A Knight Who Eternally Regresses Novel - Chapter 639

Chapter 639

The demon Onekiller increased the gap between them—just two strides. It was neither a wide nor a narrow distance. One could call it the brief interval required to release half a breath of air. However, once the exchange of blows commenced, there would be no luxury of breathing at all, making the concept of “half a breath” a generous exaggeration.

Enkrid made no move to bridge that void. He did not pursue the creature. Instead, he utilized the brief reprieve Onekiller provided with meticulous care. He formulated inquiries and hunted for solutions, reinterpreting the reality through his gut feelings while extracting necessary data from the archives of his past encounters. Explaining this process in speech or physical action would take an age, but through the lens of accelerated cognition, he achieved it in a heartbeat.

His first internal question surfaced.
“Do I require a moment of recovery?”
It was a moment of introspection—a reliable tactic to gauge his own state with cold objectivity.
“A rest would be welcome.”
He was not at his peak; true relaxation had eluded him. Yet, the situation was not desperate.
“This state will suffice.”
Vitality check: concluded. What followed?
“Evaluate the circumstances before engaging. Do not rush in like a madman.”
Those were the instructions of Kraiss. Enkrid extracted from Kraiss’s teachings only what suited his purpose—the parts he could use.
“Scan the terrain before the fight begins.”
Though it wasn’t exactly what Kraiss had intended, the significance of words was malleable. If the application worked, that was sufficient. He pushed the thought further—if a concept provided an advantage, that was its ultimate value. This also resonated with the constant reminders from Lua Gharne: never disregard the influence of the environment. He had, in fact, completed this scan before Onekiller had even arrived.

“Hard stone beneath my feet. Thick, heavy atmosphere. The oppressive weight characteristic of a Demon Realm. Remnants of slain beasts. Dark ichor pooling on one side. The arena is vast, devoid of cover. A massive stone stage. The only obstructions—”
Shinar, the sprites, Frokk, and a solitary human. They were not items he could utilize as weapons. If Onekiller shifted its focus to them, they would require protection.
“Not a single benefit in sight.”
Indeed, the conditions were entirely against him. Perhaps that was precisely why he felt a growing sense of amusement. Enkrid let out a quiet, unconscious laugh. To any observer, he would have appeared insane, but from his own perspective, it was a perfectly logical reaction. A man consumed by the pursuit of combat and the refinement of his craft could not help but feel a rush of adrenaline when presented with such a trial.

“Battles that seem unwinnable must only be faced after establishing the right conditions,” Abnaier had once told him. “Ensure you have the upper hand before the first strike.”
Carving out a strategic advantage at this moment was nearly impossible. Therefore, he would have to focus on mitigating his disadvantages. Abnaier had added: “Fine. If no other path exists, then pull in every possible scrap of leverage that might give you the thinnest lead.”
This had been a reply to one of Enkrid’s theoretical dilemmas.

His mind raced through possibilities, weighing reckless paths against cautious ones. Enkrid pulled the required knowledge from his mental library.
“If I could unbalance it with a provocation…”
But his foe displayed no sign of emotion. It appeared even more hollow than the Ferryman. A taunt would be wasted on such a creature.

Onekiller shifted. Its shimmering orange form slid across the floor, its feet moving in subtle patterns as it lowered its blade-like limbs. To an amateur, the movement would look incidental, but Enkrid recognized the intent. If a gale of wind were given physical shape for the sole intent of snuffling a candle, this is what it would resemble. He sharpened his focus, attempting to summarize the entity in a single, punchy thought.
“A masterfully crafted weapon.”

Why did it feel that way? Because of what the demon represented. It possessed a form of mindless lethality. Mindless—meaning it lacked a personal target. It existed only for the act of killing. A mobile mountain of homicidal intent. An instrument that operated of its own accord. That was the definition Enkrid gave it. By defining it, he could anticipate its rhythm.
“It will slash, pierce, and destroy everything in its path.”
It would act without regard for the identity of the target. Having classified the threat and drawing upon his memories, he understood his next move.

*Thud.*
Enkrid executed an action that seemed pointless. He slammed his foot down. A fissure erupted from the point of contact, the stone splintering as a cloud of dust billowed upward.
“Direct your gaze here, you bastard.”
He spoke while unleashing a phantom strike. His willpower swelled, condensing into a surge of artificial momentum. Even a demon was susceptible to that level of psychological weight. He lowered the point of his true silver sword just a fraction, centering it on the demon. Through his speech, his stance, and his sheer presence, he dictated the flow:
*Look at me. Funnel your bloodlust toward me. Occupy your mind only with me.*

The demon complied perfectly. It was swept up in his dominant will. Its murderous intent sharpened to a needle point, focused exclusively on Enkrid. It was a perception beyond the physical senses, caught only by instinct—like a bow drawn to its limit, the arrow aimed squarely between his eyes. The corners of Enkrid’s lips curled up. It was a grin born of raw, unadulterated thrill vibrating through his frame—devoid of any malice or gloom.
“An advantageous edge.”
He had forced the enemy to narrow its focus onto him alone. That move alone neutralized his tactical weaknesses. He could defend those who needed it while the duel raged. He was satisfied that his plan had succeeded, but he was even more gratified that the foe acknowledged him as an equal. A rival of this caliber could not afford to look away. All the years of training—this was the prize.

The euphoria rose within him, so intense it felt as though his mind were submerged in pure delight.
*Boom.*
The instant his knees flexed, the air shattered with sound. The demon surged forward, swinging its edge. Through the viscous air, the blade descended toward his skull. Sensing the path, he parried.
*Crash!*
The roar of the impact seemed to precede the meeting of the blades. Power surged through his limbs, and a sudden, sharp clarity showed him the unfolding future. The demon’s right limb had swung down, but its left was already transforming into a thrust, darting inward. Enkrid pivoted his left foot outward in a half-rotation—a movement that would have snapped the bones of a normal man. Despite the awkward angle, his equilibrium remained flawless.

Consequently, his torso twisted and swayed to evade the incoming steel, like a banner snapping in a gale. But he didn’t just retreat. As he shifted, he thrust his left hand forward. A spark erupted, stabbing toward the demon’s throat.
*Clang!*
Intercepted once more.
Between the two of them, steel, intent, and hatred caught fire. Strikes and parries blurred into a continuous stream.
*Clang-clang-clang-clang!*
Luminous sparks sprayed through the air as the weapons met—true silver and spark meeting orange light and iron, coming together and tearing apart like lovers caught in a cycle of desire and agony.

Enkrid’s sped-up thoughts never stopped firing.
“No gaps in the defense.”
He couldn’t easily foresee the next strike. The creature didn’t contemplate; it acted on primal reflex. This made it nearly impossible to trick with mental feints. Even drawing a drop of blood was a monumental task. The same was true for him—he remained unscathed. To any onlooker, the battle seemed supernatural. Limbs moving beyond anatomical limits. Piercing strikes driven by raw muscle. Feats that defied human capability.
“Ahh…”
It was no knight, yet it fought with the proficiency of one. How could he feel anything but exhilaration?

*Clang!*
After 187 clashes of their blades—though the description is extensive, the real-time duration was negligible—Enkrid committed to a finishing blow. Onekiller stepped forward with a crossing gait, swinging its left blade in a wide arc while jabbing with the right in a disjointed tempo. It was reminiscent of a Valen-style harmony—a pattern he knew well. Enkrid feigned a parry and then shattered the expectation.

It began when he made a show of blocking with the spark in his left hand—only to release the weapon entirely, throwing off the demon’s analytical speed. It was a move of pure insanity. Logic was cast aside. Who would ever let go of their sword only to seize a live blade with their bare fingers? However, the demon, being a construct of pure lethality, operated on purely rational protocols. That was its logical framework. Thus, madness was the only effective counter. It was the product of his accelerated mind—not a flawless solution, but a functional one.

The demon’s cognitive process wasn’t broken, so the gambit wasn’t perfect. Enkrid clamped his bare hand onto the demon’s blade and held firm, but—
*Grind*—the steel of his armor was torn apart, and the demon’s piercing strike drove into his midsection. At the final millisecond, he shifted his torso just enough to ensure no vital organs were shredded. Then, his true silver sword bypassed the horizontal guard and found its mark—cleaving through the demon’s throat.
*Wham. Slice. Squish!*
The sequence finished in a heartbeat.

“We are peers in skill.”
If they were to duel again, the outcome would be a coin toss. This was why seizing the lead was paramount.
“An advantageous edge.”
He had reclaimed it. By dictating the moment of the final exchange, he had forced his will upon the fight. With their abilities so closely matched, he realized that if the demon divided its strength between two limbs, it could not withstand a full-power strike from a true silver blade. And in that moment, as he tore through the demon’s neck while taking a blade to the gut, a realization dawned on him—wielding a weapon in each hand against a truly formidable foe was a tactical error. The demon before him was the evidence.

“If only one arm had been armed…”
He would have been defeated. This meant their skills weren’t just equal—the demon might have actually been his superior. Regardless, a victory was a victory.
“It isn’t finished!”
Shinar’s voice cut through the air—not loud, but with an urgency that pierced his focus. The decapitated Onekiller brought its redirected blade down with force. Enkrid instinctively jumped back. The weapon slid out of his stomach with a wet, sickening sound. Crimson sprayed from the opening.

“It’s not a death blow.”
The bleeding was significant, meaning his clock was ticking—but if he ended this quickly, he would survive. He could manage the flow by tensing his muscles, a trick Audin had passed down to him. He could still stand. He had to.
But then, the unexpected struck.
What was this sensation?
Enkrid felt a foreign presence radiating from the hole in his gut. He couldn’t be certain if it was a toxin, but something was colonizing his body, spreading through his veins with terrifying speed. It felt like icy water hitting an empty stomach—he could feel it making contact with every part of him, shutting him down. It manifested physically; his eyes began to burn and pulse, the whites turning a deep, bloody crimson.

“Enki!” Lua Gharne screamed.
He heard the ring of Pell unsheathing steel and the frantic movements of the sprites, but Enkrid’s world began to dim. Everything was being swallowed by a sea of black.
“Why?”
“Oh, you wretched demon… you only needed to land a single hit, didn’t you?”
That was Shinar speaking. She was analyzing Onekiller’s tactics. The puzzle pieces locked together. His accelerated mind gave him the answer instantly. Onekiller didn’t need a decapitation or a heart-pierce to win. A mere nick was fatal. Enkrid finally understood the true nature of the demon Onekiller.
“Even a scratch is a death sentence.”

Whatever had entered his system felt like poison, but it likely wasn’t a standard toxin. If it were, his constitution wouldn’t be failing this rapidly and completely.
“So that is why it carried two blades.”
There was no requirement for just one. The creature likely had even more hidden tools within its frame. His train of thought stalled. He felt a warm liquid trailing from his eyes, and then a blinding agony erupted, as if his very skull were being pulverized.
Then came the darkness.

Death arrived. It was like being hurled headlong into a trench of black mud, gasping as he sank. The River of Death greeted him.
*Splash—*
And so did its guardian. The Ferryman didn’t offer a literal smile, but the sensation of one was there. At least, that’s how Enkrid felt.
The Ferryman spoke: “Welcome back, captive. This particular cage should prove quite entertaining, wouldn’t you agree?”
It was the truth. Enkrid nodded without thinking. He couldn’t see a path forward. The barrier in front of him was dark, immense, and solid. But that was exactly why he concurred—the more insurmountable the obstacle, the greater the rapture in breaking through it.

“There’s nothing left to discuss,” Enkrid answered.
The Ferryman showed no shock. He had anticipated this response.
“Very well. Go back and do it again, as you always do.”
There was no need for a drawn-out talk. The Ferryman made a dismissive wave—a signal to depart.

Enkrid transitioned from the world of violet light back into the harsh light of reality. Today would start anew. Once more, he was confined within the demon’s cell. He woke up in that specific window of time before they met Shinar, during the brief pause their party took just before the hallway where they stood waiting. He could see it clearly now—the Ferryman had orchestrated this scene. He had likely marked this as the reset point for the day.

Whether that was true or not didn’t change things for Enkrid. If he were a man who crumbled when the odds were stacked against him, he would have perished long ago. He didn’t care what games the Ferryman was playing. If the traps couldn’t be avoided, there was no sense in fretting over them. Even now, his resolve remained untouched.
“Let’s move.”
Enkrid stepped into this fresh “today” with a face that betrayed nothing, ready to face the loop once more.