A Knight Who Eternally Regresses Novel - Chapter 779

Chapter 779

Could it be credited to Lua Gharne, who had relentlessly drilled those principles into them for days? Or was it merely the result of a melody they had been whistling for far too long?

Despite the village terrain abruptly warping and the clamor of conflict erupting from every direction, not a single inhabitant cried out for a demon.

“Knight of the Apocalypse. Deliver us,” the elderly woman whispered.

The youngster beside her responded, “They referred to him as the Demon Knight.”

A heavy gloom settled over the entirety of the village, manifest in both shadow and spirit. The ground groaned and surged upward in various spots, forming jagged walls, and before anyone could process the change, a stone canopy had knit itself together to shut out the sun above.

Then appeared the predators who thrived on terror.

Two warriors.

One carried a slender, supple blade that rippled like silk, while the other gripped a grotesque weapon shaped like a perfectly rectangular slab of metal, straight from the hilt to the tip.

“I wonder if this specimen has a satisfying cutting feel,” the one with the slab-like blade murmured.

“I am weary of this assignment. I simply wish to depart from this labyrinth,” the thin-bladed swordsman replied.

They conversed as if this slaughter were a mundane chore.

“You realize you won’t be able to indulge in this dungeon simulation once we cross to the continent, correct?”

It seemed Balrog’s labyrinthine alteration only functioned in territories saturated by the influence of the Demon Realm. That much was clear from their exchange. Naturally, to the common folk gathered there, such details were irrelevant. They were on the verge of execution—what use was technical knowledge?

“Grant us the conclusion,” the old woman said, bowing her head in resignation.

The man who had mused about the sensation of slicing raised his rectangular short sword. He had hollowed cheeks, dark circles rimming his eyes, and skin so drained of color it looked like ash. Greasy locks of hair fell to his shoulders. He possessed the face of a nightmare, the kind of visage that would make anyone shriek “murderer” on a dark street. To worsen the impression, he was clad in a suit of stitched leather—trousers, vest, and overcoat—all fashioned not from animal hides, but from human skin.

It was his notorious trademark.

He had spent his existence treating homicide as a form of sensory pleasure, so judging him a killer based solely on his appearance was entirely accurate.

His right arm ascended. If he swung, the old woman’s skull would be split down the center. Her skin might have taken on a violet tint, but her internal biology remained the same. Her blood was still crimson. The tactile sensation of carving through her would be identical to any other victim.

That prospect alone sent a shiver of delight through him.

Usually, he had to content himself with butchering monsters, animals, or the comrade standing next to him. But the latter was rarely a simple task, and beasts never provided the specific satisfaction he craved. A glimmer of his foul yearning flickered across his face. The intensity behind his gaze spiked as he drove the slab-like blade downward.

*Thunk.*

The steel did not find its target.

Even so, the killer’s eyes maintained their warped hunger. His focus shifted to the individual who had obstructed his strike. He had anticipated an intervention—he had allowed it.

A longsword had parried his weapon. It was a blade of dwarven craftsmanship. Its owner: Rophod.

“What sort of creature are you?” Rophod inquired, his voice steady and resolute.

In contrast to the murderer’s repulsive appearance, Rophod’s features were symmetrical and his gaze remained fixed. He had been in the midst of a sparring session with Pell—trading blunt criticisms—when the earth shifted and this man, who looked like a career butcher, appeared. So, he moved to intervene.

Rophod’s eyes analyzed the man, mentally stripping away his defenses. His posture. His cadence. His eyes. Those eyes were loathsome. There was a predatory, vile glint in them, reminiscent of a lecherous old man.

The killer pulled back his blocked weapon and lunged with his other hand. That hand also gripped a short, rectangular blade.

A butcher’s knife?

Rophod parried the strike, noting the weapon’s oddity. It was a short sword designed like a kitchen tool. A ghost of a grin twitched on the man’s face.

“Hoh. You look like you’d provide a very fine slice.”

The sound of the man’s breath made Rophod’s skin crawl.

*Whoosh.*

The killer closed the gap with a single stride. Between them, the elderly woman remained curled on the ground, head lowered. She didn’t even dare to look up, paralyzed by trauma.

The killer’s weapon was short. Rophod’s longsword was nearly double its length. Usually, that distance would be an advantage. However, the man aimed his right-hand blade at the old woman again. It wasn’t a reckless swing; it was a trap.

*You intend to shield her, don’t you? Then you cannot move from this spot.*

That was the silent message of the strike. Rophod thrust his sword out to intercept the right-hand blade.

*Clang!*

Sparks erupted from the collision. With the terrain twisted and shadows clinging to the walls, the flash seemed blinding. While Rophod held the right-hand knife at bay, the second blade hissed toward his throat.

Rophod dropped his center of gravity, crouching low and shifting his weight. Balancing on a single foot, he lashed out with a kick at the killer’s ankle. The murderer pivoted around the old woman to evade the blow. He understood the geometry of the fight—using the civilian as a meat shield gave him the upper hand.

*You’ll keep guarding her, won’t you?*

The unspoken taunt lingered. Furthermore, he wasn’t alone. Rophod knitted his brows. Was this an insurmountable problem? Not exactly. It simply triggered a dormant memory.

Seeing a figure you have only ever heard of in legends with your own eyes requires a moment of cognitive adjustment. Especially when the reality doesn’t perfectly align with the mental image. His adversary—this man—was the antagonist of a very ancient chronicle. A bogeyman from the horror stories parents use to frighten disobedient children.

That was why a single realization sent a chill down his spine. It was a terror rooted in childhood.

“…Dammer the Killer?”

Dammer the Killer, otherwise known as Dammer the Tanner.

A mythical psychopath who wore garments stitched from human remains and brandished twin carving blades. As a boy, he had suffered horrific domestic abuse. His father had been a leatherworker. One day, after being beaten with a strap yet again, Dammer seized a knife. His parents were his inaugural victims. He had wrapped the hilt of his blade in his father’s skin.

He continued his spree, killing without end. He processed the hides of his victims and sold them. Thus, the name: Dammer the Tanner.

“Is this… is this actually happening?”

Rophod remained in position, the old woman still trembling between them. Despite the shock, his question was delivered with composure. Dammer found the reaction intriguing. Was this youth devoid of fear, or merely a skilled performer? Regardless, he looked like a victim who would offer a “slice” of high quality.

Rophod gazed at him blankly. *Hasn’t he been dead for half a century?*

That was why the connection hadn’t been instantaneous, despite the man’s distinct features and the patchwork skin attire.

“Indeed. I am that Dammer.”

Three deep furrows sat upon his brow, resembling thick worms—a signature trait of the terrifying illustrations of Dammer.

So it truly was him? He had merely been a character in a grim fairy tale back then. There were few children raised in the city who didn’t know the legend of Dammer the Killer. That was what made this encounter so surreal.

“You are the genuine article?”

Dammer gave a nod and raised his foot to stomp on the old woman. Rophod moved to block. Dammer used that momentum to lunge forward instead, swinging both blades in a lethal cross-pattern.

*Clang!*

Rophod barely checked the man’s advance, angling his longsword to absorb the twin strikes. At that instant, a whip-like blade curved through the air, aiming for the base of Rophod’s skull from behind.

*Clang!*

It was parried—not by Rophod, but by a different sword. Pell had arrived.

“Two of you ganging up on one?” Pell remarked, his eyes locked on the new threat.

“Tch. So very close.”

The man with the ribbon-sword clicked his tongue and retreated a few steps. He moved with a light, predatory grace, his eyes narrowing as they settled on Pell.

“He intercepted it?”

Dammer had permitted Pell to interfere because his internal logic suggested his own blades would finish Rophod first. By his count, his steel should have already bifurcated a skull, and the newcomer should have been too slow to change the outcome. In other words, this second opponent was also formidable. This meant the engagement might be prolonged.

Dammer was a scholar of precision—able to simulate dozens of combat permutations in a heartbeat. But unlike him, who preferred to slowly erode an opponent’s spirit and flesh before the final cut, this new foe possessed a different martial philosophy.

Rophod had already synthesized a basic strategy based on their stances, their gear, and their dialogue. And if he was mistaken? If this killer had successfully masked his true power?

“Then I shall simply have to perish.”

That sentiment resonated—something Frokk or Lua Gharne had once muttered. That one shouldn’t count on survival when dueling entities of this magnitude. He also recalled Pell’s words from their training.

*“If you want to keep breathing, practice harder, you talentless hack.”*

Pell had a penchant for insults. But ultimately, Rophod was in his debt. It was because of Pell that deciphering Dammer’s intent felt manageable. Compared to the chaotic, unpredictable angles Pell utilized, Dammer’s movements felt almost transparent.

Dammer himself would never have believed that. But in that moment, Rophod achieved a sudden clarity regarding his own growth. It was as if he were watching the fight from a bird’s-eye view, detached and analytical, seeing himself as the enemy saw him. In this state, predicting the opponent’s next move was effortless.

Dammer believed he was systematically breaking Rophod down. So, Rophod leaned into the deception.

He feigned a slip. He forced his breathing to sound ragged. He acted as though his morale were crumbling as the battle stretched on and the old woman remained in peril. It was the purest form of Enkrid-style combat—a discipline built on feints and psychological manipulation.

Dammer believed he had finally found his opening. He committed his entire strength to a finishing blow. After shifting his rhythm and playing with angles, he suddenly raised both knives high and brought them down in a devastating overhead smash—abandoning his usual pattern for raw power.

Rophod had been waiting for that exact commitment.

He gripped his hilt with his right hand and placed his left hand near the base of the blade to reinforce it. He caught both of Dammer’s carving knives and absorbed the massive impact.

*Bang!*
*Bang!*

It was a strike powered by Will. A lethal blow from a murderer who had reached the rank of knight through sheer volume of slaughter. Albeit, a very long time ago.

Rophod utilized a bind to trap the blades, anchoring himself with his legs and core to prevent being pushed back. Then, using that stored kinetic energy, he lunged forward past the cowering woman and stomped violently on Dammer’s foot.

He had parried and countered in a single, continuous motion. Dammer was unable to retreat. Rophod’s boot slammed into the killer’s foot with crushing force. The sound of the impact was heavy and final.

The bones in Dammer’s foot disintegrated with a sickening snap, and his face contorted in a mask of pain. Before he could recalibrate, Rophod had released his sword, seized Dammer by the jaw and the back of the head, and wrenched them in opposite directions with violent force.

*Crackkk—*

The neck vertebrae spun and shattered, and the skin of Dammer’s throat twisted into a grotesque spiral. It was a technique he had refined by observing Audin and Enkrid—a blend of grappling and execution. They had even given him personal pointers on the move.

Dammer collapsed to his knees, hitting the ground without even a final gasp. Rophod had just ended the monster from his childhood nightmares, yet he didn’t find the feat particularly noteworthy.

Nearby, Pell had concluded his own duel.

The man who claimed to be a master of calculation had tried to outthink him, so Pell had simply charged with raw aggression, delivering a diagonal slash using the vortex technique Enkrid had demonstrated. The man with the ribbon-blade hadn’t expected such a direct, overwhelming force. His torso was ripped open, his vitals spilling out, but instead of blood, a thick black vapor surged from the wound.

“Nothing but walking corpses waiting for their master’s command,” Pell remarked.

“Master?” Rophod repeated.

The dying man let out a raspy laugh and replied, “You are all currently trapped within the labyrinth!”

With those final words, he coughed up a cloud of black mist and expired. His physical form dissolved into smoke and faded away.

“Labyrinth?” Rophod asked, stepping closer.

Pell merely gave a non-committal shrug. Finally, the old woman cautiously raised her head.

“You are out of danger now.”

Whatever this “master” or “labyrinth” implied, it could be dealt with later. For the moment, Rophod had accomplished his objective. Much like Enkrid, he had stood as a protector. Even if the person he saved was a violet-skinned host—a being others labeled a Demon or a Corrupter—he felt a sense of fulfillment.

“This is likely just the beginning.”

“Then we should proceed.”

The pair set off once more, heading toward the disturbing auras and heavy sensations radiating from the heart of the village.

Shortly after, they encountered Frokk. She was propped up by her loop sword, having lost an arm and a leg in the struggle. Only a pile of black ash remained of her foe.

“What happened here?” Rophod asked, rushing to her side.

As he supported her, Frokk constricted her muscles to stem the blood loss and spoke through gritted teeth.

“Something ambushed me. It was at the knight level.”

“And the other one?”

“Heh. Jaxon just slipped away somewhere.”

Understood.

Now a trio, they pushed further in—eventually locating Audin, Teresa, and Roman. They found Audin locked in a ferocious struggle.

*He’s even more savage than when he was tearing down the city fortifications.*

Currently, his aura was purely homicidal.

“How dare you obstruct those who seek to return to the Lord!”

He looked genuinely incensed.