A Knight Who Eternally Regresses Novel - Chapter 763

Chapter 763

“He’s significantly more entertaining than that Hawk Talon prick.”

Rem grumbled under his breath. Hawk Talon—the handle of the wretch who had rained arrows down upon them during the conflict against Azpen. It was a title that remained etched into Enkrid’s mind. At that time, those incoming shafts had felt like the arrival of the reaper himself.

However, drawing parallels between that day and the present was futile. Far too much had evolved.

‘This is within our capabilities.’

That was the conclusion Enkrid reached. No person in this group was destined to perish from a mere arrow. While Lua Gharne was the most exposed target, a hit wouldn’t be catastrophic for her. As a Frokk—a warrior woman resembling a frog—her race possessed the resilience to ignore the majority of physical trauma. When properly conditioned, Frokks boasted a regenerative capacity that could rival a troll’s.

“Heh.”

Rem produced a shivering, low laugh. That lethal smirk danced across his features once more. The sharp curve of his mouth and the intensity in his gaze were saturated with a thirst for slaughter. It truly appeared as though he intended to butcher every marksman within his line of sight. Regardless, when Rem labeled something ten times more fun, it was essentially a warning that it was ten times more lethal.

Enkrid scanned the barricade obscured by the forest.

‘What is the gap?’

He had detected the noise, but pinpointing the source proved difficult. Even so, it couldn’t be a great distance. It had to be within the effective range of a bow and situated in a prime firing lane. Both criteria had to be satisfied. Consequently, the sniper was likely perched on an elevated vantage point.

The tactical martial arts of Lua Gharne—which had since transformed into Enkrid’s personal orthodox method—automatically activated his analytical mindset.

‘Flawless anticipation is an impossibility.’

In other words, determining the foe’s precise location or specific objective was difficult. But in the end, it was irrelevant. This was the Demon Realm. Even if the bizarre occurred, there was no reason for shock.

“The most horrific memories always resurface, so I battle to intercept them.”

That had been Abnaier’s response when Kraiss once inquired about the mechanics of his thought process. The dialogue had unfolded right before Enkrid. It had been a strangely pleasant moment, offering a window into how those two intellects operated on different frequencies.

Enkrid interpreted Kraiss’s philosophy through his own lens:

‘Adaptability is paramount.’

To maintain an expansive vessel—allowing the various threads of thought to extend outward, yet embracing whatever arrived. Regardless of what occupied that massive bowl, it must never overflow its rim.

‘It feels as though the Sword of Chance is saturating my mind.’

Assimilating every element within the field of strategy—that was the sensation. Although various forms were categorized under names like Precision or Fierce, they were ultimately just different ways of driving a blade. And the individual driving that blade was always the master.

So, was it truly necessary to fragment it into five distinct styles? Was classification the solitary path? He lacked the certainty to say. It was a riddle that couldn’t be solved in this instant. Nevertheless, his pulse quickened at the fleeting thought. It felt as though something fascinating was beginning to take shape.

But whatever it was, this wasn’t the occasion for it.

The Demon Realm warped human perception. He was slowly becoming accustomed to it, but it remained fundamentally different from the world outside. Orientation, sensory sharpness—everything had shifted. His capacities for smell and taste felt suppressed, and his vision seemed to twist and distort in a disorienting fashion. The entire territory radiated malice.

And the adversary would be aware of that fact.

‘Are they trying to buy time?’

Likely. With enough duration, they would harmonize with the environment. The enemy would anticipate that. The arrow hadn’t been launched to slay, but to halt their momentum. To trap them in place. But did the foe truly believe a single arrow could pin them down?

“Tsk!”

A sharp noise pierced his internal monologue. Only a few breaths had passed, but in real time, it was nearly instantaneous—just as Rem finished his comment. Every head turned toward a single point.

Specifically, where Pell and Rophod stood.

The two men, taking cover behind a massive trunk, both glared down at the root systems snaking around their limbs. Enkrid observed it as well. Roots, coated in a slimy violet soil, squirmed like serpents—yet with a stiffer rigidity. Still, they were far too animated to be mundane vegetation.

The roots coiled and squeezed around the ankles of Pell and Rophod, attempting to crush the bone. Constricting and choking. Simultaneously, the branches suspended above them whipped downward with a splintering crack, targeting their throats. Thick, charcoal-colored limbs bent in a grotesque manner as they lashed out—moving with speed.

They weren’t as rapid as the arrows, but they were faster than a standard man’s punch. And they looked durable. The coarse grain of the wood gave that impression. The forest had woken up, initiating a vicious counter-offensive.

The one who gasped—the “tsk” sound—was Pell. It wasn’t truly a failure on their part for being snagged. The Demon Realm played tricks on the mind. Nobody could have foreseen roots slinking out of the earth to grab their legs.

So they were caught. But what did it matter?

That was Pell’s logic—and in that same heartbeat, he unsheathed his blade and swung in a continuous motion, down then up. The steel carved a massive ring. The downward stroke was heavy and loose; the returning arc, a rising crescent, was rapid and brutal.

It was a strike designed to cleave through both wood and vine. Pell severed them both.

Thock! Crack!

Two distinct impacts merged into one. The Idol Slayer was a masterful weapon, and the man gripping it was no amateur. No matter the durability of the roots or branches, they couldn’t endure the strike of a resolute knight. Liberated from the trap, Pell lunged clear.

Rophod reacted with equal determination. His blade bore no special marks, but it was just as lethal. The edge had been honed with True Silver and cast with a heart of Valerian steel. It was a dwarf-crafted sword, polished with obsession over a three-month span.

He likewise carved a wide path through the vegetation. The distinction lay in the meticulousness—his swing maintained a perfectly steady rhythm. There was no deficiency in power. If Roman had witnessed that cut, he would have been floored. Rophod had recently reached a new level of skill, and though he was quiet about it, he was a knight feared as a Calamity. His Will surged into his conditioned muscles with terrifying force.

Crack!

Wood and root were hewn apart. Dark ichor sprayed into the air. Pell and Rophod broke in opposite directions. And as if timed perfectly, two more obsidian arrows hissed through the air. Both were aimed precisely at the spots where they had moved to avoid the trees.

Bang!

He hadn’t intended to intercept anything, but Enkrid reacted by instinct. Since Pell was the closest, he sprinted in that direction. A series of realizations hit him at once.

‘The foe has eyes on this location.’
‘If they can see us, they know we are interlopers from the outside.’
‘They know we require a window to breathe in this Demon Realm atmosphere.’

It all clicked—his previous musings were correct. The deduction was straightforward. Arrows combined with tree horrors. The strategy was to anchor them and execute them where they stood. Force them to perish here, perpetually dodging.

But who gave them permission to do that?

Crack! Boom!

The earth under Enkrid’s boot shattered as he surged forward—looking as though he had blinked through the thick air. Then, Duskforge collided with the arrow. A sky-blue radiance slammed into the black projectile like a lightning strike.

Boom!

A thunderous explosion. He didn’t turn the arrow aside. He didn’t merely block it. He pulverized it. Enkrid’s strike hammered the arrow into the dirt, where it skidded and tumbled through the air.

The second shaft, targeted at Rophod, was intercepted by Audin. A pale light pooled in his palm, coalescing into a great orb. That radiance slapped the arrow out of the sky.

Boom!

This collision also shook the air. The white glow in Audin’s hand unspooled like a sphere of silk, fracturing and gleaming before it faded away. It had neutralized the momentum of the shot. It appeared as though celestial light was shattering—a crash of sanctified power. It was almost a proclamation that this theater of war did not belong to the heavens.

“A cunning adversary, brother.”

Was that a taunt? Audin wore a look that was out of character. His mouth curled into a smile, but the warmth usually found in his eyes was gone—exposing amber, feline-like irises.

Enkrid felt a vibration travel through his hand and inspected the edge of Duskforge. If the impact had stung that much, had the steel been nicked? He traced his finger along the flat of the blade for a second.

‘Look at that.’

The sword caught the dim sun with a sky-blue shimmer—perfectly intact, just as it was the day Aitri had presented it. Even a force like that couldn’t leave a mark? The metal rang with a low hum, seemingly providing an answer. It would never shatter—no matter the rival.

Enkrid was thoroughly pleased with the response from his soul-bound weapon.

“It won’t snap.”

That was what Aitri had promised as well. Perhaps the sentiment behind those words wasn’t about faith or hope—just a hard reality. Aitri, in his capacity as a smith, manipulated Will. Anyone who poured their essence into their craft utilized Will unconsciously. And when engaging with Will, nothing surpassed the power of self-assurance. The certainty that you would not fall, the refusal to surrender. All of that was the bedrock of Will.

So it was only logical that the blade, tempered with Aitri’s burning vitality and saturated with Enkrid’s Will, projected this aura of certainty. A blade that would remain whole, regardless of the odds.

In the ancient tongue of the fey, they termed it Infrates—something Lephratio, the fey smith, had mentioned once. It had come up during a talk about mythical relics. If you shifted that into the Eastern tongue or the southern patois, the term became Unchanging. It implied more than being unbreakable—it meant being eternal, constant, and steadfast.

That was the reason he cherished this blade. No, he was profoundly attached to it. Just as much as he enjoyed the way it felt like an extension of his own arm. He didn’t require some legendary holy relic from a song.

The forest moved like the Woodguards he had encountered in the fey territory. Its limbs stretched out like fingers, stabbing and crashing down.

“Do I look like an easy target to you?”

Pell remarked, standing firm beneath the canopy. He had halted his evasion halfway through. Honestly, there hadn’t even been a requirement for someone to intercept the arrow for him. Fine, perhaps he had left an opening. He could admit that. But it wasn’t a lethal one. He could sidestep, parry, and win on his own.

‘Am I a burden?’

He would never tolerate that thought. This was simply the result of insufficient preparation. A burning wave of pride and rivalry surged within him. Will fused into the emotion, spiraling violently throughout his frame.

The dark-skinned arboreal titan hauled itself up, utilizing its roots as limbs. Soil and rubble tumbled away from it.

“Yeah, I feel the same.”

Rophod’s comment echoed from the opposite side. Even if his feelings weren’t a perfect mirror of Pell’s, he was in a similar headspace. His dignity had been clipped. These miserable trees—did they truly think little of them?

Both warriors bared their steel and charged, piercing and hewing. The bark of the tree giant was dense, but not dense enough to repel the blade of a knight.

Thunk! Crack, snap.

With those violent noises, the wood splintered and dark fluid geysered out. Enkrid, observing the titan collapse, looked toward Shinar and questioned,

“Is that a relative of Bran?”

Its physical form was different, but its movements were reminiscent of the Woodguards—the tree-kin of the fey. Were they cousins of some sort? Or were these merely another breed of predator? There were too many trees here to count. The very boundary of the forest began to churn and advance.

A tide of timber surged forward. Roots tore through the mud with wet, snapping sounds, dragging themselves across the earth. Above, jagged branches cut the air, providing a “welcome” to their visitors. The issue was that this welcome wasn’t a friendly gesture—it looked designed to skewer a lung and drain the body of its life.

A small furrow appeared between Shinar’s eyes. She unsheathed her Leaf Blade.

Shrrrrrng.

The sound suggested the metal was slicing through the very atmosphere of the Demon Realm. Perhaps it was only because her intent was woven into the steel. Shinar held the Leaf Blade with a relaxed grip and noted,

“This explains why the air here felt so corrupted.”

She whispered to herself and locked eyes with Enkrid.

“It seems something I recognize awaits us beyond this point.”

Enkrid didn’t press for details. They would uncover the truth soon enough upon arrival. For now, they had to manage the surge of wooden giants nearing their position. How? By cutting, thrusting, and toppling them. Hadn’t Rophod and Pell just demonstrated the method? If you hack at them with a sword, they cease to function.

“Looks like we’re each responsible for at least ten of these things.”

That was Rem, who had done a quick tally of the incoming timber-wights.

“I’ll take thirty. That’s the burden of being the second-in-command, isn’t it?”

Ragna countered. It wasn’t said with malice, but there was a quality to it that grated on the nerves. It was the weight of the title “vice-commander.” Since he had debuted that glowing blade of his, he had been acting quite the part, hadn’t he? Rem’s expression darkened. His lethal intent bubbled to the surface.

“Is that skull of yours just a hollow shell? I knew you were full of it the moment you started talking like you were on your deathbed. Do you even process thoughts before you speak? Who said I wasn’t capable of slaughtering thirty? Learn some social cues, you moron. I was just giving a headcount, that’s all.”

“Understood. Just a standard soldier.”

Grrk. Rem’s teeth ground together audibly.

“And I am the vice-commander. Don’t start preaching about responsibility like it actually fits you. Responsibility? Respooon-sibi-lity~?”

“You’re a headache. I could just slaughter you first and then handle the trees.”

“Give it a shot.”

The two men glared at each other in a heavy silence. Not even a draft could have passed between them. The temperature dropped, and the air turned stagnant, dust hanging frozen in the tension.

The advancing forest monsters actually halted for a moment.

Why are these two killing each other instead of us?

If they possessed mouths, they might have asked. Naturally, monsters didn’t actually feel confusion. It was simply that the staggering pressure radiating from the two men expanded invisibly, and the creatures recoiled in response.