A Knight Who Eternally Regresses Novel - Chapter 650

Chapter 650

The trek back was peaceful.

No highwaymen troubled their path, and sightings of predatory beasts or monsters were few and far between. A colony of fairies, traveling in the same general direction, kept a wide berth behind Enkrid and his party. The two groups maintained a half-day gap between them, eventually losing sight of one another after traversing several mountain ridges. Although Enkrid’s unit served as a scouting party and represented only a small fraction of the total force, the migration of an entire city was a massive undertaking. Naturally, the distance between them grew as Enkrid’s group moved at a measured pace; a large gathering of people invariably slows the collective rhythm.

On the second day, while they were establishing their camp, Lua Gharne received another demonstration of Enkrid’s true capabilities. It occurred during a practice bout with Pell.

“You wife-stealing bastard!” Pell shouted, trying a clumsy attempt at a taunt.

Predictably, Enkrid remained unmoved. Instead, the moment Pell spoke, Enkrid lunged forward. Facing an opponent he could already best without resorting to trickery, he used the opening to completely shatter Pell’s timing.

His execution had become far more refined. It was as if he had undergone years of rigorous, hands-on discipline under a master’s watchful eye. Such transitions always felt slightly surreal; regardless of innate talent, there are moments when a person’s skill simply teleports to a new level. Yet, this time, there was an even more startling development.

The sparring was relentless. Pell found himself unable to draw enough breath to speak again, forced into a silent struggle where only his limbs could do the talking. Enkrid didn’t even exert his mental pressure. Without a word exchanged, the duel shifted into a raw exhibition of power and coordination. This was entirely by Enkrid’s design.

By the midpoint, even finesse seemed to fall away. Enkrid relied solely on velocity and force, cornering his partner through sheer physical dominance. When power becomes absolute, there is no need for half-hearted maneuvers. It is often said that flexibility can overcome rigid strength, much like a flowing sword can redirect a heavy blade. But what happens when the force is so immense it simply ignores the redirection? Enkrid was proving exactly what happens.

When his blade swept past Pell’s throat a moment prior, Pell hadn’t even the breath to protest. A single lapse in concentration would have been fatal. This wasn’t the psychological weight of a feint; it was a cold, visceral terror crawling down his spine, like the icy lick of a lizard’s tongue against his skin.

Pell committed every ounce of his being into a desperate strike. He had no other choice. Every one of Enkrid’s swings, no matter how effortless they appeared, arrived with lethal precision and crushing weight. It was a state of perpetual emergency—like facing a predator poised to tear out his windpipe.

He anchored himself to his Will, channeling it into his weapon. He felt as though he were dangling from a precipice by his fingertips; if his grip faltered for even a second, he was finished. Sudden gusts of wind buffeted him, forcing him to tighten his core, knowing any loss of balance meant the end. The glare of the sun felt like a physical assault on his eyes. A single ill-timed blink would break his focus and result in his death.

*I’m going to die.*

Pell felt the truth of it in his gut. Meanwhile, Enkrid continued to swing his blade with a mechanical, emotionless rhythm.

*Clang!*

Pell managed to keep hold of his sword, but the force of Enkrid’s parry sent his arm flying wide. Enkrid surged into the opening and delivered a soft tap to Pell’s chest with his palm.

“I win,” Enkrid stated. It was an undeniable conclusion.

“…Haaah.” Pell finally let out his held breath. Enkrid had overwhelmed him with nothing but raw attributes. The failure of his taunt was the least of his concerns.

*This absolute freak.*

Everything about the man—from his application of Will to the very mechanics of his swordsmanship—had evolved since they arrived in this place. That was the mark of a monster: a vessel overflowing with talent. It was glaringly obvious that he had surpassed yet another plateau in a remarkably short window of time. Pell exhaled, pushing aside his wounded ego. Had he been the sort to fold under such pressure, he never would have made it this far.

*I’ll keep pace with him, no matter what.* A new, fierce tenacity took root in Pell’s heart, his eyes smoldering with resolve.

Lua Gharne, observing from the sidelines, pondered the display. Enkrid had perfectly calibrated himself to Pell, which meant he was holding back significantly. What was the nature of this change? The Frokk possessed an intuitive ability to read talent through a person’s posture and movement. That intuition was currently firing like rapid sparks in Lua’s mind, each one illuminating a different facet of Enkrid’s current state.

He handled a heavy, high-speed blade as if it weighed nothing. He wasn’t just doing it sporadically; he was constantly modulating his output to stay just ahead of Pell. It was the efficiency of a master woodsman who could apply every nuance of his craft to a single axe swing, over and over, without fatigue. He did this instantly, without the need for centering his breath or conscious preparation. It was only possible because he existed in a state of total hyper-focus.

He had sharpened his concentration to a point and poured all his energy into the steel. He was clearly applying the lessons learned during the subjugation of the Walking Fire. Lua wondered what would happen if Enkrid unleashed his full potential. It would likely be a sustained, high-velocity onslaught. During his encounter with the demon known as First Kill, Enkrid had rebuilt his entire combat philosophy from the ground up.

But it didn’t stop at reconstruction. To forge a style of swordsmanship is to internalize every concept and mechanic within it. That process inevitably transforms the practitioner. In the typical hierarchy of beginner, intermediate, and advanced, Enkrid had ascended past the middle tier. His martial identity had crystallized.

*Urke.* A style defined by a Will that never withers.

Lua Gharne’s perception was unerring. Ever since they left the fairy city, Enkrid had gained a precise understanding of his own toolkit: high-speed combat sustained by incredible endurance. This was the culmination of his life experiences. Men like Rearvart and Sir Jamal had built their reputations on battles of attrition, and their influence lived on in him. Enkrid accepted this influence without pride or shame; it was simply part of his foundation.

He felt as though something within him had reached a state of completion. There was a fleeting sense of omnipotence—the feeling that no foe was beyond his reach. Yet, following closely behind that sensation was another: he had hit a wall. He had reached a ceiling where he could see no further path upward or forward. He was at the end of the road.

And yet, a part of his spirit refused to concede. Talent might dictate a person’s limits, but the Will held within the heart is boundless. That was the distinction.

As Enkrid moved on from his victory over Pell, he continued to categorize his thoughts. By organizing what he knew, his understanding deepened naturally. He realized that a knight’s mindset and techniques are the direct results of the life they have led. Therefore, “Will” is the physical manifestation of that life’s resolve. This was why the Will of the man he had encountered among the Holy Knights felt so hollow. One can reach the rank of knight through talent alone, but a sword wielded from a vacuous heart is as fragile as Swiss cheese.

A knight without a sacred vow is no knight at all. This is why conviction is the lifeblood of their order; it provides the framework that sustains their Will. It was likely the reason Oara’s Will burned so brightly. A dream didn’t need to be legendary to be valid; what mattered was the act of moving forward for one’s beliefs. No honest dream is lowly, and every oath is worthy of honor. These realizations meshed perfectly with Enkrid’s core values. He was beginning to understand the essence of knighthood in a way that resonated with his own soul.

As he walked and pondered, the world grew brighter. For two nights, a pair of full moons bathed the land in silver. By the third night, however, the silver began to tarnish. Despite the clear sky, the light grew dim and took on a different hue. The season of the Twin Crimson Moons—the Red Moon—was approaching.

The rest of the group seemed preoccupied. Pell and Zero were deep in the process of absorbing the lessons from their defeat. Lua Gharne was equally busy, though she spent time explaining the Frokk method of talent reading to Enkrid.

“Frokk once believed that categorizing talent into levels was pointless,” she explained. “Since we can see the eventual limits of a person, what does a label matter if it doesn’t change the outcome of a life-or-death struggle?”

In a true battle, what actually counts? Does a more refined control of Will guarantee victory? Perhaps, but it isn’t a direct correlation in the chaos of combat. Even a master of Will can be killed in their sleep. Unless you were someone like Frokk, a slit throat is a slit throat. Even Frokk would perish if his heart were pierced. Skill improves the odds, but it isn’t everything.

“Does everyone’s talent look the same? No,” Lua continued. “Everyone has a different ‘color.’ We can see the boundaries of talent, but not its essence. We had to experience those colors firsthand to understand them. That was where the excitement lay.”

To Lua, seeing someone like Enkrid shatter his perceived limits was the ultimate thrill. The pursuit of the unknown was the driving force for her, as it was for many of her kind.

“Depending on that ‘color,’ some warriors focus everything into a single, devastating blow, like Pell over there. Others, like the fairies, use strange, racial techniques that defy standard logic.”

Nearby, Pell and Zero were shadow-boxing with their blades. Their paths were visible; while the end results—cuts and thrusts—were similar, the execution was night and day. Pell would “kill” his target with one massive swing, while Zero would deliver six rapid slashes in the same span of time.

Enkrid considered this alongside a conversation he’d had with Pell during their earlier banter. Pell’s movements were easy to anticipate because he felt no need to hide his intentions. That was simply his nature. Then, Enkrid thought back to the fairy city. Ermen had mastered the art of deception through silence. Why had that been so clear? He had felt it in other fairies, but it was most pronounced in Ermen—similar, in a way, to Kraiss.

Pell acted on impulse. Rem did the same. Ragna, despite his rough exterior, enjoyed the tactical chess match but could fall back on raw power if needed. Everyone had a temperament that defined them. Enkrid was now synthesizing everything he had witnessed—not just to understand knights, but to understand the world.

A person’s temperament dictates their martial form. This was what the Frokk meant by the “color” of talent.

“One Frokk even tried to name these archetypes,” Lua added, “using things like larvae, pupae, or mayflies.”

Enkrid began to layer these concepts in his mind. Depending on a person’s weapon and personality, they would interpret a martial framework differently. Therefore, the way they were taught had to be customized. He settled on three broad categories: Lethal Strike, Endurance, and Versatility. Perfection wasn’t required; only the completion of one’s path.

Pell was a Lethal Strike type. Rophod was an Endurance type. They were opposites. Some were born with the potential for both—the Versatile types. While that sounded superior, it was often less efficient. To master two paths, one had to double their effort. According to the Frokk, if you take the limited water of your talent and split it between two buckets, you aren’t increasing the water; you’re just thinning your resources.

Furthermore, there were those who focused on physical conditioning (Training types) and those who focused on the complexity of movement (Technique types). Training types favored heavy or lightning-fast weapons. Technique types favored light or deceptive ones. By merging existing styles and adding his own experiences, Enkrid had built his own form. He realized how vital self-knowledge was to this process.

*I am an Endurance type.*

For now, that was his truth. With Urke, he could turn any fight into a marathon. This was reinforced by the examples of Rearvart and Azpen’s knight. Eventually, he suspected that Lethal Strike and Endurance would have to merge, though he couldn’t see how yet. He could only sense the existence of something “above.”

Thinking of the knights he knew, one stood out as an anomaly: Jaxon. He was a rare hybrid of Lethal Strike and Technique.

Ultimately, there was no single “correct” answer. If you start with a predetermined result, you only produce “fakes.” This was the mistake of the Holy Nation—prescribing a single path and forcing everyone to march down it.

“Ah.”

Enkrid felt a surge of pure, creative joy. It wasn’t just about learning anymore; it was about the act of creation itself. The feeling washed over him, a wave of satisfaction from head to toe.

He looked up to find that the moons had turned a deep, bruised red. The Twin Crimson Moons were upon them. Night had fallen while he was lost in his own mind. Though he had been physically aware enough to navigate the terrain, his conscious mind had only just returned to the present.

That was when he noticed the uninvited guests.

“We have been waiting for you, Border Guard Enkrid.”

A voice rang out in the red night, appearing out of nowhere. There had been no footsteps, no rustle of clothing—only the words. Enkrid watched as a shimmering black veil dissolved before his eyes. It was a perception-warping spell, designed to hide a barrier until the caster allowed it to be seen. He had encountered such magic enough to feel the slight “wrongness” in the air, and that discomfort was what had finally snapped him out of his reverie.

The figures who had been concealed by the spell stepped forward. One wore heavy, obsidian armor. Two others were draped in robes. The figure in the center held a long staff topped with a circular iron ring, adorned with jagged, upward-pointing spikes—a clear religious icon.

“We represent the Sanctuary of the Demon Realm, the Church of Rebirth.”

Under the bloody moonlight, it was clear these were no common thugs.

“We have brought the remaining Apostles to meet you.”

Before the sentence was even finished, Enkrid’s instincts screamed. Beneath his boots, the earth groaned. Sharp iron spikes erupted from the ground, lashing out at Enkrid’s midsection, Lua Gharne’s chest, Zero’s skull, and Pell’s throat.

Enkrid’s mind shifted into a higher gear. The world around him slowed to a crawl, as if he were moving through thick, heavy silt. In that frozen heartbeat, Enkrid moved to act.