A Knight Who Eternally Regresses Novel - Chapter 798

Chapter 798

Balrog’s ruined frame—fractured like delicate glass—disintegrated into cinders, drifting away as a dark, viscous liquid leaked from his center.
Even so, he managed a final exertion of his limb. A solitary spark of motion lingered within him.
He had the choice to direct the echoes of his fading consciousness toward malice—to order every scrap of his remaining essence to strike down those who had forced his downfall.
However, Balrog refrained.
He felt no desire for it.
Instead, he simply smirked, his lips pulling back into a monstrous grin.
He was a creature shaped for combat, and he would depart in the heat of it. There was no cause for dissatisfaction.
He had never pursued the act of killing for its own sake. He existed for the thrill of the engagement.
Born a beast, he would perish a combatant. He never flinched at the prospect of nonexistence. That truth was sufficient.
A single regret gnawed at him: the realization that his journey ended here.
Actually—to be perfectly candid with his own heart—he would have relished continuing the game with that individual, regardless of their nature.
For a longer duration. For an eternity.
That chaotic man with the raven hair and sapphire eyes.
‘What a pity.’
Still, that did not mean he harbored any clumsy or lingering remorse.
Balrog, who had toyed with the idea of transmitting his final thoughts through mental waves, used his physical voice for the first time in an age.
“Hey.”
The target of his address was obvious.
His vision remained fixed on the shimmering stare of the mortal. It was as if Enkrid was the solitary entity left in the universe.
Even the great maze-like edifice above—once an extension of his own mass—was crumbling into soot just like his own flesh.
In the heart of the wreckage, Balrog uttered his final sentiment.
“That was a fucking blast.”
With that parting declaration, Balrog’s visage caved in and dissipated. As though he had never occupied space—like the frost of winter dissolving under the warmth of the sun—Balrog vanished, followed by the maze and all it contained.
Well—not quite everything disappeared.
His external casing, the thick hide that had once draped his demonic form, hit the ground in heavy, solid pieces.
The dark vapor that had functioned as his skeleton, organs, and vitality evaporated, leaving only a hollow shell. Aside from the extremities, wings, and antlers, it looked like treated hide.
With both Salamandra and Urt extinguished, this remained as the sole evidence of his existence.
Audin, who had maintained a silent vigil, finally spoke up.
“May you encounter the struggle you crave in the afterlife.”
Then, the barriers obscuring the heavens fell away.
The deep blue of the firmament revealed itself.
Evening had arrived.
Far away, the dying embers of day made room for a pair of moons emerging from the horizon. The air was clear and quiet, projecting its usual, dignified grace.
Enkrid gazed through the fading echoes of battle toward Oara—out beyond the deep blue sky.
“I am grateful, Enki.”
She whispered.
“Think nothing of it,” Enkrid answered softly.
Every spirit that had been tethered by lingering thoughts or by the power of Balrog began their climb.
A single wisp of light drifted upward from the earth.
It was the leader.
Then dozens followed, rising toward the clouds. It was a magnificent display.
In the crowd, Enkrid spotted three recognizable figures. The lady carrying the single-edged blade inclined her head amidst the radiance; Donapha, no longer trapped as a Dullahan but appearing as a sturdy veteran knight, stood tall; and Rino, the master of artifacts.
Rino offered a brief nod.
Donapha hoisted his battle-axe.
The lady with the single-edged blade touched the guard of her weapon with her left hand and dipped her chin in respect.
True soldiers until the end—maintaining their discipline in their final salute.
Others ascended with more urgency. A few looked back at Enkrid’s comrades, as if to signal their appreciation. Their silent movements spoke volumes.
“They are all thankful,” Oara remarked.
Her own form was breaking apart into a glowing swarm of particles. Should he have invited Roman to this place? No… if that were the case, he should have brought the private who held feelings for Oara.
Enkrid struggled to recall the name. It teased his memory, just out of reach.
Millio—something along those lines.
Even as she transitioned into light, Oara offered a smile.
It was the same expression she wore during their initial encounter.
Her beaming face remained constant.
“If I told you ‘See you later,’ it would probably feel like a jinx, wouldn’t it?”
With those words, Oara dissolved into the radiance.
Enkrid didn’t even twitch despite the agony radiating from his limbs. He scanned the survivors of the clash.
A significant indentation marred the armor on Audin’s torso. Even though Enkrid had parried the strike and Audin was protected by sanctified gear infused with holy power, the impact had left its mark. A persistent, soft luminescence pulsed across Audin’s frame.
“I am alright,” Audin claimed.
But it was mere talk. To stay standing, he was forced to cycle holy energy through his system—even at the cost of great strain.
Fortunately, he possessed a robust enough physique to endure the process.
Ragna was propped up by his blade, Sunrise, using it to prevent himself from toppling over. His vision was clouded, and his quiet rambling indicated he was on the verge of blacking out.
“I should have swapped to the edge there…”
The comment lacked immediate context. Most likely, it was a thought only coherent to him.
Yet, hearing such self-reflection from a man overflowing with natural skill was unusual. It sounded out of character for him.
It wouldn’t last, but Ragna was clearly reviewing the duel in his mind.
He must have recognized his own flaws during the preceding struggle. Even if he hadn’t been crushed, he hadn’t played his part flawlessly. That realization likely wounded his ego.
Not that Enkrid could truly grasp the extent of it. In truth, he was equally spent.
His nerves were screaming. His entire frame ached as if he had been pummeled by a horde of titans.
“Mmh.”
Jaxon let out a low sound and stepped back into view. He was far from unscathed. The antler-shard Enkrid had hurled had provided a window of opportunity, not a complete defense.
The edge of Balrog’s wing had torn across Jaxon’s torso. Despite his high-grade protective gear, the laceration was deep, and crimson spilled from the jagged gap.
Naturally, he hadn’t ignored the injury.
He had immediately applied the salve Anne had prepared using hidden fairy techniques, then pressed fairy foliage over it.
It served as a makeshift dressing, accelerating his body’s healing and halting the hemorrhage.
He then applied a specialized toxin within the foliage to set the blood—creating a protective seal over the tear.
That was the extent of the first aid he managed the moment Balrog expired, leaving only a shell.
Truthfully, without those quick actions, he might have succumbed to blood loss.
Jaxon would surely carry a massive permanent mark on his chest.
“Calculated victory,” he remarked flatly.
It was a casual, dry comment.
Enkrid gave a soft laugh.
A lingering sense of overwhelming power still throbbed painfully in his skull, and Jaxon’s words cut through the heightened tension left by the combat, softening the edge of his fatigue.
Jaxon had sensed Enkrid’s mental state and provided a bit of dark humor.
“Everyone is so pathetic.”
Then Rem arrived.
His face was gaunt, his feet shuffling as he approached, barely possessing the strength to walk.
Yet he behaved as though he was perfectly fine—and made that claim.
Compared to Jaxon’s “calculated victory,” Rem’s delusion was the genuine article.
“Truly, if the situation had deteriorated, your second-in-command was prepared to just, you know, handle it with my axe. Slice and dice. Mm.”
Snort.
As Rem spoke, blood began to leak from his nostril. There were already obvious streaks of red wiped away from the edge of his lips. He cleaned the new blood from beneath his nose.
If his internal systems weren’t already screaming in agony, he wouldn’t be Rem.
Usually, when Rem made such a claim, a specific fairy would be close by to tease him about it being the “responsibility of a spouse” or something similar.
But she remained there in silence, motionless.
Her footwear—crafted from layered greenery—had disintegrated, showing her bare feet.
“Aars Pugnae,” she whispered—the ancient combat style of the fairies.
The name of a discipline handed down through the fairy lineages.
“Fairies come into the world with internal life energy. This style does not draw from the outside. It directs one’s own soul-fire.”
That was why it could not be used casually. If handled poorly, it could snuff out your life instantly. What Shinar had executed was precisely that sort of gamble.
She had burnt through the power kept in Naidel, and the spot where she had stood was right on the threshold of the Demon Realm—Balrog’s presence had effectively transformed it into a dark zone.
She had few paths to take.
Observe from safety, using her role as an excuse, and watch her companions perish?
‘Or intervene, fully aware it was beyond her limits?’
Given only those choices, Shinar opted not for the long life of her people—but for the sudden burst of flame.
“I won’t die, Enki.”
She didn’t refer to him as “fiancé.” She used the casual shortened name—reserved for those most dear.
“Shinar?”
Enkrid focused on the fairy. The spark in her gaze was slowly fading.
“When I open my eyes again… I hope to see you. Take me to the city of the fairies.”
Then Shinar collapsed. Her frame buckled like a falling tree.
Enkrid’s arms were too damaged to hold her—so he positioned his own body under hers to cushion her fall.
To keep her from the hard earth.
Audin walked over to check Shinar’s vitals.
A cleric who commands holy power is also a gifted doctor. That is because the application of divine healing begins with a deep comprehension of anatomy. The notion that you simply flood a person with light and they mend is a fallacy.
Exactness was required in every phase of the work.
“She is breathing.”
Audin stated. A faint, slow exhalation escaped from the corner of Shinar’s mouth.
“She will recover.”
Jaxon chimed in. He, too, possessed a keen intuition for gauging a person’s status. Her breath was thin but consistent.
It was similar to the trance one entered after consuming a numbing agent—the kind used by assassins to simulate a corpse.
To an amateur, it would truly look as if she had passed.
‘But she hasn’t.’
He could tell as much by tracking her with his sharpened senses. The flicker of her life was small, but it wasn’t a flame that would easily go out.
And indeed, that spark remained. Which was why the fairy found a way to deliver one more joke.
“Oh, and if our ceremony is all set when I wake up, that would be lovely.”
Shinar barely tilted her head to get the words out.
Was she not supposed to be out cold?
Everyone was taken aback.
But upon reflection, fairy respiration was naturally subtle and light. And naturally, it was even more strained now—she had drained her vitality, after all.
No one present was breathing normally.
Even Jaxon felt his reading of Shinar’s state was slightly off, and Rem, of all people, was gasping just from the walk. Ragna was barely staying vertical using Sunrise as a crutch—and truthfully, it looked like Rem needed that crutch more than him.
“Caught you off guard, didn’t I?”
Shinar gave a ghostly smile. Enkrid simply smiled back.
Because yes—he had been genuinely startled.
The struggle was finished. Under the deep blue sky, they gathered what remained of Balrog and made their way back to the settlement.
They had been in a vast, flat expanse outside the village walls.
Enkrid set the pace, and the others trailed slowly behind. When they arrived, those who had stayed behind were waiting.
“Zero deaths.”
That was Rophod’s greeting upon seeing Enkrid. No one had perished, though the marks of a vicious fight were visible everywhere.
Rophod himself had a deep wound on his left arm. Even with holy intervention and Anne’s care, he wouldn’t be swinging a blade for at least two weeks. Honestly, it was a miracle he hadn’t lost the limb entirely.
He was busy binding his arm when he spotted Enkrid and gave his report.
“That includes the civilians.”
Peld joined in the status update. Declaring no casualties meant everyone under their care had been shielded.
More accurately, they were able to save everyone because none of the invaders had gone into a total, mindless frenzy.
“The Creator looked after us.”
That was Teresa’s view.
“Well? Was it entertaining?”
That inquiry came from Lua Gharne—deprived of both legs and her left arm, her right arm being the only one remaining.
“Thoroughly,” Enkrid replied.
He scanned his surroundings. Some individuals were observing him with apprehension—the ones who had remained in the rear, the ones who had been kept safe.
Those who whispered about the Demon Realm and its inhabitants being unholy, lowering their gazes.
That evening, Enkrid experienced two visions.
In the first vision, Oara arrived.
“Had you not already moved on?”
“Oh, this is merely a lingering tie. The genuine article. You might call it my final goodbye. Truly, you possess more skill than I do now.”
“Is that the case?”
“Sir Enkrid.”
When he quietly observed her, Oara gave him that same playful smirk.
It was a dream. A ghost of regret.
Just as Balrog had felt a urge to reach higher after clashing with Enkrid, Oara had ghosts of her own. She had once envisioned a life following the defense of her home.
‘After protecting it with a grin…’
She wanted to wander with her blade and search for something enjoyable. This was that lingering sentiment.
“I will hold nothing back this time.”
Oara declared.
Since it was a vision, there were no wounds. Even if there had been, the proposal was attractive enough to disregard them.
Oara was gone. Completely. So this would be the final time.
He traded blows with her—tasting her skills.
Not just the mechanics of her chain-blade, but her entire existence poured into the metal.
‘Will is the core of determination.’
Determination is life—and her blade grew out of that life.
He analyzed her movements. No—he committed them to memory.
The vision concluded.
“Truly… my thanks.”
Oara’s final echo departed.
The second vision began on a sprawling plain, featuring a golden-haired man on a steed.
“I have never suffered a defeat in a duel,” the man remarked.
Hearing his tone reminded Enkrid of that cursed boatman with the unpleasant pastimes.