A Knight Who Eternally Regresses Novel - Chapter 647

Chapter 647

## The Expansive Realm of the Fairies

The metropolitan area of the spirits was by no means modest. The portion Enkrid had previously occupied was merely a gateway on the periphery.

“It truly is immense.”

In terms of sheer scale, it potentially eclipsed the size of Border Guard. This botanical capital was segmented into various sprawling districts, all interwoven by tangled trails and mystical architecture. Had Ragna been present, he surely would have labeled the place a labyrinth.

“Ragna would be lost in here for eternity.”

Even scaling the massive trunks to get a sense of direction was frequently pointless; the canopy of thick foliage acted like a solid roof, sealing off the view. Many zones within the city were like this. Consequently, Ragna would never navigate his way out. In truth, most outsiders would find the layout nearly impossible to master. To the inhabitants, however, it was second nature—a trivial matter.

“Is this the origin of those legends about laborers disappearing into fairy realms for lifetimes?”

A particular folk story came to mind—one concerning a traveler who stumbled upon a sacred pool where a spirit was cleansing herself. He made off with her garments and, as a result, wandered the thickets for two decades before finding the exit. The tale had spawned numerous variations: some where the mortal and the spirit raised a family; others where a lost tool was returned by the water as a precious metal version.

“Fables, of course.”

Yet, he understood why such myths took root. The city possessed an undeniable aura of the supernatural. It was a civilization nestled within the timber, grown from the inside out—Enkrid could almost map the structural logic in his mind. Every spirit he encountered along the paths was helpful, frequently offering more details than he had actually requested.

“It is effectively a fortress provided by nature.”

This explained why the settlement lacked traditional stone ramparts. Even if an adversary sought to use fire, drenching the perimeter in pitch to spark an inferno… even if they attempted to burn the outer ring of trees to smoke the inhabitants out… success was unlikely.

“The corruption struck from within. An external siege would have been doomed to fail.”

These entities were masters of essence and commanded the spirits of the woods. The various lineages—the Dryads and the Woodguards alike—were formidable. Furthermore, the “barricades” of this city were the remains of fallen Woodguards. Igniting them was no simple task. Enkrid recalled Bran using his own wooden flesh to light a smoke without leaving so much as a singe mark. Though, a Woodguard with an affinity for fire was certainly an anomaly.

—

Lost in these reflections, Enkrid waded into the pool. To call it a “spring” felt like an understatement—it was essentially a vast lake.

“Was this entire body of water part of the magical migration?”

Known as the Fairy Spring or the Healing Spring, its waters were heated and tranquil, instantly dissolving the tension in his muscles. After the rigors of his training, immersing himself felt like entering a private heaven. And when he sipped the chilled herbal infusion provided by the residents…

Gulp, gulp, gulp.

Enkrid experienced a flash of pure contentment. The steaming water drew toxins from his skin, a cool breeze brushed his brow, and the cold drink provided a rush of vitality—not unlike finding water after a ten-day trek through a wasteland.

“This is perfection.”

Sinking into these waters for a few hours after a hard session had become a ritual. He had been stunned when the relocation strategy included moving a lake-sized body of water, but now, he couldn’t fathom life without it.

As he rested, a figure waded through the mist toward him from across the steaming expanse. Because of its size, the lake’s thick vapors obscured anyone at a distance; there was no need to acknowledge others until they drew near. Once they approached, their presence became tangible. His intuition identified the visitor immediately.

“What brings you here?” Enkrid inquired.

“It is a day for soaking,” the voice replied.

“Is this a sanctioned holiday for your people?”

“Hardly. I simply decreed it so this morning.”

A truly eccentric spirit.

“You speak with a lack of respect. I am the sovereign of this domain.”

It was Shinar, naturally.

“And I am the one who rescued it.”

“Are you truly that bold to claim the title of savior?”

She was teasing, well aware of Enkrid’s temperament.

“Am I mistaken?”

“No, the description is accurate.”

Enkrid let out a soft chuckle. Shinar pushed through the heavy steam, moving close enough to be clearly seen. She remained neck-deep, leaving only her face visible.

“Am I a disappointment to look upon?”

Not in the slightest.

“You were the one who suggested this site for our move, were you not?”

Shinar moved her arms, sending ripples across the surface. The water—perfumed with the scent of forest blossoms—splashed against Enkrid’s skin. As she moved, a part of her body broke the surface briefly—a glimpse of a pale, curved shoulder or arm. Enkrid nodded stoically.

“It was simply a suitable location I happened to know.”

“My thanks.”

Shinar had been expressing gratitude with increasing frequency.

“Didn’t you claim before that leaving the city was an impossibility?”

“I spoke what was true at the time.”

“A warped version of the truth. A specialty of your kind—so I’ve been told and have seen.”

“Whatever do you mean? We are a people without falsehoods.”

Observing Shinar’s wide-eyed, innocent expression, it was difficult to accuse her of being disingenuous. With such a face, the deception felt like an art form. A lesser man would have surrendered his heart the moment she met his gaze.

“Of course. I suppose you’ve simply struck that lie from your records—the one about becoming the ruler of the blighted?”

She couldn’t have truly forgotten the deceptions she spun within the labyrinth.

“Your tone remains quite rude.”

“As you say, my lady.”

After another exchange of playful barbs, another expression of thanks was shared.

“Until later.”

Shinar began to climb out of the pool. Enkrid, his eyes following her movement, saw her uncovered form. It wasn’t a voyeuristic act, but an observation of reality.

“When did that injury occur?”

He had caught sight of a jagged burn mark tracking from her arm across her shoulder blades. It was a harsh, marring scar. Shinar was well aware of the damage to her skin. It was likely why, despite having the chance to bathe alongside Enkrid, she usually refrained. She could have demanded to share the space, yet she had cleverly avoided it until now.

The water cascaded down her scarred back, tracing the lines of her legs before falling away. The thermal trauma extended from her back down to her calves—vivid, violent marks, as if she had been touched by a white-hot brand. The sight alone carried a sense of pain.

“The Healing Spring possesses many virtues.”

Shinar offered that instead of a direct explanation. She had carried those marks until this moment as a form of penance. Enkrid tilted his head in confusion, and she gave him a small smile.

“These thermal scars—most of them, anyway—could be vanished. I could restore the skin to its former smoothness.”

“And then?”

“Then, you might even be permitted to touch it.”

“…”

“It would be… quite a pleasant experience.”

*Why am I genuinely engaging in this dialogue with a fairy?*

Enkrid turned his gaze away, his face showing a hint of exasperation.

“Remain by my side, child of visions and potential,” the spirit said.

“Is that a hex you’re placing on me?”

“A benediction.”

Shinar’s smile mirrored the one she had worn in her slumber. Seeing it, Enkrid found himself smiling in return. Regardless of the details, she appeared to have shed the weight of her burdens.

Shinar departed. Enkrid opted to remain in the heat. He shut his eyes, allowing the warmth to cradle him. Within that temperature, he drifted into a state of profound meditation. Sometimes, a revelation arrives without warning—this was one of those instances.

“Shinar chose not to erase her history.”

She kept those marks to stay grounded in her past transgressions. Now, she had resolved to acknowledge them and move forward. Not to weigh her sins, but to walk toward a new dawn. Just as Enkrid’s presence altered those around him, the shifts he inspired in others often reflected back on him in strange ways.

Shinar’s internal shift sparked something in Enkrid’s spirit. For reasons unknown, a surge of creativity flooded his consciousness. Disconnected thoughts began to click into place, swirling together to form a coherent framework—a sense of logic rising from the mists.

Beyond the vapor of the pool, a phantom appeared.

“This is all my doing. You had better not lose memory of me.”

A lingering shadow of the evil? Or merely a rogue thought born from his mental turbulence? It was irrelevant. Once Enkrid entered a state of total concentration, the external world ceased to exist. The apparition vanished, and he made no effort to cling to it. He delved into the concept—losing sense of himself, his blade, and his surroundings—until only the spark of the idea remained.

Fortune was on his side; he was undisturbed. The massive pool that mended the flesh held him safely afloat—there was no threat of slipping under. He remained warm, and hunger was not an issue. The water itself provided sustenance. Apparently, that was the true nature of a healing spring. Some Dryads were known to fast and soak for forty-eight hours straight, knowing the waters accelerated their recovery. The heat also stimulated his circulation, honing his intellect. Indeed, the ancient elders of the fairies used to conduct their deliberations while submerged in this very water.

The inspiration gathered speed. The concepts hardened into theory. The primary realization that surfaced was one of self-correction.

“I was prideful.”

When he had perfected the Wave-Blocking Sword, he had convinced himself he had reached the summit. He was wrong.

“The path is infinite.”

At that time, it felt like the conclusion. It wasn’t. His mind continued to stretch further. A fresh horizon was unfolding within his soul—one distinct from the path of the blade. It was happening in real-time. He gathered every fragment of experience to embrace this transformation.

He revisited his history. He recalled the moment he approached the fairy capital and met the volley of arrows. He had perceived them and neutralized them. He had listened to the air—utilizing the sensory drills Jaxon had imparted. Back then, Enkrid had dismissed it as mere instinct. Jaxon hadn’t contested the term but later categorized all such feats as “sensory skills.” Jaxon likely felt that labeling them was secondary to performing them.

Consider “Endure”—the act of channeling Will to turn skin and sinew into iron. If such an act became second nature, a name for the technique became redundant.

“But is such a thing universal?”

To use Will as naturally as breathing? To execute high-level arts by reflex? That was no simple feat. Had he not categorized his movements and trained with specific intent from the beginning… he wouldn’t have given up, but the journey to this point would have been grueling beyond measure. Would he have even attained the status of a knight?

The mere thought made him uneasy—like being pushed from a precipice with his limbs restrained. He had been fortunate. The hand of fate must have been guiding him.

Regardless—

“A structured progression is essential.”

Particularly for a man of his standing. He had constructed his foundation of logic and skill by roaming the lands and studying under countless masters. Some taught identical principles, others contradicted them, and some attempted to build grand, systematic doctrines.

“What serves another may fail you. My style wasn’t designed for the ungifted, so move along. Please.”

He remembered a specific tutor saying that—essentially begging Enkrid to stop bothering him. The man wasn’t cruel. Though he had the power to eject him, he chose to use his words. Not that Enkrid had been deterred. He had stayed for another quarter of a year, relentless in his pursuit of just a bit more wisdom.

Then there was the aged warrior living by the sea—a man who had left a permanent mark on his mind.

“You must forge your own trail. How? By constant analysis. Follow the footsteps of those who came before, but identify what is useful to you and discard the rest.”

Some of that held weight. Some did not.

“I have nothing I can afford to discard.”

He had to cling to every scrap of knowledge just to make progress. So, that is precisely what he did.

“Even if it is born of desperation.”

He would crawl if the path demanded it. Conviction transformed into Will. Will became a beacon. That light cast its glow upon his ambitions. Every memory archived in his mental library of combat and travel surged to the front, creating a whirlwind in his mind.

Days blurred together in this state. And then, amidst the long mental trek, Enkrid spotted a landmark.

“Yes… a landmark.”

Techniques functioned as landmarks. You gave them a name. You honed them through repetition.

“Those beginning their journey as knights must forge techniques to harness their Will.”