A Knight Who Eternally Regresses Novel - Chapter 744

Chapter 744

“I’ve simply reached my end. Everyone has their time.”
Enkrid watched Jaxon, who met his demise with a quiet acceptance. After Jaxon came Audin.
“May the Apostle of War be your pilot.”
Audin used the dregs of his strength to whisper a final prayer of consecration.
“I believe… these moments were the joyful peak of my existence.”
Teresa, the giantess of mixed blood, hummed a soft melody as her life faded.
“My dear betrothed, now you must settle for a malevolent ghost as your bride.”
Shinar maintained his wit and jests until the very second he stopped breathing.
It was perfectly characteristic of him.
Grrrrng.
‘Why has Esther returned to the shape of a leopard?’
The solitary witch Enkrid had befriended perished in feline form. Countless others fell beside her. This grimoire of terrors was overflowing with the weight of the fallen.
He was spared the visual details of their specific ends, but the suffocating aura of mortality—the encroaching shadow—felt agonizingly tangible.
“Relish the performance. This is merely the opening act.”
The Ferryman took pleasure in gnawing at the edges of Enkrid’s psyche.
Like a rodent chipping away at a hard shell, he methodically hammered shards of mental toxin into his mind.
When Enkrid finally surfaced from sleep, he shoved the vision aside. The cast of this nightmare had been far more elaborate than the ones before.
Dwelling on it served no purpose, and engaging in an argument with the Ferryman wouldn’t halt the nightly psychological sieges.
Furthermore—though it was a mere intuition—
‘He has a specific objective.’
The Ferryman wasn’t doing this randomly. The motive remained obscure, so Enkrid chose not to engage.
He dedicated his focus solely to his immediate duties.
Pell had finally collapsed the previous evening, having remained upright for three consecutive days.
“What is the reason for this assembly, brother?”
Audin questioned as Enkrid paced into the center of the training grounds.
“Can’t you see I’m occupied?”
That retort came from Rem, who appeared to be doing nothing at all.
“What is all this commotion so early…”
The sun was already high in the sky, yet the sluggish warrior still claimed it was “daybreak.” Jaxon stood with his arms folded, maintaining a stoic silence. Shinar offered a thin smirk—one that occasionally put Enkrid in mind of the portraits of Dorothea—but today his expression remained largely unreadable.
Esther had assumed her leopard form, observing the scene with her chin resting on her paws. Teresa sat in silence beside her.
Enkrid surveyed the group while loosening his joints. He started with his hands, meticulously priming every fiber and muscle in his frame.
“Seriously—what are we actually doing?”
“Position yourself before me, Rem.”
Enkrid met the gaze of the bellicose barbarian.
The air in the yard shifted instantly.
The only motion was Enkrid sliding his left heel forward a fraction.
Watching from the periphery, Lua Gharne recognized the stance immediately as a fundamental of his tactical swordplay.
‘That lead foot could be the precursor to a strike—or the setup for a deception.’
The essence of tactical swordplay is the relentless pursuit of every marginal gain in a fight.
Rem opened his mouth to speak, then snapped it shut. His fingers were already tightening around the haft of his axe.
They were positioned at a lethal striking range.
Both were seasoned enough to engage at any distance, but from this proximity, a single swing from either would connect.
The ambient noise of the world vanished. Enkrid’s perception contracted until the universe consisted only of Rem.
‘The spacing favors my position.’
He had entrusted Three Iron to Aitri, meaning Penna was the only steel at his side.
It possessed a longer reach than Rem’s axe, granting him a distinct territorial advantage.
As for the terrain? Rem held the edge there. Spatial optimization was his forte—he operated on raw instinct, turning every pebble and corner of the environment to his benefit.
Nevertheless, Enkrid remained locked onto him, calculating every variable: the ground, the footing, the cadence of breath.
Rem mirrored this intensity.
Neither man dared to blink, even as the wind kicked up grit between them.
The sun of early summer beat down on the greenery sprouting between the paving stones.
The heat was too oppressive for mere posturing.
Then, the explosion occurred.
Enkrid and Rem lunged simultaneously. It was impossible to discern who had initiated the violence.
Their speed was transcendent, a testament to how perfectly they had deciphered each other’s intent.
‘You’ve progressed once more.’
Rem felt his edge was moving as rapidly as Enkrid’s weapon.
CLANG!
Metal shrieked against metal, throwing off a shower of sparks.
Dozens of hypothetical killing lines had sought out their targets, yet every single one was parried or evaded.
Enkrid fought with cold calculation. Rem relied on gut feeling, heaving his axe and pivoting his weight.
He held nothing back. He triggered Descent, saturating his limbs with sorcerous power and spinning in a violent whirlwind. The physical tax would leave him reeling later.
Enkrid met the escalation. With a surge of focus, he saturated his body with Will.
Their duel was like a heavy wagon accelerating down a precipice. Halting it would require someone with the power to negate that entire momentum.
It would actually be simpler to help one kill the other.
But to stop both without drawing blood? Even Anu, the Mercenary King, would find that a grueling task.
Could Ragna and Audin manage it together without a scratch?
Doubtful.
Enkrid’s blade whistled—and he retreated into the depths of his own focus.
‘Faster.’
He eliminated the delay between thought and execution, mirroring Rem’s instinctive reflexes.
His sword accelerated. It was no longer a single flash, but a sequence of lightning strikes.
As the pale arc of his blade tore through the air, Rem’s axe rose in a perfect arc to intercept.
He transformed into a tempest designed to ground that lightning.
His weapon traced the ideal trajectory for a clash.
Enkrid pushed further—compressing his entire reservoir of intent into a pinpoint.
At the climax of the exchange, Penna pivoted on his lead foot and carved a sharp, definitive line through the air.
Rem’s limb was caught in that trajectory.
Skeghk.
Enkrid severed Rem’s right arm.
The wet, sharp sound echoed in his ear.
Simultaneously, Rem brought his axe down. It slammed into Enkrid’s collarbone—it didn’t bite through entirely, but it left a deep, grievous wound.
Rem realized in that moment: if the struggle persisted, his life would end.
‘I have been defeated.’
It was a blunt realization. Over time, the warrior who loses a limb is destined to fall.
It wasn’t just the loss of the arm; the sensory imbalance would be crippling. Relearning his center of gravity mid-fight would take seconds he didn’t have.
In a duel with a knight, those seconds were an eternity.
‘However, I won’t go down without a price.’
Enkrid acknowledged this silently, his gaze sharpening.
Even missing an arm, Rem was a predator.
He could vividly envision the man swinging his axe with one-handed, berserker desperation.
In a true struggle for survival, where you trade skin for blood and bone for marrow—
Balance is secondary to sheer ferocity.
It was all right there in the air between them.
But there was no requirement to spill real blood today.
The engagement concluded there.
“…What in the world was that?”
Perspiration fell from Rem’s chin to the dirt.
“Was it not exhilarating?”
Enkrid countered.
Rem rotated his right shoulder.
The entire sequence had been a construct. Specifically, a simulated confrontation born from their mutual martial understanding.
They had waged war within the mental domain.
“It was quite enjoyable.”
“I’ve heard the Empire instructs in this—the art of projecting pressure into a tangible form. I thought we should attempt it.”
When he had first encountered the patriarch of House Zaun, the massive blade on the man’s back felt as though it was striking him before it ever moved.
That was the manifestation of pressure.
Controlled with precision, it allowed for a full engagement within a simulated field.
It meant they could trade lethal blows without actually drawing blood.
It was a method to train at the highest possible stakes without the risk of permanent disability.
Enkrid had no patience for “decorative forms” in training.
He valued conditioning, but—
‘There is no substitute for the threat of death.’
That was a lesson forged while mentoring those fighting for their lives in desolate hamlets.
Ultimately, Enkrid and Rem had done little more than shift their feet and twitch their fingers—fighting using only the atmospheric pressure they projected.
It demanded profound perception and a total awareness of one’s own capabilities.
“The servant of the Lord is prepared for the following bout.”
“You have developed something truly intriguing.”
Audin and Ragna spoke up. Shinar’s presence surged—he was eager to be next.
Jaxon uncrossed his arms.
“If we are dueling in this manner… I believe I can provide an interesting challenge as well.”
Engaging in the simulated domain, then following it with real steel—
If that wasn’t a good time, what was?
Physical exertion is a delight. The swing of a blade is a transcendental pleasure.
Every time Enkrid encountered a technique that defied logic, he was washed with a sense of euphoria.
By this point, the terrors of the previous night had dissolved into the back of his mind.
Shinar unleashed a summer gale, a departure from his usual frost-laden winds.
Audin utilized his musculature like tempered springs, showing that Will was only part of the danger—his physical form was a siege engine.
Once gripped by those hands, there was no release. His strength could pulverize stone.
Ragna presented his blade with a casual grace.
“This is Sunrise. The Rising Sun. To be touched by it is to be consumed.”
It was a relic of his lineage, saturated with his Will.
It wasn’t a new weapon, but it felt as though it had been birthed specifically for his hand.
The metal bled heat. A mere brush against a cloak could ignite the fabric.
In actual combat, its lethality was even more terrifying than in the mental realm.
‘A glancing blow turns cloth to ash.’
He could generate temperatures high enough to turn sweat into steam instantly.
Sunrise earned its title; nothing surpasses the heat of a star.
With Jaxon, the duel was a matter of a single, decisive stroke.
His previous Lethal Thrust had been an execution devoid of hate.
This time, he struck with a total disregard for his own safety. He was willing to sacrifice an arm to ensure his target’s heart stopped.
“Try to deflect this.”
Jaxon smirked.
It was the grin of a man truly satisfied.
Enkrid wasn’t the only one experiencing the high of the fight.
These were the Mad Knights—a gathering of similar eccentrics.
“It really is a blast.”
Rem’s comment echoed the sentiment of the group.
They returned to the routine of Border Guard.
The physical toil had purged the nightmares—but when night fell, and the one after that, the Ferryman waited.
“My infant is now fatherless.”
It was Owl—Rem’s spouse. She held a newborn in her arms.
Clearly, it was her and Rem’s child.
“Is this truly the path?”
She demanded.
Implicit in her question was whether Rem’s demise was unavoidable. Was this the best they could do?
The Ferryman’s visions were a narrative.
After the pain of loss came the poison of resentment.
“My boy has been taken.”
The tattered saint then emerged, her hollow eyes fixed on Enkrid.
Leonar, broken after the destruction of her caravan, whispered that this was never the future she desired.
“The tale hasn’t concluded.”
The Ferryman whispered.
Following loss and bitterness, he unveiled the third vision.
The core of this one was despair.
Enkrid experienced a vision that spanned years.
He lived through another decade.
Border Guard remained a bastion, and with the assistance of Crang, Naurillia became a land of plenty.
Then, one day, an impenetrable shadow enveloped Border Guard.
Predators and monsters swarmed the streets. Every path to the world beyond was severed.
The natural conclusion of a demonic territory.
“Captain!”
Kraiss shouted to him.
The depth of his fear was written clearly in his expression.
“We are fighting until the end, aren’t we?”
He asked.
Enkrid’s resolve had been etched into Kraiss. He wasn’t paralyzed by terror.
But he understood the mathematical certainty of their deaths.
“We will hold this ground until our final breaths, right?”
The group accepted that this was their tomb.
As Kraiss spoke, the survivors congregated.
Enkrid and his companions battled the abyss for a full year.
Rations vanished. Even the screams of the dying grew quiet.
*You could live if you simply walked away. You understand that, don’t you? Depart. Leave. Seek tranquility. Find a silent life.*
Was it a dream within the dream? The Ferryman’s voice drifted through the hopelessness.
Enkrid blocked it out.
The tide of enemies remained. He could not turn them back.
Trapped in that eternal sunset of a day, still hacking at beasts, the Ferryman posed a question—
“Is this truly the destiny you craved?”
Loss. Resentment. Despair.
Three blades were ground into his chest, yet none reached the heart.
He had provided his response to the Ferryman a lifetime ago.
‘Only a fool waits for a savior.’
And yet—no soul can stand entirely alone.
Enkrid had embraced that paradox long ago.
When he finally cast off the nightmare, the Ferryman’s parting words lingered.
“You refuse to shatter.”
To Enkrid, that was an admission that the Ferryman had exerted himself to the limit this time.
In the end, he had failed to break him.
When Enkrid stepped out into the air, the sun had yet to breach the horizon.
But he wasn’t the first one awake.
Pell was stationed in the training yard, the point of the Idol Slayer resting in the soil. His gaze was serene. Steady. Like a mirror-still pond.
“Captain.”
“I’m here.”
“If I prevail… do I assume command?”
Enkrid recognized the look immediately.
A fanatic intoxicated by a sense of absolute power had drawn his blade.
“I suppose today is the day I claim your rank.”
Pell had descended even deeper into madness than when they first met. Likely a result of Rem’s proximity.
Among the Mad Knights, sanity was a fleeting commodity.
Enkrid gripped a training sword. Blunt. Nothing more than a heavy wooden stave.
The duel began.