A Knight Who Eternally Regresses Novel - Chapter 774

Chapter 774

“By the authority of the Red Foot.”
The sorceress hissed the incantation five times, her pupils darting frantically.
Those two warriors were simply too lethal.
Was her end approaching? Was she destined to fall just like her sister?
No. She rejected that fate. She refused to let her story conclude in such a manner.
Fragments of the past, when they were celebrated as the Twin Witches, flickered through her consciousness. Shaking them off, she narrowed her focus and channeled her power into the spell.
It was the forbidden art known as Starving Bowels.
“Perish, every last one of you.”
This specific curse required the sacrifice of her own internal organs to function. It was the very reason she had reconstructed her physical form, though that didn’t shield her from the agonizing sensations that followed.
Dark, viscous blood leaked from her mouth.
The sensation was excruciating.
The feeling of her insides tearing caused her mouth to quiver uncontrollably. Yet, she knew that enduring this torment was far better than facing the void of death.

—

As Enkrid lunged forward, he felt a sudden vibration beneath his boots.
This magic didn’t possess the sheer velocity of the previous inferno, but its reach was far greater. The terrain beneath him buckled and split, giving way to hollow pits lined with serrated fangs.
A misstep wouldn’t just result in torn skin—it would mean shattered limbs.
The earth around Enkrid pulsed and heaved, birthng maw after maw that sought to swallow him.
Detecting the lethal trap, Enkrid pushed off and threw himself to the side.
Inevitably, more monstrous jaws erupted from the soil exactly where he landed.
CLANG! CLANG!
The sound of the teeth snapping shut was like heavy metal striking metal—sharp and piercing.
Veina?
Enkrid’s mind raced as he looked down. He saw a sea of mouths; this wasn’t a threat that could be neutralized by a simple blade stroke.
The source wasn’t even visible. There was no physical heart to pierce.
Should one be caught in those fangs—even for a second—they would be dragged into a demonic void, a place of eternal, ravenous hunger.
He lacked the specific lore, but his combat intuition told him enough.
A forbidden curse.
These things were never simple.
Walking Fire, Firestorm, and now this—it followed a pattern.
Each time he repositioned to evade, more snapping pits materialized in a wide perimeter around him, covering enough ground to hold dozens of men.
He lunged downward with Dawnforge, cleaving through a mouth that tried to rise beneath him. It dissolved into nothing.
Yet, before he could recover, another set of teeth burst forth right next to his blade.
Cutting one changed nothing. And the curse moved as he moved.
It was relentless. It was cruel.
Observing the activation and the way it took shape, he began to understand the mechanics.
It was a channeled, persistent incantation.
He was the marked prey. Whatever price the sorceress had paid to summon this, the spell would not dissipate until it had consumed its fill.
Even if I destroy them, they just reform.
How long could she sustain this onslaught?
He translated that thought into motion.
Finding a narrow opening, he lashed out with Dawnforge. One strike, then another.
If they continued to appear, he would continue to dismantle them.
It turned into a war of attrition—her remaining mana against the depth of his Will.
In truth, the sorceress had made a tactical error in her choice of magic.
She had already exhausted half of her ritual catalysts and a portion of her own biology.
This forbidden rite was designed to slowly erode an enemy, draining their energy until they were too weak to resist.
She expected to wear him down and then feast.
But from her perspective, the reality was galling.
This man had carved a path through the Demon Realm to reach her, sundering fortifications and spells alike.
Surely his Will was flickering. Surely his body was failing him.
However, in a contest of endurance and mental fortitude, Enkrid was the last person who would ever break.
His face remained a mask of indifference as his sword moved in a rhythmic, mechanical fashion, looking less like a fighter and more like a craftsman lost in his craft.
The witch began to panic as she watched him.
How can he still stand?!
Even when knotted tentacles of gore surged from the depths of the spell, his reaction never wavered—he simply shifted his weight and sheared them away.
Using the momentum of his turns, his blade tore through the appendages and swept across the earth like a lash. It gave the impression that his steel had grown in length.
It wasn’t a trick of the light. The blade connected, shattering yet another cluster of biting jaws.
“Aaaaagh!”
The witch let out a piercing wail.
Perhaps it was her magical perception, or perhaps it was just the clarity of impending doom.
She could see her own demise.
No matter what monstrous shape she took, if she were rendered into pieces, she would die.
She had witnessed that exact end for her sister.
Her cry was born of pure, unadulterated dread.
“Allow me to assist with that.”
Suddenly, Audin entered the fray.
Enkrid had already crushed the witch’s spirit by systematically dismantling her ultimate spell.
Now, while the witch was busy trying to fend off Jaxon’s pressure, she was forced to intercept the holy strike of a massive warrior using only her magically bolstered strength.
Her frame had been altered to rival a knight’s, but—
CRACK. SNAP. THUD!
—it made no difference.
The man, radiating celestial power, immediately pinpointed the joint of a fleshy limb she had sprouted, snapped it back, destroyed it—
—and closed the distance to bury his iron fist into her forehead.
BANG!
The impact was comparable to being hit by a falling anvil.
Her skull buckled under the force, dark blood spraying in heavy arcs.
Before her regenerative abilities could kick in, another glowing fist hammered into her. And another.
THWACK! THUMP! WHAM! THWACK!
The steady cadence of his strikes turned her head into a grisly drum.
“S-stop…”
In a momentary lull in the violence, the broken witch lay on the ground, her spells failing and her screams reduced to a whisper. She begged.
“I will. I shall deliver you to your deity. You miserable creature.”
Audin was devoid of pity.
He brought his fist down one final time, ending her existence.
SPLAT!
He reduced her to nothing with his bare hands.
Her ruined form was crushed into the masonry. It was over. The witch was silent forever.
After a century and a half of life, the infamous Twin Witches had both reached a pathetic conclusion.
Meanwhile…
The Apostle was still desperately trying to outrun Ragna’s steel.
“This makes no sense—!”
The Apostle shouted in denial.
With the forbidden curse broken, Enkrid took a breath and gave a small nod, silently agreeing with the Apostle’s disbelief.
Formidable stone walls, an army built for the Demon Realm, a tide of monsters, and immense personal power.
Under normal circumstances, even several elite knights would have failed to breach this place.
The Apostle’s shock was justified.
“Why are you agreeing with him?”
Pell walked over, finding the density of enemies here lighter than the outskirts.
More foes meant more work, more time, and more fatigue.
Whether they were elites or fodder—if you cut them or burned them, they all ended up the same.
“I am the chosen Apostle of the Red Foot!”
From a distance, the Apostle made his final stand.
His body became encased in a layer of crimson muscle, resembling biological plate armor, as he began to inflate.
Heavily corded veins snaked over his muscles like thick ropes, and his stature swelled.
Even Audin, a man who commanded a presence over everyone else, was eclipsed.
The Apostle grew into a titan, towering over the battlefield like a building. His evolution was a grotesque display of rapid, violent growth.
“VERMIN!”
The Apostle bellowed.
The swordsman standing in his shadow merely lifted his weapon without a word.
The sword was Sunrise, and the man was Ragna.
The steel in Ragna’s grip began to glow with a brilliant red hue, pushing back the shadows of the realm.
A beacon of light had ignited in the center of the carnage.
The essence of a god, rising from the east to claim the world and incinerate the dark, was present.
“Listen.”
The master of that divine flame spoke to the Apostle.
The Apostle’s eyes were bloodshot and bulging, mapped with black capillaries.
He didn’t bother with a verbal retort—he swung a fist.
It was a colossal strike, a mountain of flesh coming down like a hammer. The air screamed as it was displaced.
BOOM!
The trajectory of the punch warped the very atmosphere. The Apostle’s raw power shattered the sound barrier.
It seemed certain that Ragna, positioned at the point of impact, would be pulverized.
It didn’t happen.
He set his stance and anchored himself to the world. Gripping Sunrise, he allowed his Will to flood from his center to his fingertips.
KRAKOOOM!
A shockwave exploded outward in rings, accompanied by a thunderous roar.
Enkrid could feel the sheer magnitude of that single strike.
The Apostle’s physical output was even greater than the dual-wielding Minotaur they had faced.
But there is no soul in it.
That was the flaw.
The true masters, the veterans, put a specific intent into every movement.
Every action was calculated—there was no waste.
The Apostle’s attacks had no follow-through, no secondary plan.
He was a monster of immense power but zero combat wisdom.
Still, the sheer weight of his blows was staggering.
He could have leveled fortresses. He could have purged the Demon Realm of his rivals or wiped out the ancient tree-kin.
If he had ever reached the human lands, he could have razed a city and held a banquet on its ruins.
That was his potential.
But he could not overcome the single man standing in his path.
The Apostle’s massive hand, pressed against Sunrise, couldn’t budge the swordsman.
Squelch. Hiss.
His flesh tore upon contact with the blade, blood pouring out and immediately vaporizing against the searing heat of the metal.
The smell of scorched iron and ozone filled the air.
Ragna stood his ground, his hands steady on his weapon, and reflected:
My oath is…
To never falter—not until my heart stops.
To press forward until the very end.
What is effortless for one person is a grueling mountain for another.
No two souls carry the same burden.
Ragna’s resolve was rooted in that understanding.
What came naturally to Enkrid was a struggle for him.
The Apostle lashed out with both sorcery and flesh.
Tendrils of black ichor whipped from his arms, cutting through the air like lashes.
Mouths tore open across his torso, spitting barbed tongues coated in toxins.
But the radiant blade of Sunrise intercepted them all, parrying and severing every threat.
Enkrid watched from the periphery, silent.
The rest of the group had also taken their spots, watching the duel.
A lone warrior and a titan, locked in a dance of death amidst the rubble and the fallen.
Enkrid wondered if Ragna might actually fall here.
There were moments where the Apostle’s magic nearly hit its mark.
Thorned vines exploded from the floor, releasing a spray of obsidian needles.
A few pierced Ragna’s guard, slowing him for a heartbeat.
But despite the odds—the human prevailed.
“How disgusting,” Shinar hissed.
Manipulation of vines was the sacred art of the forest folk—the druids.
Watching the Apostle pervert that magic made her stomach turn.
“…By a mere soldier?”
The Apostle gasped.
There were beasts in the Demon Realm that made a living eating knights.
One such beast, with blood pouring from a ruined face, stared at Ragna.
Half of his head had been flattened, his skin blistered and charred.
His muscular armor was shredded, hanging in tatters from Ragna’s relentless assault.
He was wheezing, clinging to his last moments.
Is he finished?
Enkrid wasn’t entirely certain.
Ragna began to lift his arm, which felt like lead.
This had been an exhausting duel—defeating such a massive entity with only a sword.
He had nearly lost his life when he was momentarily dazed by a mental hex and a tentacle strike.
And then—
Ragna felt a projectile whistling toward him and pivoted.
He moved a fraction of a second late, but since the object wasn’t aimed at him, he was safe.
If he hadn’t moved, it would have clipped him.
WHACK!
The object buried itself in the remaining part of the Apostle’s head.
The force was so great it snapped his neck and sent him reeling.
It looked as though someone had split a melon and then thrown a stone into the center.
The object wedged in the Apostle’s skull was a small axe.
“That’s the kill.”
A deep voice drifted from the shadows—a rogue barbarian.
The man added,
“The one who lands the final blow gets the credit. That’s the rule, isn’t it?”
Rem stood there, his right hand still extended, wearing a small smirk.
He had minor cuts on his brow and arms—scars from the long trek through this hellscape.
This was the Demon Realm. It was no place for the living.
The conflict had reached its end.
Scattered monsters remained, but the stronghold was a wreck and its leader was dead.
A fortified city, yet not even the true heart of the enemy territory, Enkrid noted.
Still, he felt a spark of satisfaction.
The others might not have known, but this very fortress had repelled several campaigns by the Red Cloak Knights.
And they had dismantled it the moment they stepped through the gate.
Shinar, looking at the remains of the spirit she had dispatched, wrapped a wound on her arm with a broad leaf—the traditional healing way of the fairies.
She listened to the wind and could still hear the faint wails of restless spirits.
If left alone, the twisted walls would eventually regrow.
Such structures were fueled by dark obsession.
They needed to be cleansed.
And the most effective cleanser was fire.
“Set it ablaze.”
The command came from the fairy who had once been terrified of flames.
Whether she had conquered her fear or simply found a greater purpose, it didn’t matter.
Enkrid nodded, respecting her choice.
Their business in this place was concluded.
It was time to signal their success.
Under the suffocating gray clouds, in the heart of the darkness, a brilliant red fire began to roar like a rising sun.
The actual dawn was still far off, but this flame burned with equal intensity—and it would burn much longer.
In that moment, it fulfilled the promise Enkrid had carried since the beginning of the journey.