A Knight Who Eternally Regresses Novel - Chapter 754

Chapter 754

Enkrid scanned the crowd gathered to receive him, as well as the onlookers keeping their distance. Most of the inhabitants possessed violet-hued skin and eyes of a translucent brown.
“I am Zoraslav. Please, come this way.”
The man identified as Zoraslav guided the group toward a circular-roofed structure situated in the village center. As they walked, faces peered out from doorways and windows, resembling wary squirrels or inquisitive cats—necks stretching and retracting, eyes darting with uncertainty. It was the typical, cautious reception any small settlement gives to outsiders.
In every essential way, it was a human reaction.
The building Zoraslav brought them to was constructed from brick and plaster. It appeared to function as a dual-purpose space for civic meetings and religious worship, being the only edifice expansive enough to hold more than ten individuals.
“We wish to provide a meal for you, though its suitability to your palate is uncertain.”
A woman emerged from behind the leader to greet them.
“Welcome. Our village rarely sees such a large number of visitors.”
Following this woman—whose grace and features were striking by any definition of beauty—they entered a chamber that served as both a reception room and a dining area. They took seats around a heavy table on dark-brown, hand-carved wooden chairs.
The atmosphere lacked any hint of malice or imminent peril, a sentiment seemingly shared by the entire party.
The place settings were humble, matching the unpretentious decor of the room.
Jaxon took a moment to inspect and sample the offering, eventually nodding his approval. It was untainted. While Shinar and Lua Gharne refrained due to their specific biological requirements, the others fell to eating.
The meal consisted of a hearty stew made from meat and tubers, accompanied by a rough, nutty-flavored bread.
After the meal and a period of rest lasting half a day, Rem surveyed their surroundings and spoke in a low voice:
“This situation is rather uncomfortable.”
The meaning behind his comment was clear to the group.
Despite their devotion to a Demon God, these villagers appeared too mundane to justify a massacre. Rem’s hesitation lay in the conflict between their supposed heresy and their evident normalcy.
Shinar’s brow twitched almost imperceptibly.
Each time she crossed the threshold into the Demon Realm, she felt a distinct shift in the atmosphere. This village carried that exact same weight.
Enkrid noticed it as well.
It wasn’t as oppressive as the heart of the dark lands, yet—
The air held a definite corruption.
For Shinar, this sensation triggered grim recollections of her time held captive in a demonic den.
Her unease was logical and deeply rooted. However, as no mere common fairy, she maintained her composure.
“Stay close to me, my fiancé.”
She offered no further explanation.
Enkrid, recognizing the source of her distress, complied and remained by her side throughout the day.
Roman rubbed the back of his neck while observing his companions.
“I warned you things were off… but it’s still a bit of a shock, isn’t it? I felt the same when I first saw it.”
Enkrid signaled his agreement. The rest of the party mirrored that sentiment.
Though they had only been present for a few hours, the evidence suggested a startling conclusion:
It was a normal life.
Despite the oddities, the daily rhythm of eating, drinking, laboring, and resting was entirely conventional.
Further back, they found tended fields where various crops thrived. Nearby, orchards of trees yielded blue fruits. While the flora was atypical—
It was perfectly edible.
The primary anomaly was the religious practice.
The inhabitants engaged in prayer three times daily. Their devotion was directed toward the monument in the center of the village: the Demon God.
“It is time for prayer.”
As evening approached, every villager would drop to their knees before the idol in the square, pressing their faces into the earth regardless of their location.
People emerged from their dwellings to participate, while only the infirm remained inside to rest.
There was no coercion involved; no one was forced into the ritual.
There was no point in asking why they knelt before such a deity.
Furthermore, their devotion didn’t seem fueled by fanatical passion.
It appeared to be a matter of pure, unthinking routine.
“They are a strange group,” Lua Gharne remarked, a muscle in her face twitching.
This location didn’t even qualify as a frontier of the Demon Realm.
It was more like the front porch of that dark territory.
This implied a harsh reality:
A simple wooden barricade would never be enough to ensure survival here.
This was a region where predators and demonic entities would roam freely, viewing the area as their own larder.
The vicinity was known to be haunted by several notorious monsters—creatures that were notoriously difficult to slay.
“The Demon God’s aegis, then…”
Enkrid whispered. That explained the mystery.
This village was a refuge for those who had traded worship for safety.
Their purple-tinted skin was likely a physical manifestation of that bargain.
Rophod looked over the settlement and mused,
“When animals are warped by magi, they turn into monsters. If it happens to humans, perhaps demonkin is the proper term?”
As a description for those touched by demonic energy, the word fit perfectly.

—

The question remained: what was to be done with these people?
For the moment, the villagers were simply existing.
“Leave them be. They are merely trying to survive, just like anyone else.”
The act of worshiping a Demon God was a clear heresy, yet Audin was the one to suggest mercy.
“Ha… in my younger years, I would have demanded we cleanse this place with holy light and fire. But I have changed. I have come to value the choices people make to stay alive.”
A faint, white radiance glowed in Audin’s eyes—the manifestation of his sacred power.
Enkrid looked him in the eye and gave a firm nod.
“We will leave them alone, then.”
They were humans caught in a desperate struggle for survival. Their faith was a tool for endurance.
Zoraslav visited them occasionally to provide insights into their customs.
“It is true. Our worship grants us sanctuary. If you are asking if our hearts are full of true belief… that is a difficult thing to quantify.”
Was it a case of zealotry?
No. That wasn’t the nature of it.
Then what was the driving force?
“Survival.”
Their piety served a practical end. He added:
“We are satisfied with our existence. Even if it requires us to live on the edge of darkness and pray to its master.”
The small community was unified in this philosophy. There was no internal conflict—any who disagreed had already been exiled, sacrificed, or killed.
So—was a purge necessary?
No, that wasn’t the answer.
If this was their chosen existence, they would be permitted to keep it.
Enkrid was aware of his own nature. He was no diplomat or philosopher; he was a master of the blade.
If he was not there to execute them, then his only role was to remain uninvolved.
Zoraslav, acting as the village voice, spoke with careful neutrality.
“Tell me then: have you arrived to cast judgment? Do you view us as a collection of evils?”
To Zoraslav, this group represented a lethal threat.
A collection of warriors, a Frokk, and fairies. What other conclusion could a village of heretics draw?
The question was thick with suppressed anxiety.
Enkrid turned the thought inward:
Are they evil?
It was a question without a simple resolution.
Enkrid understood better than most that the world isn’t colored in black and white.
One person’s justice is another’s crime.
One man’s savior is another’s monster.
However, he wouldn’t shy away from conflict just to preserve a reputation of goodness.
He simply wished to maintain his integrity—his respect for others and his own honor.
They had picked their path, and Enkrid chose to let them walk it.
“That is not our purpose here.”
Upon hearing this, Zoraslav offered a small smile.
Enkrid had witnessed people surrendering parts of their humanity to the Demon God.
He respected their agency, but he couldn’t help but wonder if this was truly the life they desired.
Yet, was there anything he could provide to change their lot?
That was a question for another time.
Zoraslav ensured the group had proper lodgings.
The following morning, Ragna announced he was going out for some air. Rophod went with him.
“You shouldn’t venture out unattended.”
“And why is that?”
Ragna asked with cold indifference. Rem spoke up from the background.
“Is that a serious question?”
“If the answer is obvious, why bother voicing it? It’s basic logic, you barbarian.”
Enkrid remained silent, watching the exchange.
Rem looked toward him.
“…I’m being honest here. Can’t we just get rid of that guy? Having to track him down constantly is more trouble than it’s worth.”
He was at least partially serious.
Later that day, Ragna and Rophod returned, having cleared a section of the nearby Demon Realm.
They had engaged a group of the Drowned—bloated, water-dwelling horrors and ghouls—commanded by a twisted, spell-casting demon.
“That brood has been there since last year. They’ve been a constant menace, watching the village and waiting for anyone to slip up and cross the boundary.”
Zoraslav’s relief was palpable.
Rophod recounted how the demon had cast bolts of lightning, only for Ragna’s blade to erupt in brilliant light, incinerating the creature.
“I am growing accustomed to it.”
Ragna remarked dismissively.
A knight of immense potential, wielding a legendary family heirloom—the outcome was expected, even if the display was extraordinary.
“We have little to give, but…”
Zoraslav prepared a sheep from their local stock. They did indeed keep animals—a surprising number of them.
Actual livestock, not corrupted beasts.
The group spent the evening dining on roasted lamb.
“This location would serve as an effective staging point,” Lua Gharne noted after evaluating the geography.
What was their primary mission?
To eradicate minor infestations of the Demon Realm and track down high-profile monsters.
Balrog was the main target—a creature far too cunning to be caught easily.
They would need to use a Serenade of Temptation to draw him out.
This village’s position made it a perfect base of operations.
Enkrid nodded, then began a slow walk around the perimeter.
As he paced, the visions from his recent sleep returned to him.
The rhythm of the tide and the expanding size of a ferry.
A soft sound.
Small stones gathered under his boots, washed over by the surf.
Though he was standing on a vessel, it felt like a stroll along a riverbank.
“Let’s walk together.”
The ferryman, steady as always, raised his light and spoke.
Enkrid walked at his side, maintaining a distance of three and a half steps. The ferryman’s voice seemed thinner and more delicate than usual.
“Now. You have experienced the village. What is your assessment?”
It was a quiet, exploratory dialogue, much like their previous meeting.
“Did you watch the worshipers of the Demon God? Did you see the marks of their toll?”
The ferryman pressed him.
The objective behind the questions was transparent.
The ferryman made no attempt to hide his curiosity, and Enkrid was perceptive enough to feel the weight of it.
Sensing this, the ferryman moved directly to the heart of the matter.
“Are these individuals among the people you would choose to protect?”
Are they worth saving—or do they deserve the sword?
Where do you draw the line between the light and the dark?
Which road are you traveling?
Can a whole community of worshipers be condemned?
It was a moment for grim contemplation and difficult choices.
The ferryman could not see a single set future, but he had seen the many ways the threads could unravel.
He saw the potential outcomes for Enkrid.
In one reality, Enkrid slays every soul in the village.
Roman watches in horror and accuses him.
“You slaughtered people. Just ordinary people.”
Enkrid feels the weight of doubt.
Was this the correct choice?
In another reality, Enkrid spares the village.
But as years pass, the villagers are forced to feast on human blood and flesh just to survive.
The tragedy is unavoidable.
These were people who bartered their future to survive the present—a choice anyone might make.
Trading tomorrow for today.
Facing these two extremes, the ferryman asked:
“Which result do you actually desire? Does a ‘righteous path’ even exist in this reality?”
Enkrid understood—the ferryman’s challenge was still ongoing.
“What has caused you to fall so deep into thought?”
Shinar’s voice broke the spell. Enkrid blinked, focusing on the fairy’s ethereal beauty.
Was the ferryman a woman as well?
Seeing Shinar made him wonder.
Then, a question surfaced in his mind—natural and unprompted.
“Your people’s lives changed after the migration. Your entire culture shifted. Were you… at peace with that?”
The fairy community had started engaging with humans, swapping knowledge and tools.
It was an inquiry he had never voiced until now.
Shinar gave him a rare, genuine smile.
The corners of her green eyes softened. Her golden hair moved gently in the breeze.
“A fairy’s home is wherever fairies reside.”
It was a simple truth.
Enkrid turned the ferryman’s question over in his mind once more.
What is the path I truly want to walk?