A Knight Who Eternally Regresses Novel - Chapter 750

Chapter 750

Enkrid’s contingent moved toward the south. During their departure, Odd-Eye retraced his steps, having seemingly fulfilled his intent to offer them a proper send-off.

Their southern trajectory was aimed specifically at the Demon Realm, the territory where Balrog was most likely roaming. The entity known as the Fiend of Struggle lacked a permanent residence, forcing the group to track him through a trail of local gossip and hushed rumors picked up on the road. However, they weren’t traveling blindly.

‘Balrog is a glutton for combat.’

Legend dictated that he lived for the thrill of challenging the mighty and harvesting their spirits. To draw him out, one simply had to perform a tempting “serenade” in a location he was known to frequent. Enkrid’s strategy was blunt: paint the landscape in black blood and broadcast that serenade at maximum volume.

To everyone’s surprise, Kraiss and Abnaier both signaled their approval. While Balrog’s identity was steeped in myth, their intelligence gathering and cross-referencing had established a factual basis for his behavior. The plan held weight. If you issued a challenge, he would answer—provided the call was loud enough to reach him.

The secure corridors maintained by the Border Guard had grown significantly in recent times, necessitating that they clear several checkpoints.

“Steel Wall!”

The cry accompanied a formal salute. This was the Steel Wall, the final fortification of the Knight of the Steel Wall and the ultimate boundary of the safe passage. Enkrid gave a distracted wave as he led his people past the gate.

Watching them vanish, the outpost commander—a man of some intuition—scratched his head.

“Has a new conflict broken out?”

The veteran soldier at his side gave a dismissive shrug. “No reports of anything like that, Commander.”

The commander was equally in the dark. Furthermore, there wasn’t even an obvious adversary left to fight. Lately, the Mad Order of Knights under Enkrid’s command had been bestowed with a peculiar moniker: the Maze of the Borderlands.

The reason for the name was simple.

‘They consume everything that ventures into their path.’

It was true. They never went looking for trouble; trouble simply had a habit of seeking them out. Whether it was the fanatics of the Grey God, the sellswords of the Black Blade, or the treasonous Count Molsen, the Mad Order had systematically dismantled them all.

“Didn’t I hear the trade city was getting a bit arrogant lately?” the commander mused. He was a man who lived for information, believing it was the best armor a person could wear. “Do you think they’re heading there to burn it to the ground?”

A force of that caliber could easily steamroll a city with centuries of history.

“They aren’t even walking in that direction,” the junior soldier pointed out. It was unnerving for everyone to see such a powerhouse moving in unison.

“I suppose not,” the commander agreed. The southern borders had been eerily quiet lately, with provocations dropping off almost entirely. There were whispers of chaos in the royal court, but he wondered if this march was related.

‘Perhaps a purge of the nobility?’

After all, the silver-haired maniac known as the Noble Butcher was in their ranks. He quickly dismissed the thought as an overreaction. No one truly knew their goal, but the mere sight of them traveling as a single unit was enough to make the world hold its breath.

The commander watched the group shrink into the distance, his eyes fixed on the black-haired man at the center. If Venzance, the garrison leader, was to be believed, that man had once been a mere common soldier.

‘Ridiculous.’

The claim seemed impossible. From the vantage point of the tall outpost, the commander watched the setting sun cast their shadows long across the earth. They had become a force of nature—a group that could shift the world’s foundations just by taking a stroll.

The commander’s instincts were correct.

—

In the trade city, the mayor was in a state of high anxiety over the reports of the Mad Order’s movements.

‘Is this a show of force?’

He wondered if it was a warning to stop their recent maneuvering. Until now, the city had used diplomacy and excuses to avoid blood, but the Mad Order wasn’t known for patience. He looked toward the captain of the Ten Mercenaries, wondering if his men could hold the line or if there was any room for negotiation.

The mercenary captain, a man whose face was a map of scars and survival, sat in the meeting. He had endured the worst the world could throw at him—including the extraction of his nails during torture—without breaking. He was the Indomitable Mercenary, a man second only to the Eastern Mercenary King in the eyes of his peers.

“Give up,” the captain said flatly.

“…What?”

“Surrender. If we raise a hand against them, we all perish.”

The veteran’s voice was absolute. This man, the very symbol of defiance and endurance, didn’t hesitate for a second. He slammed his palm against the table to emphasize the finality of his decision.

“Surrender!”

That was the end of the discussion. There would be no showing of “backbone.” Even though the Mad Order wasn’t even heading toward them, the merchant council—who had been plotting to manipulate the Stone Road for profit—immediately signaled their submission. Such was the weight of the Madmen’s name.

Kraiss, busy managing Border Guard logistics, was confused when the trade city suddenly became incredibly helpful, even proposing the establishment of a bank. He suspected a trap until he realized the truth.

‘The Captain just takes a walk, and the world folds.’

Leona Lockfried was thrilled. The city’s clandestine schemes had been a persistent thorn in her side, and now they had vanished overnight. And this was only the start of the ripple effect.

—

“We demand to know his credentials!”

By ancient law, the Pope was to be named within the sacred city of Legion. The process required the collective, unanimous approval of every high priest. It wasn’t a simple majority; the council could remain deadlocked for years until everyone was in accord.

With the previous Pope missing and the shadow of the Grey God’s heresy looming over them, Legion was bleeding. They needed a leader.

The initial motion was straightforward: “We need a new Pope.”

There were suggestions to bring in a divine-blooded candidate from the Empire. The Empire’s religious influence remained massive, and since holy power was a tangible reality, anyone possessing it could claim significant authority.

“It seems the most logical path,” one priest argued.

Holy Knight Overdeer suspected the speaker was an imperial informant, but in an age of demons and heretics, being pro-Empire wasn’t a capital offense.

“If we wait for these high priests to agree, we’ll be waiting a century,” the spy noted correctly. The priests were too busy balancing their own power bases to let a rival ascend. To become the supreme Pope, a candidate needed to show something undeniable—a miracle that surpassed even the most holy of saints.

There was one apostle who fit that description, but he served the God of War and had distanced himself from Legion’s politics. Even if he hadn’t, the followers of War were sworn to stay out of internal church squabbles.

Overdeer didn’t care for the political knot. He was a Holy Knight—the blade and the shield, not a politician. But he held the right to nominate, and he had been preparing for this moment.

“While the Goddess of Fortune may glance elsewhere, the Goddess of the Scales always maintains her focus,” Overdeer declared. His voice commanded silence. He had already purged one high-ranking traitor, and the powerholders knew that if Overdeer wished, he could seize the city by force.

“The God of the Scales is indifferent, yet always equitable,” a high priest agreed.

The Pope of Legion wasn’t just another religious head; they were the leader acknowledged by all other orders—the sovereign of the Holy City.

“The Scales have chosen. On behalf of the Holy Knights, I nominate a candidate.”

Overdeer presented Noah.

Immediately, a cardinal representing a high priest stood to challenge him. “How can a man who lacks divine power lead us as Pope?”

Overdeer reaffirmed his own loyalty to the choice and then played his winning hand.

“I present to you the Ragged Saint.”

The blind old man who had raised Audin in the Border Guard stepped forward, his cane clicking against the stone as he bowed to Noah.

“Heaven’s choice is final, but if my endorsement carries weight, I give it now.”

Few remembered that the old man had once been the Pope of Legion himself. Those who did kept their mouths shut, but his presence was undeniable.

Noah remained quiet. He knew words wouldn’t win these men over, but he wondered if he could ever truly gain their unanimous support. He questioned himself.

‘Am I the right choice?’

His path had started with a simple desire to save orphans from a life of crime, giving them a place to study and pray. It was a humble goal. Was he ready for the crown?

“Is this all? The Holy Knights and an old man? Who else stands behind him?” a priest demanded.

Overdeer wasn’t finished. “The King of Naurillia offers his full support.”

A formal endorsement from the King arrived, but the room was still hesitant. Then, the news broke across the continent.

The Mad Order of Knights was on the move. Their destination? Legion.

“Is it true you have a history with the commander of the Mad Order?” a priest asked Noah.

Noah was too stunned to answer. He felt a sudden, sharp clarity—as if Enkrid were standing right there, lecturing him.

In his mind, he saw Enkrid’s face.

“What is this nonsense about small dreams?” the phantom Enkrid asked. “Tell me, what exactly constitutes a ‘big’ dream?”

Noah had no answer.

“There is no such thing as a small dream, Noah,” Enkrid’s voice echoed.

Noah’s vision cleared. Reality rushed back.

“Are you connected or not?” the priest repeated.

Noah looked him in the eye. “We are friends.”

The room went cold. The Mad Order’s reputation for brutality was legendary outside the borders.

“Are they coming to wage war on the Holy City?” the Ragged Saint whispered. He knew the truth, but the fear in the room was palpable.

“Why are they coming?” a cardinal asked.

Overdeer added a final touch of pressure. “The Apostle of the Grey God struck them. If they seek retribution, Legion is the logical target. I suggest we prepare to receive them.”

The Holy Knight Commander was gone. The city had no head. Someone had to take charge before the Madmen arrived.

The eyes of the council fell on Noah. The Holy Knights would only move with his word. The King of Naurillia and the most respected saint in Legion were behind him. And he was the only bridge to the incoming “monsters.” Even without the threat, Noah was the natural choice, but now it was an emergency.

“I will take it,” Noah said, his voice finally firm. “That seat belongs to me.”

With that, the new Pope of Legion was established. Meanwhile, Enkrid was enjoying himself, discussing the finer points of the blade while cutting through monsters alongside his knights.