A Knight Who Eternally Regresses Novel - Chapter 634

Chapter 634

“So you’re claiming they’re immortal?”
Enkrid inquired with a composed expression.
“Precisely. Death does not claim them. A standard blade is useless against Wraiths. If we had access to our spiritual energy, this would be trivial, but the atmosphere here suppresses it. That is why those entities have grown so lethal—they are essentially harbingers of demise.”
As he explained, several saturated cadavers craned their necks forward. Their spines stretched with an unnatural, rubbery quality—a disturbing display possible only through the possession of a spirit.
A few of these husks were marked by severe frostbite, indicating the spirits within radiated a bone-chilling cold.
“And don’t bother asking if a Will-infused edge can cut them. It won’t work,”
Bran remarked. Among the Woodguards present, his intuition was undeniably the sharpest.
He had provided the answer before Enkrid could even voice the obvious query regarding the effectiveness of Will.
“Zero.”
At Bran’s command, Zero lunged. He lopped off the arm of a closing corpse.
As the blade passed through, a shimmering apparition behind the body extended a ghostly limb. It wasn’t remarkably swift; provided you maintained visual contact, it was avoidable.
The spirit pulsed with a faint glow, visible in the dimness. Though it might vanish depending on the perspective, no fairy would ever lose track of it.
Zero leaped back, easily staying out of the specter’s grasp.
The severed limb twitched on the stones for a second before it began to crawl, its fingers hooking into the floor to pull itself along.
“Observe. Take off an arm, and the arm continues the hunt. Remove a leg, and it does the same. Even incinerating them is a grueling task.”
Such knowledge wasn’t gained through theory alone.
It was clear the fairies had previously attempted to infiltrate and purge this maze. That was the source of their expertise.
Enkrid had already deduced this the moment Bran alluded to a prior visit.
Despite the seemingly invincible nature of their foes, Bran remained steady. This suggested he possessed a method for neutralization.
Enkrid shifted his gaze toward him, and Bran elaborated without pause.
“Move past the horde and locate a nearby sphere. Shatter it. That is their anchor. While the rest of us provide a distraction, one person must break through to destroy it.”
Enkrid gave a curt nod. It sounded tedious.
Until that specific orb was found, the skirmish could persist indefinitely.
It seemed like a mechanism intended to sap their strength and break their spirits.
‘If a demon truly dwells here…’
…it must be a sadistic creature that delights in exhausting its victims.
“These spirits are untouchable unless you possess a blade capable of severing the soul itself. If we can stall them, Brisa will track down the anchor.”
One of the fairies volunteered to navigate the dangerous path through the Wraiths.
Brisa, the female warrior, swapped her needle-thin blade for a compact dirk. Her eyes darted across the sea of drowned bodies, plotting the most direct route through the chaos.
However, just as the strategy took shape—
“That won’t be necessary.”
Pell intervened, moving to the front with his weapon drawn.
He carried the Idol Slayer—a sword specifically forged to cleave through ghosts and ethereal beings.
It was the ultimate counter to spectral entities. Against formless, soul-based enemies, it was practically an unfair advantage.
“Clear a path,”
Enkrid commanded, and Pell glided forward.
“Be careful,”
Brisa cautioned. She noticed that as Pell advanced, every single corpse in the vicinity began to stir, not just the ones in his immediate path.
The situation was indeed perilous.
It would have been a death sentence for anyone else—but this was Pell. And the steel in his hand was no ordinary metal.
Without uttering a word, Pell stepped out with his left foot and unleashed a wide swing.
In that single motion, Enkrid recognized a shadow of Ragna’s Severance—the blade created a barrier of steel, passing through necks without a hint of resistance.
Enkrid had noted it even during their practice bouts.
‘A terrifying level of talent.’
Were it not for Ragna’s presence, Pell would be a singular prodigy.
Actually, even with Ragna around, he was extraordinary.
It wasn’t merely that he could replicate techniques by watching them; he processed and reshaped them to suit his own style.
He possessed a soul-deep instinct for finding a flaw in any defense.
He didn’t need to deliberate before a strike—his body simply knew the most lethal path.
Labeling it “natural ability” seemed like an understatement.
The Shepherd’s Sword wove through the ranks of the dead, and the Idol Slayer moved with the elegance of a ballroom performer.
The frozen, waterlogged corpses were formidable. Even as they fell apart, they grabbed and bit. Detached limbs acted on their own.
They were foes that refused to stay down, simply dividing and multiplying their points of attack when struck.
Fire was barely an option—the spirits themselves dampened the heat, and the humid environment worked against them.
Under normal circumstances, spiritual energy could have purified them. But in this dampened zone, they were a nightmare to manage.
Two fairies reached for the glass flasks of oil at their belts, ready to ignite the area if the line broke.
The preparation was unneeded.
The oil was a specialized blend of Woodguard resin, seed oils, and pulverized medicinal plants—a high-level alchemical product.
Had Kraiss been present, he surely would have shouted:
“You’re wasting that priceless liquid on these freaks? Stop at once! Just hack them to pieces and give the oil to me!”
It wasn’t required. Pell was relishing the sensation of using the Idol Slayer once more.
He split skulls open, pierced where a heart once beat, and retreated with fluid grace.
His prowess far exceeded that of standard knights.
It was expected, given his environment. Pell’s consistent sparring partners were Enkrid, Ragna, and Rem.
Every day was a struggle against monsters of skill. Combined with his drive to surpass Rophod, his potential was being forged in a furnace.
Even with a hundred ghouls blocking the way, Pell didn’t waver.
None of the monsters retreated. They lunged with rotting, cursed claws, eager to infect anything they touched.
Pell remained unshaken. Like a dancer leading a partner, his blade swirled and dipped—beautiful and murderous.
*Thwack!*
A cloven head spilled dark, viscous fluid—the essence of a Wraith.
*Slash.*
A piercing wail erupted from a severed head—the final cry of an extinguished spirit.
To Pell, these ghosts were the simplest of targets.
Easier than swatting a swarm of midges one by one.
Once the Wraiths were finally dissipated, a stone stairwell leading deeper was revealed behind them.
A dull, lightless orb tumbled out from the remains of the fallen.
Bran had instructed them to go around the back to find it—but it turned out one of the spirits had been holding it the entire time.
Had they followed the original plan, they would have wasted immense effort.
No one felt like complaining about the efficiency, though.
“We should duel when this is over.”
Zero remarked to Pell. He was a rare type of fairy who possessed a fierce competitive drive.
Enkrid viewed Zero as a top-tier warrior—though the other two fairies didn’t even acknowledge the comment.
“Between you and that Frokk… we’ve gathered quite the group of killers.”
Bran whispered, a flicker of optimism touching his voice.
“We cannot permit Lady Shinar to remain as some demon’s trophy.”
Another male fairy added. Enkrid remained silent, simply leading the way forward.
The descending stairs were remarkably well-constructed. Whether built by humans or something else, the architecture of this place was deliberate.
“Do we know the depth of this place?”
“It’s a labyrinth, but not a massive one. The demon is likely waiting on the floor below.”
Bran answered. He wasn’t certain—the full layout remained a mystery to everyone.
As they went down, they were met by precisely carved, square walls.
A long hallway stretched ahead, terminating in a darkness so thick it felt physical. The fairies’ heat-sensing abilities couldn’t penetrate it.
‘Sorcery.’
Enkrid’s gut warned him.
“This is our only opportunity to gather our strength.”
Bran advised a brief intermission.
It wasn’t a comfortable spot for a meal or sleep, but it beat the swampy floors they had traversed earlier.
However, the atmosphere was thickening, a heavy pressure weighing on their limbs.
The fairies were starting to look pale, with the exception of Zero and Bran.
Pell and Lua Gharne appeared entirely unaffected.
“Still better than that week-long mountain hell-march without sleep.”
Pell joked. He was referring to a training regimen Enkrid had also survived—designed to test the limits of exhaustion.
Audin and Rem had crafted it. They had passed it with flying colors. Ragna had simply scoffed at the idea.
His only response had been:
“Why on earth would I put myself through that?”
That specific training was legendary for its brutality within the Border Guard.
Pell had completed it with pride. Frokk, with his non-human physiology, had naturally massive reserves.
As for Enkrid? He had actually found the training enjoyable. He didn’t feel fatigued now; he felt primed.
They rested regardless. Tiredness rots the mind, and even fairies have a breaking point.
Once the break concluded, they moved out. The path was straight, leaving no room for error or getting lost.
The shadows receded slightly as a beast sprang forward.
“Troll.”
Pell identified it.
Before the word fully left his lips, Enkrid had seized the troll by the throat and torn it out, decapitating a second one as it raised a heavy club.
It was over in a heartbeat.
The passage was wide enough for them to maneuver without hindrance.
Glowstones offered a meager light to their front and back, while the sides remained cloaked in a darkness that moved like smoke.
From that gloom, soot-colored shapes occasionally darted out.
Zero was quick to spot them.
“Wraith.”
As soon as the threat was named, Pell’s blade ended it.
Others appeared—cockatrices, basilisks, creatures that could turn a man to stone.
Yet, for such monsters, they seemed strangely… diminished.
The party felt as though they had been engaged in combat for an entire day.
“Is there a factory for these things somewhere?”
Pell grumbled. The constant flow of enemies was becoming more boring than exhausting.
Until that boredom vanished.
The next foe wasn’t part of a pack. It stood in solitary silence.
It looked like a suit of plate armor standing on a pedestal, motionless in the center of the hall.
The steel was black. The visor was empty, save for maggots crawling through the gaps.
The eyes were hollow and dead.
It was clearly a corpse.
The figure was spindly, holding a massive greatsword that seemed too heavy for its frame. The tip of the blade rested on the floor.
The metal was a bruised, dull red. It didn’t reflect the light of the glowstones; it consumed it.
No light could penetrate the space surrounding the weapon.
Jagged shadows bled across the stone like ink stains.
“Argila?”
Zero gasped in recognition.
She was a legendary fairy knight who had once entered this maze.
Now, she was a prisoner of the curse, even in death.
Enkrid didn’t pause to contemplate the fairies’ shock.
*Click.*
The armored head snapped to the side.
There was no bloodlust, but the stance was unmistakable.
Enkrid moved forward, drawing his steel.
His Jinblade radiated light, a direct contrast to the light-devouring sword held by Argila.
Why did he take the lead?
Because his instincts told him this wasn’t an opponent he could leave to the others.
A plume of black smoke erupted behind the dead knight—and then she attacked.
*Crkkk!*
The heavy sword ground against the floor before rising in a lethal upward swing.
Bran recognized the style of that blade.
He screamed a warning.
“Get back!”
His true meaning was more specific—
Do not let your steel touch hers.
Bran had witnessed Enkrid’s skill. It had given him confidence.
The man was clearly a master. The rumors of him hunting demons were obviously true.
But the fairies had prepared for threats like this.
‘We can’t project spiritual energy—but we can still internalize it.’
The seal blocked external flow, but what about concentrated essence?
The fairies had brought a trump card.
A spiritual catalyst refined into a fruit—the Kiaos.
In the common tongue, it was known as the “Final Dance.”
To consume it was to die. But before the end, the user would be flooded with overwhelming power for a final stand.
Bran felt the moment for the Kiaos had arrived.
The foe—Argila—was a master fairy. Her blade was a cursed relic.
If it parried a weapon seven times, that weapon would become twice as heavy with every subsequent strike.
It was a technique of a genius, born of Will and spirit.
Whatever power held her soul here, Bran didn’t care.
He only knew one truth.
“If you trade blows with her—it’s over.”
*Clang!*
Before the warning could leave his throat, the blades collided.
Bran shouted in desperation.
“Do not parry her!”
Enkrid was already deep in the exchange, countering Argila’s blurring speed.
Bran could barely track the movement—but the reality was simple.
If you stood your ground against her, you would be destroyed.