A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

Enkrid had experienced blades coming from outside his field of awareness before.

Jaxon had done that to him, time and again.

This was the same.

It was beyond his perception. So fast that Oara’s words felt like they came after the fact.

“Stomach.”

A single word reached his ears. But the blade had already swept across his abdomen before that.

His One Point Focus and instinct for evasion kicked in.

Enkrid shifted his weight by pushing off his heels, sliding backward as if pressing the ground with his soles. He thought he’d dodged it—until he saw Oara’s face.

A faint smile, lips curled even higher than before.

“Knee.”

Then Enkrid realized the slash across his stomach had been an illusion.

It was magic born of will.

No—he’d seen this before.

It resembled the spiritual blade Shinar had once conjured.

Except this time, it was created through sheer pressure and implication alone.

It happened just as Oara spoke.

The real strike—a vertical stab aimed at his knee—came plunging down.

Instead of dodging, Enkrid cut diagonally upward.

His sword curved like a whip, slicing through where Oara had been standing.

She dodged the slash, yet didn’t alter the trajectory of her own blade.

The stab remained perfectly vertical. She simply twisted her body aside while keeping her right hand steady.

Tap.

The tip of her sword tapped his knee.

No injury. Just a mark on the fabric.

“That’s it for today!”

Oara declared, almost shouting.

“Huff… huff…”

Enkrid exhaled the breath he’d been holding in.

With a sharp snick, Oara sheathed her sword and stepped closer. She stared into Enkrid’s eyes, then playfully tapped his cheek with her fingers.

“Feel like you got caught by something too simple?”

Enkrid realized she had only shown him two techniques.

One—an illusionary slash to the stomach.

Just a feint.

Two—a vertical stab aimed at the knee.

It was the second strike that decided the outcome.

He’d sensed many things, but one realization stood above the rest:

“The difference in experience is huge.”

Oara was seasoned.

She wasn’t someone who had just recently become a knight. She had lived as one for years. That polish showed.

“How old are you?” Enkrid asked, using the local custom from Thousand Brick. He adapted quickly.

It was a half-joking question.

Oara’s smile lingered in her eyes but froze on her lips.

“You’re lucky you’re handsome. Didn’t anyone teach you that asking a lady’s age gets your head caved in?”