A Knight Who Eternally Regresses Novel - Chapter 662

Chapter 662

## The Genesis of Flow

Enkrid was well aware that merely brandishing his blade a few times wouldn’t trigger some sudden, mystical enlightenment. He understood that progress required a methodical approach, one step at a time. His first order of business was to provide his developing style with a name.

“We shall call it Flow.”

He intended to use Oara’s Connecting Sword as the bedrock of this technique. His ultimate goal was simple yet profound: to reach a state where, at every second, the movement emerged without effort. The essence of it was to be like a river—a constant, unceasing progression that never faltered. In practice, he wanted his swordsmanship to be as involuntary and vital as drawing breath.

However, when it came to designing the specific training regimen, Enkrid found himself at a standstill. It was a familiar sensation—striking the ceiling of his own natural aptitude. Yet, strangely, this realization brought him a sense of contentment. Enkrid was a man possessed, someone who found genuine pleasure in the struggle to scale invisible barriers. Now, the obstacle was tangible and right in front of him.

This was merely the opening act. He had already caught a glimpse of the horizon beyond the wall, a realm where his companions had already ventured. It wasn’t a matter of simply doing more; it was a fundamental shift in the nature of his power. The thought sent a cold shiver down his back and a pulse of adrenaline through his chest. The sensation climbed to his brain, erupting into a feverish joy.

“Ah.”

The sheer anticipation was enough to make him lose his mind. Of course, a perfectly paved road hadn’t just materialized out of thin air. For the moment, his only option was to keep moving. So, Enkrid did the only thing he could: he swung his sword. He did so with a lack of grace, driven by a stubborn persistence. Though he possessed only this one repetitive skill, a grin never faded from his lips. He resembled a youth caught in the throes of a first crush, tirelessly practicing his strikes.

—

### The Madman at the Center

“Is he truly losing his mind?” the Ragged Saint whispered, his voice laced with concern as he watched from the periphery. Why was the man talking to himself, only to go out and swing a sword with such a disturbing smile? It was genuinely unsettling.

His confusion was understandable, but while Enkrid was too preoccupied to notice the comment, the others simply gave knowing nods.

“He’s absolutely deranged. That’s just his nature,” Rem remarked casually.

“He’ll come back to his senses eventually. Don’t let it rattle you,” Ragna added.

“Don’t worry about it. It’s just a temporary spell,” said Audin.

Hearing the nonchalant dismissals from Rem, Ragna, and Audin, the Ragged Saint let out a sharp scoff. He couldn’t keep his thoughts to himself any longer.

“You three are the last people on earth who should be judging someone’s sanity.”

Although his acquaintance with Enkrid was recent, the Ragged Saint had spent significant time observing Rem and Ragna. He had even witnessed the transformation of his own adopted son. These individuals, who had once spoken only of slaughtering one another, were now operating in perfect harmony as if their bloody history never existed. It was absurd.

He knew the reason, of course. It was because of that fanatic at the front, the one training with a senseless grin.

“Indeed… he is the focal point of everything.”

The entire structure—the order of knights, the metropolis, the citizenry—all pivoted around that single individual. It was an impressive feat. It made sense that other eccentrics would be drawn to a central figure as mad as he was. As he watched the tireless swordsman, the Ragged Saint felt a tide of conflicting emotions: sorrow and regret washed over him.

He wondered what might have happened if someone like Enkrid had appeared during his own youth. Someone capable of swaying even Overdeer and himself. What if there had been a leader everyone could look up to? He had known one such individual once—a man whose natural gifts seemed like a divine favor. His words held gravity, and his very presence exuded a mix of holy energy and peerless martial prowess. He had been like a brother, both younger and older, possessing both the steel to lead and the heart to care. He had charisma, authority, and power in spades.

And yet, his hunger for more was as vast as his talent. If they had stood by him when he ascended to the papacy, would the outcome have differed? The Ragged Saint already held the bitter truth.

“It would have changed nothing.”

That was the tragedy of it. It was Legion that had alienated him, and Legion that had forced his hand. The most brilliant mind Legion ever produced had suffered the loss of his kin and his beloved, eventually vanishing into the Demon Realm with a heart set on vengeance. He didn’t wail or weep; he simply turned his back on the world and walked away.

“If this reflects the divine plan, then I choose to defy it.”

Those had been his parting words.

“He was a total fool,” the Ragged Saint thought. He was simply too exceptional for the office of the pope. His brilliance was so blinding that it naturally birthed envy in others. They were desperate to pull him down to their level. Following that catastrophe, Overdeer the Holy Knight had suppressed his own will entirely, pledging to become a mindless tool for whoever held the papal seat next.

Stirred by these painful memories, the Ragged Saint reached a new understanding.

“It wasn’t about the holy power. He needed to understand how to bring people together. He should have been the type of person willing to bleed for those beneath him.”

A leader truly respected by everyone must possess that specific quality. Any Holy Knight could swing a weapon or channel energy. However, the person at the summit should be valued for their spirit, not just their lethality.

“Hah…”

The Ragged Saint understood his own limitations perfectly. He was never meant to be a pope. He had no desire for that level of burden; he had always preferred the immediate act of healing a single suffering child. The Holy City required a leader with a more expansive soul. And the Border Guard… it needed someone like Enkrid. Someone who didn’t crush others with authority or rule through fear.

“He isn’t a king.”

He simply occupied a different role.

“Didn’t he mention his ambition was to be a knight?” he asked, throwing the question toward Audin’s general direction. He knew the answer already; he’d heard the tale of how Enkrid wanted to be the kind of hero found in ancient songs. He couldn’t find it in himself to mock that dream. Not because of Enkrid’s current behavior, but because he had once harbored a similar hope.

Watching Enkrid move through the streets, the truth was evident. He held his sword for the sole purpose of shielding those behind him. That was the extent of it. And with that singular focus, he had carved a path this far. That was what made him truly insane.

“What a ridiculous man.”

Realizing this, the Ragged Saint sank to his knees and began to pray. With his hands clasped, he called out to his deity, offering penance for his past and asking for a blessing upon the path of the smiling madman.

—

### An Ordinary Day in the Training Yard

“You do realize that a prayer doesn’t cancel out the insult you just gave us, right?”

Beside him, Rem let his hand fall to the grip of his axe. Hadn’t the old man just overstepped? He had essentially painted them all with the same brush of insanity. While he had phrased it as them being the “last ones” to judge, Rem was sharp enough to know he was being called a lunatic. To Rem, that sounded like an invitation to a fight. Western traditions might prize respect for the elderly, but this old man wasn’t a Westerner, so the rules didn’t apply.

“But was he actually wrong, my brother from the wilds?” Audin said, attempting to play peacemaker.

“A stray cat will always side with the predator,” Rem countered. He didn’t just touch his axe; he gripped it firmly. The weapon seemed to thrum in response to his touch. He didn’t necessarily want to kill the man, but the threat was tangible.

“You are all equally unqualified to speak,” Ragna intervened, effectively silencing the dispute with a single line—though he conveniently excluded himself from the group of madmen.

“You directionless, blind bastard—you’re the worst of the lot, you lazy prick!”

Rem hauled his axe and struck. He brought it down with the full weight of his wrist, the weapon moving as if it were a natural extension of his limb. Ragna remained composed, drawing his greatsword with the speed of a smaller blade to intercept the strike, catching Rem’s edge with only a fraction of his steel exposed.

*Clang!*

The collision sent sparks flying, and a predatory fire ignited in the eyes of both warriors.

“Truly, my brothers are wild beasts,” Audin sighed, stepping between the two. A shimmering golden light coalesced around his fist like a concentrated mass of holy sand. Rem immediately leaped back to safety. Ragna held his sword in a vertical guard and retreated. The three began a dangerous dance of steel and power across the ruined training grounds.

All the while, Enkrid remained on the sidelines, lost in his own world, muttering and swinging his blade. Watching this display, Rophod and Pell could only shake their heads—before their own eyes met and they instantly squared off.

“What are you staring at?”

“Certainly not your hideous face.”

“Maybe I should gouge out an eye. You clearly have one to spare.”

That was the tone of their exchange. When Lua Gharne arrived a bit later and saw the mayhem, she grabbed Teresa, looking absolutely thrilled.

“Hey, you giant half-blood—if you’ve actually learned something, do you want to test it out?”

“I accept that proposal, Sister.”

Teresa’s voice, deep and gravelly, carried even more weight now. It was a sound that resonated in the marrow of one’s bones. And with the Ragged Saint still kneeling in prayer, adorned in his finery, it was just another typical day.

—

### The Path of the Knight

Several days passed. It was the morning after Rophod had handed over the responsibilities of basic training instructor to a squire named Clemen.

“Is it truly my turn to lead?” she had asked.

“It is. You’re ready,” he had replied.

Clemen was a recognized squire of the Mad Knights. Enkrid had personally supervised her training a few times and admired the fierce intensity she brought to her work. He appreciated that inner flame. Regardless, Rophod and Pell had cleared their agendas at Enkrid’s request for this specific day.

Enkrid rose before the sun, taking his time to limber up.

“Perfect.”

Spring had arrived in earnest, but the pre-dawn air still held a sharp bite. That coldness felt refreshing. He enjoyed the sensation of physical exertion leading to a light sweat, the feeling of internal heat slowly rising. Audin had joined him before the sun was up, practicing his Isolation Technique nearby. Shortly after daybreak, Rophod and Pell arrived.

Enkrid didn’t believe that raw strength alone could achieve the impossible. Instead, he favored a steady, logical progression through his tasks. He had developed a framework and categorized the different temperaments in his mind. Now, he stood before two individuals who represented polar opposites in style and personality—Rophod and Pell. They were the perfect candidates for his experiment.

“Do you not desire to become knights?”

It was a rhetorical question. Both men pushed themselves to the point of exhaustion every day. What other motivation could they have?

“There’s no need to state the obvious,” Pell answered first.

Rophod gave a solemn nod. “Yes.”

Enkrid had spent his walk here ruminating on a single thought: could a standardized, structured system actually guide a person toward the state of knighthood? It was time for the trial. He was unaware that this was a path previously explored by other great military powers. Given how much a single knight could turn the tide of war, it was only natural to try and replicate the process. Naurillia had once harbored similar goals, but the interference of Count Molsen, various cults, and lawless bandits had ruined their plans before they could take root.

Lately, however, the atmosphere had shifted. It wasn’t just a moment to breathe; it felt as though a genuine, albeit brief, era of peace had dawned.

“Perhaps we really did eliminate the cultists. The lone actors have vanished, and the sightings of monsters have plummeted,” Kraiss noted while analyzing the state of the land. He added, “If life could remain like this, I would want for nothing else.”

Kraiss had spent his life in the shadow of war and demonic threats. To him, this tranquility felt foreign. Even though this peace had been won through bloodshed—much of it by his own hand—he still felt the strangeness of it. In such a climate, the best move was to invest in people. Kraiss had anticipated this, which was why he had prioritized the development of their forces. Even he hadn’t expected the cultists to be neutralized so thoroughly.

In the current era, the quality of a soldier mattered far more than the size of an army. Consequently, the creation of new knights became the primary objective for every faction. Rophod and Pell both felt a surge of tension. Enkrid, Rem, and Audin moved in, surrounding them in a tight circle. From a distance, it looked as if the two were being penned in by a ring of predators.