A Knight Who Eternally Regresses Novel - Chapter 642

Chapter 642

How many times had he already stood before that same familiar countenance?

At this stage, he could likely recall every single etching on the Onekiller’s frame from memory. Not that such a luxury was ever truly his to enjoy. Unless you are born a prodigy, you are forced to struggle with everything you have just to catch a glimpse of the world as they perceive it. Enkrid understood that reality more intimately than anyone.

And in the final stretch of this “today,” despite lacking innate genius, he had finally seen it—the vision they possessed.

Now, positioned behind Shinar’s seat, Enkrid’s gaze remained fixed on the Onekiller’s blade-appendages—the lethal edges fused where hands and feet should be. He didn’t overlook the minor twitch, and the passage of time seemed to stretch thin.

Accelerated cognition.

The stagnant air of the underground maze turned heavy, and a sense of repulsion prickled against his skin. It would have been a relief to numb his physical sensations, but doing so would mean losing the pace of the Onekiller. He required his sixth sense. Thus, he had no choice but to tolerate the crushing weight and the malaise.

And so he did—instinctively. After all, such discomfort was trivial now, following so many countless loops.

Within this dilated span of time, the amber-tinted entity drew near, leaving trails of light behind it like limbs forged of steel. It resembled a sentient blade constructed from glowing orange metal. Since the demon Onekiller’s entire physique was essentially a weapon, that description was quite literal. Those long streaks of radiance blurred and splintered, only to coalesce once more as the creature advanced.

As its luminous form came into sharp focus, a grin tugged at Enkrid’s lips. A wide smile took hold.

“A formal introduction.”

His tone was vibrant and clear, almost spirited. The dark-haired, blue-eyed madman sprang into action.

Lua Gharne and Pell hadn’t even registered his movement—meaning they lacked the time to be startled. The fairies remained oblivious to the shift. Only Shinar responded, showing a brief flash of surprise.

Enkrid brought his weapon down upon the Onekiller in a plummeting vertical strike. It was a swing that traced a perfect semi-circle above him. It appeared to be a blunt, transparent assault—but that was a deception.

Shinar had perceived it accurately. This was no simple swing.

The arc of the True Silver Sword manipulated the light like a looking glass, and for a fleeting second, it seemed to burst into dozens of shimmering petals, resembling a flower in mid-bloom. It didn’t actually divide, of course. He hadn’t spent all this time merely contemplating abstract concepts. This wasn’t just a period of theorizing to find a solution.

This had been a season of brutal tempering. The desperation inherent in every “today” had forced his abilities to evolve.

It was a superior version of the deceptive blade—a broader, more polished iteration. As he struck, he fractured his murderous intent, aiming for various points simultaneously. If it could cause even a flicker of hesitation in the foe, it served a purpose. Against most enemies, that would suffice. But the Onekiller was different.

Crystallized from pure spite and lacking any shred of intellect, the demon engaged in combat with cold, algorithmic precision. It was immune to feints. Despite its erratic nature, the Onekiller’s edge always followed the most logical path.

*Clang!*

The True Silver Sword collided with the orange blade in a massive, cleaving impact. Since the Onekiller’s body was essentially metallic, it felt like two slabs of iron smashing together. The resulting tremor shook the ground, and a cloud of debris erupted. For an instant, the invisible force of the blow pushed the very air out of the corridor.

“Exhilarating, isn’t it?”

Enkrid remarked, giving his sword a quick flick as he retreated a step. That collision had vibrated through his very core. He had poured genuine power into the strike. Pumping Will through his frame was an involuntary reflex now—after more than five hundred repetitions of this day, he could do it while unconscious. Though he hadn’t planned it, that single slash had incorporated elements of techniques like Heart of Might and Giant Cleave.

Reliving the same day had caused his various styles to fuse naturally. This was why even Shinar could sense a transformation.

The deceptive blade meant to confuse the mind was just a ruse—but the actual strike, the vertical descent, was heavy and sincere. If one were to categorize them, the feint was the support while the real blow was the primary force. Even if the illusion inverted their roles to the eye, this was the underlying truth. Distracting the enemy was merely a secondary benefit. It was a strike that truly blended reality with mirage.

And Shinar wasn’t the only one caught off guard.

*Crack—crunch.*

Internal structures shifted and rattled within the Onekiller as its legs remodeled themselves. Its limbs lengthened as well. It seemed the greeting had been acknowledged. That transformation indicated the monster was taking things seriously.

“I’m enjoying this. Are you?”

Enkrid asked once more. The Onekiller remained silent. Naturally—demons possess no mouths.

“It lacks both a voice and a soul,” Shinar noted.

“I’m aware,” Enkrid shot back.

He knew it better than she did. Yet even without speech, the demon communicated its purpose vividly. Like right now—reconfiguring its body was its way of declaring that the real slaughter was starting. Enkrid met that challenge. Observing the change, he adjusted his stance slightly and dipped the point of his blade. It wasn’t an intimidation tactic, but a tactical gesture—a move to claim the upper hand in their mental duel.

The Onekiller lunged instantly.

*Boom!*

It propelled itself forward, closing the gap. Even in his heightened state of perception, it moved across the floor in a heartbeat. It was a strike powered by those inverted, spring-like legs. It sent a spray of gravel flying, yet its torso reached Enkrid before the dust could even rise.

Amber streaks curved like sickles, the blades of a grim reaper fracturing into dozens of lines to shred him from every angle. Enkrid took a two-handed grip on his sword and parried them one by one.

*Clackclackclackclackclack!*

From this point on, he had to partition his mind. Initially, he fragmented his focus into dozens of streams—mimicking the Onekiller. He engaged in the fray while calculating, and calculated while he fought. His nose began to bleed even faster than when he used standard accelerated thought.

The demon fought as if it sensed he was desperately trying to transcend his own boundaries—moving with more ferocity and chaos. Trying to process every variable made his vision swim, but he refused to stop. He didn’t have “surrender” in his vocabulary. So he endured. Yet, the conclusion remained the same.

Understanding was born from failure. Not in a single loop—but over time.

*I don’t need to split my mind into dozens.*

The realization wasn’t instantaneous, but with every passing today, his proficiency sharpened. Focus on the grand movement in a broad sense. Focus on the singular heartbeat in a narrow sense.

Though he knew he shouldn’t bother naming his methods, like a stubborn fool, he kept attaching labels—accelerated thought, fractured cognition… But the definition wasn’t the point—the application was. That was the conclusion he arrived at.

The Wave-Stopping Sword was a style designed for the long haul. It wasn’t about sudden explosions of power; it was about the strength to persist. A blade not meant for a singular killing blow, but for receiving and holding the enemy’s force. He had conditioned himself to regulate his breath and conserve his vitality for an unending duel. Yet, whenever the Onekiller exerted a sudden burst of speed, he would falter—and perish.

*I lack the vision to read the entire tide.*

That was the moment he opened his eyes to the cadence of battle. The territory of deep insight. Observing the battlefield as a whole. Constructing a framework to keep the fight going. Yet, he couldn’t permit even a single nick from the demon’s edge.

*And I must also see the instant.*

High-level tactics and strategy demanded another component—raw martial instinct. Focusing entirely on the present moment to deflect and withstand the immediate onslaught. That was his newest epiphany.

Neither endurance nor explosiveness was the sole answer. The secret was their coexistence. Equilibrium—that was the heart of coexistence. Maintaining just enough intensity to survive.

It had been an agonizing journey. Even Enkrid, who prided himself on his tenacity, had faltered—twice—to doubt his direction. But the prerequisites for the Wave-Stopping Sword were finally met.

Maintain the perfect level of intensity.

This wasn’t a discipline founded on basic swordplay. It was a style that utilized accelerated and fractured thought to squeeze every drop of potential out of what one already owned. He had already grasped the theory and the execution—and through his grueling training, he now translated it into reality.

A deluge of meteors fell.

The orange blades on the creature’s arms threw light in every direction. The scattered radiance flared like a conflagration, searing his retinas. Enkrid lowered his eyes slightly and tightened his hold on the True Silver Sword.

Overloading all five senses would fry his nervous system. But by calibrating that expansion, he could filter out the stimuli that caused him harm. Will flooded his system, shielding his vital organs and muscles while fortifying his blade.

*Clackclackclackclack!*

The orange shooting stars failed to hit their mark, shattering into the air. With his sixth sense active, he even had the leeway to blink, easing the pressure on his vision.

The Onekiller altered its offensive. Having already modified its limbs, it now pivoted its strategy. It stopped relying purely on its physical form and expanded its utility. It propelled itself in every direction, springing like an insect—soaring through the air, treating the walls and the ceiling as if they were solid ground.

With terrifying velocity, it began a three-dimensional assault, swinging its blades from the air. The meteor shower was now aimed at his throat, his limbs, his back, his torso—every inch of him. No longer coming from the front, every coordinate in space became a source of peril.

*I cannot track this with footwork alone.*

He only needed to move precisely as much as was required in any given moment. Accelerated thought identified the solution and funneled it to his martial mind. No, there was no “funneling”—the thought and the action were one.

Then, a peculiar thought drifted through his mind.

The suffocating atmosphere of the ruins pressed down on his shoulders. The thickness of the air, the stench—it was all repulsive.

Sunlight.

As he parried strike after strike, Enkrid felt a yearning for the sun. To feel a refreshing gust of wind. The city of the fairies always carried the scent of greenery and blossoms, regardless of where you stood. A stunning place.

Just by picturing the sun and the breeze—focusing on those pleasant things—Enkrid was able to momentarily disregard the crushing pressure. Because his mind was partitioned, he had the mental real estate for such musings.

Will is intent—a longing born in the soul that dictates the body. His limbs began to move with more fluidity. One part of his mind understood the theory. The other part carried it out. The fractured thoughts performed their roles.

The Onekiller’s strikes were savage and keen. To an observer, it looked as though Enkrid was on the verge of collapse. But that only made the scene more unbelievable.

“You are performing the impossible,” Shinar whispered.

That was the extent of her shock. And she wasn’t the only one watching in awe.

Blade after blade was turned aside. The demon’s lethal swings were neutralized into harmless arcs through the air.

Time ticked away.

Enkrid did not lose himself. He didn’t turn away from the “now.” He gripped the present with everything he had. The Wave-Stopping Sword neutralized every single one of the Onekiller’s lunges.

At one point, the monster attempted to pivot and strike Pell. It was a wasted effort. Enkrid severed the creature’s blade-arm as if he had been anticipating the move for an eternity. Parrying didn’t just mean using a sword as a wall. Offense was also a method of protection. He had mastered that concept long before he ever led the Mad Squad. He had learned it, so naturally, he applied it.

The day progressed.

*Clack! Clackclackclackclack!*

He had spent an entire day doing nothing but defending. The sword of coexistence—the union of burst and stamina—hadn’t slain the Onekiller. But it had refused to let Enkrid die.

*Ah…*

Enkrid, at various points throughout that day, had been washed over by waves of pure joy.

“To perfect a sword technique is to unlock a new world.”

He remembered someone saying that once. At the time, he thought it was just a meaningless proverb. Neither the man who said it nor Enkrid himself had been anywhere near such a realization back then. That man had been a simple combat tutor in a tiny village—hardly even a low-tier sellsword. So certainly, when he spoke of a “sword technique,” he wasn’t referring to something a noble knight would wield.

Nonetheless, the memory resurfaced. And now, it felt profoundly true.

After enduring for a full twenty-four hours.

He began to weave nonsensical movements into his Wave-Stopping Sword form. Raising his left leg, sticking out his tongue, spinning in a circle. Defensive play alone doesn’t settle a war. This was the strategy he devised.

The demon Onekiller lacked a human brain—but it followed logical combat algorithms. Therefore, it would attempt to find meaning even in absurd actions. That would cause its processing to overload. He had done this many times across the loops—he knew the result.

A vulnerability appeared.

Enkrid slashed through the gap.

*Rip!*

A fragment of the demon’s arm was torn away. It wasn’t a fatal blow. Just a sliver of matter no larger than a fingernail, accompanied by a mist of dark ichor. It mended almost instantly, orange light knitting the wound shut.

But it was the start.

To decapitate it or sever a limb, he would have to abandon the Wave-Stopping Sword. But doing so would leave him open to a counter. If that sword style was a shield, he would simply expand the shield’s reach. He would fragment his thoughts even further and integrate new maneuvers.

One could say he had grafted his own personal flair—the Enkrid-style—onto the foundational technique. From perfection to improvisation. All within the span of a single day.

“A genius,” Pell breathed, having caught a glimpse of the evolution through his own innate gifts.

“No, not just a genius…”

He whispered again.

But he was mistaken. This wasn’t some gift of birth—it was the cumulative weight of hundreds upon hundreds of “todays” stacked on top of one another.

The demon’s body began to fray further, amber patches stretching thin as more segments were sliced away. The monster was dying. Or more accurately—it was being dismantled.

A whole day had passed. The sort of time that would leave a normal man unconscious on his feet. Then the second day commenced. No reprieve. No slumber. The brutal conflict raged on.

Fractured thought reduced the physical toll on his body. There was no longer a need to push himself to the breaking point with constant accelerated thought and total-body Will. That was the outcome of his mastery.

The entity with no mouth and no voice had no way to cry out. Instead, with mangled wrists, severed limbs, and ruined joints—it conceded its failure.

It wasn’t a cinematic, one-hit kill. Enkrid was aware of that. But to those watching, it likely seemed that way. Pell felt it was the kind of battle that defied any attempt at explanation. Enkrid had simply outlasted it. He had peeled the demon like a piece of fruit. He had carved it, bit by bit, until the life left it.

That was all.

The Onekiller tumbled to the floor. Enkrid stood victorious.

“…Now, all that’s left is the wedding,” Shinar remarked.

“I’ve already told you, we aren’t doing that,” Enkrid shot back instantly, his eyes meeting the fairy’s.

A joke in the fairy tradition—and Enkrid met it with a blunt refusal.