A Knight Who Eternally Regresses Novel - Chapter 788

Chapter 788

“Is this entertaining to you?”
“Are you actually finding joy in this? Right now?”
“You act as if today is your final day on earth.”
Throughout his life, Enkrid had encountered numerous combat masters, and the majority of them tended to voice the same sentiments.
But he couldn’t help his nature. At this very moment, he was having the time of his life. It was genuinely enjoyable.
“…What is the reason for your laughter?”
The question came from his most recent mentor in the art of the blade.
The instructor had traded his previous pair of fire-conjuring blades for two matching swords—only this time, the steel radiated a bone-chilling frost that could flash-freeze skin upon contact.
As the teacher rotated the weapons rhythmically in his grip, ripples of frigid air spilled outward.
It seemed like the perfect remedy for a heatwave, Enkrid noted.
That was the essence of the weaponry.
The circling steel pushed the warmth away, dropping the temperature of the immediate vicinity.
‘Does it generate cold, or is it pulling the warmth out of the environment?’
To master a relic or an enchanted tool, one had to comprehend its inner mechanics. If the design and logic were a mystery, the only path to mastery was through relentless trial and error.
That was the path his rival had taken.
“A specialized tool handled poorly is a blade with two edges that strikes the owner.” Jaxon frequently offered that wisdom. Instructor Rino navigated that danger with mastery. He possessed the rare talent of carving through his target while remaining completely untouched by his own lethality.
‘What lessons can I extract from this mentor?’
A slow-witted pupil gains nothing from their guide, while a mediocre one might seize a single concept from a lecture.
But a truly sharp student? From one single demonstration, they grasp five or even ten distinct layers.
When it came to the pursuit of knowledge, Enkrid stood alone on the continent.
Across every species, his natural aptitude was unmatched.
He was a thief of knowledge, snatching insights that his masters didn’t even intend to reveal.
‘Is he a master of misdirection?’
On the surface, it appeared so, but when analyzing his psychological maneuvers—the verbal games—Rino didn’t offer much. That aspect of his skill was unrefined. Instead, it was a handful of particular physical patterns that grabbed Enkrid’s attention.
What set them apart?
Rino extended his limbs wide, resembling a massive avian predator. The dual swords stirred the freezing atmosphere as they carved through the air.
The sight invoked the image of Balrog striking out with his wings. Balrog had previously demonstrated how to turn wings into lethal instruments.
And these particular blades—a mere graze would turn flesh to ice.
‘It is as if Balrog is merging the properties of Surtr with his own wings.’
It was a logical deduction.
Surtr, the blade that called forth obsidian flames, was a weapon that forbade even the slightest contact.
Rino’s current form perfectly captured the essence of his tools.
The movements looked like wings because they were expansive and sweeping.
That motion, which appeared unnecessarily theatrical, was actually chilling the local climate.
No—it wasn’t just cooling. It was crystallizing the air itself.
Enkrid noticed a light dusting of rime forming on his skin before he had even processed the sensation.
Currently, it was just a minor chill, but if that seemingly erratic dance continued, it would soon escalate into a physical constraint that would paralyze his agility.
He didn’t need to deliberate—instinct signaled the danger. There was no need to re-examine the logic.
There was a deeper truth to be found here. As he suspected, Instructor Rino’s true strength wasn’t in mental games.
“Go ahead, keep your smile.”
Rino spoke, and Enkrid’s grin remained.
How could it not?
People said a brilliant student could see ten things in one lesson. But Enkrid—the fanatic—thrived on the process of learning. He found the acquisition of knowledge just as exhilarating as the clash of steel or the journey forward. Furthermore, he had tapped into a fresh perspective.
‘The absolute mastery of a tool.’
It wasn’t just about knowing how to cut or how to freeze; it was about altering the very environment to serve his purposes.
‘The twin blades that blind functioned on the same logic.’
His previous set of swords produced intense heat and flames when swung at high velocity. By striking them together with precise power, he could create a blinding radiance.
Robbing an opponent of their sight in that manner—that was a signature move of Instructor Rino.
‘Incredible. Every single time.’
That was his internal reaction. However, that didn’t mean he was content to be a passive target.
Enkrid launched himself forward before the frost could settle into his marrow. He sprang from the earth and lashed out with his blade, painting a sky-hued arc through the air.
It was a basic, elegant strike—yet the teacher evaded it. He lunged sideways and glided across the terrain, leaving a trail of ghost-like images behind. Enkrid had witnessed this maneuver many times. It was an elite footwork technique.
A lateral burst of speed achieved by briefly crossing the legs to generate momentum.
Enkrid had observed it sufficiently and had even spent time mimicry-training it while on the ferryman’s vessel. The obsessive student now pursued his teacher’s ghost.
The sword, following its arc, suddenly jerked mid-motion and lunged horizontally.
“…!”
The instructor’s gaze snapped wide in pure astonishment as he brought both of his frost-rimed blades up to intercept.
That was a fatal error.
Clang!
Dawn Tempering was a weapon that, when called upon, could strike with the devastating weight of a massive claymore.
The sky-colored steel shattered both of the frozen blades and carved a deep line across the instructor’s torso. From that rupture, dark vapors began to leak out like smoke.
“You—!”
Overpowered by the sheer violence of the impact, the teacher tumbled backward before stabilizing. He landed on all fours, lifting only his gaze to address his student.
Rino was aware the strike was mortal. But that reality belonged to the time when he possessed a pulse. Now, the rules were altered. He could still vocalize. He could still move.
But that didn’t mean he was capable of continuing the duel. He wasn’t going to throw himself back into the fray.
Yet, a bitter feeling churned within him.
That specific movement from moments ago—it was his own invention. And this boy had simply mimicked it? After a single look? No—he hadn’t even seen the full execution. He had replicated it from a mere fragment.
“You pilfered my art?”
It was undeniable to any observer. Rino’s eyes pulsed with shock.
‘He witnessed it once? No—he didn’t even see the whole sequence, and he reproduced it right in front of me?’
It wasn’t just a physical step. It involved the flow of Will. Was it truly possible for someone to mirror that after one observation? He hadn’t even seen the completion of the move and yet he performed it.
Even with heightened perception, it defied logic.
The world shouldn’t contain such a prodigy. It was a string of impossibilities. At least, that was how Rino saw it.
But Enkrid—he had watched it an innumerable amount of times in a period Rino couldn’t fathom. He had practiced the motion endlessly, enduring the ferryman’s insults while training on the deck of the boat.
“Looking to fall into the water again? Training out here? I’ve never seen a fool like you.”
He had heard those words and still performed the movement hundreds of times.
“Regardless, it’s not right.”
As the spark in his eyes faded, the teacher whispered. Enkrid gave a small nod. He felt the same.
“…Horrible wretch.”
Rino labeled Enkrid with a final, biting phrase—and ended his own existence. Suddenly, a small blade had appeared in his grip. Remaining on his knees, he raised it and drove it into his own throat.
The teacher dissolved into dark smoke and drifted away.
That signaled the conclusion of the day’s first instruction.
‘His mastery isn’t in trickery. It’s in application.’
Sentiments from his past resonated in his mind.
“Your worth is determined by how you command your steel.”
For a soldier of fortune, a blade is a second soul. That was a lesson from his former captain.
‘How to truly command a weapon…’
Zzzzng.
As he pondered, Dawn Tempering emitted a soft hum.
Flaaap.
The fairy cloak drifted on its own, catching an invisible breeze.
The air within the cavern was motionless, yet the fabric stirred.
‘Have I ever actually utilized my gear to its full potential?’
He also possessed several horn-blade daggers, Penna, cloth-bound gauntlets, and the protective gear crafted from fairy foliage. That suit had even been touched by Esther’s vitality.
Settling his thoughts, Enkrid proceeded toward his second mentor.
“I am called Donapha!”
An instructor who was easily riled and preferred to end things with a single, massive blow. This encounter would be brief.
Donapha brought nothing but a heavy axe, the plate on his back, and a spectral horse.
“A radical mindset.”
He ignored everything except for a solitary axe swing. That was why Donapha’s strikes carried more weight than his physical frame should allow. It brought to mind the technique Roman had once displayed during his days as an aspiring knight. On one occasion, Roman had swung his blade with the authority of a true knight, despite his lower rank.
Roman came to mind because the warrior ahead moved along an identical path.
If Instructor Rino had lectured on the application of tools, the lesson from the second guide, Donapha, was much more direct.
“Uncomplicated thought.”
He weaponized simplicity to bypass complexity.
That directness was more aggressive than simple focus. Like a draft horse wearing blinkers, charging forward with eyes fixed only on the destination.
Blinkers are used to shut out a horse’s side vision so it only sees the path ahead, removing all distractions and allowing it to move with maximum efficiency.
‘Donapha’s alternative perceptions were likely suppressed as well.’
He was the polar opposite of the meticulous Jaxon. This was why, when Donapha committed to a swing, he often left his own safety entirely behind.
Intricate, multi-faceted thinking might serve well in planning, but during the moment of total focus, it acts as a pollutant.
Donapha purged all such pollutants. He might not grasp the underlying physics of this maze, but it was obvious by now that these entities were former knights.
Donapha, this headless rider, must have held that same mindset even when he walked among the living.
It was as if his entire existence had been tuned to the frequency of an axe stroke.
However, there was no reason to adopt that entirely.
‘That would be a step backward.’
Enkrid seized and integrated lessons from his teachers, certainly—but he processed them through his own lens.
Because he was perpetually hungry for knowledge, his form, mindset, and mental processing had all reached new heights. It was nothing short of an evolutionary leap.
‘Simplifying the consciousness only when the moment demands it.’
It evoked memories of Ragna, who always appeared so relaxed and loose. He was terrible at explaining things with words, but he had been a profound teacher nonetheless.
Simply watching his daily habits provided a wealth of knowledge.
‘That relaxed stance is a method of clearing the mind. The shift that occurs when the hand closes on the hilt—that is the transition in thought that calls forth the Will.’
It was sufficient to adopt that directness through a mental shift. Absolute focus only when required.
‘A single point of concentration is all that is needed.’
More specifically, it was a profound immersion into that point. How? By pruning away the branches of doubt and discarding the noise.
That was the takeaway from Donapha’s singular axe strike.
It is said that the blue derived from indigo is even more vivid than the source.
Just as a tiny spark from a campfire can ignite a forest.
“Ah?”
Donapha’s blade sliced through nothingness. This happened just after Enkrid had focused on parrying and evading that direct thought process.
Enkrid’s steel cut through Donapha’s midsection. To an observer, it looked like a Dullahan on a ghost horse had leaned back and charged, while Enkrid, standing his ground, shifted his weight and also lunged, the two passing each other in a heartbeat.
In that exchange, Donapha’s axe found only air, while Enkrid’s Dawn Tempering passed through the waist of the phantom warrior.
Slice.
Dawn Tempering could achieve the precision of Penna when required. This was a flat cut that utilized that razor edge.
“I have been bested, it seems.”
Donapha’s torso slid and hit the ground. His voice emerged from a spot separate from his fallen frame. As per usual, the head did the talking.
He met his end with total honesty and zero delay. Just like his combat style, his acceptance was immediate.
Enkrid moved on to find his third teacher.
All of this, naturally, was the payoff of extensive training. It was also the reward for the countless hours spent swinging his sword on the ferryman’s boat.
“Are you attempting to challenge me now?”
The ferryman had once remarked, observing his drills. He hadn’t meant it as a real question—just a bit of mockery.
The One-Edged Sword Wielder narrowed her vision the second she spotted Enkrid. She was clearly in a different league. The aura emanating from her was physical—it felt like standing before a massive stone rampart.
“So you managed to bypass Donapha.”
Her expertise lay in the overwhelming power generated by keeping up offensive pressure. That intensity showed her true caliber. Her combat rhythm was remarkably sustained.
That extended rhythm was her greatest asset.
However, it only functioned while she was the aggressor. Once forced into a defensive posture, her rhythm shattered, her breath hitched, and her movements—both hands and feet—lost their edge. The difference between her offense and defense was staggering.
‘A catastrophic flaw.’
She could find bliss while attacking, but when pushed back, her spirit couldn’t sustain the effort.
Even as she spoke, her breathing followed a specific, identifiable pattern. She drew in long, shallow drafts of air.
And even that—observing it, learning it, and making it his own—was profoundly entertaining.
In his quiet moments, like those on the ferryman’s deck, he had frequently practiced that specific breathing as a form of mental exercise. Not because he was desperate. It was just that the act of learning and mastering techniques from these souls was too much fun to stop.
“Why are you doing those breathing exercises here?”
Naturally, the ferryman had complained incessantly.
If you permitted the One-Edged Sword Wielder to strike first, she would unleash a torrent of blows. By watching her, he had learned to synchronize his breath with hers.
Then, at the exact moment her breathing faltered, he would flip from defense to attack and strike.
He didn’t just strike—he did so by mimicking her own philosophy.
“You—how could you possibly…?”
Aside from Donapha, these two were perceptive. They realized what Enkrid had accomplished and were consistently stunned.
“Just lucky, I suppose.”
He offered a non-committal reply, and the light in the woman’s eyes began to fail. Common people often meet those more gifted than themselves, but those called geniuses rarely face someone who completely eclipses their own potential.
That is why encounters like this unnerve them so deeply.
Furthermore, the One-Edged Sword Wielder’s psyche couldn’t be healthy.
Existing within the confines of the maze, held captive by Balrog—how could her mind be intact?
Enkrid finished her and moved forward. He met with Oara, had a brief exchange—and then stood before Balrog.
It was the 154th “today.”
In all those attempts, he had never succeeded in breaking the gems on Balrog’s chest. He could smash one, but never the full set of three. A blind charge was useless. To shatter even a single gem, he had to be willing to sacrifice his own life.
That was a trade Enkrid would never accept—it was suicide, not victory.
Still, he had fought and bled.
And yet, Balrog stood as an immovable obstacle.
Then, before the start of the 155th “today,” the ferryman, finally reaching his limit, at last revealed the path to breaking the cycle.
“Pay attention.”
It was as if he were saying: Fine, you win.