A Knight Who Eternally Regresses Novel - Chapter 648

Chapter 648

The logic behind a squire naming their Will and honing it remains consistent.
Once a warrior moves past that phase, they earn the title of intermediate. At this level, knights begin to manifest specialized styles and a sense of self.
“Reavart lacked it, but Sir Jamal of Azpen possessed it.”
Both had been formidable adversaries.
It is why they stay etched in his mind, regardless of how many times he revisits those duels.
The distinction between the two, pulled from the Library of Experience, was undeniable.
A unique individuality.
Their methods of combat were comparable.
Both prioritized battles of attrition, yet Jamal utilized the specific individuality of “plundering.”
“That is the hallmark of the intermediate rank.”
Individuality—a tangible divergence in application.
Through trial, one constructs a bedrock of understanding.
That base evolves into theory.
To put it another way, it becomes a structured system.
Enkrid was currently in the midst of forging that very system.
“The advanced rank is defined by not being restricted by techniques.”
Rem, Ragna, Jaxon, and Audin functioned on that plane.
Though they assigned names to their moves, they were never prisoners of them.
“They even attempted to guide me into a set mold while instructing me.”
Like the Giant Grapple passed down by Rem, or the various teachings from Audin, Ragna, and Jaxon.
By doing so, they had advanced another step further.
Enkrid had witnessed this progression firsthand.
“This is why a sturdy theory and system are vital.”
A journey guided only by gut feeling is unreliable.
At times, one has to glance back to find the way forward.
“No, even for those who walk without stumbling, looking back offers clarity.”
Even Ragna, the supposed natural, only grew after reviewing his path.
Martial arts demand purpose, execution methods, and a regimen of discipline.
Following this logic, Enkrid formulated a training structure for the path of a knight.
He had been fortunate in many regards.
Had even a few of his past trials been absent, he would never have reached this realization.
Yet, life was always a blossom growing between the cracks of chance and wonder.
Just as there is no profit in dreaming of paths never taken, there is no point in sighing with relief over the ones already traveled.
The crucial part is that one’s perspective on existence stays steady.
Whether before his knightly elevation or after, Enkrid remained the same.
That unwavering nature might be the very thing that led him here.
Regardless, he felt lucky once more that nothing in this place hindered his growth.
He drifted further into his internal contemplation.
The benchmarks Enkrid mapped out could easily be called the standards of a knight.
Naturally, this framework alone could not measure a knight’s total battle capacity.
More specifically, it could not dictate the winner of a duel.
Skirmishes where life is at stake are swayed by countless variables.
He had defeated Jamal using Urke.
“In those days, I was little more than a novice.”
At least by the definitions he was now creating.
Even a flawless system cannot account for every possibility.
At that time, Jamal was a peak intermediate fighter.
The result had been decided by the disparity in their Will.
“The magnitude of Will.”
Beyond individuality, factors like Will, holy power, and magic all tilt the scales of war.
But those elements cannot all be forced into a rigid system.
Sorting what can be categorized from what cannot—Enkrid had maintained this clarity even during his knighthood, never falling for the trap of arrogance.
His approach remained identical now.
He sorted, labeled, and arranged things to finalize his system.
“Regardless of the result, it won’t be perfect.”
However, it could be finished.
Completion and growth were the priorities.
Because he looked toward a flawed tomorrow rather than a flawless today, finishing the task was possible.
And so, he did.
The boundaries between novice, intermediate, and expert.
“Currently, it depends on the mastery of Will.”
Fighting power encompasses physical health, elemental affinities, and more.
Thus, the actual result of a fight should be viewed as a separate matter.
Nevertheless, to create a universal method for training and growth, such a framework is mandatory.
Setting a theory leads to the birth of a system.
Enkrid opened his eyes.
A week had passed, spent alternating between the Fairy Spring and basic drills.
During the final stretch, he hadn’t stepped out of the water for two full days.
“I was starting to think you’d drowned.”
That was the greeting he received upon returning to awareness.
Lua Gharne spoke with her cheeks slightly puffed out.
However, her tone didn’t suggest she was genuinely angry.
Enkrid blinked several times.
The condensation around his eyes rolled down his skin like beads of sweat.
His flesh felt significantly more refined than before.
“At least there isn’t a line of fairies waiting this time.”
Enkrid spoke, sensing the shift in his own constitution.
He hadn’t lost consciousness; he had simply entered a state of profound mental immersion.
He maintained a faint sense of the ticking clock.
“Don’t celebrate too early.”
Pell was present as well, standing with a casual, slanted posture.
Still feeling the rush of his newfound clarity, Enkrid made a quip.
“Servant, give me a status report on what I missed.”
“Who are you calling a servant?”
Pell retorted, though his protest lacked any real heat.
Perhaps he had accepted the dynamic internally.
He might even prefer the role if it came from Enkrid instead of Rophod.
When Enkrid climbed out and dried himself, his skin was prune-like.
His fingertips had puffed up like Frokk’s from the prolonged soaking.
It was expected, considering he’d been underwater for forty-eight hours.
“Trying to steal my finger shape, were you?”
Lua Gharne teased.
Enkrid chuckled softly, dried his skin, and changed.
He didn’t reach for his usual attire, but rather a set of fairy clothes that had been left for him.
A tunic and trousers crafted from emerald-colored fibers.
Even undergarments were provided, with his weaponry and plates of armor set neatly to the side.
Enkrid donned only the garments.
They appeared rough to the touch but felt incredibly light and soft against his skin.
It felt like being wrapped in foliage warmed by the sun.
He felt neither parched nor famished.
“The crowd of fairies began to swell slowly, and now they’re practically a mob.”
Lua Gharne remarked. As Enkrid exited the spring area, he traversed the fairies’ sacred path—a route that, to someone like Ragna, would seem like a confusing labyrinth.
Just as she described, hundreds of fairies had congregated ahead, expectant.
For what?
He guessed they had gathered out of anxiety when he didn’t emerge from the spring.
Still, it seemed a bit much for a simple welfare check.
In fact, they seemed more intense and driven than when they prepared to tackle the maze of the demonic realm.
Even so, the passion of fairies is rarely loud.
“He’s here.”
A dryad with striking green eyes spoke, hiding her mouth behind a leaf.
Certain dryads, shy even amongst their peers, had a habit of veiling their faces while talking.
These types usually shunned interaction unless it was vital.
For them to be present meant they had come specifically to witness Enkrid’s well-being.
A fairy who usually left her dwelling only a handful of times a year had waited two days for him.
“Should we have a medic look you over?”
“Shall I do it?”
“Am I not qualified?”
“I just came from the spring. My health is fine.”
Fairies do not indulge in chaos.
They govern their feelings and uphold a rational, quiet demeanor.
Even now, the atmosphere wasn’t loud.
It just carried the faint hum of a busy market.
They were mostly gathered in small, loose clusters.
A fairy with short hair moved to the front.
With Ermen and Shinar away and no one objecting, she was clearly someone of authority.
“If you are well, would you be willing to follow me?”
She was the only one present with a specific objective.
The rest were there simply out of concern.
Enkrid could sense it intuitively now.
“If I so much as scratched a finger, there’d be hundreds lining up to heal me.”
Lua Gharne’s claim was a bit hyperbolic, but it wasn’t far from the truth.
Enkrid was the savior of their kind.
That carried a heavy weight.
He had become a living legend to the entire race.
“This is a bit much.”
Enkrid whispered.
Receiving kindness and credit for his deeds was fine, but…
Excess is still excess.
The moment he spoke, the hundreds of fairies fell into a total silence, watching him with eyes like polished glass.
All noise died, replaced by their collective gaze.
It felt like the stare of Argos, the entity from the demonic realm said to be the source of Evil Eyes.
Argos was a titan categorized among the demon gods, a massive creature covered in a hundred unblinking eyes.
“Where are we going?”
Enkrid asked, doing his best to ignore the staring.
The fairy leading him was tall, possessing cropped auburn hair and warm, amber eyes.
Her hands were marked by old burns and scars.
She carried a scent distinct from her kin.
Instead of the aroma of meadows, she smelled of soot and coal.
The same scent Aitri carried.
With that one observation, Enkrid knew her trade.
Having refined the Wavebreaker Sword and just defined the rungs of knighthood, his perception was sharper than ever.
“I recall hearing of a fairy clan that masters fire.”
“Indeed, my house crafts the Naidels and the tools of our people.
I saw you once before.
I am Lephratio.”
The leader of a house carries the house’s name.
Much like Ermen.
The fairy before Enkrid was, essentially, the premier smith of the fairies.
“Our kind produces bonded equipment.
These can act in the same manner as engraved weapons.”
Fairies deal only in the truth.
They have no motive to deceive or exaggerate.
“I wish to forge a blade for you, Sir Demon Slayer.”
In plain terms, she wanted to create an engraved weapon for him.
Rather than looking happy or thankful, Enkrid rubbed his chin, appearing troubled.
“That is unfortunate.”
He spoke bluntly, offering no excuses.
“I have already given my word to someone else for such a weapon.”
Engraved weapons are typically unique.
Since they are forged by pouring one’s Will into the metal, they are fundamentally singular objects.
“Then permit me to offer you a gift instead.”
Lephratio replied, showing no sign of being offended.
Enkrid gave a nod.
There was no logic in turning down a gift.
He had already accepted so much, but…
A tribute from a fairy master smith?
That was a rare opportunity.
Armor and blades—Enkrid possessed a certain level of greed regarding his gear.
He never disputed the idea that a superior tool enhances the wielder’s talent.
It might sound like the talk of a common merc, but the truth was solid.
A knight with a masterwork blade versus a knight with nothing—who holds the advantage?
If he could secure an edge, he would take it.
Enkrid had not changed.
Regardless of his spiritual growth, his foundation was the same.
His outlook on his life had never shifted.
So, he moved through the standing crowd of fairies and followed her toward the heat of the forge.
CLANG!
This was the place that had once captivated Shinar—the domain of fire and ore.
It sat in a corner of the city, far from the Woodguard territory, as they stayed away from flames.
There, fairies were busy striking metal over massive hearths, lost in their labor.
In a central space, dark kilns and bellows fashioned from tree stumps through some secret craft were active.
Fairies didn’t weave weapons out of light or greenery.
To mold steel, one required heat.
That was an absolute law.
They were all perspiring to shape their visions.
Naturally, his thoughts turned to Aitri.
The smith who was supposed to make his engraved blade was likely waiting for him.
“Will he be upset that I shattered the True Silver Sword?”
No, he wouldn’t be.
That blade had been intended to be sacrificed.
Even if Aitri hadn’t said it, Enkrid knew.
And because of that sword, he had cheated death.
When they met again, he wanted to tell him, “Your ‘luck’ really did save me.”
So, Enkrid wouldn’t be commissioning an engraved piece here.
“It is called Penna.”
But then—
“Hmph.”
Enkrid clicked his tongue.
His heightened senses now allowed him to judge a weapon’s quality at a glance.
He didn’t even need to touch it.
It was the offering Lephratio had brought out.
A blade that deserved the title of a masterpiece—it was practically an engraved weapon in its own right.
So much so that Enkrid found himself doubting if Aitri could actually produce something superior.