A Knight Who Eternally Regresses Novel - Chapter 790

Chapter 790

Rino’s vision was swimming with crimson threads. He gripped his pair of blades high. There was no requirement to cross them—at this moment, pure force of will was everything.
He built that momentum through his stance, solidifying his internal pressure into a physical manifestation. A single, pointed edge thrust toward an unseen barrier. Like an awl, that concentrated force bored into the hardened surface and tore through.
“…What in the world is this?”
Immediately, Rino encountered a secondary wall of pressure. The obstruction wasn’t a single layer.
‘Two distinct layers of manifested pressure?’
His astonishment was justified. This was a sophisticated maneuver Rino had never encountered.
Enkrid assumed his rival wouldn’t shatter the defense so easily, pinned beneath a formless weight that mirrored Balrog’s own. Of course, mere pressure lacked the power to kill—but death wasn’t the objective. There were secondary goals, but primarily, this served as a trial of pure form.
“I didn’t come here to draw blood from you, teacher.”
Enkrid’s voice was gentle. His tone was earnest, carrying a sense of genuine respect.
“Don’t give me that!”
Rino bellowed. The sensation of being stifled by another’s presence only served to ignite his fury.
“Remain calm.”
Enkrid offered another gesture of politeness. Rino’s eyes looked ready to burst from the strain.
‘You little brat.’
Rino centered himself once more. The vessels on the backs of his hands, white-knuckled around his twin hilts, swelled like twisting scarlet snakes.
Enkrid remained as a detached observer. He didn’t shift his feet—he simply exerted pressure. In many ways, it was a perfect imitation of Balrog’s old methods.
Even when a vulnerability appeared, he merely watched. The gap between them was nearly imperceptible.
One side was the picture of tranquility; the other was a storm of pulsing veins around the eyes and hands, betraying Rino’s turbulent spirit.
Nevertheless, pressure was ultimately just an atmospheric force. A knight of his caliber could dismantle it given enough time. That was the natural order.
Rino proved this by shattering through three consecutive barriers.
“Uoooh!”
A primal shout escaped him. Naturally, this was a deception. In reality, from the midpoint of the struggle, Teacher Rino had been conserving his strength, waiting for the precise second to vault over the wall.
It was a strategic move to keep his body at peak performance. Should Enkrid strike while he hesitated, he was prepared to retaliate.
Yet Enkrid simply watched the entire sequence—and upon hearing the yell, he smoothly unsheathed Dawn Tempering.
The movement lacked frantic speed. It was fluid and effortless—resembling a host ushering a guest through a doorway.
That very ease made it terrifying. Rino felt the chill of it in his bones.
Ki-ri-ri-ring.
The steel shimmered with a sky-blue light as it lunged toward Rino’s solar plexus, piercing the gap between the twin swords he had just brought forward.
The act of drawing and the act of stabbing became a singular event. Analyzed separately, it would be the draw, the chamber, and the strike—three beats. But the seamless execution made them appear as one.
Tadang!
The blades that arrived like a lightning strike were set to intersect, yet they never touched. Dawn Tempering stood between them.
A barrier of azure metal kept the twin swords apart—like two souls longing for a union they could not reach.
“…You anticipated that instantly!”
Rino barked again. His frantic tone was, once more, a calculated ruse.
Naturally, it failed to land. Enkrid had long since mastered the nuances of Teacher Rino’s playbook. He had scrutinized every twitch—shutting down even the most erratic moves with mathematical accuracy. He choked off every attack at its inception.
Every subsequent attempt by Teacher Rino was smothered.
The moment Rino led with his left foot, Enkrid’s boot met it. When Rino attempted to snap his blades together, Enkrid wedged Dawn Tempering into the center.
In desperation, Rino pulled a dagger with a mangled, distorted edge. The blade was grotesque—featuring five jagged, serrated hooks that looked like a predator’s teeth. He used this to snare Dawn Tempering.
He then exerted force to snap Enkrid’s steel.
Kagagagagang!
Violent sparks erupted from the serrated dagger as it ground against Dawn Tempering. The metal let out a piercing shriek.
Enkrid didn’t bother to inspect his weapon for damage.
There was no necessity. The only things that shattered were the jagged teeth of the dagger.
“My personal weapon is unbreakable.”
When channeled through his Will, its durability could endure even the heaviest strikes from Balrog. He had confirmed this long ago.
He was simply utilizing the inherent traits of his tool. The sheer hardness of Dawn Tempering was a weapon in its own right.
Failing to break the sword, Rino attempted to back away while Enkrid offered his calm explanation.
But Enkrid pursued the retreating Rino, unsheathed Penna, and delivered a horizontal sweep.
The edge cut through Rino’s form with surgical precision.
“…This brat’s handling of the blade…”
He had used the hidden property of his weapon’s strength as a feint to create an opening. That was the mark of a master.
Rino’s final words were thick with a sense of pride.
Enkrid replied without emotion.
“I had a good instructor, teacher.”
“Damn it… quit calling me that… regardless, that was quite a thrill.”
Those were the final syllables to escape his bloodied lips.
“…I suppose that concludes our business, teacher.”
Enkrid spoke to the empty air. The torches sputtered. The shadows danced.
He continued forward, noting that this had been his most enduring struggle since encountering Rino. He had drawn it out on purpose.
He moved through a dark stretch of the hall—and when the light returned, another figure stood in his path.
“My name is Donapha!”
Enkrid lifted his blade without a word. This opponent was the sort who preferred the language of steel over speech.
Even as Donapha’s heavy axe came whistling down, the rhythm of the duel remained consistent.
Deflect, then deflect again.
Just as he had absorbed Rino’s flurry, he did the same here.
Relying on the Wavebreaker style as his core, his defensive posture simplified his focus—filtering out all distractions. He caught and parried the descending weight of the axe.
‘The essence of Balrog.’
The similarity was striking. For a fleeting second, Donapha’s Will condensed around the heavy head of the axe. It wasn’t a true Point Explosion, yet the swing carried enough force to ignore the deflection—crashing toward his skull.
Sharper than any blade, the atmospheric pressure tightened around his frame—like heavy iron links binding him in place.
‘Prioritizing directness over finesse.’
Donapha’s heavy swings, rooted in greatsword fundamentals, were woven with physical pressure. If Balrog’s style was a chain and Enkrid’s was a wall, then Donapha’s was a closing net—trapping the entire target.
‘If one were to translate Balrog’s pressure into the mechanics of an axe…’
It would look exactly like Donapha. He had deconstructed the very heart and origin of the style.
While Rino had focused on Balrog’s agility and unique gear, Donapha had constructed his foundation on Balrog’s crushing weight.
But it failed to intimidate Enkrid.
The Will of Rejection tore through the invisible net and shook it off effortlessly. Reclaiming his movement was a simple task.
The axe cut through the air with a deafening boom, yet—it felt slower than the strikes of Rem. That was the comparison in his mind.
Enkrid slipped and parried Donapha’s steel, watching the arc with perfect clarity. It was a flawless exhibition of defense. The sword meant to stop the tide now stopped the axe.
“Wuaaap!”
Even after the initial strike missed and no counter came, Donapha instantly reset and launched another overhead blow.
By this point, Enkrid had fully mapped Donapha’s patterns. After more than two hundred encounters, the knowledge was instinctual. In his mind, he viewed Donapha as another mentor and had integrated his techniques.
‘When the opponent, having avoided the first blow, shows even a micro-second of instability…’
He creates the window for the next heavy swing. That was Donapha’s philosophy. A fascinating approach to combat.
Each strike served as a bridge to the next. It was a strategy for surviving the “now.”
That was how Enkrid interpreted it.
Another lengthy exchange followed. Donapha swung his heavy weapon eighty times. Had he been anything other than a Dullahan, his muscles would have detached from the bone.
His arms had darkened to a charred hue, and thick, obsidian veins pulsed unnaturally beneath the skin.
Such a state only occurs under extreme physical duress.
He was putting his absolute maximum power into every single motion. Donapha wasn’t designed to slaughter a thousand fodder soldiers.
But against a hundred elites capable of such feats—he would be far more effective.
Every warrior fights according to their soul’s training. Donapha had forged his own specific path.
Rino was no different.
That was why there was value in learning from both.
Mastery isn’t something a delusional amateur achieves just by punching a clock. These were the genuine articles among the sea of frauds who sought glory while possessing no real depth.
In the end, Donapha’s physical form held together.
‘He has put in the work.’
He was a true knight.
And regardless of how many times his steel was met with resistance, his heart didn’t waver. He simply reset the axe.
On the eighty-second attempt, Enkrid parried the weight and delivered a diagonal slash across Donapha’s midsection.
His body pivoted on his heel as the concentrated energy of a cyclone burst outward. Will traveled from his feet, through his core, and into his hands—gathering speed like a falling stone before exploding through the blade.
The sky-blue glow of Dawn Tempering intensified, becoming a razor-thin edge. It was the most perfect strike Enkrid could produce.
Since Donapha’s strength had visibly peaked and started to wane, there was no reason to persist.
If he only played defense, Donapha would pass away with nothing but a bitter cry and a curse.
He had seen that outcome before. And because of the lessons learned, Enkrid showed him respect this time.
Naturally, “respect” involved cleaving his foe in half.
A spray of dark vapor billowed backward.
“I am defeated.”
The detached head, resting on the floor, spoke clearly. As always, Donapha conceded—and tonight, he sounded remarkably content.
The head crumbled into dust and faded away. He had no further messages.
He had understood the outcome long ago. He knew Enkrid had extended the fight on purpose. But that final, devastating blow was exactly the conclusion Donapha craved.
Was he truly at peace? Hard to say for certain, beyond a gut feeling.
Regardless, there was no opportunity to ask.
Enkrid pushed forward into the gloom once more.
“Oh my, it seems you actually know how to swing that thing?”
The One-Edged Sword Wielder, the third instructor Enkrid had recently encountered, approached with those words. Enkrid had staged the encounter to allow her to dictate the pace—giving her the freedom to use her full repertoire. Another intentional delay.
He committed himself entirely to a passive stance, moving only as much as was strictly necessary to stay safe.
Her Will, growing more vibrant, and her deep, rhythmic breathing—these were masterful but ultimately inefficient. He absorbed the fundamentals from her, then refined them into something better.
It wasn’t a conscious choice. It was a natural evolution.
Because Enkrid now exceeded her in talent, perception, and grit, this was the inevitable result.
‘Eradicate the unnecessary.’
And maintain emotional control just before reaching a state of overconfidence.
He had mastered all her maneuvers.
Tadang, dang, dang.
Steel bit against steel, but neither combatant drew blood. Enkrid neutralized her offensive in various ways.
At times, he even utilized the fairy cloak to brush her edge aside.
Each time, the One-Edged Sword Wielder’s brow furrowed deeper. Eventually, as her thrill turned to irritation, she—following Donapha’s lead—put everything into one final, desperate move.
It was likely her ultimate technique, but Enkrid had witnessed it thirty-five times before.
He stepped back, clearing the arc of her blade, then surged forward—utterly wrecking her rhythm.
‘Even the greatest knights fight with simplicity.’
A knight might move fast enough to blur or strike at supersonic speeds. They could level walls and split boulders.
But the core principles remained static.
Seize the moment, observe the breath, evade, strike, mislead, strike again, anticipate—and finish it.
It was a duel dedicated to that cycle.
If the Ferryman were watching, he’d likely ask: “Is this how you survive today?”
“Damn it.”
The One-Edged Sword Wielder spat the curse as she fell.
It’s frustrating to have every move countered and then die from a single hit.
Yet, her expression held a trace of fulfillment.
She had pushed herself to the absolute limit for the first time in an age.
Not for the sake of a game, but because her opponent had forced her to be great.
“My thanks.”
Perhaps that was why she offered those rare words.
Before Enkrid could reply, she dissolved into the air.
He continued his journey—and when the glow of a bonfire appeared, he had reached his goal.
“You’ve arrived.”
It was Oara.
“I have.”
Enkrid took a seat beside her in the warm light. Until now, it felt like any other “today.” Or rather, this iteration was distinct because of how much time he had spent with the others.
All that extra time had been a tribute to the three instructors.
Eventually, after their usual exchange, Oara began to conclude her thoughts.
“Hah… I wasn’t certain if I wanted to encounter you here again. To be honest, if Roman had appeared, I would have sent him packing.”
As she spoke, she rested a hand on her leg. She gave a small grunt as she prepared to stand—but Enkrid spoke up before she could.
“How about a quick bout, since it’s been a while?”
The way he looked at her after speaking was a perfect mimicry of Ragna—completely simple-minded and unaware.
He had done it intentionally.
For a second, Oara was stunned. She seemed to be debating if this was allowed.
Then she blinked and gave a firm nod.
“That sounds perfect.”
She reached for her weapon. Srrrring— But the legendary engraved blade “Laughter” was missing.
In its place, she held a basic, unremarkable longsword.