A Knight Who Eternally Regresses Novel - Chapter 723

Chapter 723

His jaw hung slack without his consent, though it was an unavoidable reaction.
He was a prisoner to a loop, forced to relive a single day over and over. As those cycles accumulated, they reached into the hundreds.
If one were to tally the entire duration, it wouldn’t be measured in hundreds, but in thousands of instances.
Consequently, using a word like “barely” was simply the truth. Had an observer like Sagong, privy to these specific details, witnessed this, he would have likely signaled his understanding.
It was entirely logical.
Naturally, a spectator unaware of the underlying reality would have perceived the comment in a completely different light.
In such a dire moment, he chooses to taunt him?
That was undoubtedly the impression it left.
While the term “barely” felt appropriate to Enkrid, to those standing by, it resonated with a far more aggressive gravity.
The echoing roar that had just forced the very rain to submit in reverence had painted Drmul as a figure from a higher plane of existence.
He had projected a grandeur so lofty and distant that reaching for it seemed like an impossibility.
However, with that single remark—”barely”—he was stripped of his divinity, reduced once more to a wretched spirit tethered to a decaying shell, a freak sustained by sorcery and alchemical brews.
Even worse, he showed the fragility of a small man who couldn’t ignore a simple insult.
“…I must concede, you possess a knack for grating on one’s patience, you thing,” he hissed at Enkrid.
“I am merely a common sellsword,” Enkrid answered, gripping Three Iron. He lifted his arm with deliberation, gesturing toward the flank. He then continued:
“Combined, that makes us two common sellswords.”
Shwaa—
The environment fell silent, save for the rush of the elements.
To hurl such a challenge at this specific juncture—it was nothing short of incredible.
KWA-RRUNG!
As if the firmament itself was stunned by Enkrid’s audacity, it unleashed a violent crack of thunder. A strobe of brilliant white washed over the scene before fading away.
His silhouette fanned out in four directions against the earth, then retracted back into his frame as the flash died and the shadows reclaimed the land.
Through the whole display, Enkrid’s stance remained unshakable.
“Truly, your reputation for insanity isn’t unearned,” Lynox whispered, filled with a sense of wonder.
Enkrid felt the urge to argue. Receiving such a compliment from a man who, having just lost a limb, joked about limiting himself to three blades from then on, felt hypocritical.
But before he could retort, the clan leader moved to the front and spoke first.
“The stage is mine now, Enkrid of the Border Guard.”
The patriarch of the family stood before the creature with skin like obsidian, his frame riddled with injuries, yet he still exuded a suffocating aura of power.
He didn’t just look formidable—he was a blade. A massive claymore given human shape.
The edge of that weapon was now leveled forward, and its target required no explanation.
“Relax. You have Lynox the human shield right here,” Lynox added.
“You claimed that a single day for anyone else feels ten times longer to you, correct?”
Enkrid threw the question out, then cut back in before Drmul could offer a rebuttal.
“Is that the reason you look so withered before your time?”
At this stage, it was evident he was gambling with his life just to land a verbal blow.
His delivery had the cadence of an epic poem, but the substance was pure venom. The sheer nerve of the provocation was something to behold.
Did he actually mention “withered before his time”?
“And here I thought I had a youthful complexion.”
Lynox clicked his tongue in disbelief every time Enkrid opened his mouth.
“You wretched cur. I desire nothing more than to tear you to pieces.”
Drmul’s voice was thick with pure, unadulterated fury.
In his many decades of life, there had been those who looked down upon him—but it had been an age since he had been addressed in such a manner.
In fact… had it ever occurred?
He wouldn’t reveal his history to them, but he had spent the better part of several decades in a deep slumber.
Both before his sleep and after his return, he had been surrounded only by those who worshipped him.
“Merciful gods!”
“Oh, great lord who shall reign as the new deity of the Demon Realm!”
The solitary individual who had never displayed a hint of terror was Heskal. Yet even Heskal hadn’t come to him out of bravery—only out of a desire for profit.
Even Heskal, instead of remaining a loyal servant, had attempted to construct a new Zaun alongside others.
The thought curdled something within Drmul.
Aiming for godhood does not inherently make one magnanimous. Drmul was anything but.
He had never allowed anyone who offended him to continue breathing.
Even with Heskal, whom he never truly relied upon, he had placed a golden curse upon his heart. And despite that, Heskal had made a choice that defied logic.
Devotion and confidence were foreign concepts to Drmul. He had never placed his faith in anyone.
He was a petty man. And now, he was a petty monster.
“You are going to perish.”
Drmul leveled a finger toward Enkrid as he made the declaration. His rotting skin was mottled with sections of hard, black stone, creating a hideous appearance.
“What could I have possibly done?” Enkrid replied, feigning a sense of hurt.
Facing murderous intent was a familiar experience for him. He wasn’t actually bothered—which only served to make his calm demeanor more grating.
“Let us make sure we never end up on opposing sides,” Lynox whispered again, mesmerized.
The patriarch lifted his blade, his expression devoid of any humor.
Zaun had been fractured into internal warring groups for too long. They had endured decades of suspicion, exile, and constant testing.
The family leader despised that history. And now, the catalyst who had forced them into those camps stood right in front of him.
Heskal wasn’t the origin of the rot. This creature was.
The realization was clear now.
“I should have hunted you down and ended you much earlier.”
The clan leader spoke in a low tone, drawing Drmul’s focus toward him.
“Such arrogance from a lowly worm.”
It had taken more than ten years to finally confront the source of the plagues and maledictions.
In reality, Drmul’s active period had been brief. His followers had been the ones acting in his name.
Without the intervention of Heskal, he would likely still be languishing in a vegetative state in some dark corner.
“My awakening occurred a century before it was destined.”
It was of no consequence. Waking slightly ahead of schedule meant little.
By now, he had touched the hem of divinity.
The small fry that inhabited the territory of Zaun were no match for his power.
Even recognizing that his physical vessel wasn’t yet finished, he had set his plans in motion.
The time for proselytizing was over. This was the hour of retribution.
Inky vapor billowed from his palms, and from the muck, clusters of writhing vermin began to swarm.
Each creature was the size of a hand. A single bite would be far worse than a simple sting.
Enkrid adjusted his grip on his sword. Lynox stood at his flank, ready despite his missing arm.
Then, from the darkness behind them, new footsteps drew near.
There was no need to check their identity. They weren’t monsters. A voice called out:
“Anahera has arrived.”
The most striking of the giant folk limped into the light, her helm gone and her voice level.
“I have sharpened my blade for just such an occasion. I will lend my strength.”
Following her, another wounded man appeared.
It was Anahera and Riley representing the giants.
“Is that the wretch?”
“You’ve already dealt with Heskal?”
“Is Ragna gone? That can’t be right. Not until I’ve surpassed him.”
More of Zaun’s warriors began to congregate.
“If you collapse, I’m the next in line.”
Even Alexandra made her way there, partially supported by Odin Kar’s shoulder.
“Relax. I’ve got you, Alex.”
Odin Kar suppressed the anger that threatened to consume his reason. Though the time had been short, he had matured.
He used to be reckless during training, but his stint with the Border Guard had tempered that habit.
the blades of Zaun gathered—united to defend their territory.
Their collective power was also beyond what Drmul had anticipated.
Even after he had dispatched Medusa and the enchanted viper, he hadn’t expected the people of Zaun to still be standing.
Regardless, Drmul remained unconcerned.
He stood alone now, but that presented no obstacle.
Heskal, those he called students—they were nothing but instruments.
He would ascend to godhood and establish a fresh Demon Realm in this land.
Every soul across the land and the empire would bow to him. As a deity, he would dictate the new order.
“Keep the patriarch safe.”
Enkrid gave the command on pure reflex. Then, without missing a beat, he shouted further instructions:
“Get to Anahera’s flank! Kal, protect our rear. Riley, take charge of the others. Eradicate every one of those pests!”
With a few sharp movements from Drmul, vermin began to fall like rain from the sky, and from the earth itself, constructs of dark clay rose up.
Their fists were the size of human skulls.
Would this be another protracted struggle?
No. It didn’t feel that way.
The clan leader pulled out a small bottle, drained its contents, and gulped it down. He then let his sword tip touch the ground and centered his breathing.
“He’s taking his medicine at a time like this?”
It was the concoction Anne had provided. It was intended to numb the nerves, even if only for a short while.
The patriarch was utilizing it now.
That implied he had been engaging in this battle with a shattered body the entire time.
To what end?
For this specific instant.
This single window of opportunity.
The clan leader—a master of calculated moves—had been waiting for this.
Even beyond his logical mind, Enkrid could sense a shift in the atmosphere surrounding the man.
In the meantime, Drmul continued to call forth more insects, constructs, and spectral entities, while casting pestilence into the air.
The dark vapor he exhaled was pure toxin—the essence of mortality.
Inhaling even a breath of it would result in growths or permanent loss of sight.
The warriors of Zaun stepped back slightly, focusing on containment.
Evade the vapor. Slay the vermin.
Maneuver around the clay constructs, severing their limbs to halt them, and then continuing to hack at them as they attempted to reform.
The conflict intensified.
The patriarch remained as motionless as a statue, then he slowly brought his lowered blade up to his face.
Observing this, Drmul swept both arms forward, launching a sphere of dark fluid.
It was roughly the size of a head. What would happen if it shattered—that was a thought no one wished to entertain.
“Intercept it.”
The patriarch’s mouth moved.
Enkrid didn’t fully grasp the intent—but he acted on the command.
He had developed a sense for the architecture of magic. That was how he had managed to slice through mobile flames before.
And he had honed that sensitivity even further during his sessions with Esther.
A spell.
Tracing its energy, he unsheathed his steel and struck.
Bracing with his left leg, Three Iron sliced through the dark sphere with a dull thud.
It cleaved into two segments and hit the earth, sinking into the dirt.
It was a power channeled from the master of brimstone, who dissolves everything he touches.
And yet, it was neutralized. The heart of the enchantment, its magical blueprint, had been torn apart.
“He severed a spell?”
Drmul was stunned. And with good reason.
The strands of magical energy had been cut with surgical precision.
A simple swordsman was capable of this?
“How dare a worm like you—”
Drmul launched five more dark projectiles and called up chains of vapor from the ground that whipped out in every direction.
The links glided without a sound like serpents, grinding against the dirt, attempting to snare Enkrid’s legs.
Enkrid dismantled the five spheres in quick succession. Once the underlying pattern was understood, cutting them was manageable.
They moved with less speed and followed telegraphed trajectories. They were easier to hit than a fruit tossed by Rem.
The chains were no different.
He identified the stress points where their energy was concentrated and moved rapidly to sever them.
He twisted out of the way, used a kick to buy a second, and dragged Three Iron through the mud.
His entire frame was screaming. His skull felt like it was being hammered.
“Thin and extended.”
Having experimented with Explosion, he now understood how to draw out his Will in fine strands through focused restraint.
Directing his Will was now twice as intuitive as it had been.
He had hoped to replicate Ragna’s feat, but in this moment, maintaining a steady rhythm with his blade was the priority.
“Ha!”
Drmul glared with hatred.
Nothing was proceeding as planned because of that nuisance.
Enkrid’s lips twitched. He looked as if he was about to say something. Was he finally reaching his breaking point? Ready to surrender?
Blood leaked from his nostrils. He was far from a healthy state.
Drmul watched with intensity, waiting for him to speak.
Enkrid gulped down the metallic taste of blood and found his voice.
A good orator always adjusts his message for the listener. In that regard, Enkrid was a virtuoso.
He spoke with clarity, just loud enough for Drmul to catch:
“What do you think? Just two swordsmen and a single girl pushed you to this?”
Did he truly just say that?
“KIAAAAH!!”
Drmul screamed.
His temper erupted.
And the variety of magic he unleashed grew exponentially.
Dark spheres. Shackles. Inky hands clawing from the earth.
Some of the falling rain turned into black liquid and shaped itself into hounds. Sparks of lightning danced between them.
Enkrid navigated through the chaos, cutting down any enchantment that drew near the patriarch.
He tumbled through the dirt, drenched in mire, and shards of broken elven bone armor fell from his clothes.
Dripping wet, covered in grime, looking like a drowned animal—
But his sapphire eyes never dimmed in the shadows.
And just when it appeared he had given everything he had—
The patriarch lunged toward Drmul.
In that split second, what had Drmul relied upon? His magical barriers?
But one of the universal constants is—faith is always met with betrayal.
Isn’t that the lesson of the holy texts?
That within a group of hundreds, there is always one who turns on the teacher.
And as it happens—that story is found in every book. Even in the oldest spoken myths.
“Ah—”
Somehow, Ragna had regained a sliver of awareness and let out a breath.
Enkrid also watched the scene unfold. He lacked the energy to move and leaned on Three Iron, which he had driven into the mud.
Rain splashed against his eyes, but he didn’t even flinch.
The patriarch—Tempest Zaun—leaped and struck.
A single, definitive blow.
He poured every ounce of himself into that swing. His decades of combat, his years of refinement, even his remaining years of life.
Brilliant light erupted from his edge. It was Will—not the holy light of Audin, but a unique manifestation of his own essence.
The radiance coiled around the steel and partitioned the world.
A blade that could cut through anything. It was obvious to anyone watching.
The steel ripped through Drmul’s magical shields and bit into his shoulder, traveling on a diagonal path that tore his frame in half.
To the observer, it looked like pure light bisecting the shape of a nightmare.
Enkrid, witnessing this, felt the Will thundering and surging within the patriarch.
It wasn’t just his heightened perception. Anyone of a certain martial standing could have sensed it.
Will was an abstract, invisible thing—but it could be felt. And now, it was even visible.
But more than that, the patriarch’s Will caused the environment to react—much like how a hidden breeze moves the grass.
Explosion.
He had ignited his Will.
However—it was distinct from the way Alexandra performed it.
Knowledge, gut feeling, and logic all collided to help Enkrid understand.
Explosion of the Point.
Alexandra spread her energy over time during a fight. Explosion of the Line.
The patriarch, by contrast, funneled every bit of it into one singular impact.
A martial art designed to commit everything to a single moment.
That must have been his ultimate technique.
And that ultimate technique severed the long shadow hanging over Zaun.
Dark blood drenched the soil. The rainfall began to let up, and even the gusts of wind settled.
Drmul stared down at his cleaved torso.
His decaying vitals spilled onto the ground.
“…For what reason?”
He croaked.
There was no longer a megalomaniac claiming to be a god.
Only a pathetic man who had refused the natural end of life.
And Enkrid, reflecting on that singular strike the patriarch had executed, felt a tremor pass through his body.
Truthfully, he had believed—if I am willing to die, I could find a way to win.
“I couldn’t have parried that.”
Just observing the blow sent a wave of cold through his mind.
“The world is a vast place.”
And that is what makes it worth living in.
Enkrid offered a faint smile as he observed the patriarch’s lingering Will and his blade.
Drmul happened to glance in his direction—and caught sight of that smile.
And a wave of pure loathing filled his soul.