A Knight Who Eternally Regresses Novel - Chapter 781

Chapter 781

Rem’s physical state was far from ideal, and the dead weight of Ragna on his shoulders only made matters worse. However, that didn’t mean he was going to stand still and accept a beating.

“Not a chance,” he thought.

He had no intention of being a martyr. Having already smashed through the rooftop, Rem leaped backward to face his pursuer. Despite moving in reverse, he maintained the speed of a full sprint—a childhood technique perfected in the West known as the reverse run.

“Surrender and you’re dead. Resist and you’re dead. Pick your poison,” the pursuer called out.

The man giving chase was encased in heavy plate, brandishing a sword and shield. He tried to shorten the gap, but his efforts seemed futile. He wasn’t agile; he was simply relentless. He operated on the belief that eventually, this chase had to conclude, so he just kept plodding forward with mechanical precision.

If Rem decided to throw something? It didn’t matter. A stray hatchet or rock wouldn’t dent his steel plating. The knight knew that simply by forcing Rem to stay mobile, he was winning. Every heavy, armored step he took was filled with certainty.

*Thud.*

His massive frame, the weight of his equipment, and the sheer mass of his shield caused the earth to vibrate with every stride. If the battle became one of endurance, the one dancing around like a leaf in the wind would surely collapse first. The more Rem moved, the more energy he burned. All the knight had to do was maintain the most direct path. Once he was within arm’s reach, the fight would be over. His strategy was simple: close in and pulverize. It was a war of attrition that favored him.

Rem, however, didn’t share that perspective. From the moment he had grabbed Ragna and vaulted through the roof, his plan remained consistent.

“There’s no rule saying I have to fight him up close,” Rem reasoned.

None at all. That was the logic behind exiting the building. Even though the terrain had shifted, there was still plenty of room to maneuver. That was all the advantage he required for the moment. He could analyze the deeper implications of the situation once he wasn’t being hunted.

Had the enemy offered a formal challenge or a duel of honor over Ragna, Rem might have entertained it. He was a man of tradition, after all. But this opponent hadn’t bothered with pleasantries. The man, sporting a mess of curly blond hair, gave a mocking grin.

“Make a choice,” the man sneered. “Drop the baggage and flee, or stay and rot with it.”

He continued to push for a decision, but Rem merely looked bored. Using his free hand, he offered a middle finger—the universal gesture of contempt recognized across the entire continent.

“…You really don’t know when to be afraid,” the knight muttered, his smile remaining fixed even as his voice grew sharp with irritation.

Rem began to circle the wide area, staying clear of any terrain that might trap him. He moved in a wide arc around his foe. As long as his reaction speed remained superior to the knight’s shifts in direction, he was confident he could stay out of reach. They were now in what used to be a community garden, now turned into an open killing field.

The armored knight tried to cut off Rem’s angles, moving in a smaller inner circle to force Rem into a larger, more exhausting outer loop. The knight moved with economy, saving every ounce of breath. He also knew that being inside the labyrinth provided a certain mystical sustenance; he wouldn’t tire easily.

“Will you run until your heart bursts? Or will you show some spine while you still have breath?” the knight taunted.

He took pleasure in the psychological game, trying to break his victim’s spirit. But the barbarian from the West wasn’t paying attention. In fact, Rem was busy daydreaming about whether he could use the unconscious Ragna as a literal human projectile.

“Eat this, Demon Sword Slacker. Or maybe, Demon Sword Lostboy?”

It was a tempting thought, but he couldn’t actually do it. It was just a mental escape. The lazy man on his back seemed to be entering a deep state of rest, as if he were subconsciously prepping for a catastrophic struggle.

“You feel the bad vibes too, don’t you?” Rem thought. “So do I, pal.”

Deciding there was no point in keeping his thoughts private, Rem spoke aloud. “We’ll have a long talk when you finally wake up, you useless brat.”

As he spoke, Rem reached for a sling tucked into his belt. With a practiced motion, he dipped into a pouch and retrieved a pellet glowing with infused magical energy. He had about a dozen of them, though he suspected he wouldn’t need many.

What happened next was a display of high-level coordination. While maintaining his pace, he flipped the pellet into the air and caught it with the swinging pocket of the sling mid-leap. *Tap!* The projectile seated itself perfectly in the leather. He began to whirl the sling immediately.

The cords were anchored to a handle Rem held with a death grip. Using his wrist as the axis, the weighted pouch began to trace a blurring circle. Even before the full force of the spin kicked in, the rotation was flawless—not a single tremor in the line.

*Whoosh—*

The sound of the air being sliced was crisp. As the speed increased, the whistle deepened into a low roar. The knight watched the display with a critical eye.

“A ranged weapon?”

It was clearly a sling, but the knight wasn’t worried. He had absolute faith in his heavy shield and his master-crafted plate. Before his encounter with Balrog, his defenses had never been compromised.

Rem appeared calm, but his mind was racing. He had to balance his running speed, the distance from his target, the centrifugal force of the sling, and the steady injection of mana into the pellet. These projectiles were crafted using clandestine Western methods and perfected through Rem’s own trials; they acted as perfect vessels for his power. He began to weave a specific enchantment into the stone.

*Fire Howl.*

Legend had it that when the Western deity lost His temper, His very voice turned into a conflagration. The spell saturated the pellet, and the sound of the spinning sling shifted from a roar to a high-pitched, terrifying drone: *vreeeeeeeeen.*

The sound was no longer just noise; it was an omen. The lethal disc spinning in Rem’s hand was now more dangerous than a ballista bolt under full tension. Rem didn’t offer a fair warning. Drawing on decades of experience, he released the pent-up energy.

The pellet vanished, turning into a streak of pure light. The armored knight couldn’t even track its trajectory. It moved faster than human reflexes could process. Relying purely on a survival instinct, he hunkered down like a tortoise, bracing his massive shield.

As the projectile left the sling, Rem reflexively applied a ward to his own ears.

*Kwa—*

The world went silent for a heartbeat.

…KWAANG!

The silence was shattered by a tectonic blast. The projectile tore through the atmosphere, creating three distinct sonic booms before detonating against the shield. The resulting explosion turned into a localized hurricane of fire and pressure. The sound was deafening.

*KWAaaaAAAAAH—*

The shockwave followed the thunder, tearing at the ground and sending debris flying in every direction. Villagers watching from a distance ducked for cover, trembling. Rem had specifically chosen this spot to avoid collateral damage.

As the smoke from the explosion billowed, it settled quickly—the air near the Demon Realm felt heavy and oppressive. Rem, crouched low with his arms up to protect his face, had let Ragna slide to the grass behind him. Even with his magical shielding, several fragments of debris had embedded themselves in Rem’s forearms. If he was bleeding despite his defenses, the man who took the direct hit was in serious trouble.

“…You prick.”

A voice emerged from the settling dust as a shadow stumbled forward. The man was a wreck. Half of his armor had been stripped away or melted, and he clutched a shield that was now little more than a piece of mangled, dented scrap metal. His once-proud kite shield was unrecognizable.

“You…” The knight began, unable to mask his utter disbelief.

“What?” Rem lowered his guard and immediately began loading a second pellet into the sling.

Since the knight was clearly hindered, there was no way he could catch Rem while the latter was unencumbered. Rem had established the perfect kill-zone, and long-range attrition was exactly where he excelled.

“You absolute bastard.”

Even within the domain of Balrog, a high-ranking warrior had just realized he was being systematically dismantled by his natural counter. To Rem, however, this was just another day on the job.

—

Enkrid had lost all sense of time. The world had narrowed down to the rhythm of the blade—swinging, parrying, and surviving.

—*Impressive.*

Occasionally, Balrog’s consciousness would drift through the mental link of Will. Enkrid felt the same mutual respect, though it was born of desperation. No matter what Balrog threw at him, Enkrid found a way to deflect or counter. Yet, some of the attacks were impossible to read. They slipped through his Wavebreaker forms as if the defenses didn’t exist. It wasn’t just Balrog’s overwhelming strength; it was a level of technical mastery that defied his size.

His movement was the key. Balrog moved with a grace that contradicted his massive frame, and his sentient whip acted as a constant, distracting secondary threat. It was a multi-layered assault.

*Harmony.*

That was the only word for it. It was a seamless integration of every movement. Enkrid used every ounce of his speed, using Dawn Tempering to knock aside Balrog’s strikes, closing the gap to use his head, elbows, or feet. He was trying to turn a master’s duel into a dirty street fight just to stay alive.

Every time he forced a clinch, Balrog would drop his weapon and meet him with hand-to-hand combat. He used palm strikes, grappling, and joint locks with terrifying efficiency. During these moments, even the fire whip stayed back, letting the two warriors trade blows. The serpent-like flame watched from the periphery, though Enkrid didn’t have the luxury of looking at it.

As he struggled to block a barrage of strikes, Enkrid looked for any opening to land a desperate blow.

*Crack.*

In the heat of the exchange, three fingers on Enkrid’s left hand snapped. Balrog had caught his hand for a mere second, using the momentum to twist the wrist and break the bone. This followed a heavy blow to the ribs that made every breath feel like inhaling glass. The damage was mounting, but Enkrid refused to yield.

The reality of the situation was becoming undeniable.

“I’m going to lose.”

Balrog had purposely bypassed Enkrid’s guard several times, aiming for his throat but pulling back at the last second, as if giving a pawn a chance to move in a lost game. It happened over and over. Then, a thought echoed in Enkrid’s mind:

—*Can’t you keep this up a bit longer?*

Having finally found a challenge, Balrog was savoring the moment. Enkrid realized the vast chasm in their abilities. Even if a man spent a thousand years perfecting his swordplay and his aura, could he ever truly reach this level? His gut told him the answer was uncertain. Balrog was an environmental force, an immovable mountain.

But all games eventually conclude. Finally, the blade of black embers, Surtr, tore through Enkrid’s midsection.

By that point, his body was a wreck: broken fingers, cracked ribs, a mangled knee, and a grinding hip. The final strike to his gut was the definitive end to the one-sided massacre. In that final heartbeat, however, Enkrid’s Dawn Tempering flashed out. It was a move even Balrog hadn’t foreseen—a piece of the demon’s horn was severed and fell to the ground.

“Such a waste,” Balrog said softly.

The black flames of hell consumed Enkrid from the inside out. Once ignited, this fire would not stop until the soul was extinguished. It was one of Balrog’s divine rights. Enkrid bit his tongue to keep from screaming, but the fire had already turned the moisture in his mouth to steam. The scent of his own burning flesh filled his senses, permeating his very mind.

—*You shall be reborn within my walls. We will duel for eternity.*

Balrog’s voice echoed in his mind one last time. Enkrid barely processed the words; pain of this magnitude was impossible to get used to, regardless of how many times he had died. He only heard it through sheer stubbornness.

Balrog stared into Enkrid’s eyes. Even as life left them, the blue light within didn’t flicker. It looked like a cold, blue fire. Balrog found it magnificent.

—*Until we meet again.*

With a sense of genuine anticipation, Balrog watched the light fade. Enkrid entered the familiar darkness he had traversed so many times. He felt himself passing through the void of the end. He died once more.

And then—

—*What a ridiculous claim.*

From the depths of the void, another voice spoke. It was the Ferryman. It was a direct rebuttal to Balrog’s parting words, though the demon would never hear it. The message was for Enkrid alone.