A Knight Who Eternally Regresses Novel - Chapter 662-663

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.

---

 

Chapter 663

Both Azpen and the Holy Nation had attempted to forge their own versions of knights, but their efforts only served to highlight the limitations of taking shortcuts. To a common foot soldier, those who gained power through such abbreviated methods might appear as overwhelming forces of nature, yet they could never truly stand on equal footing with a genuine knight. Enkrid remained oblivious to these broader political struggles. Nevertheless, he committed himself to the authentic path. While he possessed a faint, intuitive grasp of the situation, it wasn’t a matter he allowed to weigh on his mind. He simply acted according to the personal philosophy he had forged through his own grueling experiences.

Rophod and Pell stood before him, their expressions grim and their lips pressed thin as they watched him.

“If I inquire a second time, will your response be any different?” Enkrid asked. He believed it was always beneficial to verify a person’s resolve.

“No. I am committed to this,” Rophod replied firmly.

“You can ask a hundred times and the answer will remain the same,” Pell interjected. “Maybe you see a gap in talent, and maybe that’s true. But I refuse to stop here.”

Rophod’s answer was blunt and steady. Pell spoke with a sharper edge of defiance, but Enkrid simply gave a nod of acknowledgement, unruffled by their tones. Rophod set his jaw. Even if he wasn’t the best at psychological games or provocation, he would not yield in this endeavor. If a legitimate road to knighthood existed, he intended to walk it. He would withstand whatever trials were placed before him. Rophod’s determination burned with the clarity of a distant star.

Pell was fueled by a similar fire. “I have potential of my own. It might not rival the commander’s, but it’s there.”

There was a saying that the Idol Slayer sword would eventually consume the one who held it. He had taken up the blade regardless, confident in his ability to master it. He wouldn’t falter now. Would a shepherd of the wilderness lose heart at this stage? Success for a shepherd was built on a foundation of grit and patience. His resolve was ironclad, and it was evident in both of them.

Enkrid settled his thoughts and spoke with a calm authority. “Drop your weapons.”

“…Excuse me?” Rophod asked, his tension shifting into bewilderment.

“Lay down your arms,” Enkrid said again. There was an unsettling weight to his command.

Pell and Rophod traded a quick, concerned look. Was this meant to be unarmed combat training? Some form of isolation drill? They had already endured those countless times. At that moment, Anne walked into the training grounds.

“Why are you summoning a busy woman like me?” she grumbled.

“I’m calling you to fulfill your duties,” Enkrid replied.

“I dread to think what you’re plotting this time…”

Close behind Anne came Seiki, moving with a light, rhythmic gait that seemed to put a spring in every step. The Ragged Saint accompanied her.

“If I provide guidance, their progression will accelerate,” the Saint remarked.

What kind of guidance? “I’ll take the lead,” Seiki announced.

The lead in what? The same confusion clouded the minds of both Rophod and Pell. Audin stepped up to Enkrid’s side, clutching a heavy iron club. In his large grip, it looked modest, but the weapon was actually thicker than a grown man’s arm. He wasn’t the only one armed this way—Rem carried one as well.

“I voiced my opposition to this,” Rem noted.

“I have chosen a different trajectory,” Lua Gharne stated.

“Count me out of this one as well,” Teresa added.

Rophod felt a sinking sensation in his gut, reminiscent of the time his mother discovered the ruined bedsheets he’d tried to hide as a child. This was a bad omen. Pell shared the sentiment. He flashed back to the moment the village elders caught him pilfering aged cheese during his days as a shepherd. This was going to be painful. Their survival instincts were screaming at them.

“You both claimed your resolve was unshakable,” Enkrid noted. “If you try to flee, we will simply drag you back here. Ragna. Jaxon.”

“Understood,” Ragna said.

“We’ll make sure your ankles stay intact,” Jaxon chimed in from behind them.

Every exit was blocked. Rophod looked back and met Ragna’s gaze. He was well aware of how brutal Ragna could be during a spar, yet now, Ragna was looking at him with something bordering on pity.

“Sir Ragna…?”

“Just accept what is coming,” Ragna said, offering no further explanation.

Pell realized this was the final moment to act. “Run!”

It was futile. Surrounded by the elite of the Mad Knight Platoon, there was nowhere to go. Moments later, the two of them were disarmed and stripped down to their thin undergarments and bare feet, standing vulnerably before Enkrid. Rem wore a dark smirk as he weighed his club.

“I truly despise this method. I hate it enough to want to die—but orders are orders.”

“It’s for the benefit of our brothers,” Audin added, standing firm.

“We will begin with full-body percussion,” Enkrid declared.

“…What are you talking about?” Pell stammered, his voice filled with denial.

“Audin.”

“Yes, brother. I am ready.”

The process began by dragging Will out from the depths of the subconscious. By subjecting the entire body to a beating, they intended to wake it up. This was Enkrid’s conviction. The closer the strike came to being lethal, the more profound the result.

“Are you people losing your minds?” Pell cried out in protest. Rophod simply bowed his head, surrendering to the inevitable.

Enkrid took note of their differing spirits. Rophod had logically processed the situation and accepted it as a necessary evil. Pell understood the danger instinctively but continued to fight against it.

Whack!

“Ugh!”

Pell’s legs gave out under a perfectly placed strike. Rem, who had trained with a singular focus to surpass Enkrid, possessed flawless command over his impact. Audin, who frequently used his own techniques to massage Enkrid’s muscles, was an expert at this kind of physical conditioning. His club swung and connected with Rophod’s shoulder.

Bam!

“Aaagh!”

A sharp cry escaped Rophod. The two aspiring knights were systematically struck from head to toe with the iron clubs. After some time had passed, Rem muttered, “Is this a legitimate system, or just a formal excuse for a beating?”

He only said this after the session was over—a typical Rem move. It wasn’t that he was entirely incorrect. *You say that now, you absolute savage…* Rophod and Pell shared a silent look of bitter agreement, though they didn’t have the strength to speak it.

The following day, and the day after that, the routine persisted.

“If you wish to join, there is always a place for you,” Enkrid said warmly to Teresa, who was observing from the sidelines.

“I’ll decline,” Teresa replied instantly, not even pausing for a breath. It wasn’t a lack of courage; she simply knew she had already discovered her own unique path. Her journey was fundamentally different from theirs. This “beating” was merely a tool to sharpen one’s internal sensations. Since she had already achieved that clarity, she saw no reason to be hit with clubs.

Following the physical conditioning, Enkrid provided the two with specific guidance on how to progress. He didn’t use abstract metaphors like “Strike with the force of a mountain.” Only a person who had actually climbed from the base to the summit could speak with such authority—someone who had cleared the brush and left signs for those following behind.

“If you try to meet Pell’s sharp intuition with the same tactics, you will fail. Use your own style to block him,” Enkrid advised Rophod. Then he looked at Pell. “The same applies to you. Don’t try to out-calculate Rophod’s movements. Change the nature of the game. Use your speed or your unpredictability—whatever works to disrupt his flow.”

The core philosophy was simple: “There is no reason to force a bow onto a master swordsman.”

Rem, who was listening in, nodded in agreement. “Makes sense. That’s why I equipped my whole squad with axes. It suits them.”

It was a bit of a leap in logic, but he wasn’t wrong. Rem’s soldiers, at least in appearance, were a collection of fierce warriors with an unstoppable drive. Even Ragna, Audin, and Jaxon paid close attention to Enkrid’s insights. Enkrid had previously categorized combatants into broad groups like Lethal, Sustained, or Versatile, with sub-categories for those focused on technique versus those focused on raw training.

But now…

“It might be more effective to categorize them by Instinct and Calculation instead.”

Or perhaps those traits should be seen as elements within the existing categories. No theory was ever truly complete. He believed that by constantly refining these ideas, a clear path would eventually reveal itself.

“Are you actually certain this will work?” asked Pell, his skin a roadmap of bruises. Enkrid remained honest, even without any supernatural pressure to be so. He had no reason to deceive them.

“No.”

“Then why do this?”

“Because I have faith that it will.”

Pell ground his teeth with a loud, rasping sound. “When I eventually grow stronger than you, you’ll regret this.”

The sheer spite in Pell’s voice was heavy, carrying the weight of a youthful vendetta—it was almost like a minor curse. If he were to perish at this moment, it felt as though his ghost would be powerful enough to challenge a demon.

“A vengeance-based type?” Enkrid wondered. No, that didn’t quite fit. He dismissed the thought.

Rophod, conversely, looked at peace with his fate, which only served to fuel his internal drive further. From Enkrid’s view, Rophod appeared composed on the surface, but he possessed a deeply buried competitive streak.

“Perhaps temperament can be classified by personal character.”

This was, in essence, the line he had drawn between the Training Type and the Technique Type. Pell dedicated his time to honing specific skills. Rophod focused on the physical conditioning of his body. Neither path was inherently better. Rophod disliked flashiness and was therefore precise and dogged. Pell, who often boasted of his own natural gifts and had a more exuberant personality, was drawn toward technical flair.

“Their combat styles are a clash of instinct versus calculation.”

As subjects for his theories, they were ideal. It was a stroke of luck that the two had such contrasting natures and were so keenly competitive with one another. Even if this specific training didn’t lead directly to knighthood, it would still yield significant results.

“At the very least, they will both command Ironclad.”

Typically, such a skill was reserved for those who had already reached the rank of knight, but…

“They need to master it at the candidate stage.”

Foresight, Ironclad, and Hardened Flesh—these were all essential components. “You cannot effectively pull Will from your subconscious unless you can utilize these skills by reflex.”

That was the journey toward knighthood. More accurately, it was the baseline requirement for becoming a knight. It was the bedrock. Enkrid was gaining as much knowledge through teaching as they were through learning. These two had already checked many of the boxes.

“Except for Ironclad.”

So, his job was to bridge that gap. Foresight might not be strictly mandatory depending on their natural leanings, but a foundational grasp was required. Beyond that, they had to develop Hardened Flesh and Ironclad. Hardened Flesh was the technique that had left the strongest impression on Enkrid. He could never erase the memory of a pre-knight on the battlefield shattering the earth with a single step.

Rophod and Pell had a rudimentary grasp of Hardened Flesh, though it was unrefined. Enkrid worked with them to polish it. They pushed their bodies until their leg muscles were on the brink of failing, repeating the motions until they were part of their muscle memory.

Eventually, Rophod made a request. “I want to introduce this specialized training to my own squad.”

Enkrid wasn’t entirely certain if this curriculum would definitely produce knights. However, he was convinced it was productive for the group.

“At this level of intensity…”

This wasn’t even considered high-level training yet. Sharing this knowledge was the key to building a functional system and elevating the unit’s overall power. This was exactly what the Border Guard’s army had started to do, almost by accident. Though, they weren’t just a “standing army” anymore; they were now known as the Mad Platoon.

“If a system is in place, the path becomes visible. You might not be able to outpace raw talent—but you can certainly hunt it down.”

Enkrid spoke the words out loud, reinforcing the concept to himself. This was a slow process that demanded patience. For some, it might be incredibly monotonous. But Enkrid faced each identical day without a hint of frustration. That was his greatest asset.

“You don’t seem like a man who gets bored easily. Should I join you for a spar?”

It happened on one of those typical mornings. Esther appeared at dawn in her human form to join his session. Fighting a magic user required a different approach, but Enkrid was intrigued by the challenge. He had no reason to turn her down. He nodded, and Esther immediately responded, “Let’s begin.”

“Audin, I’m leaving the training in your hands today.”

“I’ve got it, brother.”

Enkrid left Rophod and Pell with Audin. Esther wore her customary robes and held a long staff—the first time Enkrid had seen her use one. She had claimed it after he had recovered a warlock’s staff during a prior skirmish and presented it to her. She had incorporated parts of its metal into her own gear, while other pieces had gone to Aitri.

“I appreciated the gift. Consider this… the payment.”

As they walked out beyond the city walls, Esther spoke those words. Enkrid thought she looked slightly flustered, but since that didn’t fit the profile of a witch, he assumed he was misreading her. Deciphering the emotions of a fairy or a witch was a nearly impossible task.

The two made their way toward the base of the nearby mountains. Along the path, a soldier on guard duty at a watchtower recognized them and offered a salute.

“Stay vigilant,” Enkrid said with a brief nod as they passed. Esther didn’t even acknowledge the man.

“Do you recall the fundamentals of fighting a magician?”

“Yes. If I encounter one, I strike first.”

“Now I will show you how to fight one who is fully prepared.”

Enkrid suddenly felt a strange shift—Esther no longer felt as if she were standing nearby. It was as if she had faded into the distance. In that same heartbeat…

He saw it—a massive hand made of mud reaching for his ankle. From the earth, only the creature’s head, shoulders, and arms emerged, trying to pin him down. It was a tactic designed to confuse the senses and trap the target. Simple, but highly effective.

Enkrid acted the moment he sensed the threat. He brought his blade down on the entity’s wrist. Penna, radiating a soft blue glow, sliced through the summoned arm. Wet earth sprayed everywhere—but instead of falling to the ground, it hovered and transformed into a sprawling net.

“That’s… new.”

Foresight hadn’t triggered. Of course it hadn’t—his opponent was a master of magic. A practitioner of constant flux. To a magician, unpredictability was their primary weapon.

“Magic is defined by change. If a foe can anticipate that change, a magician might as well retire. Personally, I find great joy in making my magic impossible to read.”

Esther’s voice echoed from an indeterminate location. Enkrid didn’t bother responding; he just swung Penna again. He kept his feet firmly planted as the net closed in. He summoned the memory of the feeling he had when he cut through Walking Fire.

“Should I move? No. I’ll stand my ground.”

If Esther wanted to force him into reacting to change, Enkrid would remain a steady point in the storm, maintaining his own tactical rhythm. Even magic had a specific texture—like a scent that defied description. It was invisible to the eye, yet it was real. While it existed, it was hard to put into words. But once you recognized it, that texture became identifiable. This was the result of surviving and cutting through spell after spell over a long period.

Enkrid didn’t waste his energy on unnecessary movement. Instead, he moved his right arm in sharp, repeated arcs, carving through the magic with his sword. The mud, which had turned into something resembling high-tension spider silk, was shredded. Penna’s edge remained true, even against magical constructs.

Esther began a new chant and unleashed another spell.

“She’s realized it.”

She had seen through his progress. Ever since his encounter with Walking Fire, Enkrid had figured out how to perceive the texture of a spell. He instinctively targeted the weaknesses, tearing the magic apart before it could stabilize. This rendered most conventional spells useless against him.

“Spell Severance.”

With more practice, he might eventually learn to neutralize magic entirely.

“A warrior who can suppress magic?”

This training was pushing him toward that reality. If he ever became her enemy, she was essentially handing him a weapon to use against her—but Esther wasn’t concerned. Other magicians or witches would have been terrified. Esther only felt contempt for such fear. If there was a way to sever a spell, then the solution was simple: create magic that couldn’t be severed. Hoarding knowledge was a fool’s errand.

*What a collection of morons.* True, history was filled with wars fought over these very concepts, but Esther didn’t care about the past. Enkrid sparred with her once a week. As the gossip spread through the camps that “the black flower has managed to hold his own against the witch,” spring arrived in all its glory.

And with the change of season…

The Golden Witch came back.

“I’ve brought you a gift, my fiancé.”

Her title remained as imposing as ever. Her golden hair and vibrant green eyes were fixed on Enkrid. Without a moment’s pause, she spoke of her offerings while she began to weave the very strands of destiny.