A Knight Who Eternally Regresses Novel - Chapter 789

Chapter 789

“Bow your head and plead. Balrog will spare your life.”
Just surrender and supplicate.
Beg for the chance to breathe.
That is the path to surviving this moment and fleeing. Turn tail and leave. Meeting him head-on isn’t your only choice. Gather your strength and return to challenge him another time.
Isn’t retreat a valid strategy as well?
The boatman’s visage seemed to transform several times over as the words left his lips.
A deep emerald spark flickered within his dark eyes, and for a fleeting second, a tarnished golden glow emerged from the depths of his hood. Yet, despite these shifts, his outward demeanor remained stoic. He spoke with a flat, detached cadence, offering his advice without a shred of emotion.
Listening to him was akin to reading a dry, academic manuscript. There was no malice or hidden agenda, only cold, hard reality. Much like such a text, Enkrid found a certain logical weight to the boatman’s suggestions.
“Are you truly going to let this day consume you? To be torn apart by a hound that slaughtered its own kin and fled—that is a pathetic way to fall.”
Enkrid found some of the phrasing puzzling.
Slaughtered kin? Ran away?
Contextually, it appeared to be a scathing remark directed at Balrog.
Yet, why would he advise bowing down to such a creature?
The reasoning felt fractured, but when considering what the boatman truly wanted, the contradiction wasn’t entirely baffling.
“Escape this day.”
To be more exact: Do not let yourself be trapped in the present.
That was the boatman’s ultimate desire.
Enkrid possessed a volatile sense of wonder. Much like a sudden burst of creativity hitting a master painter, his curiosity would ignite without warning. Usually, he allowed the world’s noise to drift past him, but occasionally, a specific phrase would snag on his consciousness and demand an answer.
“A hound that killed its kin and fled? What does that signify?”
This curiosity was invariably linked to the arts of war, discipline, growth, or his personal ambitions—though the boatman couldn’t possibly track the winding path of his logic.
Not even the boatman could fully map the labyrinthine depths of Enkrid’s psyche.
In truth, Enkrid struggled to fully grasp his own nature. Such is the complexity of the soul.
Regardless, Enkrid posed the question, and the boatman provided a stiff, clipped response.
“It is of no consequence.”
The lantern held by the boatman swung slightly. That minor vibration cast a violet radiance across the space, causing the shadows to dance and stretch.
The vessel had expanded to twice its standard dimensions. This phenomenon was familiar to Enkrid.
Whenever he submerged himself in deep training even within his slumber—perfecting the lessons of the three mentors who refused to take even a single coin—the boatman would enlarge the craft.
Despite everything, one truth stood firm in Enkrid’s mind: the boatman was desperate for him to avoid a stalemate with Balrog. His actions spoke with far more urgency than his monotone voice ever could.
The intent was crystal clear.
Reflecting on it, Enkrid had been in the company of this boatman for years.
The figure was the only witness to Enkrid’s deepest truth—a reality no other living soul would credit.
Enkrid’s mind began to churn. There was no need to force the process. This was a realm of the psyche, after all—his internal domain.
In this space, cognitions moved with the speed of lightning. In an instant, Enkrid simply allowed the seeds of thought to drink deep and flourish.
If left to grow, they would reach their own inevitable fruit. It was a rhythm he had mastered through trial and error.
“The boatman is aiding my development.”
He was goading him, pushing him to scale the insurmountable.
“But why?”
The moment the query surfaced, the realization followed. He already understood. It was a conviction he had confirmed three times now.
The boatman loathed the “today” that involved Balrog. The reason was simple: it was a day defined by misery.
It was not the version of reality the boatman wished to see.
He craved a day of serenity and grace. Even if conflict was required, it shouldn’t be born of such wretched desperation.
“You will never conquer this. If you remain shackled to this moment for a century or two, this becomes the boundary. This becomes your eternal present.”
The boatman spoke once more, cutting through Enkrid’s internal monologue as if to disrupt his focus. Enkrid remained composed. To a spectator, it might look like one party was desperately pleading while the other remained cold.
“Frenzied beastman—if you seek to touch the immortal, this is not the hour for it.”
Is it not always the one who is most anxious who speaks the loudest?
Having processed the warning, Enkrid reached up to rub the back of his neck and offered a casual dismissal.
“Yeah. I’ll pass.”
His refusal was devoid of doubt. His posture was as relaxed as his timing.
“So you choose to remain in this day?”
The boatman pushed for an answer.
“No, that’s not what I’m saying.”
Enkrid gave a slow shake of his head.
“Do you… do you truly believe you can best this on your own?”
The boatman’s Resolve slammed into him, a heavy, layered pressure that vibrated through his very marrow. The surrounding waters churned violently in response to his words, and the vessel pitched.
Though this was a world of the mind, for Enkrid, it felt as tangible as the earth beneath his feet—he had full agency over his form here.
Keeping his footing easily on the rolling boat, a subtle grin touched Enkrid’s lips. It was a look of absolute conviction.
“No.”
That was his final word on the matter. The swirling river rose up to consume the boatman. The figure’s form crumbled into shimmering indigo dust and vanished. Meanwhile, Enkrid felt himself becoming light, drifting upward toward the pulsing radiance above.
“Then you must back those words with action.”
The boatman’s parting words drifted through the air like a distant shout.
Enkrid’s “no” had carried two distinct weights.
First: a promise that he would not stay stagnant in this moment.
And second:
“What makes you think I’m by myself?”
He wasn’t fighting alone.
That was the crux of it.
Or at least, something to that effect.
Past that, stray thoughts—natural fragments of his consciousness—began to reach out, intertwining like serpents locked in a circular dance.
Enkrid expertly channeled these disparate thoughts toward a single point of impact.
To prostrate himself before Balrog would mean shattering his own spirit—abandoning the very principles of his existence just to keep breathing.
In the end, the boatman hadn’t changed at all. This proposition was identical to the one he’d offered in a previous loop. Regardless of the circumstances, the boatman only ever suggested a hollow, cowardly survival.
“And where is the joy in that?”
Living such a day held zero value for Enkrid.
It wasn’t fulfilling. More than that, it was a slap in the face to the ambition he had held since he was a boy—the dream of knighthood, an achievement he had, in a sense, already grasped.
Existence and the void are two edges of the same blade. Since he was the one walking that edge, he alone would decide how he carried himself.
And to beg? That was a role for the weak. It meant handing the reins of his fate to Balrog.
Even if he survived, his spirit would eventually turn to ash. Once you’ve crawled on your belly to beg for mercy, the core of your being is gone.
If the pillar of Resolve he had painstakingly constructed were to fall—what would remain?
A stranger might think Enkrid lived only for the immediate present. But they would be wrong.
He was always a man walking toward the sunrise.
Regardless of the boatman’s advice, Enkrid had his own path to forge.
“If you continue like this, you’ll be imprisoned in this moment.”
The boatman’s warning echoed in his mind.
He grasped the gravity of it.
If the goal was merely to leave this day behind, he had discovered the method a long time ago.
As for the idea that he couldn’t do it solo? He conceded that point as well.
After attempting to break through the barrier countless times, Enkrid’s perspective had shifted and grown.
He had discarded the prideful notion that every victory had to be won in isolation.
A more fluid mind allowed him to weigh various factors, to run the numbers and determine the necessary path.
How had he mastered the ability to feel the rhythm of combat through raw intuition?
He owed that to Abnaier—the brilliant tactician who had once ensnared him, now a captive of the Border Guard.
Having lived through this day so many times, that tactical sense had become a part of his soul.
That accumulated wisdom had formed a beacon of instinct, a light that still burned bright, showing him the truth of the world.
Iteration and growth.
The cycle of thought returned to its starting point.
So—just how many “todays” had Enkrid endured?
He had lost count. The mere fact that his psyche hadn’t cracked was enough for the boatman to give him a grudging respect.
Deep down, a part of the boatman’s essence honored him for that resilience.
Of course, Enkrid would never be privy to those hidden feelings.
And so, after so much repetition, his perception had reached a razor’s edge. If he found himself stalled in time, he could already perceive the path ahead. It was a dark, infinite void—yet he trusted that if he persevered, the beacon’s glow would eventually reveal the way.
This was an accidental evolution, a secondary trait the boatman hadn’t foreseen.
The radiance pulled him in once more, returning him to the present reality.
Facing the familiar cycle of time and truth, Enkrid mentally reviewed his arsenal of knowledge.
The mastery of arms.
He practiced the fundamentals established by his first mentor.
This didn’t just cover the use of steel and tools, but the application of the refined energy he now commanded.
“If your internal strength evolves, your approach to battle must evolve with it. That’s just common sense.”
The teachings of Lua Gharne resonated in his mind.
Then, the methods of his second mentor, Donapha, proved their worth. With a focused intent, he purged all distractions. By executing his axe strokes in that specific manner, he pushed past his physical constraints.
And from the third teacher, the One-Edged Sword Wielder, he grasped how one’s Resolve and breath fluctuated with their internal state.
Enkrid endured over thirty more iterations of this day.
And eventually, at the conclusion, Balrog had uttered something peculiar.
Peculiar from Balrog’s view, at least. To Enkrid, it made perfect sense.
—Is your plan simply to take a long time to die?
Enkrid had met that question with a silent grin. He had finally perceived the nuance between the Resolve of Ragna and the others, the Resolve Balrog projected, and the Resolve he carried in his own chest—and he had finally assimilated it.
He had fought to the bitter end using that knowledge alone—but he had still fallen.
The clash had been brutal, chaotic, and bloody—yet it was merely another day that had passed into shadow.
A day that no one would ever remember, gone in an instant.
But Enkrid remembered. Those days were the bricks building a lighthouse to guide his tomorrow.
Which is why, at the dawn of the two hundred twenty-sixth iteration, he turned to Rino and spoke.
“Is this the territory of your mentor?”
“Is this the territory of your mentor?”
Within the labyrinth, there were pockets of flickering flame and stretches of absolute shadow. And these entities claimed them.
In terms of total days spent, Enkrid had been in this place for more than six months. In that span, he had analyzed his environment through sheer instinct.
This was the reality he had uncovered.
These creatures held their own lands. Did they keep a shred of their personality because of Balrog’s mercy?
No. It was for his entertainment.
The demon of conflict, who lived only for the struggle, kept them caged in the maze so they could perpetually challenge him.
That was his source of pleasure.
Shards of Balrog, broken off like jagged glass, ruled various sectors of the labyrinth. They enticed the thinking races, forced them to sharpen their blades, and eventually slaughtered them.
And for those who congregated there, he provided a space of their own.
A sanctuary within the maze, if you will.
It wasn’t a luxury suite in a bustling city—just a hollowed-out section of stone—but it was their undisputed home.
“…Hmm? You’re better informed than you look. But mentor? That’s a strange word to use.”
Having deepened his understanding, Enkrid decided that title was the most fitting.
“I’ve picked up a thing or two,” he said.
“I see.”
Rino tilted his head from side to side, letting his arms hang loose. It was the movement that preceded a strike.
Enkrid quietly manifested his bastion of Resolve. A challenge—to see if Rino had the strength to pierce it. Rino’s brow furrowed. A line appeared on his forehead, and a twisted grin spread across his face.
“Where did a brat like you learn a technique like that?”
He unsheathed a blade of fire and dropped into a combat stance. It was the kind of posture that suggested he would burst forward the moment the tension broke.
It was a refined stance—but Enkrid saw it for the trap it was.
If Rino were a member of the Mad Order of Knights, Enkrid might have offered a critique:
“You should stop trying to be clever and just focus on the purity of your form.”
His vision had become far more acute. He had coached Pell and Rophod. He had even helped Roman discover a fresh path.
He had spent his time teaching and learning in an endless cycle, distilling everything down to the vital elements to rebuild himself.
To Enkrid, the direction Rino needed to take was glaringly obvious.
Of course, he kept that to himself. The being in front of him was a foe—not a student to be nurtured.
More importantly…
“He isn’t even truly alive.”