A Knight Who Eternally Regresses Novel - Chapter 652

Chapter 652

The Apostle did not repeat his words. Instead, he gripped the staff in his right hand and extended his left. To Pell, the finger movements were bizarre. He pressed his thumb, middle, and ring fingers together, then fanned them out, rotated them, and finally projected only his index and pinky fingers before pulling them back into his palm.

After these motions, nonsensical incantations spilled from his mouth, and a dark fluid began to weep from his fingertips. Then, clear words left the Apostle’s lips.

“Huarin’s hound.”

Lua Gharne had witnessed cult members utilize this magic previously. The dark liquid expanded independently and struck the ground on all fours.

*Grrrr—*

As it tossed its head and snarled, a black mist seeped from its jaws and drifted above its skull. The disparity in strength between a common cultist and the Apostle of the Second Coming was vast. This creature was clearly no simple stray.

“Finish him.”

At the Apostle’s order, Huarin’s hound entered the fray. It propelled itself off the earth with a violent crack and surged forward like a dark smear in the air. Enkrid detected the presence closing in from behind, pivoted, evaded, and drove his elbow into its muzzle.

*Crack.*

With a sharp snap, Huarin’s hound was sent tumbling backward, skidding onto its spine. Despite the impact, it rose without a whimper, shook its head briefly, and bared its teeth once more. It wasn’t a true threat—but it was a nuisance.

Meanwhile, the Apostle continued his rhythmic chanting.

“Your physical form is right there. Go claim it.”
“The murderer of your mother stands before you.”
“Hear my plea, and etch the sacred brand upon that mortal.”

During this interval, Enkrid identified a gap and swept his blade, bisecting Huarin’s hound vertically. It wasn’t merely struck—it was severed. The beast dissolved into cinders and disappeared.

In that small window of time, the vampire’s talons descended toward his skull, but Enkrid managed to deflect them with a heavy punch.

*BOOM!*

A violent blast followed, an unseen weight displacing the air and whipping up a gale. The remains of Huarin’s hound were caught in the wind and scattered.

*Huarang!*

The draft carried a searing heat, as if the glow of the red moon had infused the atmosphere with warmth. It was unavoidable. In a clash where steel met steel without pause—even in the chill of a winter night—the thermal energy was immense. Embers danced, and detonations thundered. It was a gala of carnage.

Naturally, in this celebration, the wine was gore, the bread was torn skin, and the vessels were carved from bone. At some point, a soft azure glow, reminiscent of moonlight, began to radiate from Enkrid’s steel.

Between the dark, whip-like blade, the scarlet incantations of the vampire, and the soft blue radiance of Enkrid’s sword, the heavens appeared to be a collision of three distinct lights. When was the last time a spectacle like this occurred? It brought to mind the legends of when Oara battled Balrog.

Though this time, Enkrid was the focal point, shedding pale light as he lashed out with his weapon—there was no spectator standing by to simply watch. The beast that seemed capable of weathering the first blow was gone, and the soaring wraith—an entity one wouldn’t anticipate beneath a red moon—was also pierced and shredded by the azure light until it faded.

No spirit could endure a single hit. But even if it had survived the initial strike, he would have finished it regardless. That was the impression he gave. Enkrid remained mute—he lacked the breath to speak. He simply operated his sword in total silence.

The Apostle also ceased his speech and transitioned into an unending chant. More forbidden arts flowed from his mouth, manifestations never before seen or heard. Shadowy figures shimmered in the air, charging with blades. Spheres of gloom zipped across the clearing.

Pell, Lua Gharne, and Zero were not idle spectators. All three unsheathed their steel. Lua Gharne, specifically, felt her jaw tighten. Every time she encountered a cultist, the memory of her fallen lover resurfaced. They were her blood enemies. Even if her rage had quieted over time, she could never show mercy to a member of the cult.

Especially when these individuals sought to transform the world into a nightmare realm of demons. Allowing that to occur—how could any sane person permit it? Anyone aligned with them had to be fundamentally broken.

“You absolute cultist lunatics.”

Lua Gharne gripped the Loop Sword in one hand and a lash in the other.

*CRACK!*

An electrical snap erupted from the whip as it bit the dirt. Pell unsheathed the Idol Slayer and settled into a stance. Zero moved back, hesitant about whether to step in. Should he participate? He might only serve as an obstacle. Yet, he refused to flee. He had spent his entire existence dodging conflict.

‘If I run away every time the odds are against me, I’ll never truly be a warrior.’

To Zero, Enkrid had always represented someone who battled his own restrictions. With the sharp intuition of a fairy, Zero could perceive Enkrid’s fundamental nature. He admired him. He aspired to match him. That was Zero’s inner truth. But that didn’t mean he possessed the capability to act this moment. Thus, it was wiser to remain still.

He promised himself that if he made it through this, he would train until his final breath—until he rested in the celestial flower field. The celestial flower field—the destination for fairies after death. It was their version of paradise. Its fragrance was said to be intoxicatingly sweet and eternal.

While Zero gathered his resolve and watched, Pell kept a sharp eye on the Apostle. Truthfully, if the situation collapsed, he was prepared to ambush him. But he couldn’t find a single vulnerability. Pell noted the Apostle was visibly fuming. A vein bulged on his brow as he maintained his ritual.

‘Even if there’s no opening, perhaps I can create one.’

As he shifted his weight slightly, the Apostle’s eyes darted toward him. Was his perception that acute? Or was it merely a sharpened instinct? Either way, it was irrelevant. The Apostle nonchalantly triggered another curse.

“Huarin’s hunt.”

He gestured with his staff as he spoke. At its crown, dark water coagulated and fell—then transformed into more than ten wolves. And they weren’t just wolves. Were those spectral steeds?

Pell adjusted his hold on his blade and scanned the combat zone. It was time to revise his strategy.

‘I need to draw some of the heat off him.’

At this pace, the Apostle would crush Enkrid under the weight of his spells alone. If Pell could pose a threat from his position—it might provide relief. Just as he committed to the move, the Apostle initiated a new incantation.

“Rise, Warrior of Death.”

In the past, the Apostle was famed for committing over a hundred rituals to memory—earning him the moniker “Collector of Spells.” Compared to a sorcerer like Galaph, who could theoretically seize a river in his palm, how wide was the chasm between them? Without Esther, no one present could truly gauge it.

But one fact was undeniable. The Apostle was capable of engaging everyone here simultaneously.

“You believe our paths crossing here was luck? It wasn’t. I have been anticipating this. Once I slaughter you all, I will rain misery down upon Border Guard. My battalions are already marching toward the city you called home. What? You still don’t comprehend? Then I shall repeat it. As many times as necessary.”

He was clearly infuriated.

Pell observed as a pale-skinned combatant materialized within the dark haze. He gripped a heavy, wide blade. His eyes were voids of black. A thing constructed of magic—was it a ghoul?

The Warrior of Death was typically deployed against mid-ranked knights. The only entity superior to it was the Death Knight. But neither was simple to manifest. Unless the practitioner offered their own flesh to the deities, they required the corpse of a skilled soldier or knight as a vessel. The Apostle could call forth up to fifteen Warriors of Death.

Pell was unaware of that statistic—but he understood his objective. The moment the Apostle turned his gaze and cast, Enkrid looked toward him as well. If this continued, he wouldn’t be a teammate—just dead weight.

‘These natural-born monsters… I’ll close the gap no matter what it takes.’

Pell fortified his heart, a feeling similar to but distinct from Zero’s. Regardless, Pell understood his role. He had to assist Enkrid, who was juggling knight-level adversaries and magical pressure at the same time. That meant he couldn’t linger on his own foes.

He regulated his breathing and centered himself. The dark soldier lifted its massive sword. It assumed a disciplined stance—feet apart, tip pointed toward the heavens. The weapon seemed deceptively light. Its forearms were thick with muscle.

A gamble, in a sense.

‘Because of that bastard Rophod, I’ve taken these kinds of risks a thousand times.’

Pell possessed a specific gift. And he had been battered repeatedly by Enkrid during their journey. He hadn’t just mastered the art of provocation.

The black steel swung down in a diagonal arc. There was no detectable flaw. The transfer of energy from its heels to its legs was flawless. It was the technique of a grandmaster. The warrior’s blade seemed set to split Pell in two.

Then Pell acted.

He lunged forward with his left leg and drove his sword upward. Not one movement was wasted. Every digit and limb was dedicated purely to this strike. While Enkrid had been noting Pell’s raw potential, Pell hadn’t been idle.

What Pell executed now was Enkrid’s hallmark—“full-force slash.”

His blade rent the Warrior of Death from its stomach to its skull. The ghost’s blade met only empty air. Pell moved through the strike, finishing in a high guard. For a split second, it appeared as though the crimson moonlight itself had been severed behind him.

One could not survive in this place as a mere master. His sword announced it: the environment he operated in had shifted—and he had to evolve with it.

“Huff.”

As he regained his breath and peered forward, he saw the Apostle with his mouth pressed into a thin line. Should he taunt him with, “Didn’t hear that. Care to repeat?” But he sensed that no words would truly shake him now. So Pell remained quiet, sword ready.

“Molmon.”

The Apostle spoke. At the command, the man standing near him—whose wrists and ankles were bound with cords—stepped out. Pell naturally thought he would be the target.

‘Another one?’

But he wasn’t. The man moved toward Enkrid. The mere rhythm of his steps informed Pell—this individual was formidable. He couldn’t pinpoint exactly what made him dangerous—but he felt it. His survival instincts screamed at him.

‘If he had come for me, I wouldn’t have stood a chance.’

Three of them now. All focused on Enkrid. Could Enkrid survive them?

“Very well. We shall play it this way. We will simply observe. But our limbs must not grow sluggish. Appear, Sham.”

The Apostle conjured four additional Warriors of Death—one for Lua Gharne, one for Zero, and two for Pell. Then he animated eleven more remains—all directed at Enkrid. They weren’t identical in power, but they were at minimum mid-level knights. They couldn’t serve as meat shields—but as shields of bone and rot, they could pin Enkrid down.

Confronting three knight-class enemies, magical bombardment, and now a dozen restless dead.

“Shouldn’t we be calling for help?” Pell whispered.

Had they been too arrogant? Should they have anticipated the cultist would commit everything? Did Kraiss overlook a detail? If so, they were all doomed. One glance at the Apostle’s eyes toward Enkrid confirmed it—retreat wasn’t an option.

‘Three of them are knights.’

Once more, the reality sank in—he was in a different league now. The Black Snake, Ele. The vampire. The final combatant. All of them of the knight rank.

The last one bunched his fists and sprinted forward. While the first two employed chaotic styles, this one was disciplined and traditional. Now that two undead had him occupied, Pell couldn’t go all out again. He had to stall.

Lua Gharne had to engage while shielding Zero. Just because she detested cultists didn’t mean she could permit her companion to fall. She had absorbed much from Enkrid. Including the duty of protection. Zero’s face clouded over. He loathed being a burden—but he was powerless to do otherwise. So he bit his lip and lashed out with his dagger as effectively as possible.

If Enkrid fell, they would all follow. It was merely a countdown. This precarious stability wouldn’t hold.

And yet—they persevered remarkably well. Was it the Goddess of Balance providing support? Or perhaps the Goddess of Fortune?

“Damn… honestly.” Lua Gharne breathed. Her tone revealed her astonishment.

Pell, clashing with two soldiers and keeping a side-eye on Enkrid, shared the sentiment. But if Lua Gharne perceived something and spoke thus—Pell had no clue what it was. If he had more leisure, he might have tilted his head or even attempted to converse with the undead warriors striking at him.

“Hey, how long do you reckon you could hold out against three knights?” Even just to fill the silence.

The Idol Slayer could bypass ghosts—but it couldn’t instantly neutralize the Warriors of Death. That had been a point of irritation. But all that annoyance evaporated in a heartbeat.

Everyone’s attention pivoted to the center of Enkrid’s struggle. Something impossible was unfolding.

“…What in the world is that?”

The cult’s base was within the Demon Realm. But they wouldn’t manage this territory carelessly. The Apostle of the Second Coming possessed the power to challenge a knight single-handedly. Each of the three subordinates could execute a knight by themselves.

But no.

He watched as Enkrid’s sword rent the vampire asunder.

*GRAAAAAAH!*

The azure light cut through the vampire’s frame three separate times. The red moon bolstered the creatures of the Demon Realm. Right now, the Vampire Apostle should have been capable of matching Enkrid in a duel.

But his appendages were scattered on the earth, severed and broken.

‘Is this a hallucination?’

That was the only thought remaining in the Apostle’s mind.