A Knight Who Eternally Regresses Novel - Chapter 775

Chapter 775

“That is simply preposterous.”

A stranger had surfaced within my slumber to unveil the history of his existence. It was a dark tale of a man who kidnapped innocents, subjected them to horrific anatomical trials, and applied those twisted discoveries to prolong his own vitality. Through these means, he had cheated death for two centuries. To summarize his journey: he was a parasite who ruthlessly burned through the lives of others to fuel his own. There was little else of substance to his story.

“Ah, Red Foot.”

The apparition whispered the name. Then, resembling a sheet of parchment dissolving in a heavy rain, his form fractured and was carried off by an invisible tide.

Enkrid opened his eyes. Where the phantom had stood, there was now only the wooden edge of a modest river vessel. The ferryman let out a sharp, clicking cackle. The sound didn’t travel through the air; it was etched directly into the back of Enkrid’s mind. The boatman was making a point to ensure his amusement was felt.

Since the man perishing in the vision had been the Apostle of Red Foot, it was clear that what Enkrid had just witnessed was an illusion crafted by the ferryman.

“You have a rather morbid sense of entertainment. Is that what you’re trying to show me?” Enkrid remarked tonelessly. He kept his gaze fixed on the fading imagery, but the ferryman didn’t seem offended by the blunt accusation. He merely repeated that clicking laugh before speaking again.

“Are you aware of the weight of executing one of their chosen within the Demon Realm?” the ferryman questioned.

To Enkrid, half of the ferryman’s dialogue felt like a riddle. The guide didn’t bother to check if Enkrid possessed the necessary context; he spoke only to satisfy himself.

“They are aware of you now.”

Splash.

The ferryman, perched precariously on the swaying side of the boat, felt like an alien presence. Enkrid tilted his head, studying the figure, unable to tell if the man was mocking him or merely being dramatic with his laughter.

Enkrid was no simpleton. Between the ferryman’s warnings, his own recent deeds, and everything he had endured, he began to piece together the implications. Who were “they”? An apostle was a servant, a being defined by their fanatical loyalty to a higher power. Audin had once claimed to be the Apostle of the God of War.

So, what was “Red Foot”?

The Six Demons.

It was the only logical deduction: Red Foot was likely one of the half-dozen entities governing the Demon Realm. A rational man would have been paralyzed by the thought. The master of the Thornbush Castle had managed two centuries, yet no one could even fathom the age of the demons who claimed this land. If such ancient horrors were now tracking him, terror should have been clawing at his throat.

Naturally, Enkrid felt nothing of the sort.

“I suppose I’ve truly earned that Demon Star title then,” he joked dryly as he pulled himself out of the dream state.

“Madman,” the strange ferryman spat from the receding darkness, but Enkrid didn’t mind the insult.

The dream world dissolved, and the weight of the physical world returned to pull him awake. Enkrid sat up, rubbing his eyes as he reviewed the events of the previous evening.

We made it back to the City of the Ingested.

The moment they had arrived, the locals had reacted with a mix of terror and religious fervor. Some collapsed in tears, while others began chanting.

“Praise the Demon God!”

A few residents, swept up in the moment, gave him that blasphemous title. Lua Gharne, clearly annoyed, was quick to set them straight.

“He isn’t a demon god. He is the Demon Star. Or, if you prefer, the One Who Enchants All.”

Terrified by the suffocating pressure emanating from Frokk, some of the villagers began to mumble the new name like a mantra.

“The One Who Enchants All…”

It felt like a poorly written play. Enkrid didn’t bother to correct them, but Frokk looked rather proud of herself, her cheeks puffed out in satisfaction.

As they moved deeper into the settlement, they found a group of workers erecting a life-sized monument that bore a striking resemblance to Enkrid’s frame.

“What is the meaning of this?” Enkrid asked, coming to a halt.

Zoraslav, who had taken the mantle of the village leader, lowered his head in a respectful gesture. “We are crafting this to honor the Knight of the End and the Armistice.”

The people here were gifted craftsmen, a skill born from years of processing monster pelts and bones. While it wasn’t the work of a world-renowned artist, the sheer devotion carved into the stone was undeniable.

“Why is there no monument for me?” Rem complained loudly upon seeing it.

Ragna, still nursing the wounds sustained from the fight with the Apostle, didn’t spare the statue a glance. He simply headed toward the village hall that served as their current quarters.

“It’s respectable work,” Jaxon noted, stopping to critique the craftsmanship. He had spent years evaluating high-end art, often in the context of the black market. As the leader of the world’s premier spy and killer network, his taste was surprisingly sophisticated. “It isn’t an idol for worship, but if it provides these people a sense of security, it serves a purpose.”

“Agreed,” Audin and Teresa added, sharing their brief thoughts.

Enkrid couldn’t honestly say he was displeased, but the way the townspeople watched him felt… unsettling. He understood why later that evening when he heard a small child singing a tune he recognized.

“Sing that part again,” Enkrid requested.

It was a melody where the concepts of “ending” and “peaceful truce” were treated as the same thing. It was a song he had been fond of as a boy.

“Why are there two different sets of lyrics for this?”

The child looked at him with a blend of awe and dread, explaining that for true peace to arrive, the current world had to cease to exist—hence, the “end.” When Enkrid asked what that “world” represented, the child admitted they didn’t know.

Enkrid thought on it. To these survivors, the world was likely synonymous with the misery and fear they lived in every day. To them, “ending the world” meant ending the nightmare.

Bring the world to its conclusion.

To stop the bloodshed—an armistice. That was their hope.

They had returned from the nightmare of the Demon Realm in the early hours. Exhausted, the group had foregone a meal in favor of immediate sleep. Now, they were finally rising, fully restored. Enkrid cleared his mind and stepped out into the morning air, beginning his daily routine. Given the brutality of the previous day’s combat, he kept his movements light, focusing on flexibility rather than power.

The movement stirred his appetite. His stomach protested loudly, and he soon found a woven basket near the hall’s entrance overflowing with fruit. He satiated his hunger with several apples, a few pieces of local stone-fruit, and a thick, chewy roll of bread.

While he ate, he felt a presence materialize behind him.

“You’ve risen early.”

The sun had yet to break the horizon. Thick clouds promised a dim day, though it was still a paradise compared to the gloom of the Demon Realm. Shinar, the fairy of ethereal beauty, stood there with her green eyes. She looked paler than usual, like someone struggling to recover from a wasting fever.

It makes sense.

Before Ragna had finished the Apostle, Shinar had engaged the Magic Spirit in a desperate duel. That spirit was a master of both the blade and the bow. When its dark, curved sword met skin, it didn’t just cut—it corrupted. The fairy’s exposed arm was a grim testament to that; the gash was a sickly black color. Even though it had begun to scab, it looked nothing like a natural wound.

But Shinar was the victor.

Enkrid had watched the duel unfold. The Magic Spirit had poured everything into the fight—the force they called Magicka or Will. Its blade had radiated a dark, metallic sheen, a sign of centuries spent surviving the Demon Realm. In comparison, Shinar’s Leaf-Winter Blade had looked fragile, like a needle facing a broadsword.

Yet…

She was the one still standing. Shinar had utilized a movement that felt like a localized cyclone before delivering a freezing strike. By using her internal energy to disorient her foe’s perception, she had driven her blade through the Magic Spirit’s heart at the cost of her own arm.

It looked like Jaxon’s signature Lethal Thrust.

Fairies were conditioned from birth to mask their feelings, making them experts at blending into their environment. They moved like shadows.

She fused her fairy heritage with Jaxon’s techniques.

Shinar watched Enkrid with a steady gaze. She understood his nature and knew exactly what would capture his attention.

“Umbra-Akleus. Translated to the common tongue, it is the ‘Shade Needle.'”

She offered the name of the move. Enkrid’s eyes sharpened with interest; he had been dying to know. As she spoke, Shinar held her darkened arm into what little light there was, showing him the damage.

“Before my life ends, would you do me one favor?” she asked.

Enkrid, however, was still visualizing the mechanics of the fight. The Magic Spirit’s “Black Lightning” style was predatory. Against such a style, only an assassination strike could prevail. Shinar had waited for the tiniest lapse. She had projected an aura of direct confrontation to bait the spirit into an exchange, then used that mental pressure to hide the killing blow.

She had clearly borrowed from Enkrid’s own school of swordsmanship. Black Lightning had fallen for it because it was unthinkable for a fairy to fight with such deception. After all, fairies were incapable of lies.

However, they were masters of framing the truth. Shinar had promised to fight, and she had shown her intent clearly. She hadn’t technically lied once. It was a masterpiece of logical loophole-finding. Her performance had worked perfectly, opening a wound that would have made Lua Gharne—with her obsession with hearts—lose her mind. At the final second, the Magic Spirit had tried to use the Apostle’s power to mutate, but it was too late. The energy from Shinar’s blade had shredded the spirit’s internal structure instantly.

“Rotten food should be left in the dirt,” Shinar had told her dying foe.

But the spirit didn’t go quietly. “Witch,” it had hissed, swinging one last time to tear open Shinar’s arm. A few inches closer and it would have been her throat.

Back in the village, Shinar looked genuinely melancholy. Surely a dying fairy deserved a final wish? Her eyes certainly suggested so. Enkrid looked into those green gems, seeing what appeared to be genuine yearning. For a fairy to show that much vulnerability was unheard of.

“Let us wed.”

A final request from a dying beauty—most men would have felt compelled to say yes. By now, the rest of the party had begun to drift out of the hall, some pretending to ignore them and others openly eavesdropping. Rem, naturally, wasn’t even trying to hide his curiosity.

“Did you use the Dryas spring water and the salve from Bran?” Enkrid asked.

“…I did,” Shinar replied, her voice trailing off slightly. She didn’t lose her cool; composure was her people’s primary trait.

“You’re talking as if your time is up. Realistically, how much longer do you have?”

Enkrid was well aware that fairies were masters of misdirection. His own martial style was built on finding the gaps in an opponent’s intent; he was the last person she could fool.

After a long pause, Shinar let out an uncharacteristic “Tch.”

“His mind is like iron,” Lua Gharne remarked, nodding. She found Enkrid’s unwavering focus impressive regardless of the situation.

Rem began to chuckle. Ragna was still out cold, and the others—Pell and Rophod—hadn’t bothered to pay attention. They knew Shinar. Her statement about “before I die” wasn’t technically a lie, but given her lifespan, she would likely outlive Enkrid by a century.

“A pity,” Shinar sighed, clicking her tongue.

Enkrid marveled at the effort the fairy put into a simple prank. Was it worth the theatricality? He wasn’t so sure.

The team remained in the settlement for two additional days.

“You’re telling me you leveled a fortress in the Demon Realm and walked out?” Roman had nearly fainted when he heard the full report of their mission.

On the final evening, his stomach full and his mind wandering, Enkrid went out to practice his forms—only to realize he had lost his way.

I’m lost?

He wasn’t like Ragna. Getting turned around in the outskirts of a familiar village should have been impossible. And yet, the terrain around him was completely foreign. It wasn’t a tight space, but high walls had risen on both sides of him, the hard-packed earth looking as solid as mountain stone. These walls formed a long, straight hallway that ended in a sharp turn about twenty paces ahead.

Just past that corner, a shadow flickered. A man stepped into the light.

“Ah, a visitor.”

Enkrid didn’t recognize the face. The man had small, squinted eyes and wore incredibly baggy garments that masked his frame. With the fluidity of a street performer, two short blades appeared in his hands. He had been concealing them in his oversized sleeves, drawing them with such speed that they seemed to manifest out of thin air. He had a primary sword at his hip, but his sleeves clearly held more surprises.

Enkrid had seen this before.

“Sleeve Blades.”

Torres, a man from the Border Guard, had utilized a similar hidden-weapon style.

The moment the man finished his sentence, his body seemed to stretch. He blurred across the distance, appearing instantly in Enkrid’s space. The two short blades were aimed with lethal precision at Enkrid’s vitals—the throat and the heart. There was no hesitation, only the cold, violent intent of a predator.

Enkrid reacted the moment he felt the man’s purpose. His hand flew to Duskforge, drawing it in a vertical arc designed to cleave the man in two.

In the end, both strikes met only empty air as they bypassed each other’s afterimages.

From that single clash, Enkrid knew the truth. This wasn’t some noble duelist. This was a true warrior, schooled in the brutal, efficient military arts of the Valmung Empire.