323 - A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

323. The revelation struck Knight Jamal like lightning, yet the execution was left to the body. As he leapt up to greet the new day, Crys, startled, questioned him. "What happened? Did you have sleep paralysis?" As Enkryd continued to stare into the void without a word, Crys continued his rambling. "It's said that it happens when your body is weak. All you need is some rest." "Is that so?" Only then did Enkryd reply nonchalantly as he pondered over his realization. Is it achievable? He thought it might be. That sensation, that instinct sent a thrilling shiver through his entire body. “Why does it feel like your condition is deteriorating by the day?” Crys murmured to himself beside him. Enkryd ignored the comment. It took another twelve days of dedication. He needed to seamlessly integrate the techniques he’d realized within the endlessly repeating today. "…What is it?" asked Laguna, who had assisted in the process, unusually surprised. "Why?" "When did you come up with something like this?" "It just suddenly came to me." "A natural talent, perhaps," murmured Laguna to himself, seemingly not very curious. Enkryd refined his swordplay, consulted with Laguna, and sparred lightly with Cinna using the edges of their palms. The fairy’s movements were exceptional. Especially their ability to read the opponent’s intentions was, to put it mildly, beyond ordinary comprehension. Curious about it, he inquired. “It’s a fairy’s knack.” That too was worth learning. Enkryd realized he was already using a part of that skill. All that was left was training. That was something he was most adept at. And so he did. He honed his swordsmanship repeatedly and did not hesitate to steal and learn the fairy’s skill. In truth, it was hardly stealing. Cinna generously shared the knowledge. “By bending the empathy slightly, one can perform something akin to mind-reading. Apply it in battle.” Cinna was particularly good at explaining things. Compared to Rem or Laguna, Saxon, and Audin, he was practically an angel—Archangel, even. Audin would sometimes offer something explanation-like, but he believed that learning through the body was quicker. That is, he preferred explaining through physical means rather than verbal. That wasn't always the best news for the learner. Nevertheless, Enkryd repeated and incorporated that skill into his body based on Cinna’s explanations. Once again, the shackles of unease proved useful. The sense of evasion, it was about confronting his instincts directly. Where do those instincts come from? They arise from what occurs before your eyes. A warning that is the sum of everything grazing his senses. That’s what intuition is. The sense of evasion was an avoidance technique using intuition. What about the fairy’s ability, then? He couldn’t mimic the racial trait of reading emotions. Enkryd employed a different method. He started with his eyes. After learning the technique of isolation from Audin, he gained the eyes to see the opponent’s skill. He then added focus. He regarded the opponent in front as a single point and concentrated. His body, honed with the technique of isolation, was ever ready to move. He observed the opponent as a concentrated point. On top of that, he meticulously sharpened his sensory skills. He saw with his eyes and felt with his senses. That was the foundation of emulating and imitating the fairy’s ability. “You, that thing.” Demonstrating the skill before a fairy, they were surprised. Though their expression remained the same, their pupils slightly dilated—barely noticeable unless you focused intensely. Enkryd himself was astounded to witness it. It required a deeper and darker immersion into the opponent than before just to observe. After learning the method of expanding a single point of focus broadly, it felt like he was delving deeper back into his original approach. “I mimicked it.” “If you could achieve it just by mimicking, it wouldn't be called a racial secret.” “Is that so?” “When you greet the fairy clans later, you should showcase such a technique.” “Greet?” “You should show your face at least once before having kids.” The fairy world was constructed akin to a clan society. There was a communal childcare approach, making the village itself their parents, relatives, and family. “Wouldn’t a half-blood between human and fairy be unfortunate?” “It’s alright. Just embrace them with love.” Attempting to rebut with a jest, Enkryd involuntarily chuckled at the comeback. “You have a good laugh.” Cinna remarked, having seen it. It sounded like they considered his smile pleasant to witness. Enkryd took it in stride, feeling nonchalant. It was time to focus again. In essence, a fairy’s racial secret was about not missing the opponent’s breath, movement, even the tiniest changes. A knight was human, after all. Not being divine, he had minuscule gaps, almost like strands. Enkryd intended to exploit them. ‘A full recovery of my condition seems unlikely.’ Thus, he had to compensate for the deficiencies with strength—a feat powered by formidable might. The tremendous strength would serve as an engine to drive his injured body beyond its limits. The counter-effect of his body breaking down was something he couldn't afford to mind. Concern for such things would hinder surpassing today. Once all preparations were nearly complete, Enkryd suddenly realized. There was no need to prolong today. Rather, there was no reason to. Is this arrogance? Or perhaps conceit? Or a delusion? He didn’t know. It was unknowable until faced head-on. Hence, he could only advance. Enkryd passed through yet another today, greeting the morning. It was today. A day to turn it into yesterday. While Enkryd was wiping his face with a dry cloth after rising, Crys asked, “What’s wrong? Is your condition bad?” “Moderately bad.” “What does moderately bad even mean?” “It means I'm somewhat in pain but can still move.” “Oh, alright.” Crys tilted his head, observing his captain's altered gaze, wondering if he was on something. That couldn’t be it, right? “Let’s move onto tomorrow.” When Enkryd muttered to himself with unprecedented resoluteness blazing, “Ah, is there no priest around? Is it a headache?” "Did you hit your head falling off a cliff on your way out of the enemy camp?” Crys exclaimed dramatically. Surely, something was off. "If you fall headfirst off a cliff, you’d die," noted Cinna. But Crys’s expression didn’t change. With nothing immediate to retort, the captain closed his mouth, moved his body briefly, and then lay back down. It was truly peculiar. Even after this, Crys continued experiencing inexplicable incidents. The captain, who claimed to be well enough to move, never got out of bed. Instead, he issued a variety of orders with not so much as a finger lifted. “What’s going on?” insisted Crys. “You said you could move. So why are you eating the congee the fairy captain made?” They had even tried to have Dunbakel help feed him, but his lack of meticulousness prompted Cinna to step in instead. As the requests piled up, Crys responded with growing annoyance. "I'm just resting." “Well, it looks like you’re desperately trying to rest. Have you set a date to die or something? You’ve only got survival and victory left ahead, so what’s the deal? It’s making me uneasy.” Crys seemed to have an antenna for sensing impending doom, baffled as to why anyone would put so much effort into resting. Something had to be wrong for someone to behave this way. “Intense rest training,” Enkryd quipped, managing to shut Crys's mouth with his sarcasm. Having the knack for saying the right words at the right time was a talent. Enkryd’s verbal skill was exceptional. “He hit his head and used some sort of drug. That must be it." Crys reached his own conclusion. Until dusk, Enkryd rested as desperately as Crys had speculated. It was a process to achieve his best physical condition. “Is the sun setting?” “Huh?” “Go out and check.” “Yes, it’s getting there.” After sending Crys out to check the time, Enkryd finally rose only after the sun had dipped below the horizon. He warmed up his body, testing joint flexibility and tensing and relaxing each muscle fiber. Adjusting his gear and sword belt, he readied himself both physically and mentally. He steeled his mind like a single blade. Everyone watched in disbelief, wondering what had gotten into him. He always seemed abnormal, but today he was especially peculiar. “Captain, are you really in pain?” Crys finally asked seriously. “No, but I will be,” Enkryd answered with honesty. He knew that even if he succeeded, he wouldn’t come out unscathed. Just then, ripping sounds cut through the air as the tent tore. Walking in was a man with nondescript brown hair. “Apologies,” he said, as per usual. “Once. That will be the least of my duties.” He echoed the familiar words. He didn’t seek the other’s understanding; after all, this was merely for his own sake, a simple self-reminder. Enkryd was waiting for the next moment. He was the first to initiate movement. Recognition of the enemy’s focus shifted to him. It was time to show what he’d been waiting for. * * * “Sir Jamal, I implore you.” “Do you know that this undermines my honor?” Knight Jamal retorted. Abnair struggled for a reply. “And do you know why this shouldn’t be done? No, you must be aware. Indeed, you know yet still you ask?” There was venom in Jamal’s words, and offense too. It was sharp, but Abnair had no choice but to bite his lip. He couldn’t complain about being jabbed by sharp words and pricked by thorns. “I implore you.” “This ‘request’ no longer exists for you.” “I am aware.” Jamal did not frown nor hurl curses. That was unnecessary; what’s done couldn’t be undone. Nevertheless, it wasn’t something he was happy about. “Just once. I will strike once with my sword and return. Surely, you know that’s my best, right?” “Yes, I understand.” Abnair bowed his head. Knights are bound by honor. They uphold their honor through vows and oaths. But why so? Not simply due to a moral obligation that they must. There are more practical reasons. ‘Will’ is a matter of willpower—how do you maintain it? How do you grow it? There’s a knight who vowed to see the world through one eye for life and gained unmatched vision. That’s Lupe, the one-eyed woman knight. Willpower isn’t visible. The moment doubt seeds itself, that power weakens. What’s needed is a way to strengthen invisible will. Restrictions, vows, and oaths form the shackles to boost such will. That’s why oaths reinforce promises for knights. And indeed, these knights also hold their pride dearly. A knight meant to engage knights. Jamal was about to break that rule. Of course, during the chaos of war, this wasn’t always possible. Sometimes a strategy involves thrusting oneself into a sea of mere soldiers. But those were exceptional instances. There are deeper beliefs and honors that preceded the rule that knights engage knights. There’s loyalty and the broader chivalric world. Albeit aware that the adversary was not a knight and unprepared, he had to proceed with the strike. ‘They may even call me an assassination knight.’ That’s why Jamal hesitated over the task. He aimed to end it with a single strike. However, even if he loathed the task, it was related to his vow. ‘At least one enforced promise is now gone.’ He understood he was set to perform disreputable work. Still, he consoled himself that it was for Azpen. Jamal slipped through the defenses, standing before the enemy camp, seeking a gap to penetrate. No matter how many sentries were posted, it was impossible to guard every inch. Slipping past the gaze of ordinary soldiers was child's play for Jamal. Spreading his 'will' allowed him to pinpoint enemy positions. From there, infiltration was even simpler: Assimilation. Based on his 'will,' he used a technique to merge his presence seamlessly with the surroundings. Any abrupt movements might disturb this aura; granted, among fellow knights, such tricks wouldn’t work, but here, it was perfectly useful. Using his inscribed weapon wasn't an option for such a mission, so Jamal scoured around and found a short sword in an empty tent. It was a heavily neglected weapon, far from pristine, but it would do. He took it and surveyed his surroundings. Finding the target was easy. "Once. Just once." He would diligently wield his blade. The target couldn't block it. Jamal knew this well. These were words more to soothe his conscience, bound by constraints and vows. Without such reminders, discomfort would stymie the growth of his 'will.' “There is no wrong choice here.” He steadied his mind and honed his determination. And in that manner, Jamal moved to action. Knights were not all created equal. As a junior knight, Jamal sacrificed much to obtain what he needed. Among those sacrifices were the vows he made. Put bluntly, it was almost a contractual relationship — giving the other party what they wanted. This task was just that. With a rip, Jamal tore through the tent and walked in. His eyes scanned the figures inside until they settled on one. No matter where or when, his face would be hard to forget. Disheveled hair, pressed and tangled with his beard, yet his face seemed to glow, contrasting entirely with Jamal’s ordinary appearance. "Apologies," Jamal began. The target, Enkryd, showed neither surprise nor opened his mouth to speak. Instead, he moved his feet. It wasn’t exactly stealthy, but neither did it express an intent to attack head-on. It was just... bothersome. There was a hint of aggressive intent. Jamal didn’t let his thoughts wander further. He was simply abiding by his knight’s oath. Though it felt more like a contract, he carried out his duty. His words of "just once" were a heads-up, a signal offering the opponent a slim chance to escape. He pledged privately — if anyone could block him, he would turn away, just as he vowed in his heart: the oath of a knight. Then came the next step. Jamal decided his first move would be to pierce the heart of the luminous-faced target right before him. His focus was solely on the heart, sparing the face perhaps for the sake of friends or comrades who might later remember the deceased. His resolve and will surged forth. Compelled by such will, his body sprang into action. From the knight’s grip came an unrefined short sword. Tirring, tidding! The sound of the sword being drawn lacked elegance, yet it didn’t matter. At least, that’s what Jamal thought.