A Knight Who Eternally Regresses Novel - Chapter 793

Chapter 793

“Task allocation.”

This was the strategic layout Enkrid had visualized—maneuvers polished through the endless loops of this singular day. While there was no time to verbalize every intricacy, he knew that if he took the lead, the others would grasp the intent.

“They’ve coordinated like this before.”

During the breakthrough of Count Molsen’s ghost battalion, their movements had been perfectly synchronized. This engagement would be significantly more intricate, naturally. The adversary was of a different caliber, and the team members had evolved. Those advancements would inevitably introduce a few variables.

*Fwsh—*

The whip of fire lashed out without warning. The curving snake of heat contorted into a trap in mid-air, seeking to bind Audin’s arm. The execution was so rapid that the flames seemed to paint a translucent tapestry across the sky—a visual trick born of sheer speed.

Enkrid lunged into the opening. Audin instinctively cocked a fist before retreating. Enkrid smoothly guided his blade into the fiery coil, parrying it aside. Experience had taught him that trying to sever the whip only caused it to snag and constrict.

“Brother?” Audin called out.

“I am the vanguard,” Enkrid stated firmly.

At that moment, Balrog rotated his left wrist, planted his foot firmly against the stone, and glided forward. His right index finger twitched upward for a fraction of a second before he reclaimed his grip on Surtr.

Every movement introduced new glitches into Enkrid’s mental simulations. However, Balrog’s true danger didn’t lie in the autonomous fire-whip, the sword that spat dark flames, or the horns crowning his head.

“He’s a grappler.”

Balrog was a grandmaster of close-quarters wrestling. Even when warriors fought by focusing their Will to cut through solid stone with impossible speed, the fundamental core of combat remained a cycle of evasion, parrying, and striking. Balrog had mastered that essential logic. If the situation demanded it, he would abandon his weapon, sell a subtle feint with his torso, and drive a knee into his opponent’s midsection.

Enkrid had fallen prey to those tactics repeatedly. Was it possible to anticipate and dodge every strike? To counter this, he had forged a specific art:

**The Wavebreaker Sword.**

A style designed to obstruct even the fluid motion of waves. Its core was defense; its foundation was psychological fortitude. He had synthesized every scrap of knowledge he possessed—the Serendipity Blade, the techniques of the Vortex—to give this form life.

Balrog’s frame blurred as he swayed, leaving a trail of ghosts behind him. Suddenly, he exploded toward the right, driving his blade toward Shinar as she attempted to create distance.

Enkrid’s body reacted instantly. He threw himself between Balrog and Shinar, his blade swinging in a protective arc. As his cognition sped up, he mapped the trajectory of Balrog’s slash. Then, Balrog’s leg lashed out.

It was a maneuver that had claimed Enkrid before—which meant he was prepared for it now.

He deflected the greatsword, pulled his weapon back, and slammed the pommel into the base of Balrog’s foot.

*Boom!*

A violent shockwave erupted at the point of contact. Enkrid was pushed back three paces, bleeding off the momentum, while Balrog retracted his leg and kicked off the floor again without a moment’s hesitation.

Despite the call for role distribution, their teamwork was still abrasive. If the Mad Order of Knights was a single organism, its limbs were currently flailing in opposition. Rem couldn’t find the rhythm for his sling. Ragna hadn’t even unsheathed his steel—he simply stood by, watching with a cold gaze. Jaxon had retreated into the periphery entirely. Shinar had her Leaf Blade ready but, recognizing her physical limitations, dedicated all her focus to dodging.

“Brother!”

Balrog flattened his left hand into a blade and sliced toward Enkrid’s wrist. Audin’s warning was sharp with panic. But no crimson sprayed.

“I’m alright,” Enkrid replied with a steady voice.

His left hand was shielded by layers of cloth gauntlets. At some point, he had stripped the protection from his right hand to double the shielding on his left. He had infused the fabric with his Will, of course. The cloth was shredded, tattered strips fluttering in the heat.

“The utility of equipment.”

It was a practical application of the lessons learned from Master Rino. Rino had shown him how to lace Will into the very fibers of one’s gear, and Enkrid had absorbed the lesson completely. Whether Rino had intended to teach him was irrelevant to Enkrid.

Against a lesser foe, they would have found their rhythm by now. But Balrog was a disruptive force, acting as if he could sense their tactical intentions. To the monster, this was a lark. The concept of defeat didn’t exist in his mind, and that certainty made his Will incredibly dense and formidable.

But Enkrid’s resolve was just as ironclad.

“Tch. Now what?” Rem muttered from the rear.

They sounded like a band of terrible musicians struggling through a symphony, but Enkrid knew that once the path became clear, they would fall in line. That conviction was his anchor. If he was wrong? Then they were all dead. That was the simple reality. Balrog was a catastrophe that none of them could weather alone.

Was his sudden lack of defense a mistake—or a calculated lure?

Balrog attempted to overwhelm the entire group at once with a concentrated burst of spiritual pressure. Phantasmal burning chains lashed out to bind their frames. His manifested malice was a weight not easily cast aside.

But Enkrid had broken those chains a thousand times in his mind.

“Denied.”

the fortress of his mind repelled the pressure, shattering the chains. Pressure—the cocktail of terror and murderous intent—was the preferred tool of monsters. It was no surprise Balrog was a master of it. But this time, the intimidation failed.

And not just for Enkrid. Incantation had always been the art of rejection.

“Not today.”

Rem leaped backward, his movement acting as a physical dismissal of the pressure. He hadn’t left the zone of influence, but the deliberate act carried a ritualistic weight that diverted the force.

“In the Lord Father’s name, I am fearless.”

Audin met the pressure head-on, his Divine Radiance armor glowing with holy defiance.

*Cling.*

Ragna drew Sunrise just a fraction of an inch, the sheer presence of the blade cutting through the oppressive atmosphere. Before Balrog could tighten his grip on the space, Jaxon had already repositioned behind Audin, and Shinar had moved to Enkrid’s flank in perfect unison.

Each member had dismantled Balrog’s aura in their own distinct way.

*—Magnificent!*

Balrog’s delight was palpable. His sword, Surtr, roared with black fire, the blade seemingly expanding in size. The fire-whip lashed out with renewed vigor, bloating with incinerating mass. Simultaneously, two massive wings unfurled from Balrog’s spine. The combination of shadow and flame began to consume the cavern, the air growing thick with the pungent scent of scorched earth.

It was the smell of Balrog’s essence.

Then—

*Flaaap—*

Enkrid’s cloak flared out, billowing like a war-standard in a gale. While Balrog used his wings to seize control of the environment, Enkrid used his cloak to ground himself in his own reality.

*Zzzzzzzzhng.*

As Surtr exhaled fire, Dawn Tempering sang in response. The vibration of the sword traveled through Enkrid’s palms and into his very marrow. This was an engraved weapon, a tool birthed from its wielder’s Will. Now, that Will was in total resonance with the steel.

The edge of Dawn Tempering glowed with the hue of a clear morning sky, its light bleeding into the divine aura of Audin. To an observer, the room was split: half claimed by Balrog’s encroaching darkness, the other half defended by a mix of holy gold and azure light.

*Chiriring—*

Through the clash of auras, the deity that feasts on the night began to manifest.

“I will be the one to end him,” declared the master of Sunrise.

“You aren’t doing it by yourself, you arrogant prick,” came a voice from the deep shadows. Rem stood there, his eyes now marked with an ancient, alien sigil, the shadow behind him stretching into an elongated, monstrous form. It was a manifestation of divine possession—Rem had invoked a shamanic ritual, layering the power of Western gods over his own.

“Do you think I’m just here for the view?” Shinar’s presence filled the air with the scent of ancient forests and blooming flowers.

“Don’t mind me.” Jaxon melted into the gloom, becoming a ghost within the cave. Yet, the light of the moon always finds a way into the dark. He carried that lunar essence within him, ensuring he would never lose his path.

“At maximum capacity.”

A single moment of negligence was a death sentence. And death was a familiar shadow for Enkrid, who had lived this day more times than he could count. But in this moment, those dark thoughts were absent.

*Thump—*

His heart hammered against his ribs, the rhythm wild and percussive. Balrog had stopped smiling. It wasn’t that his joy had faded, but that he had committed to the kill. He wore the same expression Enkrid used when he was prepared to trade his life to shatter a crystal.

*Fwup.*

The sound of reality tearing. When Balrog moved with true intent, it felt as though he was stepping through the gaps in time itself. To survive, Enkrid had to manually force his reflexes and perception to their absolute limit. He was outmatched in raw power and speed; only mental overclocking could bridge the gap.

“Accelerate.”

With his mind racing, he pushed his reaction speed into the red. Enkrid’s world narrowed down to a single objective: track the monster.

“I see you.”

This was the pinnacle of the Wavebreaker Sword. He would oscillate between broad tactical awareness and hyper-focused singular intent. He managed the tempo of his own soul—surging into a sprint, then dropping into absolute stillness. It was a feat only possible for one who had practiced for an eternity.

And Enkrid had done exactly that. The ability to go from a dead stop to a Point Explosion of power was the highest form of Will.

“I can stop this.”

Enkrid leaned into the rush of the fight. With a manic focus, he deciphered the rhythm of Balrog’s onslaught, wedging Dawn Tempering into the gaps, parrying strikes with his elbows, and redirecting the kinetic energy.

*BOOM! Fwoosh! BANG! CHIING!*

Dark sparks cascaded as the azure steel collided with the shadowed fire, the impact carving craters into the stone walls.

What truly set Enkrid’s Will apart from Balrog’s or the rest of the Knights? He had scrutinized and polished it through endless trials. He had sought out three masters and cast himself into the furnace of their training. Even on the Ferryman’s raft, the meditation never stopped.

A thousand thoughts flared as he swung his sword. He had cheated time to train more, to find more seconds in a day.

*“You stubborn little brat—stop the nonsense.”*

He could almost hear his teachers’ exasperation. But every second spent was an investment. It was his way of apologizing to the world. He divided his hours into infinitesimal slivers, never squandering a moment. He lived every “today” as if the curtain was falling.

*“I really want to see the gears turning in that head of yours.”*

He could almost hear the Ferryman’s voice, thick with genuine respect.

A Will that never falters is known as Uske. But when that Will undergoes a fundamental change in nature—that is **Induless**.

“Induless.”

The transmutation of resolve. In Zaun, he had learned to manage his Will. What he understood now was deeper. Until this moment, Enkrid had treated his Will like a sculptor treats clay—carving, compressing, and shaping it. Through that process, he finally understood what his Order had achieved.

Jaxon could sharpen his Will into a microscopic edge. Audin could manifest his resolve as physical pillars of light. Rem could turn the wind into a solid grip. Ragna could turn the mere concept of “cutting” into a physical reality.

It wasn’t a coincidence. They had ground against one another for so long that they had become a collective.

Enkrid treated his Will like bricks, stacking them with precision. A single brick is easily broken, but a wall is a different matter.

**The Induless Wall of Will.**

*BOOM!*

Balrog’s Surtr found a flaw in Enkrid’s defense and came down in a thunderous vertical execution. Enkrid braced every muscle in his core and legs, holding his blade horizontally to catch the blow. Not long ago, this exact strike would have shattered his stance or sent him flying.

Now, he held his ground.

Balrog’s fire had condensed into a blade as solid as any steel.

“Dawn Tempering will not break.”

He placed his total faith in his weapon. He emptied his mind of everything except the singular command: *Hold.*

Following the wisdom of Donapha—combining clarity of mind with the deep breathing of the One-Edged Sword—Enkrid unified his Will.

He blocked the strike.

Behind the steel, a grin spread across his face. He wasn’t even aware of it. Balrog met his gaze and smiled back, his eyes swirling with the manic joy of finding a worthy obstacle. Even if this joy ended in his destruction, Balrog would welcome it. That was his nature.

The massive, powered swing was halted. That momentary pause created a fracture in Balrog’s momentum, and the previously disjointed Knights finally found their rhythm.

*Click.*

The sound of a machine finally finding its gear. Balrog, still committed to the downward press, snapped his left hand up to guard his brow.

*BOOM!*

A shot exploded against his arm, showering the area in shimmering black crystal dust. Rem had finally entered the fray.

“Your deputy commander is stepping in, so the rest of you better get your acts together!”

His boisterous shouting filled the cavern. It was a psychological bombardment—whether it was meant to rattle the enemy or motivate his allies, it was impossible to tell.