A Knight Who Eternally Regresses Novel - Chapter 792

Chapter 792

“You’ve arrived.”
Enkrid was the first to break the silence.
“You actually stopped it, Brother.”
Their statements tangled in the air. The moment Balrog’s strike had been unleashed, Enkrid had parried by crossing his forearms. He hadn’t merely endured the impact; he had actively repelled Balrog’s momentum as it happened.
Naturally, it was Audin who moved to steady the rebounding Enkrid.
The palm pressing against his spine felt hot, a result of the holy power Audin was channeling.
“I’m fine,” Enkrid clarified.
“Seems so. So, what kind of trouble were you getting into while leaving the rest of us behind?”
Rem’s voice drifted in from behind Audin. Hearing those words, Enkrid noticed something unusual.
“Us?”
Was that a term he typically employed?
He likely uttered it without thinking. It would have felt alien back during the days of the Mad Squad, but presently… it felt right.
They had navigated enough trials together that the word “us” no longer felt like a misfit.
Standing near Rem was Ragna, wearing his characteristic stoic mask, while Jaxon stood with his arms hanging loosely, his gaze sharpened into a thin line.
He was analyzing the threat. The fact that he hadn’t lunged forward immediately proved he recognized this opponent as a true powerhouse.
That was the signature preparation of those two. Everyone else, Rem included—and Audin most of all—kept their attention fixed on the front, even as a soft divine radiance began to pool in Audin’s palms.
By any metric, not just Jaxon’s, the aura emanating from the figure ahead was monstrous.
The campfire’s light danced with a predatory grace, elongating until it touched the perimeter of what used to be Oara’s shadow. The blaze encircled the shade, and from that darkness emerged limbs, horns, a skull, and a torso embedded with obsidian shards.
It looked like a massive, hunkering beast rising to its full height.
This specific form hadn’t appeared in the glimpses of Balrog’s past Enkrid had seen earlier, but he noticed a shift. Bracing himself against Audin’s support, he stood tall and inquired:
“You lead with an aura of dread and then go straight for the kill?”
Usually, Balrog utilized his terrifying presence merely to gauge a foe. This time, he had gone for the throat instantly. It was a departure from the norm.
—You lead with inquiries, do you, tiny soul?
Balrog was sharp. He instantly grasped the underlying meaning of that casual remark. Enkrid, of course, had anticipated he would.
They had crossed paths enough times to develop a strange sort of rapport.
Enkrid could almost decipher Balrog’s temperament just by looking at him. It wasn’t particularly difficult; Balrog’s emotions were as blunt as a hammer.
“I ask when I want to know something.”
The dynamic was bizarre. One side—the human—chatted as if catching up with an old acquaintance, while the other—the legendary Demon of War—kept up a facade of unfamiliarity. Neither seemed bothered by the contradiction.
“You two seem remarkably well-acquainted.”
Jaxon’s speech grew clipped whenever his temper flared—as it was doing now.
“Do we?” Enkrid tossed back.
Audin merely gave his typical, warm-hearted chuckle.
Despite Jaxon’s comment, the rest of the group didn’t dwell on the conversation. From the second that shape climbed out of the shadow, every one of them had shifted into a killing stance.
Relax for a second, and you’re a corpse. The very air seemed to vibrate with lethal intent.
If a person couldn’t sense the gravity of the situation here, they had no right to wear a knight’s crest.
A normal human walking into this radius would likely suffer a heart attack or suffocated lungs. The atmospheric pressure was that suffocating. Even without the walls of a labyrinth, the weight of the air would have been just as crushing.
The concentrated willpower of those gathered was a physical force.
Yet, in the center of this storm, Balrog spoke as if he were standing in a quiet field.
—I appeared because I was called. I held no hope for a challenge. However…
His speech didn’t rely on a throat—it manifested as a shiver through the atmosphere. Enkrid was accustomed to it, though his companions were likely wondering what sort of sorcery they were witnessing. Not that it was a deep mystery if one simply observed.
And even if they remained confused, it wouldn’t change their resolve.
The corners of Balrog’s mouth twitched upward, and the embers in his sockets began to churn. Enkrid recognized that expression from a thousand deaths. It was glee, adrenaline, and pure fulfillment.
He knew the words Balrog was preparing to speak. And when you can predict an opponent’s move, the best strategy is to move first.
Enkrid spoke before Balrog could find his voice.
“Seems like it’ll be a blast, doesn’t it?”
Unexpectedly, Enkrid was wearing the exact same grin. It wasn’t a conscious choice. It was a visceral cocktail of nerves and excitement.
He had intercepted Balrog’s dialogue. Or perhaps he had simply taken it back—it was a phrase Enkrid had once uttered constantly.
—Indeed. You took the words right out of my mouth.
Balrog projected his intent once more. Naturally, a verbal jab wasn’t going to rattle a being like him. Balrog wasn’t that fragile. Still, Enkrid took a small satisfaction in winning the opening exchange.
Click.
Suddenly, a fairy had taken a step past Enkrid, her teeth grinding as she moved forward. Enkrid had been the vanguard, but now he was staring at the fairy’s back.
She was small, but the aura she projected was anything but. To those who knew her power, it made perfect sense.
The determination radiating from Shinar was palpable. This wasn’t the typical fairy temperament. Usually, fairies remained detached, viewing the world with a cold, analytical eye.
This kind of aggressive front was an anomaly. It was whispered that a fairy’s pressure didn’t take a physical shape—it took the form of a scent.
They operated on the fuel of life itself, rather than raw Will.
The fragrance of a deep forest flooded the area. Enveloped in that aroma, the fairy spoke.
“Who struck you? Was it that creature? Give me the word. I will declare a blood vendetta.”
Blood. Revenge. These weren’t terms usually found in a fairy’s vocabulary.
Even Jaxon looked taken aback.
“A blood vendetta… from one of the Fair Folk?”
“I’ve been waiting for a chance to say that, actually.”
The fairy broke the tension with a quiet remark. It was a rare instance of fairy wit—one that didn’t involve marriage proposals or Enkrid as a target.
If anyone wondered why she was cracking jokes in the shadow of a demon, Enkrid had the answer.
Embers and devils—those were the pillars of Shinar’s deepest fears. This was her method of shaking off the paralysis of trauma.
“But I wasn’t joking about the retribution.”
Shinar reiterated her stance.
Humor aside, the Shinar standing there now showed no signs of past scars. Her focus was absolute, centered entirely on the entity that had harmed Enkrid.
“How dare you lay a finger on him?”
Her glare communicated the rest.
The board was set.
Enkrid had stalled for time with a purpose—he was waiting for his allies. If he fell into a trap, these were the people who would charge into the fray, screaming his name and ignoring their own safety.
Conserving his vitality and theirs, and uniting at this specific junction, had always been the foundation of his strategy.
So, yes—things were off to a promising start.
Rem, Jaxon, Ragna, Audin, Shinar, and himself. A party of six, now arrayed against Balrog.
In the periphery, Oara rolled onto her side and struggled to lift her head. Enkrid had navigated enough loops of this day to realize: if the fight started with this configuration, Oara would stay on the sidelines—a witness, rather than a vessel for Balrog.
She looked toward him, and Enkrid returned the look with his usual stoicism. His tone was no different than when he was poking fun at her.
“Today is the end of it.”
Purpose, drive, conviction, vows—each of these served to sharpen one’s Will. Enkrid had pushed the thought of the loop out of his mind. He had forgotten that death meant a reset. He had forgotten the Ferryman. He had pushed it all aside.
He clung to a single, singular thought. Every complex motivation had been distilled into one.
‘Slay Balrog.’
This theater of war had been carved out by the concepts he had refined through endless recurrence.
Did he have to carry the weight alone? Where does the boundary of “alone” even lie? Hadn’t their struggles also woven themselves into the tapestry of what he had built?
If you looked into Enkrid’s mind, you wouldn’t find those philosophical dilemmas. You would only find a sharp, searing certainty.
‘If I have the means—I act.’
With the power of his comrades—his family—he could topple Balrog without having to plead for a miracle.
This wasn’t a cold appraisal. It was a moment built on absolute faith.
Enkrid’s smile widened. Thump-thump. His heart raced. His Will poured out, uninhibited.
To claim he wasn’t thrilled for the coming clash would be a falsehood.
In that regard, the label of “madman” fit him perfectly.
No matter how many times he had perished, he never learned to fear. He existed for the sake of the struggle.
So, in truth—which of them was the real monster?
The silent inquiry lingered.
As it always went on this soil, the one standing at the end was the one who was right.
Victor and vanquished. The living and the carcass. It would be decided by that. Poised now on the razor’s edge of existence—
In a perfectly balanced tableau, the one man grinning looked as if he had stepped out of the boundaries of reality.
That was Enkrid.
Fwoosh!
The ring of fire around Balrog surged outward like a viper, then snapped straight as if striking—halfway between a lash and a serpent of flame.
Following that, a blade manifested in his right hand—a construct of dark fire. The heat bled from his skin, traveled down his arm, and solidified into a weapon.
It was a spectacle that never grew old. Balrog possessed the capacity to harbor armaments within his own body.
Enkrid didn’t feel much envy—but that was a talent he could respect.
Balrog shifted into his combat stance. Seeing this, Enkrid initiated their plan. There was no room for elaborate contemplation. There was certainly no time for a group discussion.
He issued his orders fast and hard. They came as commands because they had to.
“I’ll take the brunt. Rem, provide the opening. Ragna, deliver the strike.”
Naturally, it wouldn’t go exactly as planned.
Balrog wasn’t going to simply wait his turn.

—

“Do you intend to commit every single move to memory?”
Once, in a previous iteration of today, the Ferryman had asked that without warning.
Observing Enkrid drawing out the conflict while three mentors stood by, it had seemed as though he was dissecting Balrog’s every twitch.
But would cataloging every movement actually guarantee a win? That was what the Ferryman was asking.
Even after partitioning his mind, sharpening his reflexes, and out-calculating the flow of battle—Balrog had shattered those efforts with sheer force.
‘One kick was all it took.’
It was like a meteor crashing into a chess match. Why had it ended like that?
The answer was simple.
‘Balrog has more blood on his hands than I do. More wars. More duels.’
He didn’t need to calculate the fight. His instincts filled in the gaps.
He had lived the battle.
And what did that imply?
It implied that Enkrid couldn’t parry the path of Balrog’s blade, whip, or strikes with simple logic alone.
When the Ferryman spoke of moves, it was like stating a law of physics: “Regardless of your effort, you will eventually snap. No matter how long you hold out, the conclusion is set. And when that moment arrives—you won’t be the one in control.”
Was that meant to be advice? Or a warning?
From the Ferryman’s perspective, Enkrid’s future was a void. In every possible sense.
On one hand, it suggested his journey would be agonizing. On the other, even the Ferryman could no longer see what kind of “today” was coming. That was the reason for the darkness.
Why was the future hidden?
Because the “ledger” had been torn up. And once that occurred, it could no longer be used for betting.
That fact alone had unnerved many who lacked resolve.
“If you win this without begging for help, what then? What happens when a greater shadow follows? You will break eventually. And even if you feel remorse later—it won’t change the outcome.”
Enkrid, who had been silent—mapping out the engagement—looked directly into the Ferryman’s empty sockets.
He didn’t know what the Ferryman wanted to hear. But his response had been set in stone for years.
Since the first moment he wrapped his fingers around a hilt, it had never wavered.
“I’ll worry about that when the time comes.”
Direct. Transparent.
The Ferryman had no comeback. He was left without words.
Should a person stop rising with the sun just because the path ahead is shrouded?
The future is always a mystery. No one knows the ending. Not even the Ferryman.
That was why he spoke the way he did.
“If you’re terrified, then stay back and observe.”
Enkrid said it with a smirk.
And the Ferryman, refusing to admit to any fear, lapsed into a brief silence.
“Insolent child.”
That was his final word on the matter.
Enkrid had never shifted.
He simply dedicated his entire being to the obstacle directly in front of him.
What his palms could grasp. What he was capable of doing. What was required in the present.
If he didn’t give everything now, then the version of himself that woke up tomorrow would be the same. And if that were acceptable, he would have settled for a mundane life long ago.
More than anyone else, he lived for the second. For today.
Even across the Ferryman’s vast span of experience, this was a phenomenon he had never encountered before.