A Knight Who Eternally Regresses Novel - Chapter 783

Chapter 783

Roman remained perplexed, but Jaxon paid only slight attention to Rem’s rambling and Shinar’s proclamations, letting the words drift through one ear while he expanded his perception.
The sensations intertwined—as if he had stepped into a demonic territory.
“Fine, let’s assume this location has transformed into a demon realm as well.”
Despite that minor distortion, the edge of his intuition did not grow blunt.
“Where is the Captain?”
The solution was present already.
“Balrog. Demon realm.”
Jaxon sharpened his focus and hunted for the most perilous spot. He understood the man named Enkrid. He was the sort who would, without fail, plant his feet where the path was most treacherous.
Jaxon’s vision shifted toward a pitch-black tunnel, yawning wide like the gullet of a massive predator. Though stalactites were absent, the environment had shifted into something resembling a colossal cavern.
“This marks the heart of the passage.”
From this point, several paths branched out in every direction. Jaxon’s intuition fixated on the most sinister, most disgusting one. The Will woven into his awareness surged and ignited, directing his choice. Simply sensing and identifying it consumed his Will.
It was evidence enough that engaging or doing anything within that space would be no small feat.
But was that a reason to retreat? Naturally not.
Jaxon maintained a neutral expression—but someone suddenly moved to stand beside him.
“Hey. You tracked it down, didn’t you?”
Just as Jaxon understood his Captain, Rem was familiar with the feral cat’s talent. If it was this man, he would find the trail. Regardless of the odds, he would.
He felt a fleeting longing for Dunbakel. Even with all the shamanic arts available, if it were the beastified Dunbakel, he might have caught the trail by scent alone.
Nevertheless, if the feral cat could take on that responsibility, then so be it.
Jaxon reflected for a brief moment.
He wasn’t in peak form, and this barbarian’s “stone throw” remained respectable. What he had witnessed earlier had made an impact.
“I’m not a fan of your eyes, though.”
Rem, the observant barbarian, complained. Jaxon looked away indifferently. While they spoke, Rophod looked back and inquired:
“Are we all retreating?”
The reply originated from Lua Gharne.
“We cannot. We still have to hold them back.”
Frokk voiced the most sensible reality for the moment. What would occur if they permitted them to break through?
Every person remaining in the demon realm would be butchered. Guarding the rear and maintaining the line was a pillar of engagement.
Frokk understood that rushing in as a single group was not the most effective tactic.
“Rophod, Pell, Teresa, stay here. I am staying as well.”
Her tone was sharp and clear. This wasn’t some dramatic vow to perish together.
In short, Rem, Audin, Jaxon, and Shinar would proceed.
Roman, caught in the middle of the talk, desperately wanted to clear his ear—or better yet, demand, “Are you people for real?”
“You witnessed that, and you still intend to divide the group?”
Whoosh.
Because of the torch brackets positioned along the oddly altered hall, there was plenty of illumination. The flames fixed to the masonry lit the area effectively.
And in that flickering light, the silhouettes shrouded in black vapor approaching were easily seen.
“Hey. That was merely the introduction.”
The tone didn’t quite sound like a human voice. Deep, heavy—not screaming, but it made the atmosphere vibrate.
Among the mindless enemies, a few were still prominent. You could tell by a glance—they were not simple adversaries.
One stood a full two heads taller than Audin, with arms wider than the thighs of most grown men. A Giant, the sort referred to as a Beast of Red Blood.
His hair was clumped with grease, as if he hadn’t washed in weeks—or perhaps months. The teeth revealed when he spoke were completely black.
“Move.”
Teresa commanded, composed and steady, even as the booming voice still vibrated in the air.
The Giant, advancing with footsteps like thunder, contorted his features in rage. His brows lifted, and his tensed jaw stuck out sharply. They were now at a point where feelings were legible—close enough for him to lung and strike.
Behind him, others stood in ranks like a military unit, carrying blades, lances, bludgeons, and hatchets. The Giant appeared every bit the commander leading his legion.
“Wait, what the—”
Roman had just started to speak to try and halt the movement.
“Mmm, what a rest.”
The sluggish fool who had napped through the entire crisis finally opened his eyes.
He even stretched like a feline as if nothing was wrong, and Rem, seeing this, couldn’t stop himself from muttering a curse.
“That insane lunatic… we should have left him to die.”
Even without force, anyone could perceive the honesty. It was a genuine hex.
“Where is the Captain?”
That was his primary question after rising.
“Oh, you couldn’t find the path? I’ll lead the way then.”
And that was his summary of the entire event.
“Just follow along quietly, Brother.”
Audin finally intervened, unable to watch the display any longer. Rem closed his mouth. He knew better—his axe would strike faster than his speech.
“This way.”
Jaxon traveled without concern, and Shinar trailed him.
“YOU—LITTLE—SHITS!”
The disregarded Giant bellowed.
“So incredibly loud.”
Rophod and Pell massaged their ears. No hint of dread was in their behavior.
“How on earth…”
Roman whispered. He couldn’t comprehend what he was seeing.
From a short distance, it was obvious why they were termed madmen—it went past simple recognition. He felt as though he had been tossed into the center of a storm.
He might perish. So how could they behave like this?
Not that it was aimed at him specifically, but Pell provided a response.
“Keep your vision sharp and stay near, timid Rophod. I’m surviving this and rising higher today.”
Rophod fired back immediately.
“Who’s timid? You moron Pell, you keep pace. I was always the one in front.”
The half-giant Teresa walked between them.
“Don’t waste your breath, little brothers.”
Lua Gharne puffed her cheeks and chuckled at the interaction.
“Ha! Even Frokk shall exceed his constraints today!”
A lash of fire, a loop sword, strange motions and tactical disorder.
Even with those as her tools, Lua Gharne had little she could manage against a genuine knight.
But she too desired to advance. She lacked nothing in ambition, possessed massive experience—and now she had her spark.
“If I cannot overcome it, I will perish.”
As Roman heard her whisper that once more, it hit him as well.
“I might die. You realize this is suicide, right?”
Those were the words his partner had uttered to him before they departed the city of Oara.
Correct.
All of this started because he desired to move forward. To ascend higher.
The mindset he possessed just before nearly being consumed by a parasite. That determination, momentarily forgotten, now flooded through his entire frame—and his Will acted on its own.
Even if he made it through this moment, Roman understood, by gut feeling, he wouldn’t turn into a knight by morning.
“But does that truly matter?”
What counted was not abandoning the desire to advance.
Why had Rem and the others departed? Because they all recognized—Enkrid was in peril.
Somewhere far more dangerous than this location, their Captain was out there. That is why they took action.
Not that they meant to leave this spot without a struggle.
“Let’s circle around a bit, Brother.”
Audin’s idea. Departing straight away would be too difficult for those staying behind.
Jaxon nodded without bothering to look back. Their pack turned slightly to the side, traveling along the periphery of the spirit legion.
“RAAH!”
The leading Giant lunged—but Teresa’s shield rim smashed his cranium, sending him collapsing.
She rotated, using her shield like a heavy club. Her nimbleness and impact force contradicted her huge frame. Teresa was ready to display everything she possessed.
And thus, the struggle commenced once more.
Of course, it was a conflict fated to recur without end—
—within Enkrid’s perpetually recurring day.

—

Inside the cycle of this endless “today,” Enkrid now stood before the Dullahan, verifying the man’s identity aloud once more.
“Dorapa?”
“…How do you possess my name?! No—It isn’t Dorapa, it is Donapha!”
A man with zero command over his pulses. Even in such a condition, he had the talent to make Enkrid stumble with a single dangerous blow.
Naturally, Enkrid had spoken purposefully before Donapha could put his full weight into his strike, tricking him into dropping his guard—then shortened the gap and fused flash-speed movement with lunges, connecting several flashes into a lightning-strike that tore the man’s frame into four segments.
At the conclusion of Dawn Tempering, his detached head dangled like a trophy. As Enkrid wiped his blade clean of gore, Donapha—now only a head—howled.
“My name is Donapha! Do! Na! Pha!”
With those final syllables, he melted into dark vapor and disappeared, leaving behind nothing but specks of grime.
“Too quick, perhaps?”
He had finished the first rival before the pair of short swords had even been unsheathed. And this man—Dullahan or otherwise, Dorapa or Donapha—had also been struck down in a single trade.
Maybe that was why the third rival with the single-edged blade was taking their time.
Even if they didn’t approach him, Enkrid could simply seek them out. Understanding what would occur inside this hall and what waited in the future, he advanced without pausing.
Through the dim tunnel he walked, until he encountered a rival standing like a landmark along the track.
“…What are you?”
That individual hesitated in bewilderment. Enkrid saw no reason to reply and forced them into a defensive state from the beginning.
By striking first, he pushed rivals who favored counter-attacks into a reactive position. The fight became much simpler than on the first day.
With a leg sweep that broke their equilibrium, he snatched the rival’s own technique and cleaved their skull.
The foe kept talking even as their detached head and jaw hung in the air.
“You once more…”
Whatever the man meant to say no longer mattered to Enkrid. He simply moved ahead.
And in front, near a small blaze, a blade leaned against a stone at an angle—a past bond waited.
The knight whose name had turned into a city looked up and caught Enkrid’s stare.
The ferryman had stepped in—but this was a spot soaked in the Authority of the demon. Had she too been pulled into this recurring “today”?
The sudden thought was dismissed by Oara herself.
“Ah, you have arrived.”
Her eyes were no different than they had been in the previous version of today. A bit startled, yet a bit hopeful.
“Shall we converse?”
Today cycled. And in this location, there was only a single captive.
At the conclusion of their short talk, the Red Moon ascended—and from Oara’s shadow and skin, Balrog opened his eyes.
—You are the one who summoned me, aren’t you?
The phrasing was a bit different than the last time, but Enkrid could see from Balrog’s tone: even the demon was unaware. The ferryman’s meddling was unknown to everyone.
“Yes, that’s me.”
Enkrid dropped any inquiry he could not solve, pulled Dawn Tempering, and flung the sheath behind him. In fact, he even unfastened Penna from its sheath and threw it back as well.
As he held the blade and concentrated, his Will solidified and created a physical edge.
Fflutter—
Feeling his resolve, the mantle provided by the fairies caught the breeze and shifted. Its width began to contract until it turned into a narrow scarf, then coiled around his throat in a single turn before clicking into place.
Enkrid’s gaze became still.
Balrog’s weight began to climb—a shackle that tied the entire body. An unseen power that practiced crushing control.
Enkrid answered with Will dipped in defiance—hitting back with focus—and the two horns on Balrog’s brow twitched.
A gesture.
It signaled consent.
Once more, Balrog waited until the weight had been conquered. Likely, this too was part of his entertainment.
This, perhaps, was one of his many tests—only those who could withstand his weight were worthy of crossing blades with him.
He didn’t exploit the gaps his aura produced. That poise—what others might use to crush a rival’s spirit—was, for Balrog, simply a matter of certainty.
To watch and not lunge in that second meant he believed nothing could change the result. It brought doubt into one’s Will.
It was immediately after Enkrid broke that weight with pure defiance.
He still held the blade in both hands. And in the following moment, Dawn Tempering cut downward through the crimson moonlight.
No alert. No breath. No cue.
This was the highest he could achieve in a first strike.
As the sword sliced through the air with a whistle, Enkrid felt the time around him decelerate. It was like moving through thick sludge—every action flattened beneath colossal weight.
Inside Balrog’s eyes, circles lit with fire spun quickly—then stopped.
Those glowing pupils seemed to inquire:
“Is that your best?”
In this version of today, before Enkrid had even discovered his name, Balrog’s dark fire blade, Surtr, lifted and crashed into the sky-colored Dawn Tempering.
Clang!
The second fight started.
Not much had shifted from before. There was no time to process what he’d gathered from the initial bout.
But was that an issue?
He hadn’t thrown away a single “today.” That is how he had reached this point. So he would keep doing exactly that.
Enkrid fought with all he had. He stormed. And he failed.
Thud!
The burning lash—Salamandra, both fire serpent and tool—coiled around his left arm and stabbed his heart.
It was the gap he’d left while parrying Surtr and Balrog’s horns.
Hurt. Misery. To forget it, he turned his head and analyzed the conflict again and again.
He thought he was still conscious—still holding on.
But before he realized it, gloom washed over him.
And in the middle of replaying the duel in his mind, the ferryman’s gaze silently shifted toward Enkrid.