A Knight Who Eternally Regresses Novel - Chapter 731

Chapter 731

## Chapter Summary: The Roots of Will and the Duel at the Basin

Oppression—it is a foundational technique for anyone who commands Will.
But where did such a concept originate?
Consider a predator, like a cat, radiating a murderous intent so thick that a rodent is paralyzed where it stands. Monsters operate on a similar frequency. They possess an inherent ability to project dread into the hearts of sentient creatures, mankind included.
It is easy to envision a person locked in place, their heart failing as they face the soul-crushing terror of a high-level beast.
“As long as the creature is of a certain caliber…”
These entities were masters of psychological dominance. That is the true genesis of Oppression.
It is the act of shattering a foe’s spirit, of ruling them through raw fright.
If one recalls the first time they felt such a weight, the memory is vivid: it is the sensation of a blade hovering millimeters from your throat—a stifling, heavy atmosphere.
“Will likely shares the same ancestry as Oppression. At least, that is what the scholars of the Empire hypothesize. They suggest the pioneer knight who first tapped into Will did so while studying the source of a monster’s unnatural strength… Ah, it seems we have another visitor.”
Valphir’s lips curled into a lopsided smirk.
Lynox had been right when he warned that Valphir possessed some irritating tendencies before they set out.
Even Schmidt had been visibly uneasy about their joint departure, delivering a long-winded caution before they parted ways.
“I am required to journey back to the Empire myself. A report must be filed. An alchemist of legend turning into a beast, masquerading as a deity, and subsequently being executed—this is a significant development.”
Schmidt’s withdrawal was partially due to his mangled leg, which prevented him from matching the rapid stride of Enkrid and Valphir. However, the political gravity of his report was equally pressing.
Still, Schmidt had made a point to hammer home a single message to Valphir—
“Enkrid of the Border Guard is destined to be a cornerstone of the Empire.”
Enkrid did not necessarily share that sentiment.
He had never expressed a desire to visit the Empire, nor had he displayed any curiosity toward it. He wondered why they were so insistent on his future.
“You mean me?”
Enkrid cut in during the explanation.
“That is simply how much you are worth,” Schmidt replied firmly.
Valphir merely rubbed at his ear, appearing bored. But Schmidt’s rank didn’t give him the right to keep lecturing.
The social standing between them was undeniable.
Valphir held the higher station; Schmidt was his subordinate.
And Schmidt’s earlier comments about Valphir’s lack of decorum were likely born from moments exactly like this—
“A ghoul.”
Valphir had a particular fondness for the symphony of snapping bone.
Without breaking the flow of the conversation, he kicked off the dirt and bridged the gap to the monster. He seized the creature’s limb and wrenched it until it popped.
The ghoul hadn’t even finished its first movement. A few more shadows lunged from the brush, only to meet the same brutal end.
Limbs were shattered, leaving the monsters to squirm in the dirt until Valphir brought his heel down on their throats, grinding them into the earth.
The only sounds in the clearing were the sharp cracks and dull crunches of failing anatomy.
“Beasts never provide that proper tactile feedback in the grip,” Valphir remarked.
He was not a man of subtlety; he voiced his darker inclinations without shame.
“Giant bones offer the best sensation. There is a certain majesty in the sound of something supposedly unbreakable finally giving way.”
Apparently, a giant’s bone snapping mimicked the sound of a falling stone column. That detail alone was enough for Enkrid to conclude that Valphir’s mind was forged differently.
“So, Oppression was born from imitating the killing intent of monsters… and Will was developed by observing their terrifying physical power?”
Enkrid summarized the thought as they walked.
They followed a parched trail beneath a bright sun. Tiny sprigs of emerald grass were beginning to claim the earth, and scattered blossoms appeared in the margins, but the path was clearly neglected by travelers.
It was a jagged, unrefined landscape. Stones protruded from the dirt, turning what looked like a flat plain into a grueling obstacle course.
They had traversed several hills, though they were no longer on the territory patrolled by the Border Guard.
Despite a lack of visible prints or fresh intelligence, Valphir moved with the confidence of a man who knew exactly where he was going.
“That is one school of thought. Others—the more academic types—have different theories.”
The Empire had successfully standardized language and trade across the land. There was a time when it sought to swallow the entire Central Continent, but that expansion had abruptly ceased.
The reason remained a mystery. It was why leaders like Crang remained hyper-vigilant regarding any Imperial movement.
Enkrid, following the principle of reciprocity, shared his own history. If someone offers knowledge, it is only virtuous to give some in return.
Even if the exchange isn’t perfectly balanced.
He spoke of the events involving Count Molsen and Drmul.
The conversation shifted toward the creation of chimeras and the artificial production of knights.
“Mass-producing knights? It doesn’t work that way. A knight is more akin to a masterwork created by a craftsman. If you try to cast them from a mold like cheap bronze, they will simply fracture. True value only comes through the heat of training and the precision of the forge. How does the Empire manage it? A knight serves as the blueprint for the next.”
Valphir spoke with total transparency, hiding nothing of the Empire’s pedagogical secrets.
They cultivate a vast number, and the experienced warriors mentor the novices.
“A cycle.”
It was a self-sustaining system built on perpetual repetition.
Enkrid absorbed the information, wondering if it was sheer fortune that brought him this insight.
He realized that once he returned to the Border Guard, he could implement these principles.
A knight guides a knight.
That fundamental truth took root in his mind.
“Is it your belief that the Empire is a force of evil?”
“I lack the experience to say.”
Enkrid refused to pass judgment on something he didn’t know firsthand, a trait Valphir silently respected.
He found Enkrid’s stoicism refreshing.
However, he still felt the need to test the man’s combat prowess more deeply.
Even with his vast experience, Valphir found Enkrid difficult to read through simple observation.
With a novice, you can see their flaws in their walk. With a master, you can see their skill in their reactions.
“But this man reveals nothing,” Valphir thought.
Conversely, Enkrid found Valphir’s true depth equally obscured. But both men understood that this mutual invisibility was the mark of a true predator.
Comparing him to the patriarch of the Zaun family, Enkrid realized Valphir was in that same elite tier.
Valphir, too, recognized that Enkrid was no soft “greenhouse knight” from the interior.
“In the Empire, some call the knights of the outer continent ‘flower knights,’” Valphir noted with a dry laugh.
Enkrid continued across the jagged rocks without a single stumble.
His movement was fluid—ankles flexible, power surging from his lower body through his hips—allowing him to draw and strike at a moment’s notice.
It appeared effortless, but it was a specialized gait designed for constant combat readiness.
It was the kind of movement that would exhaust a normal man, but Enkrid, forged by the wilderness, remained unfazed.
“So, the message is: without constant trial, one withers. Is that it?”
“You are the type of student who understands the whole picture from a single stroke.”
The praise was rare for Enkrid, and it felt slightly out of place.
While Enkrid moved with careful precision, Valphir simply pulverized any rock in his path, forcing the terrain to submit to him.
“The world is far from simple, Enkrid of the Border Guard.”
“Did I claim otherwise?”
He had not. Valphir nodded in acknowledgement.
After a few more exchanges, Valphir realized he wasn’t going to win an argument with this man.
So, what was the next step?
Valphir’s curiosity regarding Enkrid was no longer something he tried to mask.
As dusk fell, they sought refuge in a shallow cavern.
They kindled a small blaze at the entrance. Lacking proper cookware, they chewed on tough dried meat until Valphir broke the silence.
“Would you like to learn a specific technique?”
It wasn’t a challenge to a duel. It was a direct offer of tutelage.
And Enkrid was not a man to turn away a chance to grow stronger.

—

Valphir’s repertoire was vast and varied.
“You don’t need to perfect these tonight—simply understanding the mechanics is the goal.”
The lessons focused on “precise response” maneuvers.
He demonstrated how to shatter an arm or reverse a clinch depending on the enemy’s stance and choice of weapon. Each movement was a distillation of real-world bloodshed.
It wasn’t the “Imperial Swordsmanship” found in textbooks.
The grappling techniques used while retaining a grip on the blade were certainly not part of the Balafian tradition.
Individually, the moves weren’t flashy, but they fundamentally altered how Enkrid viewed a fight.
The more of these “minor” tricks one mastered, the more lethal their overall combat became.
Enkrid understood this well, committing every detail to memory even as he became drenched in sweat.
His focus was palpable.
Valphir began to recount his history.
“I once served with the Eli Mercenary Corps. Does the name ring a bell?”
They were currently locked in a drill—wrists trapped, bodies angled away, Enkrid’s ankle hooked behind Valphir’s.
Their limbs were a puzzle of tension. Valphir carried an aroma of old dust, like the air inside a long-sealed vault.
“I’ve heard it mentioned.”
Before the rise of the Mercenary King Anu, that name carried immense weight.
It was named after Eli, though rumors persisted that the three centurions serving under him were the true masters of the battlefield.
Valphir had been one of those three.
“Are you older than your appearance suggests?”
“Awakening to Will slows the passage of time on the body. It is born in the mind, but it floods the flesh with a certain vitality.”
Valphir’s explanations often blurred the line between the physical and the philosophical.
It was a paradox, but an observable one.
“The world is complex.”
A man cannot be understood from a single vantage point.
Enkrid held onto the lessons he had learned from Heskal, accepting these new truths as they came.
Was the Empire a villain?
The logic remained the same.
Knowledge requires experience.
*Snap. Thud!*
A joint was twisted, a leg pressured. It seemed Valphir was about to take him to the ground, but he suddenly broke the contact and stepped back.
“This is my niche. I have no reason to stay in a grapple for long.”
Valphir gestured to his belt.
A heavy, angular blunt weapon hung there, a silent statement of intent.
“Because his primary weapon is a mace, his goal is to maintain or create space.”
Once the objective is clear, the enemy’s movements become a language you can read.
“That is the heart of observational combat.”
The deeper your understanding of the foe, the easier their future becomes to predict. Cultivating that insight was paramount.
Of course, there were those who would use that very expectation to lure you into a trap.
Regardless, insight provided the winning edge.
That was likely why Valphir was sharing this—he was dissecting Enkrid’s habits even as he taught him.
Interestingly, Enkrid possessed a certain quality that made him difficult for even a veteran like Valphir to categorize.
*Sejunghwanqueyu*—unbound and elusive.
Valphir’s final thought on the matter: The more I study this man, the more he eludes me.
After three days of travel, dialogue, and training, they arrived at their destination.
It was a wide, desolate basin situated on the mountain’s flank.
The vegetation was sparse and stunted, giving the area a haunted, cold atmosphere. High peaks blocked the warmth of the sun.
Despite the season, a biting chill hung in the air.
In the center of this wasteland stood a man holding a longsword.
Disfiguring scars crossed his mouth and brow, though his face would have looked predatory even without them.
His right arm appeared slightly longer than his left—a physical mutation from decades of obsessive swordplay. Despite being a hunted man, he looked healthy and well-fed.
“He’s been living comfortably in exile,” was the observation.
“You bastards… you just don’t know when to quit, do you?” the man growled.
Valphir smirked and began to speak.
“I’ll tell you what—”
What came next caught Enkrid completely off guard.
“If you can defeat the man standing next to me, you walk away, Gelt.”
This individual—a former knight of the Empire turned bandit king.
“You were curious about Imperial techniques, weren’t you? I think I tweaked my ankle back there, so I’m sitting this one out.”
It was a transparent lie, but Enkrid accepted the challenge.
“Then stay back and recover.”
*Crunch. Crunch.*
Enkrid stepped out onto the damp, moss-choked grass, his weight shifting evenly.
“And who are you? Another Imperial dog?” the man asked, rising from a rock.
Gelt had only ever taken up the sword for the pleasure of feeling a blade slide through meat.
He found no joy in testing himself against the strong. He lived for the sounds of the defenseless.
Valphir had shared this during their trek.
And given the man’s aura, Enkrid didn’t doubt the assessment for a second.
*Ssshing.*
Enkrid unsheathed Three Iron, leveling the blade as he locked eyes with Gelt.
“No.”
“Some stray from Valphir’s old mercenary days?”
“No.”
“Then what exactly are you?”
Gelt stood fully, his sword angled across his torso, the tip pointing toward the gray sky.
Oppression—the technique was now a physical presence in the air.
“That is the foundational stance for projecting Oppression in the Empire,” Valphir called out from the rear.
The Empire’s martial arts were a level above anything the rest of the continent practiced.
One could hear it in the description, but Enkrid was now going to feel it in his bones.
He centered himself.
The cold breeze. The pale light. The lengthening shadows. The soft give of the mossy earth.
He pulled every detail into his consciousness.
And he readied the Sword of Chance.