A Knight Who Eternally Regresses Novel - Chapter 791

Chapter 791

“Your proficiency…”
The soft grin on Oara’s lips faded a fraction. She was not the type to maintain a constant smile.
While not exactly shaken, the way her eyes blinked rapidly made it clear to any observer—she was genuinely taken aback.
It was a logical reaction. It required only a few passes to comprehend the sheer scale of the transformation he had undergone.
His limitless Uske—his Will—his blade work, his mental fortitude, and the sophisticated way he channeled that Will.
The Enkrid she had encountered back in the settlement that was stripped of the name Thousand Brick to become Oara, and the warrior holding his ground before her now—were two entirely different entities.
Just seconds prior, Oara had brought her blade down in a heavy arc, and Enkrid had parried the blow with a precise, lunging counter.
Oara, utilizing raw physical power and masterful positioning, had arrested her own recoiling sword, neutralizing the leftover momentum.
The prowess of the knight who had earned a city as her namesake remained sharp. Enkrid confirmed this for himself. And Oara recognized with equal clarity that the man facing her had evolved.
That faint curve returned to her lips. This is proving to be more entertaining than I anticipated.
Witnessing Enkrid’s growth and engaging him in this manner—it was perhaps the first time she had felt a sincere smile since her clash with Balrog.
“Didn’t I once suggest you should discard something?”
She inquired out of a sense of reminiscence. There was no hidden agenda. Enkrid gave his answer as if the question required no contemplation at all.
“Right, I didn’t really pay attention to that.”
Oara let out a small laugh at his curt dismissal.
“…This brat really has a knack for getting under one’s skin.”
In that moment, Oara grasped a truth she hadn’t fully realized during their previous encounter. This man possessed an incredibly biting wit.
With that expressionless face and composed air, when he strikes at your pride, the sting is doubled. Oara, having spent a lifetime on front lines, understood that psychological weight perfectly.
Thump.
This time, Oara lunged forward, and Enkrid tightened his form to execute a downward parry. Their steel brushed and separated with the slightest glint of friction. They struck, evaded, and parried as if performing a meticulously rehearsed duet.
Yet, this wasn’t Oara’s tempo. She was being pulled into Enkrid’s rhythm.
‘So he has developed enough to reach this level, but…’
Was it truly to this degree?
Oara found herself consistently startled. Initially, she hadn’t planned on drawing her sword at all today. She had no desire to drain his energy. Rather than a duel, she had intended to converse. She had only conceded because of his request.
Even so, she was certain this still fell short of what was needed to defeat Balrog.
‘Though I suppose I’m in no position to judge.’
Likely not. Oara shifted, her gaze locked onto his. Eyes as transparent as a clear sky met her own.
Eyes that radiated a brilliance rarely found in these depths. Eyes that suggested a resolve that would never buckle. That was the reason she couldn’t bring herself to stop him. What authority did she have to obstruct someone who had committed to standing here and wielding their blade with such conviction?
Even if the conclusion was already written—even if the tale was destined to end in ruin—Oara felt compelled to see the narrative to its final page.
‘It is still insufficient.’
She knew this because she had faced Balrog on multiple occasions. He was far more than just a brute with refined talent.
As it always was, their window of time was closing. Whether in the world above or within the confines of the labyrinth, every inception carries an inevitable conclusion.
Oara made her choice—it was time to move forward, regardless of the tragedy.
Thung.
Oara shoved back with her blade, signaling that the preparatory phase was over.
Enkrid was pushed back slightly and slid his weapon into its sheath with a fluid, formal motion. It was the kind of movement that suggested a military salute might follow. Oara mused:
Yes, he realizes the time has come as well.
Just as she opened her mouth to speak—
“Are you familiar with unarmed combat?”
Enkrid interrupted her.
Then, without any preamble, he launched a punch. Oara snapped her head back to avoid the fist aimed at her forehead. This wasn’t a casual dodge like their earlier exchanges.
She rotated her torso, adjusted her center of gravity, and tilted her neck sharply. Simultaneously, she thrust out a palm. These types of strikes cannot be neutralized by evasion alone, making a counter-move necessary. A knight’s ingrained instincts and honed reflexes flared to life.
Smack!
Enkrid threw a left hook toward her jaw, then followed up with a right elbow strike that collided with her waiting palm. The sound of the impact was heavy—a clean hit.
Oara’s parrying hand jerked back, and with the agility of a cornered hare, she sprang two paces backward. Her combat style centered on fluid footwork—so even her retreat was graceful. From a martial perspective, her weight distribution and reaction speed were flawless.
“…What are you doing?”
Oara asked, maintaining her distance.
“Just a warm-up.”
Enkrid replied flatly.
“So I’m merely your warm-up now?”
Oara was reminded yet again how talented this man was at irritating people. His words alone could trigger more anger than the scars of war. For a brief second, the thought of Balrog slipped from her mind.
“What’s next? Are you going to tell me that ‘Stone-faced Oara’ is a novice? A failure? A fraud? Something like that?”
While the smiling Oara was a stoic warrior, she was not someone who allowed insults to go unanswered. Regardless of what was said, she was the type to dismantle her opponents with superior skill.
“That wouldn’t be entirely inaccurate.”
That composed, blue-eyed nuisance said it with the most indifferent look possible. That very tranquility was what truly grated on her nerves.
Oara gave her retort, and Enkrid smirked. That smile, too, she interpreted as a slight.
“Fine, let’s see if you can survive this.”
There was a period when she had traversed battlefields with nothing but a single blade. That was before her knightly investiture.
“Bring it on, every last one of you!”
Her reputation was forged after she decimated ten celebrated sellswords single-handedly.
At that time, those ten had orchestrated a specialized trap meant for her alone. In a conflict where small, elite units were the standard, they believed that eliminating her—even if they forfeited the engagement—would secure the war.
“I’ll have you crawling between my legs.”
The man who uttered that boast was the first to have his groin torn open. Oara did not abide insults. Why was that memory resurfacing now?
Clearing the stray thoughts, Oara gripped her sword. Laughter, her soul-bound weapon, was lost to her. But the woman who had once mastered that blade remained.
Whether she was a fragment of a soul, a lingering ghost of a memory, or a shard of pure Will—she couldn’t be sure.
He had brought up unarmed fighting, but she disregarded the comment and reached for her steel.
Srrng.
The blade exited the sheath in a seamless motion. Her swordsmanship was a continuous thread. A tide that never receded.
Oara’s sword cut a diagonal line through the air—and Enkrid’s blade met it on an identical diagonal path. It was a mirrored response, like looking into a pool of water.
The two edges collided in the center.
Clang—!
Embers flew.
It signified that both warriors had struck with their full weight. Oara wore wide sleeves, but the force of the meeting pushed her fabric all the way up to her elbow.
The fibers of her muscles beneath the skin pulsed like shifting sands.
‘Fluid.’
In that fleeting second of clashing steel, Enkrid perceived the essence of Oara’s style.
It wasn’t because of a gap in their abilities. It was because he had known her for an age and had modeled his own growth on her techniques as a benchmark.
He surged forward, forcing her blade to the side with sheer physical dominance—a heavy, calculated push.
Kagagang!
Right before their hilts locked, Oara sensed she was being overwhelmed in the diagonal struggle—and disengaged instantly. But with equal speed, she lunged back in and slashed again along the same axis.
Tatak!
The rhythm of her boots hitting the earth was followed by a dull-colored blade carving the same slanted path.
If the previous strike had been graceful, this one was aggressive. Enkrid raised his sword and smoothly diverted the energy.
Keekeeging—
Their blades slid against each other as they swapped positions. Moments ago, Oara had stood with the fire at her back—but now Enkrid was the one framed by the blaze.
The distant torches flickered, and the nearby campfire burned. Between the two, their blending shadows danced. As their steel and bodies moved in tandem, so did their looks.
His stoic blue eyes remained fixed, transparent, and focused.
And in that heartbeat, Oara understood why those ten mercenaries had entered her mind.
She had been aware of their trap from the beginning. Their strategy hadn’t been particularly clever.
Yet she had walked into it anyway—just as she was doing now.
This was a duel born of mutual consent. Oara knew that if she chose to fight with lethal intent, she could inflict at least one scar, even in this ghostly form. But she refrained.
“You have truly evolved.”
“It’s the result of ignoring your pointers back then.”
“…Did you always have such a sharp tongue?”
“Ah, you must have missed it, Dame Oara. I have always been this way.”
If there were a tournament for the most aggravating speaker on the continent, this man would be the reigning victor.
Oara had intended to guide Enkrid through this exchange—to impart some of the wisdom she had gathered from her battles with Balrog.
‘…How is it that you already grasp everything?’
The use of the wings. How to escape from crushing pressure. The sudden kicks that originate from outside one’s field of vision.
‘You are already familiar with it.’
It was only logical—Enkrid had faced Balrog over a hundred times in the recent past. But from Oara’s viewpoint, it still felt surreal.
It wasn’t something she could articulate, however.
From that second onward, Oara realized what Enkrid was truly seeking. Even without speech, the meeting of their blades allowed their spirits to communicate.
She abandoned her defense and simply attacked. Enkrid caught, diverted, and danced around every blow she offered.
A worn, notched iron sword remained firm in Oara’s hand.
Their sparring continued indefinitely. Long enough that even a group of lunatics would have had the time to hunt down their equally insane commander.
“Fine, that is enough.”
Oara eventually stepped away after the lengthy bout. Enkrid instinctively lowered his weapon and returned to a neutral posture.
There was no opportunity for parting words.
Oara’s form was suddenly jerked to the side—pulled away like a doll on a string.
Then, from the dark spot where she had been standing, a blood-red foot exploded outward.
At some point, their orientations had swapped, and now Oara was the one with the fire behind her. Their shadows had merged—so the strike had emerged from the space directly in front of him.
Enkrid’s perception dilated time. The atmosphere grew heavy upon his frame. His sight surpassed the limits of mortality as he identified what had stepped out of the shadow.
Even without looking, he would have recognized it. The intuition forged through repetition told him exactly what had occurred.
Balrog’s foot had burst from the gloom. Even within his slowed perception, that limb left a blurred trail. No matter how much he stretched his thoughts, the path and velocity were impossible to dodge.
And it wasn’t merely the physical strike—there was a crushing weight behind it.
An intangible pressure, taking the form of glowing chains, locked onto his arms and legs.
Boom!
Enkrid took the full force of the kick.
His frame was sent flying backward, appearing as though he would be crushed against the stone wall—
But the impact never came.
Thump.
An enormous hand—broad as a bear’s paw—caught his back in mid-air, shifting his momentum to the side.
The massive figure that intercepted him rotated as it moved, neutralizing the force that would have shattered stone.
A high-pitched ringing filled Enkrid’s ears. He had braced himself with Will, but the suddenness of the hit left his senses vibrating.
It dissipated quickly—owing to the durability of his constitution.
And the individual who had forged that body to this point…
Was now the person bracing his back.