A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

The Will of Rejection, awakened thanks to a crazed shepherd’s sword.

The Will of Acceleration, obtained through the pursuit of speed.

The Will of the Pressing Blade, derived from the weight of intimidation.

Enkrid forged his own path, awakening his Will as he progressed.

And in doing so, he naturally examined the road he had walked and envisioned the one ahead.

The Pressing Blade was a greatsword, while the Momentary Blade was a swift blade.

The Will of Rejection was a method of steadying the mind. There was also a technique that, though not imbued with Will, was called the Serpent Blade—a counterattack that was soft yet did not turn steel into cotton.

And now.

He had seen and faced the sword of a man who severed the flow.

It was not a mindless fight driven by exhilaration. He had observed everything. He had taken the blows, experiencing it firsthand.

He had learned through recollection.

What was the secret behind the sword that severed the flow?

It was the eyes.

The man’s Will resided in his sight.

By seeing, grasping, and judging, he could sever the flow.

Thus, it was impossible to sever the flow of someone superior to oneself. It was an incomplete technique.

Enkrid had also observed the Iron Wall technique used by Rearvart before his transformation.

An absolute defense relying on shield and armor.

It was a technique designed to wear down the opponent through prolonged battle.

What was its core?

Was it endurance? The power to hold firm by training the body’s center? Steadfast legs?

There was only one key factor.

Persistence.

It was the Will of Endurance.

Among all the techniques Enkrid had seen, it was the one that sustained Will for the longest duration.

The Iron Wall Defense was a technique that placed the power known as Will at the body’s core to endure.

Sight and persistence.

He had grasped them, reviewed them, and understood them.

Now, he would mix in the essence of attack. He would incorporate the sharpness of intuition, opening the gate to heightened perception.

In truth, what he was attempting was to allow Will to permeate the Capturing Blade technique.

And he knew why it was possible.

He had already experienced it. He had already done it.

It was during his fight against the centaur leader who wielded a glaive.

His heightened senses had run rampant, drawing upon countless experiences to predict his opponent’s movements. His sharpened perception had foreseen attacks, allowing him to dodge and parry.

Accumulated experience had led to enlightenment.

The moment when determination became willpower, shining brightly, altering reality.

The moment when the intangible force known as Will manifested into reality.

Enkrid’s gaze took in his opponent’s entire body—the shifting of muscles, the movements of fingers, the direction of their feet, the changes in breathing, even the way airborne dust altered the air.

His senses flared wildly. For an ordinary person, it would have been an overwhelming flood of information, enough to shatter their mind.

Enkrid filtered and accepted only what was necessary.

This was a skill made possible by the countless deaths he had endured through repetition.

Thanks to accumulated experience, his ability to judge necessity had become razor-sharp.

A blade as thin as a thread flew toward him, and he barely managed to block it. That meant he could react.

Though the situation remained dire and fraught with danger, Enkrid took this moment to name the technique born from his Will.

By naming it, he acknowledged it and fully grasped how to wield it.

The Eye That Sees One Step Ahead.

The name of a technique rooted in Will. Enkrid saw his opponent’s next move before it happened.

He had experienced something similar before, but this time, the clarity was far beyond what it had been.

Thus, a sword formed from countless experiences etched a path into the future, into tomorrow.

Had it been Ragna, he would have reached this level in an instant. But Enkrid had walked his own path, arriving through his own means. There was no need to envy another’s talent.

This was the fundamental difference between Enkrid and the opponent before him.

He knew neither despair nor hopelessness, and thus, he simply moved forward without envy.

Whoosh.

For the first time, he dodged the sword that had turned into a thread of steel.

Rearvart’s blade sliced off part of Enkrid’s hair as it passed.

The severed strands scattered into the air.

In that brief gap, Enkrid launched his sword with the minimum necessary movement.

This was the result of reading and rereading his opponent’s every move.

He parried with the Capturing Blade, fanned sparks with his Pressing Blade, endured, and finally struck.

The shortened, jagged tip of his gladius pierced his opponent’s chest.

Even if he had turned into a monster, he would not have grown a second heart.

Thunk!

Through the hilt, he felt the sensation of his blade sinking into muscle.

The instant he thrust, Enkrid threw himself backward.

Rearvart’s left fist tore through the air where Enkrid had just stood.

Had it connected, it would have surely broken something.

Enkrid evaded by falling back, and even as his stance faltered, he kicked the hilt of his own sword.

Thud! Squelch!

The tip of the blade emerged from his opponent’s back.

“Guh…!”

Rearvart coughed up blood. The dark crimson liquid splattered over Enkrid’s face.

Enkrid rolled away with the falling blood, concealing a whistling dagger in his left hand while gripping Silver’s hilt in his right.

Drops of dark red blood dripped down his jawline. Without flinching, Enkrid knelt on one knee, lifting his sword.

His eyes stung, his head throbbed.

His heightened senses merged with his intuition, predicting his opponent’s movements. The pain in his skull was expected.

He could never use this against a proper knight.

But the enemy before him was no knight.

Having fought him, Enkrid knew that all too well.

“Damn you, gods…”

Rearvart muttered, staring at the sword impaled in his chest. Blood began trickling from his eyes.

His gaze was no longer fixed on Enkrid.

He looked back upon his past life.

He had been called a genius. A hero who would raise his house to greatness.

He had marched forward, ever forward.

And at the end of his path, what had he found?

Nothing but an endless abyss.

Only darkness that led nowhere.

Only walls that refused to let his hands reach anything.

“Damn this wretched world.”

He cursed everything.

He hated it with all his being.

Rearvart grasped the blade embedded in his chest and pulled it free.

A gaping wound gushed forth.

A mortal injury. Impossible to survive.

Or perhaps he could.

He knew the count’s secret. If he returned to him, he might be granted life once more.

Had he not already become a chimera?

So, was it truly wrong to fight to live?

But if he survived… what then?

There was no path left to return to.

Even after all this, I still cannot be a knight?

He had thrown everything away for that.

And so, it was over.

His eyes turned to the one who had exposed his reality.

Once more, his world was filled with nothing but resentment, despair, and ruin.

Rearvart spat a final curse at him.

“You will end up just like me.”

Like a man desperately clawing to become a knight.

“Not that you’ll survive this.”

A curse spoken with the wish for his death.

Enkrid didn’t even hear it.

So he did not answer.

Rearvart collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut.

Falling to his knees, then forward onto the ground.

His blood seeped into the dirt.

Enkrid gazed down at it indifferently.

Blood. Dirt. Death.

Still, he did not like it.

The battle was still raging, yet the space around Enkrid remained eerily silent.

Much later, a grizzled commander watching from the distance clenched his fist.

“Have you ever seen knights clash? I have seen something far greater.”

His adjutant nodded slightly in agreement.

The commander shuddered. Then, he heard Enkrid’s voice ring out.

“This war ends here.”

A command.

“All of you. Stop fighting. I will end this damn war.”

Rem approached.

“So, what now?”

Ragna was there as well.

“It wasn’t bad.”

Jaxon was there too.

All three of them had cut down their enemies. They had sensed Rearvart’s transformation and made it here.

For Ragna, it had been a path of refining his technique while cutting through the shield-wielding formations blocking his way.

For Rem, it had been a path of shattering the head of a brute wielding two massive hammers and splitting a fairy’s torso in half.

For Jaxon, it had been a path of hunting down and killing all five of the enemy officers hidden throughout the battlefield.

Their opponents had never stood a chance.

They could have interfered in Enkrid’s fight, but they chose not to.

Watching his sword change before their eyes—if they claimed not to be surprised, it would be a lie.

That was why they did not step in.

This translation is the intellectual property of Novelight.

He would change. He would win. That determination was clear.

Rem, Ragna, and Jaxon all silently admired him.

By now, it was obvious that they could no longer treat him as a mere amusement.

Even though Enkrid had spoken, it was natural that the battle did not immediately cease. Yet, around him, the fighting gradually came to a halt.

“Tell them to stop fighting.”

Enkrid let out a deep sigh as he spoke. He was not unscathed.

But he had no intention of repeating today all over again. He had to move forward.

Rem, for whatever reason, found himself truly liking this leader.

The man was a complete fool, yet his declaration to end the war, that sheer arrogance—it resonated deeply.

Not because he could do it.

Because he would keep going until he did.

It was determination. It was will.

And that was why it struck a chord.

“Any bastard who keeps fighting dies by my axe! Everyone, stop now!”

As much as Enkrid’s display had been terrifying, Rem had been rampaging like a madman himself.

On top of that, he carried a savagery that cared little for friend or foe.

Rem unleashed that madness. His gleaming eyes and blood-soaked axe were clear in everyone’s sight.

Of course, they stopped.

“If anyone still wants to fight, they’ll face me.”

Ragna stepped forward as well.

Jaxon, ever the strategist, turned his gaze toward the back.

He looked directly at the commanders.

His eyes forced a choice upon them. If they ordered more deaths, he would personally ensure they were the first to die.

“Cease all fighting!”

One of the commanders shouted.

There was more than one among them who had been impressed by Enkrid.

“Fall back! Stand down!”

“There is no need for further bloodshed!”

Each voiced their commands.

From the rear, Marcus struck his drum.

A signal not for retreat, but for a temporary halt in battle.

Boom. Boom.

Not every soldier under the count’s command was a fool.

They knew of the Chimera forces. They respected the count’s grand vision.

But—

Is this right?

Some had started to feel that this was no longer a battle for victory, but a battle simply to die.

Those among them who felt that way moved to stop the fighting.

“Stop, stop! Fall back!”

A sight unfolded that would have left even a bard speechless.

The battle stopped.

Enkrid looked upon the halted battlefield and began walking forward.

The sky was dark. Though it was midday, the clouds had shrouded the sun.

Yet, his figure was imprinted in the minds of all who watched.

Behind him followed Rem, Ragna, and Jaxon.

And lastly, joining them from who-knows-where, was Dunbakel.

As they advanced, the count, veins bulging in his forehead, stepped forward to meet them.

Five guards armed with swords, spears, and axes stood by his side.

Looking at them, Enkrid wondered—was Rearvart the fool, or was the count the bastard? The stench of bloodlust was thick on those five as well.

“That leopard bitch, what an audacious trickster.”

His lips smiled, but the veins on his forehead throbbed. His face was split in two—his upper half twisted in anger, his lower half curved into a smirk.

Clearly, something was not going as planned.

“My tricks are far more audacious. Want me to show you?”

Enkrid shot back, and the count’s smile deepened. The teeth he bared had a strange, black tint.

“Do you think Rearvart was everything I had?”

The count gestured with his hand. Even that motion seemed unnatural.

Esther had clearly done something.

At his signal, the five armed guards stepped forward.

Crack.

Their muscles twisted. Their bodies swelled, sprouting fur.

It was not right to call them werewolves.

These were not true beasts but human bodies forcibly merged with monstrous flesh and sinew.

And they looked the part.

“Disgusting.”

Rem rested his axe on his shoulder as he sneered.

Rearvart had been called the perfected form.

These, on the other hand, seemed broken.

Their stolen strength mimicked that of knights, but their grotesquely swollen faces, covered in pulsating blisters, were anything but natural.

Still, five was a lot.

Enkrid considered it. He could handle one.

But could he keep fighting after that?

His body had been pushed close to its limits against Rearvart.

But he had no intention of retreating.

“I will end this war.”

A declaration. A display of will. A ⊛ Nоvеlιght ⊛ (Read the full story) sheer, overwhelming presence.

Enkrid took a step forward.

The five guards, their eyes now glowing red, locked onto him.

“Planning to do it alone?”

Rem stepped to his left.

“I’ll take two.”

Ragna moved to his right.

“You need only watch.”

Jaxon stepped three paces away.

Dunbakel clenched her jaw and stood beside Rem.

It was a precarious balance.

The count watched them and spoke.

“Time is on my side.”

A ploy to unnerve them?

The standoff stretched, filling the space between them with tension.

If a dry leaf fell, it felt as if the whole battlefield might ignite.

Step. Step.

Then, amidst the silence, came the sound of measured, unhurried footsteps.

From behind Enkrid.

He did not turn.

He did not feel the need to.

“Brothers and sisters, step back for now.”

Reinforcements.

A man built like a bear stepped forward, stopping just behind Enkrid.

“Who dares torment my fiancée?”

And he was not alone.

A thin yet pleasant voice joined him.