A Knight Who Eternally Regresses Novel - Chapter 749

Chapter 749

People often remark that the creation of a truly magnificent blade requires a minimum of six months. However, Aitri had managed to compress that timeline significantly.
It wasn’t some inexplicable feat; it was simply the consequence of meticulous groundwork.
While various factors played a role, the primary catalyst—aside from his own readiness—was the frequent presence of a specific dwarf in his workshop.
This familiar visitor arrived with a very transparent agenda.
“You’ll put in a good word for me later, won’t you? See, I’m not such a bad guy. We Ironfolk just have a habit of leaping before we look.”
The dwarf mostly came seeking assistance, but in exchange, he provided Aitri with advanced smelting secrets and shared his personal philosophy on the craft.
“Is a method better just because it’s ancient? Absolutely not. The real skill lies in taking the bones of tradition and breathing new life into them!”
Dwarves were a race defined by a hunger for evolution. They were tireless in their pursuit of new knowledge and techniques, driven by a raw, unadulterated passion for the forge.
Perhaps that very earnestness was why they were the most frequently cheated race among the sapient species.
“Innovative tech? I’m in! Show me how it works.”
Aitri could easily envision the dwarf enthusiastically shouting those words.
If one were to tally which race had been swindled most by humans, dwarves would sit at the top of the list without question.
And occasionally, when dwarves spent too much time in human company, they began to adopt those same deceptive habits.
Regardless, Aitri had successfully integrated these new forging methods and adopted the dwarf’s progressive mindset.
“True innovation is the synthesis of everything I’ve mastered with everything I’ve just discovered.”
Furthermore, he had gained an edge that no other smith on the continent could claim: extensive experience working with the world’s most precious metals.
The opportunity to manipulate such legendary materials without restriction was a transformative experience.
On top of that, Enkrid would periodically bring him weapons with engravings to inspect. Each piece became a subject of intense scrutiny. Aitri analyzed every detail, internalizing the logic behind them.
Research and practice became his singular existence.
Slowly, a specific vision began to crystallize in his thoughts.
“I will fold the three irons together.”
The method was pattern welding.
The question remained: which metals? The three most renowned irons on the continent were Valerian Blue Steel, Rewisian Silver Steel, and Uberian Gold Steel.
Known colloquially as Bluesteel, Silversteel, and Goldsteel, these veins were often found alongside even rarer treasures: True Iron, True Silver, and Black Gold.
Aitri had secured small quantities of these three rarities, along with a fragment of meteoric iron.
This was the foundation of the Three Iron Sword.
He also incorporated various gemstones and specialized alloys into the mix.
“I won’t use anything tainted.”
Cursed materials were incompatible with the purity of an engraved weapon. He had once experimented with melting down the plate armor of a fallen cultist, but the resulting metal was foul and rejected.
Even during Enkrid’s absences, the sound of Aitri’s hammer never ceased.
He tirelessly worked the True Iron, True Silver, and Black Gold. Eventually, through a merchant association, he came into possession of a peculiar grade of iron.
The metal didn’t possess remarkable durability or springiness, but the moment he touched it, he felt a spark. His intuition flared. He began to work as if guided by an external force.
He pushed the concept of layering further than ever before.
“It’s a mystery.”
The mechanics of what he was doing eluded even him. He couldn’t have replicated the process if he tried; it felt as though he were navigating a narrow path over a chasm, blindfolded.
In fact, Aitri felt as if he were watching himself from a distance.
The version of him inside the trance simply struck the metal, adding True Iron, then True Silver, then Black Gold, over and over.
“That should break the blade.”
Logically, the observer-Aitri felt a surge of panic. Harmonizing those three disparate metals usually required keeping them strictly separated.
His previous Three Iron Sword was the pinnacle of that logic. Now, he was throwing the rules away. He was fusing them, forcing them into a single entity through sheer heat.
“This cannot possibly work.”
But the doubt was fleeting. He surrendered to the process.
He lost all sense of the passing hours. His interactions with Enkrid became hazy memories.
When he took Enkrid’s Will and infused it into the glowing metal, or listened to the man’s voice, he would briefly snap back to reality. But as soon as Enkrid departed, those moments felt like they had happened years ago.
Aitri’s apprentice watched from the sidelines, terrified that his mentor was going to drop dead.
The smith’s physical decline was harrowing.
“Can he really survive this?”
Then came a specific night.
*Shhhhhhhh.* The wind shrieked through the gaps in the wood. The door hinges groaned before the entrance swung wide with a heavy thud.
“Did I forget the bolt?”
Crime was low under the Border Guard’s watch. Four guards patrolled this area specifically; a thief was out of the question.
The apprentice grabbed a light, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he walked toward the door.
Despite the summer season, a sudden, unnatural frost bit at his skin.
As he reached out to close the door, he stopped dead.
The world beyond the threshold was an absolute, suffocating void.
It was a darkness that shouldn’t exist.
Terror flooded his mind. He sensed a presence lurking in that ink-black space.
A pale, slender hand reached out from the gloom.
Frozen in place, the apprentice realized that true fear doesn’t make you scream—it makes you silent.
The hand raised a finger to its lips, right where a mouth would be.
Then, two piercing blue eyes flickered in the dark, followed by a whisper:
“Be still.”
The apprentice finally remembered to breathe, letting out a jagged sob of air. A figure emerged from the void and stepped into the forge.
“Quiet now.”
It was a witch.
Her identity was unmistakable. She wore the iconic pointed hat and robes so dark they seemed to swallow the lantern’s glow.
Shadows seemed to retreat or follow her at her whim.
The Black Flower—the woman associated with the Captain.
“I anticipated your arrival.”
The apprentice jumped as his master spoke from directly behind him. He hadn’t heard him approach.
Aitri looked skeletal, his eyes burning with an eerie, feverish intensity.
He looked exactly like a man who had left the world of the living behind days ago.
“I suspected you might require my assistance,” the witch remarked as she moved deeper into the shop.
The apprentice was lost in confusion. By the time he blinked, the sun was up. He had no memory of how he’d ended up asleep.
He had a lingering dream of not just the Black Flower, but the Golden Witch visiting as well.
He couldn’t distinguish between the dream and the truth.
He didn’t dare ask Aitri.
Not while the hammer was already falling again.
His teacher was back at the anvil, eyes vacant, looking like a specter as he swung with rhythmic, ghostly power.
He looked like a man intoxicated by the furnace’s light.
The apprentice performed his usual chores—leaving out food and water—before retreating outside.
The fresh air felt like a lifeline against the oppressive heat of the forge.
“Was any of that real?”
It felt far too vivid to be a mere trick of the mind.
That afternoon, the apprentice made his way to the training grounds of the Mad Order to deliver a message.
“The work is complete.”

—

Enkrid’s pace toward the forge was deliberate.
He moved slower than usual. He was certainly eager, but he wasn’t trembling with anticipation.
It just felt like the natural conclusion to a journey.
Aitri had given his word, and Enkrid knew he would deliver. His trust was as absolute as a knight’s code.
“You’ve arrived,” Aitri noted. He was a shadow of his former self, his face sunken and his frame frail.
The workshop was serene. The intense heat had faded to a gentle warmth. The forge fires had been extinguished some time ago.
“Is it done?”
Enkrid walked in without ceremony. Aitri, equally composed, presented the blade.
It had no ornate sheath. The hilt was functional and plain. Visually, it resembled the Three Iron Sword, yet there was an underlying shift.
“It looks familiar, yet…”
There was a subtle alteration that defied explanation.
He didn’t expect the sword to hum with power or crackle with magic upon being touched. Reality didn’t work that way.
He took the weapon and tested its weight with a few experimental cuts.
*Whoosh. Shing.* Enkrid was blunt; he didn’t feel a sense of overwhelming awe.
“There’s nothing flashy about it.”
“Indeed. That was the goal.”
“It isn’t as sharp as True Silver, it lacks the sheer mass of Black Gold, and it probably isn’t as resilient as the Three Iron. I’ve wielded sharper blades. Even Penna felt more aggressive than this.”
However, there was one undeniable trait.
“The distribution of weight is flawless.”
He inspected the blade from several angles. The ergonomics were perfect.
“It doesn’t feel lacking, but it doesn’t scream ‘engraved weapon’ either.”
“Give it a name.”
Oara had called her blade Smile, and her expression always mirrored the elegance of her steel.
“Duskforge.”
It signified a weapon birthed at the first light—the blade that marks a new beginning. Gaebyeok.
His motivation for knighthood was simple: he envisioned a world purged of monsters, a world of something new.
That was the essence of the name.
During the forging, Shinar had suggested Kirheis.
Esther had proposed names like Night Sky or Star.
The others had been mostly quiet, though Rem had suggested with great sincerity:
“What about Urquiola, the Dusksky?”
It had a certain ring to it, but Enkrid stayed his course.
“Duskforge fits. It will take some time for us to become one.”
Aitri nodded—and then his legs gave out.
The apprentice lunged forward to break his fall.
“Master!”
Must a legendary weapon be grand from the start? Perhaps not.
But one thing was clear.
Aitri was wearing a look of profound contentment.
“I gave the task to Aitri, and he is satisfied with the result.”
That was the only metric that mattered.
Whether he had put his very life into the hammer blows was anyone’s guess.
Now that the labor was over, Aitri—
“Is he gone?” Enkrid asked. Was this sword the smith’s final act? It seemed plausible, given how much the man had withered. Only such a sacrifice could explain that smile.
“No! Why would you say that?!” the apprentice wailed.
Upon closer inspection, Aitri was still breathing, albeit faintly. He had simply passed out from sheer exhaustion.
Enkrid had suspected as much; he’d only asked to see the reaction.
The reality of the situation was quite humble.
The sword didn’t speak, it didn’t radiate light, and the smith hadn’t actually died to make it.
“The sheath is over there.”
It was basic. The hilt and guard were unremarkable. The steel itself held a soft, blue tint.
It wasn’t the deep blue of Valerian steel; it was the color of the horizon.
“Maybe Skyblade would have worked?”
It certainly looked the part. The sword even carried a faint scent—reminiscent of a clear, high-altitude breeze.
“Or perhaps…”
It smelled like the midnight air, blended with the scent of forest and flora. Together, they formed the aroma of a vast, open firmament.
“I’ll make good use of this, Aitri.”
Aitri, caught in a shallow sleep, whispered back,
“Yes.”

As he left the shop, Enkrid began showing the blade to his comrades.
“Aitri isn’t the type to waste rare materials, right? It just feels… normal.”
That was Kraiss, offering a typically shallow observation. The rest of the group didn’t say much.
“New blade, Captain?”
“Yeah.”
That was the extent of his talk with Rem.
Despite its plain appearance, Enkrid couldn’t stop thinking about how perfectly the sword integrated with his grip.
Enkrid prepared for his departure immediately.
He had finished his packing while the sword was being finished.
“Safe travels.”
Kraiss waved him off. Shinar walked silently at his side.
After a short distance, Enkrid started talking to himself.
“Yeah, I’m moving. You’re hoping for some excitement? Me too.”
He went quiet after that.
Rem, seeing Shinar was not the one being addressed, asked,
“Who are you talking to?”
Enkrid replied with total sincerity.
“My baby.”
Rem blinked, stunned.
He scratched his ear and looked at Shinar. She looked distinctly annoyed.
Naturally, you wouldn’t call a fairy “baby.” She was significantly older than Enkrid.
So, who then?
Ragna was listening closely. Jaxon, following in silence, was also curious.
*Snort.* Odd-Eye, the wild horse, tossed his head as if he were in on the joke.
“…You’re kidding.”
Rem sighed. Enkrid performed a formal introduction as if it were the most normal thing in the world.
“I haven’t introduced you yet. Say hello. This is Duskforge.”
Rem didn’t even have the energy to swear. This was exactly what he should have expected.
“May your mind find some peace, brother,” Audin whispered in prayer.