A Knight Who Eternally Regresses Novel - Chapter 796

Chapter 796

A column of fire ascended rigidly from the flank before lunging forward. It tore through the atmosphere with heavy concussions, tracing glowing arcs reminiscent of spears thrown by a titan. It was a spectacle that belonged to the age of legends.
Despite the scale, the core principles remained constant—parry, hit, dodge, hit back. Even if the velocity and raw power involved were of an entirely different magnitude, the fundamental rules of engagement did not shift. Within those rules, the burden of defense fell to him.
“I can track it.”
The lash was not of human origin, yet its path of travel was discernible. If it could be seen, it could be countered.
Enkrid adjusted his stance according to the Wavebreaker Sword Style. He forced his mental processing to peak speeds and swung Dawn Tempering. His vision mapped out long trajectories in the air, mirrored by two azure streaks—residual trails left by his extreme acceleration.
With a level of sight, physical power, and reaction time that transcended human capability, his blade entered a territory beyond the reach of the average person’s mind.
That was the feat Enkrid achieved.
In a flash, the whip snagged against the point of his weapon. At some interval, Balrog had grasped the whip’s hilt. Silently, the flaming cord spiraled and split into a trio of separate strands.
This was a characteristic trait of the salamandra. Segmenting its form into multiple parts was a tactic that could easily claim the life of anyone unfamiliar with its nature.
Enkrid shifted his blade’s path in the middle of his motion. A heavy cleave was instantly transformed into a nimble, flicking cut. With that adjustment, he pushed away the whip’s various tips entirely. As Balrog’s leg swept in close for a strike, Enkrid harnessed the momentum from his parry to drive his sword down in a sharp counter-movement.
The moment he intercepted the kick, Balrog’s tail snaked around Enkrid’s ankle. Snap!
The appendage clamped down with enough violence to splinter bone instantly.
No matter how conditioned a warrior’s body was, it should have shattered.
While Balrog focused his aggression on Enkrid, Audin took action. His massive frame collided head-on with Balrog’s arm that held the whip. At the point of impact, Audin’s entire momentum surged forward, wrenching the elbow the wrong way and snapping it.
The whip of fire lashed upward from the ground, seeking to coil around Audin’s throat with its crimson tongue. To avoid the strike, Audin had to retreat, which forced him to let go of Balrog’s arm. He didn’t let go without a parting gift, though. While he didn’t manage to rip the limb off, he succeeded in twisting and fracturing the joint significantly.
The sound of breaking bone echoed from Balrog’s elbow. Judging by the timing, the tail and Audin had moved in perfect synchronization.
Enkrid’s ankle remained unharmed. He was merely missing a boot.
The tail had crushed the leather footwear instead of the limb, tearing it to shreds.
Thud!
Balrog, having missed his mark, slammed his tail against the floor.
“Secret Art: Molting.”
Enkrid spoke the words under his breath as he stood firm. Should he survive this encounter, it would undoubtedly become a humorous anecdote in the days to come.
Just before Enkrid spoke—at the very instant Balrog began his multi-pronged assault—Ragna’s sword descended upon Balrog once more, this time wreathed in heat. It was a slanted cut.
A solitary blow, yet had it gone unblocked, Balrog would have been split in two. He caught the strike with his own blade, Surtr.
Grind.
The two weapons, both manifestations of Will, collided—solidified intent meeting solidified intent—and scraped against one another with destructive force.
Because these blades derived their lethality from the spirit of the wielder, they reformed after the impact. Yet, even that exchange was a loss for Ragna. He was already straining his Will to its absolute breaking point.
Still, he had no choice but to keep fighting.
Earlier, Rem had been the one to forge a path. This time, Ragna offered himself as the decoy.
Essentially, Ragna believed that an ally would launch a projectile the second his clash with Balrog forced a lapse in the demon’s defense.
From the distance, an object zipped toward Balrog’s torso before the sound of its flight could be heard. The boom arrived late. His left elbow was uselessly bent back, and Surtr, gripped in his right, was being forced aside by Ragna’s previous maneuver. Ragna hadn’t relied on brute force to hold the position; he had utilized the Flowing Blade Style to redirect the energy.
“A gap.”
Ragna possessed a natural talent for identifying the exact moment an enemy’s tempo faltered. It wasn’t a vision unique to him, however.
Using the Flowing Blade Style to shove aside an opponent’s weapon was a method of prying that gap wider. Everything done so far had been a lead-up to this specific second.
It was a strategy designed to ensure the barbarian’s shot found its mark perfectly.
Balrog countered the incoming projectile in a bizarre yet efficient manner. He dipped his head—absorbing Rem’s blazing roar directly with the horn protruding from his brow. He used his skull as a buckler.
KABOOM—!
A normal human would have had their eardrums ruptured by the noise.
The detonation thundered through the domain created by Balrog’s power. Teetering, he retreated a single step. It looked like a moment of vulnerability, but it was a deception.
The thunderous ringing continued as Balrog’s artificial space vibrated from the shock. He swayed, but it wasn’t a fatal lapse in defense.
Enkrid remained still, and because the others were moving in time with his lead, they stayed their hands as well.
Balrog still had energy to burn. His attempts to lure them in with grappling moves made that abundantly clear.
“Once more. I have the rhythm.”
Enkrid spoke again.
Though he was now missing his left boot, his voice carried the same unshakable confidence.
Sturdy, honest, and firm. The manifestation of his Will had also shifted to mirror that state. The art known as Indules was becoming as natural to him as breathing.
He compressed and stacked his Will into a dense barrier.
By saturating his entire frame with this reinforced spirit, he could endure even the cataclysmic swings of Balrog’s sword. He had learned this through pain.
Pop.
Taking advantage of the momentary pause, Balrog jerked his left arm, and the mangled joint snapped back into its proper alignment.
His healing factor was on par with that of Frokk.
Even before the mend was complete, Balrog attacked again. Surtr was in his right hand while the whip acted with a mind of its own. He lunged with both. The dark fire clinging to his blade was an eternal flame that wouldn’t die on impact. And should the searing lash of the Salamandra catch a limb, skin would burn and bones would snap.
Tracking every single one of those lethal paths caused Enkrid’s brain to throb with heat.
If he simply tried to tank the hits, it would just be a repeat of the “analysis” he had attempted during his first bout with Balrog.
‘If logical calculation isn’t enough…’
The Sword of Coincidence.
He was reacting—instant by instant—to Balrog’s fury. It was a combat style built entirely on answering a question. So long as he successfully countered, he stayed alive.
A spark of theory flickered in his mind, almost solidifying before dissolving again. This was no time for philosophy. Every bit of mental energy used for thinking had to be redirected toward his singular goal.
Enkrid did exactly that. He merged his focus.
“Stop calculating the odds—
Make the odds bend to your will.”
He bet everything on one simple realization.
Balrog’s sword swept in from above in a horizontal arc, and at the spot where Enkrid’s right foot needed to be planted, Balrog’s own foot lunged toward his lower leg.
Balrog held his entire weight on his left leg while putting the full momentum of his body into the sword swing. His physical equilibrium and leg strength were unnatural.
As long as his central crystal remained whole, Balrog could heal. Enkrid did not have that luxury.
If he broke, if he cracked—it was over.
This meant that even a seemingly minor kick could topple the balance of a carefully constructed defense in a heartbeat.
Should he shudder and pull back in terror?
If he were the sort of man to retreat, he never would have entered the fray. He wouldn’t have even considered it.
Enkrid threw open his perceptions and moved. He took in information through his eyes, his ears, and the very air against his skin. His heightened awareness fused into a pure instinct that dictated his movements.
Guided by that feeling, his right hand swung Dawn Tempering upward to meet Surtr, while his left hand pulled Penna and held it vertically like a barricade.
Thud. Crash!
The meeting of the swords produced only a muffled noise, choked by the thick Will surrounding the steel—but where Penna collided with Balrog’s foot, a resonant boom occurred. Amidst those two exchanges, Balrog’s left hand snuck toward him.
Enkrid shifted his center to his right leg and twisted his torso to the side to avoid the grab.
Boom!
Balrog’s palm hammered into the space Enkrid had occupied milliseconds prior. The air itself shrieked from the force of the missed blow.
Balanced on a single leg, Enkrid pushed off and leaped to the side.
In that moment, another projectile arrived. There was no telling their remaining stock, but it was clearly Rem’s handiwork.
KABOOM!
Balrog swiped it away with the back of his left hand. The shot hit the ceiling of the cavern and blew it apart. Shards of rock and grit cascaded down.
Even if this realm was born of divine authority, it possessed physical weight.
The descending grey powder clouded the air like soot inside a lamp.
The obscured vision might have hindered others, but none of them slowed down.
Simultaneously, Audin, who had been wrestling with the crimson whip, knocked it away with a focused palm strike and threw a heavy fist at Balrog’s heart.
Balrog, still wielding Surtr, countered the punch with his own.
Clash!
Glints of sacred white light splintered and flew everywhere.
That brief trade of blows gave Balrog the room he needed to pivot his blade and aim a diagonal cut at Audin’s head.
Clang.
But Enkrid lunged in to catch the strike.
A minuscule opening—nearly invisible—appeared. In that tiny window, the prodigy Ragna drove his sword forward in a piercing thrust. It arrived with the speed of a projectile.
Balrog caught the blade of Sunrise between his teeth.
Crunch!
Whether the blade was stopped or not, Ragna leaned into it with everything he had, shattering Balrog’s teeth and ripping through his jaw.
Balrog drifted backward like a liquid shadow. No footfalls, no tell, just a smooth withdrawal. His mouth was torn wide at the corners, creating the unsettling look of a manic grin—as if he were enjoying the carnage.
Then, without a moment’s rest, he charged back in. Dark vapor leaked from his ruined mouth like ink. He attacked without even stopping to breathe.
There was no room for a breather. No time to judge the situation or gather one’s wits.
Enkrid’s mind sped up—but even so, he felt no sense of comfort in the speed.
“Don’t focus on the line—find the point.”
Even with his thoughts moving at light-speed, only fractured choices were possible.
Enkrid steered the Wavebreaker Sword Style away from the logic of predicting paths and anchored it in raw, sensory reflex.
One could call it a burst of pure intuition—and even if it was a gamble, it was working. It was the only viable path.
That was how he continued to parry Balrog’s frantic slashes, punches, kicks, wings—and the occasional strike from that lashing tail.
CLANG. THWACK!
The conflict burned on without intermission.
Ragna focused on the pressure. When a crack appeared, he lunged or cut with every ounce of his being.
But those cracks lasted only heartbeats—so narrow that it felt like trying to thread a needle in a hurricane.
If he failed to connect, they were forced back into a defensive loop, enduring Balrog’s sword, whip, and limbs until the next chance surfaced.
To Shinar, who observed from the periphery, the choreography of the fight was more apparent than it was to those caught in its teeth.
If Ragna represented the spear…
“Then Audin represents the anchor.”
A frame as massive as an ursine beastman’s—functioning as a holy bulwark one moment and a crushing mallet the next.
“And the disruption… is that Rem boy.”
Even Shinar referred to him as “that Rem boy.”
The things he threw from the shadows were sometimes more lethal than Ragna’s steel.
They functioned as both a means of suppression and a way to force an opening—and when timed with Ragna’s attacks, they acted as a heavy hammer against any part of Balrog left unprotected.
And the only reason any of this worked…
Was because one man refused to fall, absorbing Balrog’s nightmare-inducing strikes.
Shinar watched it all, forcing herself to maintain the unnatural serenity of a fairy.
She suppressed the desperate urge to sprint forward and put herself in the path of Balrog’s swings—to take at least one of those blows for them.
“That would be useless.”
So… what could she provide?
The status quo had to break.
She wouldn’t have to wait much longer.