A Knight Who Eternally Regresses Novel - Chapter 784

Chapter 784

A pair of orbs drifted in the obsidian expanse of the firmament. There was no more accurate way to phrase it. They weren’t a vessel; they simply suspended themselves in the void. The pilot of this crossing made no move to welcome him, standing still and observing him in absolute silence. Enkrid felt a weight in the gloom that crushed his spirit entirely.

The eye hovering above the ferryman’s form had expanded to the scale of a celestial body. It glared down, its voice echoing directly into Enkrid’s mind.
“Perpetual agony. To writhe within that torment—this is the path you have embraced. Even if you find release after centuries of being chained to this domain, would the ‘you’ that emerges be the same soul standing here now? By then, you will have shifted into something like ‘me.’ Even without surrender, without losing hope, without stumbling—the result remains unchanged.”

As the ferryman uttered these words, his ocular form began to disintegrate like rotting timber or peeling paint, falling away like shards of ashen sleet. Unlike previous encounters, these words carried a resonance that rattled Enkrid to his core. They weren’t merely a forecast; they were a finalized reality.

Was he supposed to cower now, like a youth paralyzed by fright? Or should he defy this conclusion and demand a different resolution?
Pain. Panic. Horror.
Every emotion fused into a sharp pike that pierced through Enkrid’s chest. The ethereal edge sliced through his beating heart before being jerked back out. Crimson followed the blade’s exit in a thin thread, as if the weapon and the man were tethered by their shared vitality.

The gray debris never touched him. It dissolved into nothingness mid-descent.
‘No, perhaps it resembles snow more than hail.’
The vision snapped. The reverie shattered.

Stagnant air, a throb of lingering ache, and the cold, familiar weight of a harsh existence flooded back into his consciousness. Enkrid, returning to the waking world, slowly lifted his palm. It paused briefly over his chest, as if checking the phantom wound. Then it swept upward through his hair. His voice emerged without a hint of hesitation.
“Fine.”

He recognized that he had arrived at his third “today,” and he gave the ferryman’s warnings no weight at all. Though the speech had been seared into his essence like a hot iron, Enkrid brushed past it. Only he possessed that capacity. His resolve was more than just hardened; it had expanded so vastly that it seemed to crowd out his very life. It had to be so. If his spirit were brittle enough to snap, it would have been dust a long time ago.

“Madman.”
The ferryman’s specter hissed from the edges of the vanishing dream. The weight was gone from his voice, but Enkrid paid no mind. He was already preoccupied with his next movement—his next strike.

“A visitor has arrived?”
It was time to commence the day’s labor. At the prompt, Enkrid’s frame responded instinctively. He wiped away the ghosts of his previous “today” with a single, fluid motion.

Pretending to stumble, Enkrid launched the Horn-Trumpet Dagger. His right hand whipped past his torso with a speed he had never achieved before. With a sharp snap, his mantle flared, and the dagger let out a wail as it took flight.
Pwoo-oo!
The projectile Jaxon so thoroughly despised streaked toward the target’s brow. The intruder flinched, dodging in a frantic blur, but the man who threw it was already closing the distance.

He moved in a low crouch, his boots barely skimming the floor. It was a hushed charge, a blend of Jaxon’s unique footwork. Enkrid accelerated, unsheathing his steel while in full sprint.
Swiing!
By the time the metal sang against the scabbard’s throat, the point was already seeking the enemy’s windpipe. The adversary pulled a blade from his left sleeve to deflect the Horn-Trumpet Dagger and tried to draw a secondary blade from his hip with his right hand.

Enkrid offered no window for a counter-move.
The shorter blade attempted to rise and catch the path of Dawn Tempering—but it was too slow. The steel punched straight through his throat.
Ting ting ting, thunk.
The desperation-drawn shortsword met Dawn Tempering and threw off sparks. Shards of metal chipped away from the blade, which fell clattering to the stones.
Spk!
Enkrid ripped the sword from the neck, leaving a void from which a dark mist erupted. Having neutralized the first threat, he surged onward.

Ching, ting.
Guiding Dawn Tempering back into its resting place, Enkrid popped his neck and fixed his gaze forward. The shadows of the hallway revealed strange properties as he moved. Torches burned, yet their radiance only touched specific patches. It felt as though the dark held territory that the light was forbidden to enter.

Scrutiny was his second nature—a skill inherited from Jaxon and sharpened through Lua Gharne. Enkrid cataloged every visual, sound, and sensation. Whether the data was vital remained to be seen. This environment was fundamentally opposed to his existence. The fact that it was a foreign construct built by his foes only solidified that truth. Would understanding its layout help? Perhaps. Like Jaxon, Enkrid had already sensed that this place felt like a demonic domain.

Regardless of its nature, the reality was simple—he had to engage in combat repeatedly. And so, Enkrid proceeded. He moved through the hall and encountered his next hurdle.
“Greetings, Donapha.”
This time, he got the name right.
“You are aware of who I am?”

For the Enkrid of this moment, striking an unsuspecting foe was effortless. At the sound of his name, the guard wavered—and in that split second, Enkrid surged forward and swung. Dawn Tempering drew a cold, azure line through the air—a straight, diagonal cut. This time, he integrated the patterns of both Vortex and Oara’s martial arts.
Skkkrrrk!
Vapor hissed from the soles of his custom footwear. He had dug his heels in mid-dash, using the friction for a sudden shift in momentum.
Tunk!
The blow landed across the chest, the throat, the equine-shaped helmet, and the temple—all in a single, continuous motion. The foe attempted to retaliate with a massive axe but failed.

Of course he failed. This was a target Enkrid had bested with ease even before the cycle began. This was his third attempt. He could now identify the exact flaws in the opponent’s guard—and he exploited them without mercy.
‘Leave no openings. Create a path too rapid to obstruct.’
Whether it was the initial guard or Donapha in the form of a Dullahan, the tactic remained constant. Enkrid added a layer of speed control using Will, a trick he had picked up from the Zaun lineage.
‘Line Explosion.’

Ultimately, Dawn Tempering never even touched the axe. The opponent didn’t even try to parry. Realizing he couldn’t halt the blade, he stopped aiming for the sword and targeted the man instead.
Whoosh.
Just before the end, the giant axe came down in a vertical arc exactly where Enkrid had been standing.
Boom!

The swing failed because Enkrid had already moved past. The axe, swung with the momentum of falling halfway off a spectral steed, cracked the floor with a thunderous impact.
‘If I had tried to stop that directly, the weight would have been immense.’
Even as a dying, half-completed strike, the energy behind that axe was formidable. And that wasn’t even its full potential.

Either way, this was the third time he’d faced this man. Enkrid stepped beyond the gloom toward the torchlight. The path was unyielding and straight. At the far end stood Balrog.
Was this a road that terminated in a grave?
“Precisely,” the ferryman’s image concurred. A mere hallucination, of course. He held no voice in the waking world.

Eventually, when Enkrid stood before the rival wielding the single-edged blade, the man tilted his head in a curious fashion.
“What now?”
Without a word, the foe charged. The duel was brief. The same methods applied. Close every door. Utilize every scrap of knowledge. His prowess and planning were superior.
“You pragmatic bastard.”

Enkrid, receiving a final insult from a man whose torso was now disconnected from his legs, soon found Oara again.
“Ah, you’ve arrived.”
Even as Oara spoke, Enkrid’s intellect was busy mapping out dozens of vectors, forming geometric patterns, keeping the math in constant motion.
‘Can I dominate him through pure calculation?’
After two prior engagements, he felt he had grasped something that Balrog was missing. He intended to put it to the test.

“It’s been a while—I thought we might talk for a bit.”
Oara spoke, and he gave his replies.
“Ah, yes.”
Enkrid was distant. He was already drowning in his own thoughts, the variables spinning in his mind.
“Hey, just… be careful, okay?”
It wasn’t that Enkrid had remained silent. He shared everything he was aware of—including details about Roman. He simply didn’t join her in the laughter of old memories.
“Yeah. Let’s finish Balrog first.”

Regardless of his words, his intent remained unwavering. Once again, Oara’s shadow twisted—and Balrog stepped through. Embers trailed from his eyes in long, spinning ribbons. He gazed at Enkrid with a faint flicker of intrigue.
—Have our paths crossed before?
Was he beginning to feel the friction of the loop?
No. It wasn’t that.
It was a realization Enkrid would only reach after five more “todays.” Balrog had spoken because of the expression in Enkrid’s eyes. A look that met his own without flinching—a gaze that carried a spirit sharpened into a razor.

Few mortals could witness his aura and remain so collected. To meet two such souls in a short span? That was rare. That meant recently, perhaps even before Enkrid, he had encountered someone of similar mettle. He had existed so long that the passage of time had lost its meaning. In that ocean of emptiness, such a mortal sparked a rare flame of interest. That fascination stirred Balrog’s core.

Like a runaway chariot pulled by frenzied stallions, he surged past three contenders in a single burst. As always, after his dialogue with Oara—
—Observe.
The eighteenth “today.”
For Enkrid, the timing felt strangely fractured.
Fwoosh.
Balrog unfurled his wings and indicated three jewels set into his chest. Three enigmatic, polished black stones glinted against his crimson hide.
“Hmm?”
Enkrid tilted his head. Balrog viewed even that small motion as a curiosity.
—This is my source. Destroy all three simultaneously, and the victory is yours.

Should he ask why the secret was being revealed? No—there was no window for questions.
“Ah.”
Enkrid simply hummed and gave a nod of understanding.
Balrog’s mouth pulled into a smirk. Whether he possessed godlike power or not, he occupied the world with limbs, a heart, and breath. He was capable of laughter. Some spirits expressed themselves differently, but he remained visceral.
—Intriguing.
With genuine interest, he presented Salamandra and Urtt.
A crimson, serpentine whip and a blade wreathed in obsidian fire erupted in salutation.
Whoosh!
Simultaneously, Balrog spread his wings to their full extent.
Is this how a deity prepared for flight? Perhaps. It was fundamentally no different from Frokk inflating his cheeks. Enkrid’s stillness didn’t break, even under the pressure of a demon’s wings.

Should he offer a greeting in return?
Before he could decide, his mantle shifted of its own accord.
Flarararak.
The cloak gifted by the fairies expanded on its own, despite the dead air of the corridor. It grew to match the span of Balrog’s wings, snapping behind him.
Zzzzing.
At the same time, his scabbard vibrated—Dawn Tempering emitted a resonant cry.

While it appeared the cloak and blade acted independently, they moved because Enkrid’s spirit had stirred. He locked his hand around the hilt. Steel and flesh became a single entity—and with that union came absolute certainty. Just gripping the weapon made him feel as though nothing was impossible. A wave of supreme confidence washed over him.
But he had to remain grounded. Giving in to that sensation would lead to his ruin. If he lost the reins of his focus, Balrog’s flame-sword would turn his skull to cinders. He knew that intimately—he had lived it more than once.

Chrrrrring.
Maintaining his hold, he drew the blade. The azure radiance of Dawn Tempering flooded the dark hall, physically shoving the shadows back. Behind that glowing metal, two blue eyes burned with a ferocious intent—before quickly settling into a low glow.
But the fire didn’t die. Like coals that outlast a roaring flame, the steady blue light in his eyes continued to project his presence. To Balrog, Enkrid’s eyes looked like twin blue moons rising to challenge the Red Moon. Moons that held their own heat.

Enkrid had initiated every cycle with a slight variation, keeping a mental tally of the “todays” he had endured.
‘Eighteen times.’
That meant he had practiced and perfected the strategy he conceived on the third day more than ten times over. Under normal circumstances, it might have taken him hundreds of days. The Enkrid of the past might not have managed it even then. No matter the repetitions—hundreds, thousands—he wouldn’t have reached this level. His physical form would have failed him.
But he was no longer that man.

‘Let’s begin.’
Tap. He kicked a pebble as he lunged forward.
He would do whatever was necessary to triumph. That fundamental truth remained.
He visualized hundreds of lines between himself and the demon. Strike zones tangled, territories overlapped. Countless potential futures flashed through Enkrid’s mind. His consciousness expanded, his perception pushed to its absolute boundary.

Balrog swung his sword, remaining within the range of Enkrid’s foresight—his speed and path were familiar now. The black-flame blade dropped in a vertical, uncompromising strike. The move had no follow-up—it was a singular, disconnected blow.
Enkrid met it with a powerful swing of Dawn Tempering.
Bam!
He parried the blade—and the struggle resumed.
And once more—
Enkrid died.