A Knight Who Eternally Regresses Novel - Chapter 720

Chapter 720

As their strengths intertwined, a new chapter began.
During his time in Zaun, Enkrid had acquired various skills, yet the most exceptional was the mastery over Will.
He wasn’t entirely unfamiliar with the concept; he had witnessed similar feats within the Mad Squad, and Rem had performed a comparable act.
“Transfer of Will.”
That was the designation for Rem’s method—cleaving a portion of one’s Will and imbuing it into a thrown object.
Common wisdom held that such a feat was impossible to even contemplate until one reached the status of a knight.
Only after attaining the rank of a junior knight could a warrior begin to utilize a fragment of Will for temporary purposes.
Logically, this was a territory exclusive to true knights, presenting a challenge far greater than mere physical coordination. However, paradoxically, Enkrid found the manipulation of Will twice as simple as governing his own limbs.
His internal reservoir of Will was bottomless, providing the ideal environment for relentless practice.
This didn’t imply he mastered it through laziness or luck. Enkrid was the type of individual who committed his entire soul to any pursuit he undertook.
Even a minor spark of natural ability made the process of learning immensely satisfying for him.
Managing Will was undeniably taxing—yet he relished the struggle. He lost himself in the endeavor.
To be perfectly candid, even when he was supposed to be practicing moderation, he frequently unleashed his Will without any reservation.
He would repeatedly drain his infinite well of energy until he hit a wall of total exhaustion—doing so over and over—until a hollow, bone-deep weariness settled in.
Throughout this journey, he wasn’t without guidance.
“Usage isn’t enough—you must possess the ability to mold it to your desire.”
Lynox had once offered that insight regarding the nature of Will.
Alexandra had also provided her own demonstrations of the craft.
Within the walls of Zaun, these two were regarded as the most proficient masters of Will.
Lynox’s approach was akin to a flawless symphony—devoid of even a single jarring note.
Precision was his hallmark, both in the application of force and its withdrawal.
He would detach the exact measurement of Will required for the task. In essence—discipline.
Enkrid’s personal method of suppression was crafted in the image of Lynox’s.
And discipline proved difficult. It required a state of eternal vigilance to keep the Will under thumb.
It felt like balancing a brimming basin of water while walking, trying not to let a single bead escape.
One could move with extreme caution and succeed—but a momentary lapse in concentration would cause the liquid to overflow.
Enkrid wasn’t just walking, though—he was engaged in combat under these conditions.
Inevitably, he lost some focus. To be more precise, he spilled enough to leave himself drenched.
The act of governing Will was that taxing for him.
Conversely, Alexandra’s philosophy was built on a different foundation.
When people claimed “discipline is relatively difficult,” they were speaking in comparison to how Alexandra utilized her power.
Her way was something entirely separate.
“It is like setting the tail of a sprinting stallion on fire.”
A panicked beast with a burning tail would gallop with heart-stopping momentum.
There would be no thought of conservation, no strategic pauses—how could one contemplate tactics when the heat was nipping at their heels?
It was comparable to a full sprint down a steep incline. One moved much faster than on level ground—but steering became nearly impossible.
And Alexandra? She didn’t bother with steering at all.
While Lynox focused on the geometry of Will, Alexandra toyed with its velocity.
The rate at which she vented her Will dictated the lethal speed of her blade.
When one’s Will was boundless, it was far simpler to let it flood out than to try and dam it up. The sheer scale of it was simply too vast.
Thus, restraint was a grueling task—but that challenge made the pursuit of it enjoyable.
There was a specific kind of satisfaction found in the act of enduring.
Enkrid understood how to stifle immediate cravings to secure a more profound reward later on.
And now, the moment for that greater reward had arrived.
the furnace within him didn’t merely incinerate the dregs—it surged violently through his frame.
His extremities and his mind were all consumed by a scorching heat.
“Explosion.”
Enkrid muttered the word to himself. If Lynox was the embodiment of restraint, Alexandra was the avatar of explosion.
“Detonate.”
With Will flooding through every fiber of his being, Enkrid took a stride. He used Ragna’s shoulder as a stepping stone and launched himself into the air.
He lifted his gaze and looked straight ahead. Facing this erupting ocean of Will, the stone-turning gaze of Medusa was irrelevant.
In truth—it was powerless.
The Gorgon’s hex failed to take hold. His Will of Rejection rose up like a gargantuan bulwark, deflective and impenetrable.
his foot caught against a ridge. He used the blade-sharp scales as a foothold, compressed his legs, and propelled himself higher.
The path up was jagged. But hadn’t he always found joy in navigating the most brutal terrains?
Furthermore, this wasn’t even the most difficult road he had walked.
There was no mental space for distractions. His knightly senses—typically methodical and slow—struggled to keep pace with his own movements.
The heavy, swamp-like atmosphere that had previously weighed on him now felt as light as a breeze.
His limbs felt weightless. He felt nearly divine.
Rhythmically, he dashed up the creature’s back. He kicked off, his body taking flight as if gravity had forgotten him.
An observer with a flair for the dramatic might have compared him to a dragon swimming against the very flow of the world.
KYAAAAAA!
Medusa dipped her head and unhinged her jaw.
A torrent of emerald toxin surged out, colliding with the falling rain and fanning out in a massive arc to cut off his advance.
Enkrid pulled in a breath and clamped his hand around Three Iron.
TRRRRR—SHIIIIING.
The sound was muffled, like a distant boom heard through deep water. It felt as if a ghostly wall was dampening the environment.
CRACK.
The wood of the scabbard gave way. Forced by immense internal pressure, Three Iron shattered its casing.
Enkrid’s blade lunged toward the throat of Medusa. He was holding the black-gold hilt. Even at his accelerated state of mind, the strike moved faster than his own awareness.
*** “That lunatic.”
Anahera had stumbled but managed to find her footing just in time to witness Enkrid’s feat.
In the chaos, she had pushed through the thick of the monsters and gained a clear line of sight.
She wasn’t the only one; everyone could see it now.
No soldier present was so oblivious that they hadn’t noticed the Medusa that had been anchoring the front line with its petrification.
He was dancing across the spine of that titan—how could they possibly look away?
Because Medusa had concentrated her entire curse on Enkrid alone rather than scattering it across the field, the rest of the warriors found their minds suddenly clear.
Every eye was fixed on him.
The figure who scaled Medusa’s tail, blew his scabbard to splinters, and swung his steel like a bolt of lightning.
His ascent had looked like a lightning strike traveling from the earth to the sky, and the following swing was even more electric.
The lightning crystallized into a sword—and hammered into the beast’s neck.
CRACKKKK!
The impact sounded like a massive stone from a war machine crashing into a stone rampart.
Medusa’s scales bristled to form a defensive wall—but Enkrid smashed through the armor with raw power and tore open her throat.
A fountain of dark gore sprayed from the gaping wound.
The rain turned into a black deluge. Yet the Medusa remained standing. Perhaps the neck hadn’t been completely severed?
Even with her throat half-destroyed, she vomited venom—and the serpents that made up her hair were far more than mere decoration. They struck downward with lethal intent.
Anahera nearly cried out a warning.
But there was no time for words.
Enkrid’s blade moved with a frenzied grace, painting silver streaks in the air. The sword that had escaped its sheath lopped off every approaching snake head—and then finished the job on Medusa’s ruined throat.
THWACK!
A sickening thud resonated through the air, and Medusa’s head began its descent. A final, agonizing scream tore from the dying beast.
KIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEE!
THUD!
The head crashed into the dirt.
SSSSSSS—
The ethereal image of the cursed serpent that had haunted the sky began to dissolve.
WHOOOOOOSH!
The rain hammered down as Medusa’s colossal frame hit the ground with a bone-shaking impact.
And perched atop that fallen mountain of flesh, his blade still buried near the wound—stood one man.
“You crazy son of a—”
Anahera couldn’t restrain herself. She shouted, her skin crawling with adrenaline.
“UOOOOOOOHHH!!”
A thunderous roar erupted from a massive throat.
“WAAAAAAAH!!”
The soldiers joined in the chorus.
It was the unified cry of every soul who had seen the impossible.
He had grabbed the scales of destiny as they were tipping toward ruin—and shoved them back.
Then—behind the exhausted Enkrid, a giant dark mass soared through the air.
BOOM!
An inferno swallowed his entire silhouette.
The shock left everyone paralyzed. They stood with mouths agape.
What was that? Why did the flames persist despite the heavy rain?
Anahera’s thoughts were racing with confusion.
On the opposite side of the fray, Alexandra was witnessing the same event.
“Odinkar.”
“Indeed. I am watching.”
It was Odinkar who had materialized behind her at the critical moment. He had entered the fray to relieve her, ignoring the patriarch’s instructions to remain hidden and wait for a better opening.
“He has been corrupted—by his bond with Ragna.”
That was his assessment upon entering the combat zone.
“A true scion of Zaun wouldn’t retreat just because they were told to do so.”
Alexandra had given a silent nod of agreement.
He had carved a path through the waves of enemies, ensuring her survival.
And while he was guarding her and assessing the field—Enkrid had brought down the Medusa.
Ragna’s earlier contribution had also been noted by those watching.
The fading of the curse-serpent had reignited their fading courage.
And the man who had orchestrated this victory—was now being eaten by black fire.
Alexandra’s own condition was precarious. The release of Will took a heavy toll on the physique—tearing at nerves and snapping muscle fibers.
Under normal circumstances, it could be managed—but there had been no room for safety here.
“Maintain this position, Odin.”
The patriarch, Tempest Zaun, spoke with authority.
He had just finished off four high-level monsters.
Each was a creature capable of slaying a knight—but he had survived.
Lynox was gravely injured, and Tempest’s own complexion was ghost-white—yet he continued to move forward.
“I’m coming with you.”
The request fell on deaf ears. Odinkar wanted to hold them back—but he knew it was futile.
“It is more logical for me to go.”
The response was sharp:
“That is a direct command. Guard this area. I intend to look upon the face of the wretch who has haunted my bloodline for two decades. I will not be denied.”
The patriarch turned and began his march. Enkrid remained encased in the dark blaze.
*** Even if the basics of Will-handling came naturally—it wasn’t a craft perfected in a day.
Whether it was restraint or explosion—the principle remained.
These were disciplines that required years of study and practice. But Enkrid had forced them into existence.
“It hurts.”
The agony had surged the second Medusa’s neck resisted his first strike.
“Not yet.”
He could still hold on. The turbulent Will inside him was still screaming like wild horses desperate for a break.
Enkrid opened the gates.
He burnt through even more Will to maneuver his sword—finding his center in midair, decapitating the striking snakes, and finishing his task with the silver edge.
Then—for a heartbeat—his vision went dark.
It was a tiny lapse—but enough for the ferryman to manifest.
Before Enkrid could even feel the pull of the river’s tide, the ferryman spoke:
“If you attempted this again—do you truly believe you would fare better? Do you think luck would favor you twice?”
The tone wasn’t malicious or friendly—it was merely the frigid truth.
A reminder that surviving today didn’t guarantee a repeat of the success tomorrow.
Before Enkrid could find his voice, he was pulled back to the waking world.
The ferryman’s shadow dissipated instantly.
Standing on the carcass of Medusa, his blade lodged in her neck—he found himself paralyzed.
He needed just a few seconds to reclaim his breath.
In that moment—a sharp, acrid scent filled his lungs.
“A hex.”
The realization hit, but his reflexes were sluggish. A dark projectile slammed into him and detonated.
FWOOSH.
The fire engulfed him. It should have been an unbearable torment—but it wasn’t.
A gentle, verdant light shielded him. It carried the fragrance of Shinar.
Like the smell of wild moss in a deep grove—like the first dew of the morning.
CRACKLE.
Enkrid felt the fairy underclothes he wore begin to fail.
Brittle as autumn leaves, the fabric crumbled away—leaving a rough sensation against his skin.
But he had survived the black flames.
He threw himself backward, rolled, and found his feet.
His skeleton groaned with every movement as he touched the ground. Crimson seeped from the hand gripping Three Iron.
Minor errors in restraint leaked a bit of Will—but a failed attempt to stop an explosion shredded muscles like a razor.
He was fortunate his bones were still intact.
Damn, this is painful.
A crushing weariness began to take hold.
Without balance, this style of fighting was essentially a death sentence.
If you let yourself get drunk on that godlike power—you would end up dying, bleeding from every pore.
Even without magical insight, that was an obvious end.
“Is that a garment of fairy make?”
The question came from an elderly man with an eye embedded in his forehead.
Next to him was a young woman with a single horn. Behind them—a horrific entity, a skull held together by scraps of flesh beneath a shredded cloak.
Truly—a nightmare. To label that thing “human” would be a disgrace to life.
“So, you actually succeeded in felling the Medusa. And Heskal was so certain of victory—look at the result.”
Only the old man spoke. The creature’s bulging orb simply darted back and forth between Enkrid and Ragna.
Even without an introduction—Enkrid knew the identity of the newcomer.
“Nice to meet you, Drmul.”
Enkrid directed his words—not at the old man—but straight at the horror standing in the back.
The animated corpse stood tall—its polluted soul vibrating through the rotting meat.
“Yes.”
The response carried the stench of decay.
“I suppose introductions are in order.”
Enkrid spat—KURK!—as blood pooled in his throat. His body was a wreck. But the words were necessary.
“I’m Swordsman One.”
And at his side, the man who had been moved by Enkrid’s spirit joined the bit:
“And I’m Swordsman Two.”
Enkrid fought back another surge of blood to land the final punchline:
“Together, we are simply two swordsmen.”
The opportunity to bait the enemy had presented itself—he wasn’t about to waste his breath.
“…You are completely mad.”
Even Drmul couldn’t mask his shock. For a fleeting second—his voice sounded almost like a living man’s.