A Knight Who Eternally Regresses Novel - Chapter 643

Chapter 643

“Do not move.”

Enkrid lowered his blade after finishing the brutal dismantling of the Onekiller. He took several deep, measured breaths to stabilize his rhythm before speaking. Around him, the group became utterly still, their own breathing hitched in suspense. In truth, even without his command, they were too stunned to have uttered a single word.

As the silence settled, Enkrid turned his attention toward his own body. His limbs were vibrating from the sheer force he had exerted, and every fiber of his muscle tissue felt like it was screaming in protest. Despite his constant efforts to keep himself in peak condition, the agony was sharp. It was the unavoidable toll of a confrontation this intense.

Yet, amidst the pain, he finally understood the nuances of the combat style Oara had used—details that had previously felt like a half-remembered dream. A surge of pure, ecstatic triumph rose in his chest.

The Wave-Stopping Sword.

This was no mere trick or simple move. It was a holistic martial philosophy—a synthesis of intent, execution, and spiritual discipline. He felt as though he had crossed a threshold into an entirely different realm of existence. Ideas began to spark and fuse in his mind, forming new theories.

*Not yet,* he told himself. He instinctively realized that now was not the time to pursue these flashes of brilliance. That would happen in the quiet moments to come. The seeds of inspiration were already sown; for now, he had another priority.

He required stillness.

It wasn’t just physical exhaustion. The act of overclocking his mind and fragmenting his thoughts for combat was, by any definition, a form of psychological self-harm. However, despite the state of his psyche, the time for true recovery had not yet arrived.

The Onekiller was finished, but the corruption of the demon realm still held its grip.

Shinar was attempting to hide her impatience, but her body language gave her away; she had already started to shift, preparing to stand. She froze mid-motion the moment Enkrid told her to stay put.

The man with the dark hair and piercing blue eyes stepped toward her. The aura of a madman had vanished. To Shinar, and to the others he had rescued, Enkrid was a beacon. With the death of the demon and its sickly orange radiance, the area had plummeted into a deep, heavy gloom, yet Enkrid seemed to possess a light of his own.

A sharp snap echoed.

After two days of relentless use, the True Silver Sword had finally given up, leaving nothing but a jagged hilt. Enkrid placed the remains atop the scabbard and began wrapping it securely with strips of cloth.

Brisa, the fairy, raised a fresh glowing stone to illuminate the scene.

“…He actually did it,” she whispered.

The conflict had spanned forty-eight hours. It had been agonizing even to witness. The perspiration on her skin had felt as cold as blood, and there were dozens of moments where her heart had nearly stopped from terror. She had remained quiet because she feared her voice would fail her; for two days, it looked as though the man before her might collapse and die at any second.

Had he fallen, their last shred of hope would have flickered out like a dying candle. Even with the use of Khaos, the prospect of slaying the Onekiller had seemed an impossible dream.

“The victory is ours,” Bran added, his voice heavy with a shock that eclipsed everyone else’s. Despite the massive Woodguard’s comment, Enkrid offered no acknowledgment.

Having secured his broken weapon, he walked over to Shinar. She looked up from the stone throne, her chin raised and her emerald eyes gleaming with an unreadable light as she stared at the man who had delivered her.

The savior spoke, posing a question instead of a greeting.

“Is your age truly four hundred and forty-eight?”

A heavy pause followed. Then, Shinar burst into laughter. For the first time since her distant youth spent with her sisters and Aden, a genuine, radiant smile lit up her features.

“You absolute wretch,” she replied. The words were an insult, but the tone was laced with genuine warmth.

Enkrid felt a wave of internal satisfaction. He had finally managed to pay her back for all the jokes she had cracked about his expense at the hands of the fairies.

Behind them, Pell gave a dismissive click of his tongue. “The man is a complete lunatic.”

Lua Gharne’s cheeks puffed out in a way that, for her people, signaled a repressed laugh. “That is very much like you.”

Setting aside the ruined True Silver Sword, Enkrid unsheathed Sparks and began to hack at the rear of the stone throne. Sparks was already showing signs of structural failure, with a visible fissure running through it. It wouldn’t survive much more use.

The blade bit into the stone with a series of wet, crunching sounds. Through his many experiences, Enkrid knew this seat was a living entity. His earlier order to stay still was merely a precaution while he dismantled the chair.

As Shinar remained motionless, Enkrid tore into the stone with cold efficiency. He severed a structure resembling a massive vein deep within the chair, causing a thick, dark fluid to spill out. The substance was a nauseating shade of greenish-black, a cross between gore and sludge.

“A throne that feasts on life,” Shinar remarked. Several vessels remained attached to her skin, but the primary connection to the source had been cut.

“They called it a suitor demon, yet it seems it didn’t even take my virtue. I suppose I’ve missed my chance to end my long streak of singleness.” She paused, then added, “I appreciate the rescue, but I’ll repeat myself: regardless of race, mocking a lady’s age is a disgrace.”

“I’ve never claimed to be anything other than disgraceful,” Enkrid countered.

The two traded lighthearted barbs, yet an underlying tension vibrated between them. Once the last of the organic tethers were destroyed, Enkrid reached out. Shinar grasped his hand. He pulled her up, but her balance failed her, and she stumbled directly into his chest.

The small fairy was caught in his embrace. Enkrid supported her with a single arm.

“What is this?” she murmured from his arms.

“Esther spent the whole day attached to me. For you, this small gesture should suffice,” he teased.

At that, she pulled away. Despite the grim surroundings of the maze, she carried the scent of wildflowers and fresh grass. Even after she stepped back, the fragrance lingered, dancing near his senses. If Esther’s essence was like the cool night air, Shinar’s was the heart of a vibrant woodland.

Enkrid brushed his hands off and looked around. “This doesn’t feel like the conclusion. Am I right?”

The entity governing the labyrinth was rumored to have split its essence. One half had stayed to guard the inner sanctum. But what of the other?

Shinar looked at him curiously. “Is that a premonition? Or do you actually know?”

His knowledge came from the countless repetitions of his life, but he kept that to himself. “Just an intuition.”

“If that’s just a feeling, you must be the favorite of the goddess of luck. You’re right. It isn’t over.”

Shinar’s confirmation settled the matter.

“What remains?” Bran asked, moving closer. To the giant, the situation felt more like a fever dream than reality. He was so overwhelmed he hadn’t even thought to light a pipe. The other fairies were similarly stunned.

Arcoiris stepped in to gently peel the remaining biological filaments from Shinar’s back. Though it surely hurt, she didn’t flinch. Fairies, accustomed to centuries of stoicism, rarely showed their inner state. Yet, the air was thick with a rare, boiling excitement. They had destroyed a demon. That fact alone was enough to set their spirits on fire. Having watched the two-day struggle in a trance-like state, they had momentarily forgotten their own exhaustion.

“The demon of this place divided itself,” Shinar clarified, gesturing toward the shadows behind her. They were at the terminus of the main path, where three separate tunnels branched further into the earth.

“One half became a warrior to defend this lair. The other… it is likely a breeder, intended to overrun the city.”

A demon that produced an endless tide of monsters—Enkrid knew such horrors existed. True demon realms often housed a central nursery and a champion to protect it. The Onekiller had played the role of the guardian. This place was effectively a mirror of the corruption beneath Oara. While that realm held a piece of Balrog, this one held a flesh-eating horror and the trapped spirits of fairies.

Shinar guided them forward until they saw the core.

It was a staggering mound of pulsating meat. There was no better description. It was large enough to consume a grown man in one gulp. The center of the mass rippled open rhythmically, exposing a sickening slurry of gore, clotted fluids, and bone shards.

“It births nightmares. Fire is its weakness,” Shinar noted.

The fairies were many things, but they were not incompetent. Without the Onekiller to stop them, they would have been capable of destroying this thing themselves. Enkrid’s intervention wouldn’t have been necessary for this part.

Arcoiris produced a vibrant green gem from his robes.

“A stone saturated with pure life energy is known as Khaos. This particular one has been highly processed,” Bran explained for Enkrid’s benefit.

“And its function?”

“It holds years’ worth of the forest’s gathered vitality. If detonated… everything goes.”

As he spoke, Bran struck a flint and finally lit a smoke. He exhaled a thick cloud, looking relieved.

Shinar watched him. “You can put that out now, Bran.”

Bran had been her mentor, and the mentor of her siblings. The demon had arrived with a false sense of warmth before incinerating their home. For Shinar, fire was a symbol of her deepest trauma. Bran had taken up smoking purely to help her become accustomed to the smell of burning, trying to dull the edge of her fear. A Woodguard who used fire was an anomaly, perhaps even unique to him. It had been an act of selfless devotion to save her from her own terror. Even with his fire-resistant skin, wood giants were inherently vulnerable to flames.

“It’s a habit I can’t break now,” Bran replied with forced casualness.

It was a quiet moment, but heavy with history. Their long years of captivity were finally reaching a breaking point.

“I will stay,” Arcoiris said, his expression flat. If he were human, he would have looked like a man embracing his own end. Someone needed to trigger the refined Khaos.

Lua Gharne stepped forward, her cheeks puffed. “Can we not just toss it and make a run for it?”

“Every demon realm follows its own rules. In this place, that mass is the anchor. If it dies, the entire structure will cave in,” Arcoiris explained. His tone was level but immovable. When a fairy spoke with such conviction, it was a sacred promise.

That thing had likely spawned the monsters that had plagued them. As they watched, the flesh-pile buckled, trying to expel a new creation. A deformed limb tipped with long, black talons clawed at the stone floor.

“Repulsive,” Pell spat. With a quick motion of the Idol Slayer, he lopped the limb off.

There was no sound from the creature; it lacked the organs for a scream. Even the demon seemed to sense its impending doom. Perhaps it hadn’t considered the possibility of its warrior-half falling. No guardians emerged to save it. There was only the grotesque lump of meat, frantically trying to build a defense as dark ichor surged through its veins.

Destruction, however, is a much faster process than birth.

Even after forty-eight hours of war, Enkrid’s legs still had some life in them. They could still run. The others were even fresher.

“Lua?” Enkrid looked toward the gem, then at her. She immediately understood the unspoken suggestion.

“I can do it. If I use my whip, I can launch it much further. And I can add an elemental trigger to ensure it goes off on impact.”

Lua Gharne unraveled her enchanted whip. She would wrap, rotate, and launch.

“I’ve got enough strength left to get us clear. There’s no need for a martyr, Arcoiris,” Bran grunted, trying to move the stubborn fairy.

“It must be utterly purged,” Arcoiris insisted. He was driven by centuries of accumulated spite. He wouldn’t risk even a fraction of the demon surviving.

“If the explosion fails, we will simply return and finish it by hand. It won’t be able to replace the Onekiller so easily,” Enkrid interjected. He wasn’t a fan of unnecessary sacrifice.

“Very well,” Arcoiris agreed instantly.

Enkrid blinked. He had prepared a whole argument, but the fairy had folded immediately. It was almost comical; even a small child wouldn’t have been that compliant.

“Time to go,” Bran commanded, turning to lead the way. Shinar followed close behind.

Lua Gharne began gauging the distance. When she reached for the Khaos, Arcoiris hesitated for a fraction of a second. This was the culmination of years of secret labor; if it missed, there was no backup.

Enkrid briefly considered if he could simply destroy the mass with his own Will-infused strikes, but he knew better. Given how the Onekiller had behaved, it would take months of constant hacking to ensure it stayed dead, and he was currently running on empty.

“Give it to her. If she misses, I’ll take responsibility for the cleanup later,” Enkrid said.

Arcoiris surrendered the stone. Lua Gharne caught it in the coils of her whip and began to build momentum.

“You remind me of Rem,” Enkrid noted. The way she swung the whip was identical to the way Rem used a sling.

“Is that an invitation to a fight?” Lua Gharne asked, her eyebrows arching. Was this man really thinking about dueling at a time like this?

“No. Just an observation.”

“Good. I’ll take it as a compliment then.”

She gave a small smirk and channeled her mana into the whip. A spiral of crimson light erupted into a roar of flames. A fire intended for the demon that had once burned them. It was a fitting, poetic end.

The heat cracked the surface of the Khaos. With a powerful snap, Lua Gharne sent the gem flying. It streaked through the air and slammed into the center of the meat-demon.

“Run!” Shinar cried.

She had been largely stationary for the last two days, but the demon had drained her of her vital essence. She was too weak to keep pace. Without a word, Enkrid scooped her up and sprinted. Bran moved with surprising agility for his size, and the rest of the group was just as fast.

Enkrid stole one glance back.

A blinding emerald flare erupted, washing over the demon like a tidal wave of pure energy. The labyrinth began to shudder and groan.

Having lived through hundreds of variations of today, Enkrid realized he hadn’t actually bothered to memorize the layout of this specific maze. He slowed for a second, confused.

Pell sprinted past him. “This way! Don’t tell me you’re having a Ragna moment now?”

Enkrid let out a frustrated mumble. “We’re dueling the moment we’re out of here.”

Chunks of the ceiling began to rain down. Pell laughed and pushed his pace.

When they reached the exit, there was no sunlight. The entrance had been an illusion, a construct of the labyrinth’s magic. It didn’t matter. They plunged through the threshold.

Pell and Zero cleared the exit first. Enkrid was right behind them.

*Leave my prize behind!*

A final, desperate surge of the demon’s consciousness—or perhaps a lingering trap—erupted. A blade of fire dropped from the ceiling of the exit, mere inches away. There was no killing intent to sense, no presence to warn him. In his state of mental collapse, his reactions were too slow.

The strike was aimed directly at the top of Shinar’s head.

Enkrid’s mind fractured into hyper-speed snapshots. His insight showed him the tragedy about to unfold. He couldn’t move his body in time, and his arms were full.

But he refused to lose.

In a single, fluid motion, he reached for the small dagger on his back and flicked it upward. It was a blind throw, purely instinctual. He hadn’t used Aitri’s gift once during the two-day war. He’d wondered if Aitri would be upset, and that stray thought now propelled his hand.

The small blade spun up, clipped Enkrid’s own shoulder to change its trajectory, and collided with the fire-blade.

*Clang!*

The demon’s strike was deflected. Instead of hitting Shinar, it caught Enkrid across the cheek.

It was a shallow graze, but the moment it touched him, he recognized the sensation. It was the same corrupting force as the Onekiller. Pain radiated from the cut, followed by an overwhelming wave of lethargy.

Everything went black.

Time lost all meaning. When he finally regained a sense of being, it was the feeling of a gentle, rhythmic swaying.

*Rocking…*

He opened his eyes and realized where he was.

A river as black as ink. A current that led toward the end of all things.

A solitary figure stood on a small craft, holding a lantern that glowed with a soft violet light. The ferryman was there, waiting as he always did.

But for the first time, the ferryman’s face was no longer hidden.