A Knight Who Eternally Regresses Novel - Chapter 776

Chapter 776

Rem gazed at the features of the slumbering prick and mused:
“A single chop would settle this.”
When a warrior attains the rank of knight, their physical form undergoes a radical transformation.
The hide thickens, the skeletal structure densifies, and the pulse quickens to such a degree that their reflexes appear to violate the laws of physics.
It is for this reason that those who reach the knighthood are deemed superhuman. However, such status does not grant immunity to decapitation.
Simply put, a sleeping knight is just as vulnerable to a lethal strike—particularly one who is drifting in the semi-conscious stupor this man currently inhabited.
Rem, observing Ragna’s death-like repose, eventually looked away.
There were moments when he genuinely contemplated ending the man’s life.
“But it won’t happen this way.”
Rem was a product of the West, a combatant by nature. He was Owl’s comrade and a father.
Executing a man who had collapsed from the exhaustion of combat with a coward’s axe swing? Perhaps in a sanctioned trial by arms—but this?
Not in ten lifetimes would Rem stoop to such a low.
They had infiltrated the Demon Realm, demolished a stronghold, reduced it to ash, and escaped. Claiming his frame wasn’t failing him would be a blatant deception.
Rem had personally brought down three massive winged monstrosities and had been tossed into a remote corner of the Demon Realm, where survival was a grueling labor.
The Demon Realm earned its reputation through sheer brutality.
A horned, ape-like creature had stalked him with more silence than an owl.
A ghoul sporting a snout like a needle had lunged, seeking to drain his life force.
He had encountered others as well—individuals whose status as mad cultists or natural horrors was indistinguishable. Perhaps they were some profane hybrid of man and demon.
Several bore strange sigils burned into their brows, with raw magical energy seeping from every pore.
“Those bastards…”
He couldn’t ignore them, so he engaged.
Crushing, slaying, and carving a path—he called upon the Wolf’s Soul to navigate back to his unit.
Under the influence of the Wolf’s Soul, his spatial perception sharpened, and his heightened olfactory senses allowed him to scent his allies. But then he crossed paths with an eight-legged arachnid horror that wouldn’t stop weaving.
From an orifice that looked uncomfortably like a rectum, it discharged webbing with the velocity of arrows. There weren’t just a few; there were easily a hundred.
He slaughtered half of them.
It was inefficient to waste throwing axes on all of them, so he had to engage in close quarters. They were cunning, using the trees and terrain for cover—irritating wretches.
While he was never in mortal peril, the skirmish drained his physical endurance and mana reserves.
Thankfully, once half their number fell, the survivors fled.
Eventually, he linked back up with his team. He’d flung a hand axe to assist a certain slothful idiot and returned to the settlement.
Food, rest, recovery.
He had spent the intervening time stretching his fibers, meticulously tearing and mending his musculature.
Despite the effort, the fatigue lingered.
“Still haven’t recovered my edge.”
He wasn’t injured, but the sheer strain had knocked his internal equilibrium out of alignment.
Mana, by its very essence, was a force that placed a violent burden on the human vessel.
He wasn’t the only one suffering. The sprite who obsessed over marriage looked like a walking corpse, and even Lua Gharne had been deprived of an arm during the chaos.
She claimed a skeletal hound-beast had torn it away.
Yet, out of everyone, the lazy bastard at the back of the room was in the worst state.
That man had pushed his Will beyond the breaking point and ended up partially paralyzed. He’d woken briefly to gorge on food before sliding back into unconsciousness—at this stage, not even a monster dragging him by the heels would rouse him.
“Yaaaawn.”
Rem let out a purposeless yawn, deciding he might as well linger in his lethargy a bit longer.
Through the pane, he spotted two idiots immersed in reflection. Fool Rem and fool Rophod would likely remain there until dusk before retreating indoors.
A few locals strolled past, tossing looks at the pair. These days, those stares weren’t filled with dread, but with something bordering on worship.
The hamlet was quiet. Serene.
“Suppose we did slaughter every monster in the vicinity.”
He could see Roman in the distance, tumbling about.
“I’ve still got it, brother! I’m not done yet!”
The half-giantess Teresa was supervising his drills. Audin watched from the sidelines, wearing the grin of a satisfied devil.
“Tormenting others with a smile—that’s a true demon for you.”
Roman gritted his teeth, several boulders balanced precariously on his shoulders. He strained to speak.
“I’m at my limit.”
“No, you aren’t. And stay quiet, brother. Breathing out kills your stability.”
Demon Audin dismissively brushed off the complaint.
They seemed to be enjoying themselves.
Rem shifted his gaze back to the interior. He lifted a foot to move toward his bunk—then stopped dead.
His fingers instinctively sought the throwing axe fixed to his belt.
The weapon had felt a presence saturated with lethal intent and reacted.
“Since when—?”
The question flashed briefly, but there was no luxury of time to ponder it.
Creaaaak.
The room’s sole entrance swung open.
And from the threshold emerged something akin to pure shadow—not a figure of speech, but actual, tangible black mist coiling across the floorboards.
It was high noon. The sky was bright. Not a single cloud.
Yet the second that door moved, darkness descended like a shroud. The atmosphere turned suffocating—as if they had been yanked back into the heart of the Demon Realm.
“If you’re visiting, a knock is customary.”
Rem spoke even as he unholstered his axe and launched it.
His arm moved with such velocity it left no ghosting trail.
BOOM—the air cracked as the weapon spun in a lethal arc.
He was too fast—before his sentence had even fully echoed, the circular blade was whistling toward the intruder’s head.
The figure shrouded in soot raised an arm, parrying the spinning steel with a sharp upward jerk.
It was a shield—a kite shield, broad at the top and narrow at the base—lashed firmly to the left arm.
CRACK! KRRRRRRRRRRK!
Rem’s projectile collided with the metal, ricocheting upward and away. A deep scar was carved into the shield’s face, and the axe soared into the distance like a falling star.
A jagged crater was left in the wood above the door.
“That was one of my best…”
Rem thought, his eyes locked forward. He wouldn’t be seeing that weapon again.
The black haze still permeated the room, sparing only the area around the shield arm.
As the smoke thinned, a helm manifested—its faceplate firmly shut. The darkness within the slit was impenetrable.
Clink.
The newcomer was encased in full plate. There was no vibration of life emanating from him—he might as well have been an empty suit of steel animated by malice.
From the joints to the fingertips, the armor was masterfully forged. The quality was undeniable.
The blade stayed in its sheath. The shield remained braced.
Then, the entity slowly lifted a right hand—and flipped up the visor.
Thunk.
With the heavy resonance of locking metal, a face Rem never expected to see was revealed.
“Man, that’s cramped. You aren’t wearing a lid, so I’ll keep mine open. Can’t take it off, though—this armor is basically my skin now. Well, I’ll give you the choice. Shall we do this with the visor down? Or up?”
Rem squinted, evaluating the man.
Who the hell is this guy?
Pell and Rophod, who were just outside, had vanished. The window was now obstructed by a crude, jagged barrier. Inside the structure, it was only him and the sleeping idiot.
This was no longer a natural occurrence.
From beneath the open visor, messy blond curls tumbled out. The man was handsome. Not quite Enkrid’s level of striking, but someone people would notice in a crowd.
“Suit yourself,”
Rem answered with cold indifference. If no explanations were coming, he would simply focus on the task at hand.
“Up it is, then.”
The man grinned. The expression was dripping with arrogance.
Thunk.
He dropped the massive shield until its point bit into the floor. The plaster tiles shattered under the impact.
That shield carried immense weight.
Remaining in that stance, he tilted his head back, making a show of looking past Rem. Given the room’s size, it was a redundant, theatrical move.
Smiling, the blond man spoke in a velvety, pleasant tone:
“I’m only here for one head. If you step aside and leave the guy behind you, I’ll let you walk. What do you think?”
Rem was far from 100%. And the man standing there radiated more peril than any beast he’d fought in the Demon Realm.
How did this guy compare to that Lord or Apostle of Red Foot?
He’d delivered the killing blow to the Apostle, but he hadn’t witnessed the entire encounter, so he lacked a baseline.
Regardless, the reality was that he was weakened, and the opponent’s ceiling was an unknown variable.
Rem might project the image of a hot-blooded brawler who abandoned logic for rage, but he was actually a cold analyst of the battlefield.
If he weren’t, he wouldn’t have survived as a killer of nobles.
Even the incident that had earned him his bounty had been a calculated risk.
Now, his mind reached a verdict: a confrontation here was tactical suicide.
A tiny room. An unconscious comrade to protect.
The intruder’s casual demeanor only intensified the dread.
The man had even opened his visor before the clash. Not the behavior of someone who feared losing.
But would he actually trade his subordinate for his life? Would he abandon a defenseless, gasping partner to save his own skin?
That wasn’t even an option in his world.
“Tch. That lazy prick. Sleeping through everything.”
Rem grumbled, then tilted his axe up to eye level, raising his voice:
“Hey. Have you even realized who I am?”
The man, grin still wide, replied:
“No idea.”
Rem smirked and said:
“Then pay attention. I am Rem, the Vice-Captain of the Mad Order of Knights.”
Behind him, Ragna twitched slightly. He was still reeling from the battle with the Apostle of Red Foot, where he had channeled his final sparks of Will into Sunrise for that last strike.
He appeared to be in a deep slumber, but it was the kind of exhaustion that bordered on a coma.
He could force himself awake—but he wouldn’t be able to fight. So he remained still.
In a way, collapsing like that was a testament to his faith in those around him. Ragna believed in Enkrid. …Perhaps not so much in Rem.
The corner of Rem’s mouth twitched upward.
“A vice-captain doesn’t just hand over his men, you damn ghost.”
Rem was a warrior and a shaman from the Western lands. He detected a faint, acrid scent from the man. This thing—it wasn’t human. That was Rem’s professional opinion.
“Vice-captain? Mad Order?”
The “ghost” seemed to find the names unfamiliar. Still grinning, he tilted his head and heaved the shield back up.
Then, he unsheathed his sword.
Srrrrk.
The metal slid out, a silver light that seemed to absorb the shadows rather than cut through them.
That was the visual impression Rem received.
The sword was shorter and broader than a standard blade. It looked like a Gladius, similar to the one Enkrid used to carry, but with a straighter edge.
Designed for stabbing, capable of parrying, and heavy enough to crush bones.
“So that’s your final answer? You both want to die?”
The man asked.
“No. I’m saying I’m going to kill you.”
Rem fired back instantly.
“Ah, I see.”
The blond man hoisted his shield, asserting dominance over the cramped quarters. The aura he projected turned the air into a localized gale.
His intent took physical form.
Mixed with the dark smoke, that intent solidified—the vapor coalescing into a shape that betrayed his power.
It looked like a massive block of iron, a seamless cube that no blade could dent. That crushing, metallic pressure flooded the hall.
The smoke-cube bore down like a physical weight.
Rem tightened his grip on his axe.
A liability at his back. No room to move.
Zero advantages. Total disadvantage.
The solution was straightforward: eliminate the disadvantages, force an opening.
So he acted.
Just as Enkrid had impacted Rem, the members of the Mad Order of Knights always influenced each other.
Rem had always possessed a sharp tactical mind. Now, he utilized a bit of Enkrid’s disciplined approach—the tactical sword logic inherited from Lua Gharne.
“Behind you!”
He roared, as if an ally had suddenly appeared at the intruder’s back.
“…You really think that works?”
The blond ghost scoffed, dismissing the amateurish ploy.
Rem wasn’t trying to trick him. He was trying to break his focus—for a fraction of a second.
In that heartbeat, Rem threw his axe straight up.
BOOM!
The ascending weapon demolished the ceiling of the hall. Shattered debris rained down.
Heavy, soot-stained rafters. Stones held by dried mortar. Centuries of dust.
It fell like a landslide. He had targeted the structural center—triggering a total collapse of the roof.
As the building crumbled around them, Rem lunged forward, scooped up Ragna, and hoisted him onto his shoulders.
“Tsk, annoying…”
The man whispered, watching Rem’s agile retreat.
Then, he began to walk forward.
After all, there was no place left for them to hide.