A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

The first thing Meelun saw when he opened his eyes was a stone ceiling covered in mold.

He recalled the last moment before losing consciousness. Thanks to Frokk’s unyielding mental fortitude, the memory was vivid and precise.

And with that clarity came the realization: he was, as they say, in deep shit.

”Can I get some water? And while you’re at it, maybe something to eat? I like fruit.”

Meelun propped himself halfway up and spoke.

His arms had regenerated, but shackles bound both his arms and legs, connected by chains to a sturdy pillar.

Even Frokk’s monstrous strength wasn’t enough to break free.

Which left only one option.

Waiting.

Thanks to the desperate drug he had consumed, his head throbbed as though it were splitting open, and his heart ached.

‘Can I even escape this?’

Like most Frokk, Meelun wasn’t so much afraid of death as he was bitter about being denied his desires and ambitions.

‘Damn bastard.’

Inevitably, his thoughts returned to the man who had brought him down.

‘He seemed manageable.’

But he wasn’t. He should have been. By all appearances, he was weaker. Meelun’s combat instincts had told him so.

‘Why?’

Frokk relied on an instinctual understanding of combat, a natural ability to assess the tide of battle in an instant.

His instincts were rarely wrong. So why had he been utterly crushed?

The answer lay in Enkrid’s peculiar nature.

To Frokk’s keen eyes, which judged talent at a glance, Enkrid was an enigma. A man with no remarkable natural gifts, who nonetheless had clawed his way to strength through sheer determination and relentless persistence.

He was the product of endless repetition, someone whose existence defied easy categorization.

For Frokk like Meelun, who specialized in identifying talent, Enkrid was the most baffling kind of opponent.

‘He went straight for the joints.’

Meelun’s freshly regenerated arms still ached.

His arms had been severed before, and this time his eye had been gouged as well.

‘He knows how to fight.’

There was a world of difference between someone who merely wielded a sword well and someone who truly knew how to fight.

The latter had no room for flowery aristocratic swordplay. Meelun had seen those types before, practicing their graceful swings within the safe walls of their estates.

But Enkrid wasn’t like that.

He had honed his skill against the vulnerabilities of others, targeting Meelun’s slippery Frokk physique with precision, exploiting his weaknesses.

‘Was he always this good?’

Meelun tried to recall, but the details were fuzzy. Enkrid had seemed competent before, but Meelun had expected to overwhelm him easily upon their next meeting.

‘Guess not.’

He felt weak, hungry, and frustrated.

”Here’s some water and dried fruit. It’s winter, so fresh fruit’s hard to come by,” said the jailer, who brought the items without fuss. Surprisingly courteous.

Meelun drank the water and chewed on the dried fruit. There was even some well-baked bread with marmalade.

”Hey, this is pretty good.”

”Glad you like it,” the jailer replied, his tone flat but not entirely devoid of tension.

‘Well-trained,’ Meelun observed.

Frokk could tell a lot from a glance, even if Meelun’s talent for reading people wasn’t top-notch.

‘Still, that guy…’

Enkrid’s peculiar nature lingered in his mind, as it had for so many others who’d encountered him.

Two days passed.

Meelun had realized brute strength wouldn’t get him out, so he tried bribing the jailer, but that went nowhere.

”If I let you go, I’m as good as dead.”

”I don’t think they’d kill a soldier for one mistake.”

The jailer’s bitter laugh revealed a hint of despair.

”If they don’t kill me outright, they’ll transfer me to permanent training duty. Might be better to die.”

‘What’s he on about now?’ Meelun wondered.

The jailer wasn’t particularly strict, but he seemed impossible to sway. Even if Meelun offered him gold, the man would probably refuse.

”Getting caught would mean certain death, and I’m not about to risk my life for more money. I’ve got my future kids to think about.”

”Future kids?”

”I’m not married yet.”

”Then why mention kids?”

”Future kids, you know? The ones I plan to have someday.”

This estate’s soldiers even had sharp tongues.

As another day passed, Meelun began to wonder if they’d forgotten about him.

Stuck in the underground, unable to tell day from night, he began to feel a twinge of sadness.

‘Why did I get involved in this mess?’

Another two days passed, and Meelun grew desperate.

Was he going to spend the rest of his life rotting in this cell?

Could he rip off his own limbs to escape? Even if Frokk’s regenerative abilities let him deal with the shackles, he doubted he could break the iron bars while bleeding out.

‘What the hell is this?’

The frustration gnawed at him. Frokk thrived on curiosity and indulgence. To starve them of those was a crueler death than any wound.

”Hey, did you forget about me?”

When he next woke, unsure if it was day or night, Meelun saw figures outside his cell.

Four of them.

Enkrid was among them, as was a nervous-looking man with large eyes. Another figure lingered half in shadow, their face partially obscured by torchlight.

The jailer was nowhere to be seen.

They had come for him. Finally, some change, even if it meant his death.

”Where did you get the powder?”

The question was direct, with no preamble.

Meelun decided to answer honestly. He didn’t want to waste time or risk them walking away.

”I picked it up along the way.”

”Where?”

”A small village.”

The question came from the Pixie Captain, their tone cold and detached. Meelun could tell instantly they were no pushover.

‘Are all the people here monsters?’

He continued, leaving nothing out.

”West of here, two days on foot, or about a day and a half on horseback. It’s a small village on a plateau, surrounded by a wooden fence. I didn’t catch the name. The village chief was a young, beautiful woman named Kaicella.”

Frokk always appreciated beauty.

”Was it sent by the Black Blade?”

”Bandits? The Black Blade? No, I don’t think so.”

Meelun had spent days in captivity, which for a Frokk was torment beyond measure. Left here forever, he’d wither and die, deprived of his desires and passions.

To a Frokk, nothing was more excruciating.

”It checks out,” Enkrid muttered, prompting Kraiss to add, ”It’s working even better than expected.”

Enkrid nodded, seated and thoughtful.

He had a grasp of the Frokk’s nature thanks to his time with Lua Gharne, but Kraiss saw things differently.

‘What a strange mind.’

Enkrid recalled Kraiss’s earlier words:

”Frokk follow their desires. If you catch a wandering Frokk, you can usually guess their motivations. Sometimes, you don’t even need interrogation—just wait, and they’ll spill everything.”

That insight had proven correct.

But no one had anticipated this level of cooperation.

”Do you know a merchant named Promshell?”

”He’s the one who hired me. He runs an information guild, scattering his ears across the continent.”

A plausible story, and Meelun didn’t appear to be lying. Frokk weren’t prone to deceit in such situations—they either spoke the truth or kept silent.

Enkrid committed the name to memory, repeating it to himself.

”Promshell… Promshell…”

”Is he a noble?”

”No, as far as I know.”

”That’s all?”

”If there’s any falsehood in what I’ve said, may the gods of Impulse and Wave punish me.”

”You’d swear an oath on that?”

”Of course.”

For a Frokk, a promise or an oath wasn’t just words. It was sacred—a bond that had to be upheld.

”I was duped too. By that bastard, Promshell,” Meelun muttered, exhaling heavily through his nose.

Enkrid decided he’d heard enough. No, more than enough.

He had the location of the village where the powder had come from.

”So, after all that effort to find it, they were hiding it in the village,” the Pixie Captain murmured.

”What about combat-ready personnel?” the Captain asked.

Having already spilled everything, Meelun answered without hesitation.

”If you ask me, half the villagers.”

”All of them?”

”There’s over fifty, continent standard.”

Enkrid nodded at the Frokk’s estimate.

”So, will you let me go now?”

Enkrid nodded again and rose from his chair, stepping closer to the iron bars.

”Maybe.”

”What?”

”I said maybe.”

”You bastard, you made a promise!”

Enkrid had made no such promise. Of course, he intended to release Meelun eventually, but before coming here, Kraiss had made a heartfelt request.

”Could you leave him to me? Please?” Kraiss had asked with unusual sincerity.

Moved by the plea, Enkrid had agreed.

”Wait, wait, let’s talk!”

Just as Meelun prepared to lash out at Enkrid with a string of curses, Kraiss stepped in.

The Frokk hesitated, thrown off by Kraiss’s wide eyes and harmless demeanor. Meelun, though uninterested in men, admitted that Kraiss’s large eyes gave him a certain charm.

Meelun had a tendency to consider big eyes a mark of an attractive face.

”Now, Meelun,” Kraiss said, smiling warmly, his expression radiating innocence.

Enkrid watched the exchange, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. He knew what was coming.

Whenever Kraiss wore that smile, it meant he was about to exploit someone completely.

Meelun had no idea what he was in for.

***

On the way out of the underground prison, Enkrid headed toward Marcus’s office.

He intended to wrap everything up in one go—interrogate Frokk, get the information he needed, and report his findings.

Marcus, the battalion commander, was perpetually swamped with work. Running the estate seemed to demand more than one body, maybe even three or four of him.

Apparently, during Enkrid’s absence, a heretic cultist had been captured.

The underground prison was tucked away in the corner of the barracks. As soon as they exited, Enkrid spoke.

”Care to explain?”

The Pixie Captain had clearly been involved in this matter, dropping hints along the way, including talk of tracking down the village.

Enkrid had let it slide earlier, but now, with no Frokk around to eavesdrop, he wanted answers.

”It was a classified mission,” the Pixie Captain said, turning to meet Enkrid’s gaze with their piercing green eyes.

In that case, Enkrid thought, he’d just ask Marcus.

But before he could resolve to do so, the Captain continued.

”But what’s the point of secrets between us?”

”There’s plenty of point. Let’s keep it a secret,” Enkrid said hastily.

”No need.”

The Captain ignored him and went on.

”The Black Blade is connected to a beast-like force taking root within the kingdom.”

”Let’s keep this under wraps,” Enkrid interrupted again.

But the Captain was undeterred.

”They’ve been kidnapping alchemists to create those powders.”

”I don’t think you’re hearing me.”

”Obviously, it’s no ordinary powder. It’s a banned substance, outlawed by the kingdom and opposed by the Alchemist Guild. Though, who knows, the guild might secretly be taking advantage of the research results.”

Enkrid gave up.

The explanation was troubling. The powder had sent Frokk into a berserk state and, if consumed by an ordinary person, could turn them into a temporary killing machine. But once the effects wore off, death was inevitable.

The Pixie Captain explained that they’d been tasked with locating the source of the substance, which had involved numerous external missions. Even Finn had recently been dispatched on a related matter.

Apparently, there was work suited specifically for Finn’s abilities.

Enkrid quietly listened before turning to Jaxon.

”And you?”

Jaxon had the look of someone who knew more than he was letting on.

”I was searching for something I needed and ended up tracing it back to the Black Blade. The alchemical traces on the powder I found on their courier in Martai confirmed it,” Jaxon replied, his words perfectly aligning with Enkrid’s expectations.

Even so, Enkrid’s gut told him Jaxon was holding something back.

He didn’t press the issue. Jaxon wasn’t the type to spill under questioning, and if he had plans to turn this into an ambush, Enkrid figured he owed him at least one free shot.

After all, he owed Jaxon a debt—particularly for the perceptive techniques that had laid the foundation for Enkrid’s newly refined flowing swordsmanship.

”Fine. Let’s go with that,” Enkrid said.

”You don’t seem convinced,” Jaxon replied flatly.

”I believe you,” Enkrid answered, recalling Audin. The response, in its way, carried an air of sincerity.

”Do you, though?” Jaxon asked again.

”I do.”

By then, they’d reached Marcus’s office. The guards outside saluted sharply, stepping aside to allow them entry.

The Pixie Captain and Jaxon accompanied Enkrid—two captains, one of them an independent commander, and the other a Pixie.

Marcus’s guards stiffened, their disciplined forms betraying no emotion as they opened the way.

Inside, Marcus sat amidst piles of papers and parchments. He looked up and asked:

”How does it feel to be ambushed in the middle of the estate?”

”Like shit,” Enkrid replied without hesitation.

”Me too,” Marcus said.

Though no more words were exchanged, there was an unspoken understanding between them.

Enkrid had spent his time rifling through the assassins’ belongings and interrogating Frokk. The same thought had gnawed at him throughout.

‘Why do we only ever take the hits?’

So, he’d asked Kraiss:

”If you were leading the Black Blade, where would it hurt the most to be hit?”

”If someone took their coin purse,” Kraiss had replied without missing a beat.

”Not everyone’s as greedy as you,” Enkrid had retorted.

”Every organization hurts when their coffers run dry,” Kraiss had said, the logic undeniable.

Which meant there had to be a way to strike back.

Enkrid had come to Marcus partly to report and partly to discuss how best to proceed.

”This isn’t a request or an act of revenge. As the estate’s overseer, I’m giving you an order,” Marcus said after hearing the report.

His gaze sharpened as he issued his command.

”Crush them.”

Enkrid accepted the order without hesitation.

The Black Blade would learn they weren’t the only ones who could strike.

”For now, I’m granting you independent operational authority. Shinar, that goes for you too,” Marcus said, glancing at the Pixie Captain.

”Understood,” the Captain replied, their tone icy, a stark contrast to how they spoke to Enkrid.

To Enkrid, it felt strange.

‘Why do they only treat me differently?’

It was a mystery. Maybe it was his face—some people just found it easy to mess with him. He’d heard as much back when he was with the mercenaries.

Either way, Enkrid resolved to send the Black Blade a clear message:

You’re not the only ones who can strike.