwardly near them, who was that? “Why the secrecy? I was surprised.” Helma remarked, nodded in agreement by the soldier beside her. “I... I spoke out of turn!” The third soldier suddenly bowed deeply, causing a slight dust cloud. “What for?” “I spoke carelessly….” “Oh, it's fine. It's in the past. And you didn’t even know who I was, so it’s sort of my fault for the disguise.” “No, not at all!” It was the soldier who had kept yapping about moving forward to fight. Enkryd dismissed it as trivial and directed his attention to the bowl next to Helma. The aroma wafted to him, stirring his hunger again. ‘It's like there's a begging spirit in my belly.’ In truth, the yearning was from his body’s demand for recovery after losing so much blood. His body, after all, was one optimized for recovery—something that would have made Audin proud. “Brother, as they say after rain the ground hardens, you'll become stronger after healing. Perhaps I should break a leg for you.” Audin would have delivered such a grim joke without hesitation. The thought almost made him smile. His troop members, pretending otherwise, were always eager to exchange jests with him. Among them, Rem was the most avid. What would he say seeing him like this now? “Hey, are you in pain? Mind if I poke it?” Sounds about right, the barbaric madman. Rem was getting berated despite doing nothing at the moment. By now, he could be cleaning his ears with a pinky. As he momentarily lost himself in thoughts, Helma asked, holding up the bowl. “Would you like some?” Instinctively, Enkryd opened his mouth. Only after she fed him did it occur to him—he could feed himself, so why accept it? Sinar’s habit had rubbed off on him. Yet, to suddenly start feeding himself after being fed seemed awkward. Spoonful after spoonful, a new flavor burst in his mouth. Tender beans and savory meat combined with every bite. “It’s slow-cooked chicken with beans.” The soldier beside him explained. The seasoning master was indeed skilled in cooking as well. “This is delicious.” “Thank you.” He replied awkwardly. “I’d like to feed you too,” the third soldier said absurdly. Had he lost his mind? “Are you crazy?” Helma preemptively shut him down. Well done, Helma. Enkryd had merely opened his eyes for a moment. After eating, he remained still and soon felt sleepy again. His body still craved recovery. “It has been an honor.” Helma commented just before he drifted off. Enkryd nodded slightly. Sleep tugged at him once more. “I’m going to apply for a transfer. I want to fight by your side.” The chatterbox soldier declared. Whether he transferred or not was his own affair. Just before sleep overtook him again, he faintly heard Ragna’s voice nearby. “What, no feeding me?” To which Helma replied: “Your arms seem perfectly fine.” In truth, his were too. In his dreams, he swung a sword with his toes, for lack of arms. Ragna appeared and asked why, to which he replied, “Because I lack arms.” It was a ridiculous dream. He continued to repeat his cycle of eating, sleeping, and waking. By the following afternoon, Crys approached with news of Azuven's retreat. “Good news.” “Well, who knows what other tricks they might have up their sleeves?” Suspicion was written all over Crys’s face, as if he had just caught someone skimming off his pay. Did he feel like he’d been duped? Enkryd chose not to ask and went back to sleep. After two days of continuous rest, movement became feasible. “You’ve managed quite well.” Sinar was genuinely surprised, not that his expression showed it. But surprise was surprise nonetheless. His body had recovered swiftly, almost unnaturally so, from injuries that might have been fatal to anyone else. Could the ointment he’d given him really be a panacea? He’d heard of ointments made with divine water, blessed with sacred properties, but the fairy's ointment he used contained no such sanctity. “Did you secretly consume something beneficial?” “What are you talking about?” Thinking it was nonsense, Enkryd ignored him and went on assessing his condition. 'Let’s see.' If we consider his usual state to be a ten, his current condition would be about a five. His body hadn’t fully healed, but he no longer needed to remain bedridden. He was starting to feel restless. --- Enkryd’s recovery was steady, and though he wasn't at full strength, he was far enough along to move around a bit. The restlessness that came with lingering too long in one place was setting in, urging him gradually back into activity.