A Knight Who Eternally Regresses Novel - Chapter 651

Chapter 651

The objective was straightforward—intercept whatever was flying toward him.

As the threat entered his perception, Enkrid’s frame reacted by pure reflex. He bypassed all logic. Rather than worrying about the next sequence of his enemy’s blade, he committed every fiber of his being to this singular clash. His heightened state of mind caused the world around him to decelerate into a crawl.

Enkrid identified the incoming projectile. It was a slender skewer—a piercing blade. The execution of the thrust carried the unmistakable stench of Jaxon’s style.

Recognizing the move, he dug his right toe into the dirt, unsheathed Penna, and unleashed a swing.

The kinetic energy traveling from his ankles through his core and into his palm moved twice as fast as it ever had before. He pushed off his knee, channeled his internal power, and solidified his shoulder, elbow, and wrist to eliminate any tremor.

The incoming attack was a mid-stance thrust—built for raw impact rather than agility. If met with a weak defense, it would shatter almost anything in its path; it was often referred to as a siege ram thrust. True to that description, the weapon hurtled forward like a battering ram aimed at a fortress portal.

A high-level technique paired with a legendary blade of impossible sharpness—it resulted in a feat of wonder.

*Chik! Skrrt!*

The iron rod was sliced clean in half while still in flight, and the head of the assailant was lopped off just as he emerged from the earth. A sudden gale whipped up from beneath Enkrid’s boots, and embers ignited from the fractured steel, spiraling upward like a pillar of dragons before vanishing into the night.

To an uninitiated observer, it would have appeared as though he had conjured a cyclone of fire with a flick of his wrist. He hadn’t just intercepted the strike; he had dismantled the weapon and dispatched its wielder in one fluid motion. It was a synthesis of raw power and refined skill so seamless it bordered on the supernatural.

Enkrid finished the arc and gave his weapon a sharp snap. The crimson coating Penna sprayed onto the dirt. When he checked the metal, it was pristine. Was the legend true that this blade never lost its bite even without maintenance? Regardless, the lore suggested that every six months, it should be treated with a specific lubricant—a precise blend of Woodguard’s sap and oil from the Camellia flower.

When he had agreed to that ritual, the fairy Lephratio had personally gifted him a vial of that specific mixture. This wasn’t just a high-quality tool; it was a relic.

“A remarkable piece of equipment,” noted the man holding the polearm who had initiated the conversation. Enkrid flicked the last of the gore away and stared forward.

While the ambush hadn’t been focused solely on him, Lua Gharne and Pell were far too seasoned to perish from such a maneuver. As he suspected, both had neutralized their threats. Lua Gharne had used her forearm as a makeshift barricade; it now sported a puncture, but as a Frokk, she considered that a successful trade. Pell had arched his spine at an impossible angle, drawing his steel and parrying the blow. Enkrid caught the faint, heavy *thung* vibrating through the soil. Pell’s edge had turned the strike aside.

Zero tumbled backward in a panic, narrowly escaping thanks to his nimble fairy footwork. His golden locks danced in the turbulence. A thin line of blood appeared on his brow, but a fraction of a second later, and that blade would have carved a new hole where his features used to be.

Naturally, had Zero been in genuine mortal peril, Enkrid would have prioritized saving him over finishing his own kill. However, he had correctly surmised that Zero could handle the bulk of it.

“Ma—”

The polearm-wielding cultist tried to resume his speech, but Enkrid didn’t give him the floor. One could say the entire group was frozen in a moment of hesitation, waiting for a crack in the tension—a perfect instant for a distracted mind to be exploited.

Enkrid’s left hand blurred past his chest and snapped forward. A bizarre whistle accompanied the movement.

*Fwooooo!*

He had launched a customized Whistle Dagger. The standard Silent Dagger had always felt awkward in his grip, so he had totally overhauled the design for his own hands. He had added an extra edge to sharpen its lethality and was currently brainstorming a new name for it. It no longer whistled; it sounded like a horned trumpet.

*Bwa-bwak!*

The noise was as violent as the impact. Enkrid was no novice. Aside from his primary swordplay, he was in a state of constant refinement, polishing every skill in his arsenal. Employing a throwing technique inherited from Jaxon, the dagger took down three more hostiles as they burst from the mud. It didn’t just pierce their skulls; it pulverized them.

Three of the six daggers Aitri had forged for him were now spent.

‘Only Penna is left.’

He had lost both True Blade and the ember-infused sword. Penna was slightly shorter than what he preferred for a primary weapon.

‘Regardless, I’m not at a loss.’

Enkrid surveyed the field with cold logic. There was no room for distress. He widened his footing and brought his sword up. As he held Penna in a vertical guard, the moonlight—now stained a deep crimson—seemed to split around the edge of the blade. Two moons cast their glow over the valley.

Standing before the group, with the incline at their backs, the leader with the polearm tapped the earth once more with a heavy *tak*.

“This is the last time I will ask. Will you not retreat? To perish here would be a tragic waste of your potential.”

“And just who are you supposed to be?” Enkrid asked, his voice devoid of any feeling. He betrayed no fear, no doubt.

The most shocked person there was Lua Gharne. Looking at the man’s polearm and his attire, she didn’t even bother with her usual irritated huff; she simply stared him down.

“Could it be…?” Lua Gharne whispered. Pell knit his brows together, his palm resting on the grip of the Idol Slayer. Zero focused on shallow, quiet breaths, barely maintaining his composure.

For some time now, the warrior in the black plate armor had been radiating a pressure that felt like a physical weight on the three of them. It felt like stepping back into the twisted corridors of the Demon Realm. It was a suffocating aura—the mark of a true knight.

“You have guessed correctly.” The polearm-wielder gave Lua Gharne a small nod. While Enkrid watched with a blank stare, the man continued. “I am the Apostle of the Second Coming.”

Within the hierarchy of the Church of the Demon Realm, “Apostle” was a title reserved for those of supreme gift—or those whose spirits had been awakened by an encounter with one of the six demons. This man fell into the latter category. In essence, it was no stretch to say this man was the mastermind behind every cultist they had faced thus far. He was the one who had dispatched the Apostle of Curses, and the sorcerer wielding Walking Fire had moved according to his designs.

“Even fanatics can be seduced by that hellish charisma,” Pell remarked, his newfound habit of provocation leaking out instinctively.

“You truly believe that?” Enkrid countered, and Pell gave a sharp grin. He felt the shadow of death looming, but that didn’t mean he was going to cower. A shepherd of the wastes talks to spirits and dances with nightmares. That is the life of a wandering shepherd of the wilderness. If the fear of the grave stopped you, you’d never set out.

“So, you’re suggesting it’s not?” Pell replied with a bold, icy confidence.

To Enkrid, Pell’s greatest asset was that sheer audacity. It complemented his spirit. Enkrid wasn’t envious, but he respected the power behind it. The Apostle’s remark about wasting talent now seemed purely comical.

“Why don’t you go find a ghoul to call ‘mother’ and beg for some milk? What kind of turning back is that?” Enkrid said to the Apostle. It was completely out of left field—and incredibly foul.

The Apostle’s brow twitched at the insult, likely the first of its kind he had ever received. His composure fractured before he could catch it. What did he just hear?

Pell, hearing the remark, felt a spark of inspiration. What is the essence of a taunt? It’s a stimulus. You have to rattle the opponent’s emotional cage. ‘You have to gauge the moment and throw something they would never see coming.’ Enkrid was usually subtle with his mockery, but this was a direct, brutal strike.

It was clear now. The objective was to unbalance the enemy and shatter their focus. It wasn’t about the profanity; it was about the wound. Pell was thrilled. He opened his mouth to pile on.

“Let’s see that mug. You’re way too old to be unweaned. And that face crying for milk? Revolting.” He didn’t quite land the fake gag, but his aim was perfect.

“…Madmen, the lot of you,” the Apostle hissed.

Naturally, the heart of the Church of the Demon Realm resided within the Realm itself. This man was essentially the sovereign of this region. And yet, to be rattled by the petty words of a few wanderers—wasn’t that a victory in itself?

Lua Gharne puffed out her cheeks. The Frokk let out a wet, gurgling laugh.

“Even so, I shall offer one last mercy. Elе.”

The Apostle gave the command, and the black-clad knight blurred. No—by the time they registered the movement, a dark streak had already sliced the air above Enkrid’s head. It was a tear in reality—a line that cut through his accelerated perception.

Enkrid brought the fairy-forged Penna up in a sharp parry.

*Clang!*

Earlier, he had snapped a skewer with a light touch, but this time, his blade was caught. The black steel hummed before him, refracting into three distinct images.

‘An illusion generated by a flick of the wrist channeled from the ankle.’

The mechanics of the strike and its solution became clear instantly. The foe utilized deceptive blade paths. Enkrid instinctively partitioned his thoughts and engaged the Wave-Blocking Sword Technique.

*Tatatang!*

The metal shrieked as they traded blows. A vacuum of wind swirled between them. In the rain of sparks, Enkrid’s blue eyes burned. The black knight was a formidable opponent. Behind the visor, only a chilling blue light flickered.

Dozens of exchanges occurred in a heartbeat. During the clash, the Apostle spoke with a measured, steady pace.

“Do you honestly believe you are the master of your own fate? Do you think this world holds any fairness? Every soul is equal in the eyes of the Demon Realm. If you could grasp our truth, you would join us.”

As he spoke, Elе’s blade split into three once more—but this time, it elongated without warning.

*Ting!* The metal fragments separated and extended, tethered by a corded link. It was a trap laid from the start. Enkrid wouldn’t be able to retreat. Hadn’t he just moved back? Furthermore, the enemy had snared Enkrid’s wrist with a strange cord from his off-hand.

It looked like the end. The binding on his wrist halted his movement. The whip-blade was set to shred his chest.

But the catastrophe never arrived. Enkrid paid no mind to the cord on his arm and yanked Penna back, slamming it into the center of the extended blade.

*Bang!*

A massive discharge of sparks erupted, and the blade meant for his heart was knocked off its path. Extending a weapon always comes with a price. If you hit the center of gravity, the path breaks.

“My name is the Black Snake!” Elе roared. He seemed caught in a frenzy. He lashed out with his sword while shouting—this was clearly his soul-bound weapon and his true style.

*Chwarararak!*

The blade fragmented again, lengthening into a whip of steel. It transitioned seamlessly between a rigid sword and a flexible lash. Its erratic nature made it a nightmare to predict—and yet—

*Tadang! Clang!*

Enkrid stood his ground. It looked desperate, but he wasn’t in danger. It was a duel where the surface reality hid the true depth of the struggle. Lua Gharne noticed. So did the Apostle.

‘Didn’t he barely survive against Hatun?’ the Apostle wondered. Even if Enkrid had won that fight decisively, this was beyond logic. In terms of sheer combat power, the Black Snake Elе was the undisputed champion of his territory. In a fight to the death, the Apostle wasn’t even sure he could beat Elе himself. And yet, Enkrid wasn’t just surviving; he was holding his own with room to breathe.

‘It’s a good thing I prepared for the worst.’

In terms of temperament, the Second Apostle shared traits with Ermen or Kraiss. He had planned for the possibility that even Elе might not be enough to break Enkrid.

The Apostle spoke again. “Levantine.”

A figure in billowing robes stepped into the light. His sleeves were far too long and loose for a warrior.

“May I take a sip?”

“Do as you wish.”

A cryptic permission. Levantine’s mouth twisted into a horrific grin. From between his split lips, a jagged fang emerged. It was hideous. Saliva pooled between his teeth, and his gums were bared to the air. Dark veins throbbed in his eyes.

“I am Levantine, a Noble of the Night.”

With those words, he blurred forward. Enkrid casually swept his blade across the man’s path. Penna tore through the fabric of his robes.

*Pic!*

The cloth was shredded, but Levantine dissolved into a dark vapor and drifted into the sky. In the Demon Realm dwell the vampires—a lineage that persists on the lifeblood of mortals. Levantine was one of them. He wasn’t a knight, but even Elе couldn’t be certain of beating him. This was a force the Apostle had spent years curating; they were monsters.

Levantine solidified in midair and thrust out a palm. His skin tore open. Dark ichor spilled out, formed into the shape of a bolt, and fired.

*Thunk!*

Enkrid spun on his lead foot like a whirlwind and brought his sword around. The bolt of black blood shattered on contact. *Bang!* He caught Elе’s sword in the same motion. It appeared as though he had just barely fended off both attackers simultaneously.

“Damn it all,” Pell hissed. He had been looking for a gap to jump in, but he couldn’t find the momentum. Watching the fight, he realized the man in the rear was likely just as lethal as the two in the front. At this pace, wouldn’t Enkrid eventually buckle?

He gripped his hilt, ready to throw himself in, but the flow of the battle offered no entry point. Lua Gharne was equally tense. Zero didn’t even consider moving.

Through the chaos, the Apostle’s voice rose again. “Become one with the equality of the Demon Realm. Become a cornerstone of a world that truly matters. This is your path.”

He was lecturing now, and he didn’t stop. “I am offering you the chance to rewrite your miserable existence!”

The cultist’s voice thundered, heavy with a strange influence.

*Bang!* Steel bit steel.
*Boom!* The vampire’s blood exploded.

And in the middle of it all, Enkrid spoke up. “What was that?”

*Thump! Tadang!*

“I didn’t catch a word of that. Try saying it again.”

“Ah.”

Pell let out a breath of pure respect. Sometimes, it wasn’t a clever curse that broke a person—sometimes, just being ignored was enough to do the trick. He had just witnessed a whole new level of psychological warfare.