A Knight Who Eternally Regresses Novel - Chapter 800

Chapter 800

The process began by curing the pelt with salt and the juice of a distinct blue berry native to the area, mashing it all into a thick preservative compound. Subsequently, they immersed the hide in a dark wash consisting of a blend of herbs and venomous flora. This served as the softening stage.

When the skin reached the desired flexibility, they layered it with a unique oil exclusive to the inhabitants of the Demon Realm.

“Our recipe involves rendering animal fat and brain matter,” the explanation went, “and to disguise the scent, we incorporate fruit rinds, torreya nuts, and additional components.”

Inevitably, the gray matter and tallow of demons and monstrous beasts were included. Among these, the contributions from the Giant Boar, a colossus of its kind, were held in the highest regard. However, such premium fat was exceptionally scarce, and even when secured, it required a decade of refining and aging before it reached its peak utility.

Under the guidance of the village head and military leader, Zoraslav, the community rolled up their sleeves to participate. The settlement’s most valued medicinal flora and scarcest resources were all dedicated to the task. This was not a haphazard effort; they handled the leather with extreme care, monitoring its transformation with every added ingredient. The precision of the work was reminiscent of Aitri at his own anvil.

They labored over the hide for fifteen consecutive days. Following this, four of the most talented seamstresses in the village—women possessing the finest dexterity—commenced the tailoring. They wove, they stitched, and they gave it form. One particular woman, noted for her keen gaze, visited Enkrid frequently. Though her demeanor was respectful, she was entirely without reservation when it came to making physical contact to record his proportions.

Will.

Aitri once again came to Enkrid’s mind—the image of a creator consumed by his craft. This woman shared that same fire. While most denizens of the Demon Realm were proficient with their hands, her talent was superlative. Her fingers, tinted blue from the dyes, moved with a mix of caution and bravery as she measured the potential expansion of his musculature. She seemed to inherently understand that even those who were not knights, but merely elite warriors, would see their muscles bulge in the heat of a struggle.

“Your talent is remarkable,” he noted.

“You are too kind,” she replied, though her focus never wavered from her task. She possessed a rare gift.

Such expertise was not accidental. After two weeks of observation, Enkrid had begun to perceive the underlying truth. These people lived by hunting, tanning, crafting, and tilling the earth. Of all those pursuits, leatherworking was the most significant. More specifically, the tanning and crafting of hides were likely the only skills that provided them with actual leverage in trade. It explained why their attire was of such high quality.

To successfully barter, the leather had to be of professional grade. Merchants likely moved through the area only sporadically, and leather was the sole reliable currency the villagers possessed. The items brought by those infrequent traders were vital; no matter how self-sufficient the village seemed, there were resources they simply could not produce. Consequently, in this isolated society, certain individuals had to master the craft. A few had risen to become true experts.

Perhaps recent hardships had sharpened their abilities, or perhaps it was just the natural progression of experience. After every conflict, there was a dividend—a gain in knowledge, a refinement of technique, and lessons burned into the soul. Enkrid’s perspective had shifted. He was no longer confined to the mindset of the lone combatant.

The reason behind it was secondary; he simply allowed his contemplations to drift. If one looked at “battle” through a wider lens, it didn’t always involve the clashing of steel. The people of the Demon Realm were in a constant state of war for their existence. They struggled against systemic cruelty, the exploitation of their lands, and the ever-present danger of beasts. They took their stand, identified their strengths, and fought on.

The skills they honed while risking everything to survive in this territory were manifested in their leathercraft—and that was likely why Enkrid detected a glimmer of Will within these workers. In their efforts, he caught a glimpse of his own history. It wasn’t an exact match, but it evoked the memory of those times when he had been the one struggling. Because that period had occurred, he was here now. Because the past was real, today was possible. And only with a today could one look toward a tomorrow. It was a basic truth, yet it felt profound in the moment.

Ultimately, they finished working the Balrog’s skin that Enkrid had provided, turning it into a light suit of leather armor that adhered perfectly to his frame. It was as black as ink, though when caught in the light, a polished luster hinted at the extraordinary nature of the source material. Zoraslav arrived carrying the piece, which was carefully bundled in fabric. With a soft sound, the cloth was pulled away to show the finished work.

“It feels ominous,” Shinar remarked, shaking her head slightly at the sight. She was still struggling to move with her usual grace.

Beside her, Rem—who had been plagued by frequent nosebleeds recently—also showed his discomfort. “Is that thing even safe to use?”

Jaxon stepped forward at that point. When it came to the study of artifacts or enchanted items, he was the most knowledgeable among them. “It is not good,” he stated. He pressed a damaged finger—one broken while evading the Balrog’s wing—against the surface of the leather to gauge its properties.

“Lord…” Audin murmured, calling upon his sacred power out of habit. Tiny sparks of light, resembling glowing insects, drifted around him. Since he couldn’t yet manifest his full strength without physical toll, this small display was his limit. He had been exhausting his divinity daily to mend Enkrid’s arm and assist the others.

Ragna merely looked on with a vacant stare. His face betrayed a complete lack of interest—why bother with something that didn’t involve him? In reality, his focus was elsewhere.

The villagers of the Demon Realm simply lowered their heads in silence. They had watched dozens of their own work tirelessly for fifteen days to produce this. Yet, the offering they presented was thick with a sense of dread. Even the creators hadn’t anticipated such a dark result.

After Jaxon, Rem took his turn to touch the material. His body was battered and his senses were clouded, but evaluating such an object was within his capabilities. It was a simple matter of feeling its aura through basic magic. Even so, his nose began to bleed again. Wiping the blood onto his sleeve, Rem spoke up. “It is saturated with lingering echoes.”

Jaxon scrutinized the armor more intently before delivering a final assessment. “The residual consciousness within this Balrog skin—the spirit of the Demon of Strife—will provoke shifts in the mind of the one who wears it. A violent urge to fight will become overwhelming.”

“It should be cleansed,” Audin suggested, but Jaxon declined.

“Those lingering echoes are exactly what make this leather unique.” He pulled a knife and made a lightning-fast strike, leaving a visible line across the armor’s exterior. It was a feat of agility that seemed impossible for someone with a broken digit. “It won’t just deflect a blade; it won’t even allow the force of the blow to pass through to the wearer.”

He placed his hand behind the leather and dragged the blade across the front as he spoke. “Once more.”

This time, Jaxon channeled his Will into the knife—projecting that invisible force along the sharp edge. Enkrid wasn’t sure if Jaxon had always possessed this skill or if he had reached this peak recently, but Jaxon was now materializing Will with ease. It made sense—without that power, he never could have broken the Balrog’s core. The demon had fought with a shell of Will-infused iron protecting its essence. He likely had mastered Endure as well. Just as a result reveals the effort behind it, Jaxon’s actions spoke for themselves.

Regardless, the armor was crafted from the Balrog’s own essence. “Durable” was an understatement; it was incredibly resilient. Yet, it wasn’t rigid. It felt supple and possessed significant give. Jaxon exerted himself, pushing his Will into the blade to strike the armor again, reaching a point of visible fatigue.

“This means… a standard strike will never penetrate it.” He passed the armor over. Even a strike backed by Will had only managed to leave a faint indentation; it hadn’t torn the material. “Pathfinder, give it a try.”

He tossed the gear into the air toward Ragna. Ragna wasn’t fully recovered, but a single sword stroke was well within his current capacity. However, the leather armor just fell to the dirt with a dull thud.

“Is that a command?” Ragna asked with a flat tone. He was making it clear that he didn’t feel obligated to follow every suggestion. He stayed in his seat, refusing to stir. It was a reminder that he wasn’t the sort to obey just because he was asked.

Jaxon, unperturbed, retrieved the armor and wiped it clean. “Even if it suffers a cut, it possesses regenerative properties. That is typical for artifacts of this caliber.”

Enkrid turned his gaze toward Ragna.

“Very well,” Ragna muttered, standing up. Jaxon threw the armor into the air once more, and Sunrise was drawn.

Born in the east, a sword that held sway over half the world and consumed the dark. The glowing, white-hot edge flashed out, tore through the armor, and was back in its sheath in an instant—a sequence so perfect that any knight would have been impressed. It felt like a direct response to Jaxon’s earlier demonstration with the dagger. Not that any of the onlookers offered a round of applause.

“A bit dramatic, don’t you think?” Rem whispered.

A thin, glowing line of heat appeared in the center of the leather. It had indeed been severed. But as Jaxon had predicted, the material began to pull together like living tissue, mending itself before their eyes. The restoration was unmistakable. Ragna, of course, hadn’t been trying to destroy it; he had only sliced the top layer.

“If I had intended to, I would have split it in two,” he added, responding to Rem’s jibe.

Truthfully, Ragna had learned a great deal from the encounter with the Balrog. It was enough to make him itch to begin training immediately. Only the knowledge that he would ruin his recovery kept him still. Even their leader, Enkrid, was staying quiet and holding back. Observing him, Ragna felt that his own restraint was manageable. Their captain was also refraining; the man who lived for training wasn’t even performing his morning routines. It served as a silent lesson on the value of rest. Seeing him idle was more impactful than any lecture.

Enkrid, for his part, was just surprised Ragna was interested in training at all. He briefly wondered if Ragna thought he was dying again, but dismissed the thought. The man’s companion was the best healer in the Border Guard; he wouldn’t make that same mistake twice.

“The real concern is the toll it takes on the wearer,” Shinar pointed out. It was already clear the item was legendary—cursed, certainly. Calling it “demon armor” was an accurate description.

“It seems we may have created something troublesome,” Zoraslav said with concern. He didn’t fully grasp the technicalities, but he could read the room. They had put their souls into the work, only to produce something that functioned like a cursed blade, threatening to erode the mind of its owner.

In reality, the villagers weren’t to blame. They had simply given their best.

“I am grateful for it,” Enkrid stated firmly. He meant it. It was obvious this was a masterpiece. The unique traits of the Balrog hide, fused with the life experiences of the Demon Realm’s people, had resulted in something peerless.

“I’ll test it,” Roman said, stepping forward with unexpected resolve. No one moved to stop him. If he lost control, they could easily restrain him, or find another way to mitigate the effects.

The leather was flexible and easy to handle. It was a simple pullover design, so Roman pulled it over his head. “Not bad,” he noted. His hand instinctively went to his heavy sword. Though his voice stayed steady, the veins in his arms began to pop. Just as the blade began to leave the scabbard, Enkrid stepped forward and pinned the pommel down with his foot.

Roman strained against it, but it was futile. A moment later, he threw a punch at Enkrid’s leg. The impact was loud, but Enkrid’s position didn’t waver. Though Audin and Teresa had been working on his arms, they weren’t ready for a fight, which is why he used his leg. This was the core of Extinguishing Embers, the technique he had grasped during the Balrog fight. Despite Roman’s calm words, Enkrid had felt the shift in his spirit and stopped the outburst before it could escalate.

“Impressive,” Rem said softly. Ragna’s eyes widened a fraction. Jaxon’s finger twitched in interest.

“That’s the one,” Lua Gharne remarked, the most impressed of all. She hadn’t fully recovered her limbs, but the local diet had allowed her legs to heal enough for walking. She wasn’t ready to fight, but she was mobile. Her ability to speak remained perfectly intact. She had caught the nuance of Enkrid’s movement. She too had evolved from the last battle and, with her specialized sight, she could appreciate the skill on display.

Roman suddenly lunged forward, incoherent, and was quickly pinned by Rophod, Pell, and Teresa while they stripped the armor off him.

“Why… how…” he panted. At a knight’s level, one could resist the urges for a short time, but living in that armor would be a constant trial.

“Self-discipline is the key. The more desire you have, the heavier the burden,” Jaxon explained.

Witnessing Roman’s lapse, Zoraslav bowed deeper. He hadn’t known the armor would be this volatile. Enkrid picked up the piece, considered it for a moment, and then pulled it on.

“If you find you cannot master it, you must remove it,” Jaxon warned as Enkrid fitted the leather to his body. It slid on easily and fit him like a second skin—it had been tailored precisely for him. While it had looked stretched and awkward on Roman, on Enkrid it was perfect. Over his thin base layer, it looked like a uniform designed for the front lines. It even complimented his hair, making the overall appearance seamless. The velvet-like sheen marked it as something far beyond ordinary.

Enkrid stood still, wearing the black hide. The others placed their hands near their weapons, just in case. In their younger days, a comrade might have just knocked him out to be safe, but the stakes were higher now. Unless they were prepared to cause serious injury, they would have to work together to take him down.

The air grew heavy with anticipation, but Enkrid felt absolutely nothing from the armor’s residual spirit. He wondered why that was, but there was no immediate answer.

“Well,” Rem said, breaking the silence, “it certainly looks like it belongs on you.”