A Knight Who Eternally Regresses Novel - Chapter 666

Chapter 666

Enkrid’s attention moved toward Esther’s countenance. Her gaze glowed with a restless intensity, and her tresses swayed as if caught in a draft, though the air remained still.
What was bothering her this time?
“I never skip my turn. You there, many-eyes, fill me up again.”
The scent lingering on Esther’s lips had changed from the crispness of the evening sky. It was now a thick, sugary smoke.
“Certainly, certainly.”
Kraiss had already produced a bottle that radiated a syrupy aroma and tipped it into Esther’s waiting goblet. The smell was delicate, but the potency of the spirits was undeniable.
“This vintage was a token of appreciation from the City of Fairies.”
As Kraiss poured and explained, Shinar chimed in,
“It is pressed from five distinct fruits and blended with the first light’s dew. They call it Tingtillus Yir. Translated into the common tongue, it would be ‘The Infiltrating Venom’ or perhaps ‘The Silent Drifting Fog.’”
So it was dangerously intoxicating.
“Insobriety does not claim me. Cast aside your worries. The Glint enchantment is a sorcerer’s confidence—one does not display their internal sight to the masses. Shinar, your return brings me joy.”
She is absolutely wasted, Enkrid noted internally.
“Alcohol? I am unaffected. Why do you stare? The heavens are swirling in circles. Is the apocalypse upon us? Are the celestial bodies plummeting to crush the world? If so, we cannot remain idle. Enki, join me. We must secure a shelter.”
No doubt about it, she was hammered.
“Is there no invitation for me?”
Kraiss intervened with a grin. It seemed he found Esther’s state charming.
“You thieving, talon-snatching wretch.”
Esther suddenly balled her hand into a fist and launched a strike. Kraiss, whose reflexes were sharp from constant drilling, instinctively leaned back to evade. The sharp whistle of the wind being sliced by her knuckles was clearly audible.
Had it connected, it surely would have shattered bone. Esther appeared delicate, but her limbs possessed the ferocity of a predator.
She had admitted it herself—a lingering trait from her Lake Panther manifestations.
“Avoid the face.”
Kraiss’s plea while dodging was the most ridiculous part.
Does that mean the rest of your frame is open for assault?
“Why protect the face?” Rem inquired, having just finished a massive portion of meat. One might think his mouth would be coated in fat, but Rem’s manner of eating was unexpectedly tidy.
When he thought about it, Rem was full of contradictions.
He was more intelligent than his exterior suggested. He delighted in weaving subtle traps for others. Even when he was cruelty itself, his actions were precise and measured.
He didn’t slaughter aristocrats indiscriminately, either.
He chose to execute the untouchable ones specifically to build a reputation of terror. That way, only those harboring genuine evil held a grudge against him.
Even this refined way of consuming food was likely a performance reserved for the inner circle of the knights.
At least, that was Enkrid’s impression.
“I, unlike Rem, have a reputation for this visage to uphold,” Kraiss whispered, moving further away from Esther’s reach.
Did he even comprehend the words coming out of his mouth?
That was the paradox of Kraiss. Usually meticulous and guarded, yet he could be an absolute half-wit in moments like this.
He had to know the kind of reaction that comment would trigger from Rem. Yet he blurted it out like a fool anyway.
“And what is that supposed to mean for me?”
Rem asked again. The curve of his lips was freezing, a look capable of extinguishing the warmth of the fire.
“…That you are the most stunning gentleman the Western lands have ever seen, sir.”
Kraiss stumbled over his words to backtrack.
“The window for flattery has closed, you idiot. Let me give your features a bit more rugged character today.”
Rem unsheathed a blade carved from bone. Its origin was a mystery, but it radiated a dark, unsettling energy.
“Wait, no! Ragna! Audin! Captain! Captain!”
Kraiss scrambled behind the campfire, where the orange light danced in long, swaying limbs.
Watching the shifting embers, Shinar murmured to herself with a vacant look.
“It has passed now. It’s all right.”
The demonic blaze had vanished. But a wound branded into the soul does not heal easily.
“Where has Bran gone?”
Enkrid asked once the chaos died down. Shinar replied immediately.
“He refuses to give up the pipe. Isn’t it ironic? A Woodguard who can’t stop inhaling smoke?”
It wasn’t humorous. Not when one understood the reasons Bran used those specific herbs.
“I need some space. Eyeball, a couple of nicks on your mug won’t end you.”
Ragna stood to leave, prompting an indignant shout from Kraiss.
“You don’t have a single mark on yours!”
“That is because no one exists who is capable of leaving one.”
Ragna was typically reserved. He moved as if existing was a chore. But here, in this company, he was more talkative. His lethargy faded. That was another of Ragna’s inconsistencies.
“That’s an incredibly grating thing to say. Try saying that to the rest of the unit. Everyone has been getting lazy lately.”
Rophod answered Ragna, while Pell grunted beside him before tilting the entire bottle of fairy spirits into his throat.
“If you drain that by yourself, I will slice you open and reclaim it.”
Rem offered another nonchalant threat, and Audin went as far as seizing Pell by the collar to wrench the bottle away.
Pell reflexively resisted—and received a heavy blow for his trouble.
“A righteous correction.”
No, Audin. That was just a beating.
Rophod, unwilling to let Ragna wander off by himself, rose and trailed after him. Meanwhile, Enkrid took a sip of the drink Kraiss had provided.
It was potent.
Yet beneath the sharp bite of the alcohol lay a sugary, tart profile that pleased the palate.
It truly earned its title of Seeping Poison—the flavor registered before the heat, coating the tongue in warmth.
With a drink this overwhelming, it was no surprise Esther had collapsed into a stupor.
“I shall protect you. Fear not, you idiots…”
Esther muttered from her spot on the ground. At some point, her cloak had unfurled like a heavy rug, but she still appeared chilled.
He made a mental note to fetch a heavier wrap for her later.
“A powerful vintage. Should we toast to a new beginning?”
Shinar approached and took a seat across from him.
“A beginning for what?”
He anticipated a ridiculous quip, but—
“For finally understanding the nature of what you truly seek.”
Perhaps it was the influence of the flickering shadows, but Shinar spoke with genuine weight rather than her usual mockery.
Enkrid had once spoken of a peace achieved through the blade, pondering its worth.
He had also believed these individuals represented the brotherhood he had desired for so long.
But in truth, it wasn’t that complicated.
He simply… cherished this instant.
He enjoyed standing alongside these madmen. He enjoyed shielding those who stood behind him.
He enjoyed the ability to fight according to his own convictions and move forward.
He cherished every bit of it.
“Occasionally, you must set down the weight in your mind and find stillness.”
Shinar remarked. She added, “Within my arms,” but he chose to disregard that addition.
Enkrid ate, he drank, and he drifted off.
And he saw a vision.
“The sky is clear. Let me recount a legend today. It will please you. It concerns a fairy with a penchant for mischief.”
A woman who once survived by selling her body had found tranquility and told tales to her grandchild on her lap.
“The trade is difficult lately, but seeing the face of my little one makes it worthwhile.”
A fruit merchant pushed his wagon, his mind filled with thoughts of his spouse and child.
Amidst the garden rows, a timid young pair exchanged quiet vows of affection.
A sentry complained about his belt getting tighter now that there were no alarms to raise.
The baker berated him for not rising early to exercise, and the sentry shot back that his father ought to take his own counsel.
The baker, who was the sentry’s father, argued that if he detested the oven so much, he should quit and join the guard.
In this dream, no one lived in fear of the predators lurking past the settlement.
No one dreaded that the fires of conflict would one day reach their doorsteps.
There were no thieves taking their meager belongings.
The ruler of the province even wondered if the fortifications were truly necessary anymore.
And Enkrid lifted his blade.
Not within the walls—but just outside them.
Because serenity and safety never belong to those who merely wait for them.
A warrior who shall terminate the conflict!
A warrior who colors the twilight in the final shade of war!
He shall be known as—The Knight of Dusk!
The Knight of the Truce!
The Knight of the Conclusion!
As the song of the traveler faded, Enkrid awoke.
He stood at the first light and commenced his drills.
By the time the sun was up, Esther let out a muffled groan as she tried to piece together the previous night—and then vanished from the encampment for two whole days.
According to the sentinels near the gorge, bizarre wails resonated from the peaks.
Some claimed it was the cry of ghosts or monsters.
“Good grief. That is quite the way to let off steam.”
Rem noted.
Enkrid gave a soft laugh.
Several more days passed before Aitri sent for him at the smithy.
He requested his presence immediately.
Enkrid’s chest tightened with excitement. It wasn’t a finished engraved tool yet, but it was the final stage before that.
There was no way to contain his anticipation.
As soon as his morning practice ended, Enkrid hurried through the streets to the forge.
“You have arrived.”
Aitri greeted him as though he had been counting the minutes. The warmth of the furnace merged with the crisp, blue air of the morning.
Aitri sat near the coals, his cowled apprentice standing by his side.
“Are you familiar with the three legendary metals of the world?”
Aitri asked, skipping the formalities.
“I am not.”
Enkrid shook his head.
People usually possess deep knowledge only within their own craft. He had heard of Valerian steel, true silver, and black gold in passing—but nothing substantial.
The apprentice offered a seat, and Enkrid sat down.
Two cups of tea sent steam rising into the air.
Aitri peeled back the cloth from a long object and placed it on the surface.
“From the yellow iron pits of the East came black gold, and from the Lewis excavations came true silver. You realize they aren’t actually gold or silver, don’t you?”
That much he understood. He gave a nod.
Aitri went on.
“From the Valerian pits, they very rarely pull true iron. It has a deep blue hue. Usually, the harder a substance, the easier it breaks—but true iron lacks that flaw. And when you refine a star that has fallen, you obtain meteoric iron.”
Enkrid began to grasp the direction of the conversation.
“The plate I acquired contains meteoric iron. The second component is the Philosopher’s Stone—the metal that lives.”
Enkrid’s initial blade had been black gold. Then came true silver.
Now, the sword currently in his possession—Penna—had been crafted from moonlight silver by a spirit smith, and tempered by her own touch.
Aitri’s gaze was burning with fervor.
Academics sacrifice everything for knowledge. Knights lose themselves in the way of the sword.
Then what of the creators?
Particularly those exploring the impossible?
Their motivations might change over time—but right now, Enkrid saw exactly what Aitri yearned for.
“You require me to retrieve true iron?”
“Precisely.”
Aitri replied without skipping a beat.
It was like witnessing a blade drawn so fast the eye couldn’t track it—direct and without doubt.
What the artisan before him needed now was the raw material.
“You should have led with that.”
“I shall. Next time.”
It wasn’t that Aitri was trying to be vague.
He is simply relishing this, Enkrid realized.
The journey of creating an engraved weapon was something Aitri was savoring.
He didn’t see it as a burden or a trial.
And that was how it should be.
A fanatic who beats the anvil while finding joy even in the labor.
That is who you are, Enkrid thought.
If Aitri had heard that, he might have glared in offense.
Having finished his internal preparations, Aitri settled back into his usual composure.
He pulled away the rest of the cloth on the table.
“The way forward is clear now. You might call this my first genuine trial. Does the form please you?”
The way forward referred to the technique for crafting an engraved weapon.
And the trial—asking about the shape—meant he was ready to commit to it permanently.
The sword was a short, single-edged blade.
Even so, it had served him expertly. It fit his hand perfectly. And once he grew accustomed to it, its keen edge became a terror.
Even Rem complained when his axe met it.
“Any more of that and my axe is going to lose its temper.”
Ragna had flatly stated it was time for him to seek a new blade.
“I believe I will go find a sword.”
“Where will you go?”
“Oh, I have a place in mind.”
He had left without naming a specific location—a statement of a final departure.
“We agreed not to call that a journey. That’s a farewell, Ragna.”
Kraiss had voiced exactly what Enkrid was thinking.
In the end, Ragna stayed.
“Well, I tend to lose my way coming back.”
That only proved how vital it was that they kept him from leaving.
Ragna—of all people—claiming to be directionally challenged?
The man could end up drowning in the middle of the ocean and it wouldn’t be a shock to anyone.
Regardless, Penna was an exceptional weapon.
Finding something superior would be a massive task.
Enkrid wrapped his fingers around the hilt on the table.
Bound in supple brown hide, the pommel featured a basic, sharpened diamond shape.
There were no carvings. The crossguard was a straight, functional line.
“The point is black gold, the edge is a true silver alloy, and the skeleton is meteoric iron.”
The Philosopher’s Stone had been used to bind the three metals as one.
The blade was substantial—closer to a heavy sword than a sidearm. The hilt was long enough to match.
Its thickness was like a spatha, carrying more weight than typical swords.
Essentially, it had the silhouette of a greatsword—but with the power of a knight, even a club made of five heavy maces could be wielded.
And Enkrid was powerful even by a knight’s standards.
“It is magnificent. Beyond measure.”
He spoke his truth.
An old saying came to mind—seeing a face from a distance and losing one’s heart at first sight.
That was Enkrid in this moment.
The silhouette alone was flawless.
Even before checking the weight and balance, he knew it was the exact ideal he had envisioned.