A Knight Who Eternally Regresses Novel - Chapter 772

Chapter 772

Following her command, the pair of witches thrust their palms forward. This simple action conjured spheres of absolute darkness around them—yet Jaxon’s charge did not falter. In truth, he had already prepared the specific tool required to penetrate such a shroud.

As the shadowy barrier manifested, Jaxon’s left hand swept across his chest in a fluid motion. Almost instantly, a slender dagger was held tight in his grasp. He moved with the philosophy of the Blade of Coincidence: to flow through every second with the grace of water. This exact scenario had been mapped out in his mind; his deep well of combat intuition had accounted for this defense. A sorceress of her standing was never going to leave herself exposed to a direct strike.

He flipped the weapon into a reverse grip, his thumb pressing firmly against the base of the pommel, a posture ideal for a heavy downward thrust. Within the Mad Order of Knights, Jaxon stood as the premier specialist in handling magical artifacts and enchanted gear. The weapon he now brandished was a meticulous replica of the relic known as Spell Breaker, engineered specifically to dissolve mana-based fortifications. The steel had been shaped by the hands of a dwarven smith, while the intricate runes glowing on its surface were the work of Esther. The hilt’s curve was a custom fit for Jaxon’s palm, a testament to the dwarf’s attention to detail.

Forged from a blend of Valerian steel and Noirian wrought iron, the blade was exceptionally durable, yet its construction served a very narrow, volatile purpose. With his mind clear and his muscles coiled, Jaxon drove the dagger into the barrier before the red-eyed witch could even meet his gaze.

*Thunk!*

The impact sent a violent tremor through the shield, generating a shockwave that sought to repel him. It felt as though he had been struck by the full weight of a bear beastman. A defensive telekinetic ward had triggered upon contact, designed to fling any aggressor away. Rather than fighting the momentum with raw power, Jaxon went with the energy. As he was pushed back, he vanished into the low shadows cast by the flickering embers of the dying firestorm.

The red-eyed witch finally spotted him, her head snapping down to glare with a mixture of predatory rage and indignation. Her expression screamed a challenge: *How dare a mere human attempt this?* A sharp, metallic snapping sound filled the air. The blade lodged in her shield began to spiderweb with cracks. Before she could process the danger, a massive detonation occurred.

*Boom!*

The dagger had been crafted as a single-use explosive. To ensure such a violent discharge, the material had to be inherently unstable, a delicate balance maintained only by Esther’s precise enchantments. The explosion required two triggers: a strike of significant physical force and contact with a concentrated mana construct. Both had been achieved. While they lacked the true silver required for the original relic, the replica’s output was devastating.

The barrier didn’t just break; it vanished, the black veil dissolving into the air like shattered glass. Shrapnel from the dagger peppered the witch, but her skin had hardened into a substance resembling gemstone, allowing the fragments to bounce off harmlessly.

*Crack. Krkkrkrkk.*

Suddenly, a stiletto wielded by an unseen hand tore through the side of her throat. Jaxon, the very man who had been repelled by the initial blast, had closed the distance instantly. Using the cover of the smoke and the momentum of the recoil, he had stayed low to the earth, nearly sliding across the floor to take her from behind. It was a sequence that sounded simple in theory but required god-like execution: use the impact to mask a retreat, disappear into the dark, and strike the moment the shield failed.

All of this transpired in the brief window it took Enkrid to draw three breaths after his clash with the firestorm. One witch now slumped, her head lolling at an unnatural angle. Viscous, dark fluid leaked from the gash—not the thin blood of a mortal, but a thick, tar-like substance that smelled of carrion.

“Awaken your true form!” the priest bellowed at the sight of his fallen subordinate.

The witch with the mangled throat began to emit a series of wet, guttural shrieks. Black froth erupted from the wound as her blood began to hiss and boil. Jaxon wasn’t surprised; he had noted her earlier regurgitation of black bile. He had engaged her with the full knowledge that she was something other than human.

As he slit her throat, he transitioned seamlessly into a flurry of motion, burying three more daggers into her frame—one in the gut, one in the skull, and one in her leg. The movements were so precise and close that he appeared to be embracing her. Jaxon was dancing. This was a sophisticated, high-speed killing method he had kept hidden even from his comrades.

He seized the handles of the blades in her stomach and head and wrenched them. Though he didn’t possess the overwhelming power of Audin or Enkrid, Jaxon’s strength was honed and reinforced by his Will. The blades carved dark furrows through her skin, leaking more of that resinous blood. He didn’t remove the weapons entirely; he merely dragged them a short distance before letting go. The situation didn’t allow for the traditional “stab and retract” rhythm of his art.

From the bubbling froth at her neck, a gnarled, clawed limb suddenly burst forth, aiming for Jaxon’s throat. The nails were sharp enough to rend plate armor. The creature was certain of a kill, provided the blow landed. Jaxon simply released his grip on two daggers and swayed out of the path of the talons with instinctive grace.

Lunging even lower, Jaxon grabbed the hilt of the blade in her thigh. Switching to a firm hammer grip, he used her body as an axis and spun. He moved with the frantic speed of a squirrel, leaving behind a blurring trail. The dagger ground through her leg, nearly severing the limb. He ripped it out and immediately drove it into her other leg.

The witch was transforming rapidly, sprouting extra limbs and rows of jagged teeth as her humanity fell away. Jaxon did not relent. He continued his lethal orbit—slashing, piercing, and hacking at the evolving monster. By the time the transformation could have been completed, she was a ruin: decapitated, disemboweled, and crippled.

The entity that had been the red-eyed witch was now a pathetic heap. Only a single mangled hand remained to drag her broken form across the stone.

“Sa…”

She never finished the word. Jaxon drew a final, heavy blade and hammered it through the back of her skull, pinning her to the floor like a grave marker. Her mouth had migrated to her back during the mutation, and Jaxon’s steel went right through the center of its dual-rowed teeth. One witch was silenced forever.

“Ahhhhhh!” the priest shrieked in horror.

In response, several massive figures clad in crystalline armor began to advance, their footsteps shaking the hall. These were Death Knights—artificial constructs made from alchemically treated corpses. To a common soldier, they were an end-of-life nightmare. But they were facing a frontline of Ragna, Pell, Rophod, Audin, Teresa, and Lua Gharne.

“We just need to break them, then?” Pell remarked, stepping forward with a casual air. He raised his blade, his muscles already winding up the specialized vortex strike he had mastered through years of repetition.

The crystal knight moved with surprising agility, its modified frame granting it the speed of a veteran warrior. It became a blur, charging at Pell, who met the charge head-on. He timed his swing perfectly, accelerating his blade as if pulling it through the air.

*Crunch!*

The danger of these crystal-clad horrors was their relentless nature; they didn’t feel pain or slow down when damaged. Pell’s weapon, Idol Slayer, cleaved through the creature’s helmet and buried itself deep in its chest, the holy properties of the sword beginning to unravel the spirit within. Even so, the knight’s crystal sword whistled toward Pell’s neck in a final, desperate counter.

Having committed to such a heavy strike, Pell found it nearly impossible to retreat. He braced his body, hoping to turn a lethal blow into a survivable wound.

*Clang!*

The strike never landed. A dwarven-crafted blade—one the smith himself had praised—intercepted the crystal sword. Rophod had lunged forward, using his sword like a parrying spear. The impact sent a shudder through Rophod’s frame; he had to hold the line with pure physical endurance. Had he tried to deflect it rather than stop it cold, Pell would have been badly maimed.

“You’re in my debt,” Rophod grunted.

Pell straightened up and yanked his sword from the monster’s ribs. The crystal armor, now empty of its animating force, shattered and fell to the floor as inert stone.

“I’ll forget the nonsense you said earlier,” Pell muttered, glancing at the debris.

Rophod smirked. “Is that a formal vow?”

“I swear it.”

“Then we’re square.”

Rophod had earlier boasted that his “demonic charm” could win over even the most haggard witches, a claim Pell had been ready to mock him for indefinitely. Trading a life-saving parry for silence on that matter was a bargain Rophod was happy to accept.

More crystal knights emerged—over a dozen in total. These weren’t true, legendary Death Knights, but rather alchemical puppets stuffed with wandering spirits. To the warriors present, however, they were still a significant threat.

“That blade!” the Apostle of Red Foot yelled, his eyes fixed on Pell’s sword. He was stunned to see a weapon specifically designed to banish spirits. But the Apostle had a war to win. “Kill them! All of you, swarm them!”

A tide of monstrosities poured into the chamber. Some were solitary horrors, others moved in grotesque packs. Lua Gharne uncurled her flame whip and gripped her looped sword, lashing out at the vanguard. These new enemies were a carnival of the macabre: an ogre with three arms, a horned troll, and a three-legged ghoul that hopped awkwardly toward them.

She found them more repulsive than intimidating. These were the Apostle’s private “curiosities,” released from the depths of Thornbriar Fortress. Now, they were merely targets.

While Lua Gharne carved through the rabble, Shinar moved to intercept the Magic Spirit. It seemed Shinar had chosen her target from the moment they entered. The Magic Spirit discarded her bow and drew a thin, needle-like sword with a hooked tip. The draw required a specific snapping motion against the sheath’s ring, which echoed through the room.

“Have you come to provide sustenance for the abyss, you primitive brat?” the Magic Spirit sneered.

She had picked the wrong person to insult. Shinar, the self-appointed fiancée of Enkrid and a high-order fairy, looked at her with a mask of calm.

“…Sustenance? Me?” Shinar replied.

Fairies were incapable of lying, but they were experts at psychological warfare. Shinar gave a dismissive shrug—a very human gesture she had picked up—and gestured vaguely at the battlefield. She didn’t need words to point out that the Apostle’s forces were being decimated.

*Who is actually providing the nourishment here?* she implied with a silent wave.

The Magic Spirit’s face contorted as she chewed on the implication. Shinar then added a finishing touch.

“Actually, it’s more likely you’ll end up as manure. Or perhaps just demon waste. You pathetic, half-rotten sprout.”

Shinar had successfully integrated human vulgarity into her fairy dialect. Coming from a creature of her grace, the insult carried a double weight of shock and venom. The Magic Spirit’s blue-tinted face went blank with absolute, murderous fury.