A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

Jaxon, who had been repeatedly throwing daggers, hurled a Silence Knife straight at the count’s forehead.

The dagger flew soundlessly through the air, but just before it could reach its target, it detonated with a loud bang.

A black veil rippled in front of the count amidst the explosion. The barrier remained intact. A dagger wrapped in a spell scroll wouldn’t be enough to pierce through it.

“Do not expect mercy!”

Dehan Molsen, who had always viewed the world as easy to conquer, felt true fear for the first time. His back was drenched in sweat. He had never faced a situation like this before. This was his first experience with real danger. That unfamiliarity shook his composure.

The count had already gone beyond the spells of an ordinary mage. Now, he was drawing upon his very lifespan to fuel his magic.

His eyes rolled back as he channeled even more wraiths.

His pitch-black eyes locked onto Jaxon. Jaxon felt an unbearable chill surging from the wound in his abdomen.

‘Hm?’

His legs nearly gave out, but he endured. He couldn’t afford to collapse, especially when two people beside him were waiting for him to fall.

“Die, die, die, die, die.”

The count raised his staff, repeatedly muttering his curse while glaring at Jaxon. Jaxon met his gaze. Those pitch-black eyes, completely devoid of whites or pupils, radiated a terrifying persistence.

The more the count spoke, the colder Jaxon’s wound became. The numbing frost spread through his body, making it almost impossible to stand. He finally dropped to one knee, catching himself with his palm against the ground.

He had to resist.

As he focused, he could hear Rem murmuring beside him.

“That’s it. That’s the way.”

‘Mad savage.’

Jaxon scoffed inwardly but forced himself to concentrate. This was a form of magic. The bastard had implanted something into his wound. He just had to locate it and dig it out.

Endurance to withstand the pain.

Cold rationality to observe his own body.

And lastly, heightened sensitivity.

And if he were to add one more thing—an unyielding will.

‘There is no surrender.’

Jaxon, too, had learned from watching Enkrid.

This was the first time he had encountered such a spell, but there had to be a way to break it.

He pieced together everything he knew, had experienced, and could deduce, searching for a conclusion.

And so, as Jaxon knelt and endured, his commander stepped forward.

Enkrid advanced three steps.

Toward the count.

Now, he was within striking range.

It was thanks to his subordinates, who had occupied the count with relentless magic and distractions.

Now that the distance was closed, Enkrid placed his hand on his sword’s grip and spoke.

“You are already within my domain.”

Three kneeling, one standing—everyone’s eyes turned to Enkrid. Even the count.

Domain?

He meant striking range.

The count scoffed.

He trusted in the defensive spells wrapped around his body.

Enkrid controlled his breathing. Breaking through ten thousand wraiths had taken its toll.

His body was fatigued to the point that his muscles trembled.

But it was fine.

This was nothing new.

Wielding a sword often led to exhaustion.

Especially in the days when he had nothing, he had been forced to swing his sword until his muscles tore.

Otherwise, he could not even reach for the dreams he held.

How does one move forward when nothing is visible?

By repeating.

And repeating again.

That experience had shaped him.

Because he had lived through it, he could endure.

Enkrid’s gaze locked onto the black veil flickering before the count.

He had already seen Jaxon attempt to pierce the barrier once. From that, he could roughly gauge its strength.

‘A thrown dagger won’t break through.’

But it could be cut.

Not with an ordinary slash, of course. To cut it, there could be no hesitation.

Therefore.

“Ragna, I’ll be borrowing this for a moment.”

Ragna had no time to respond.

Enkrid raised his sword, mimicking a technique he had tried countless times before, one that had eluded him time and again.

He lifted the blade skyward as if piercing the heavens. Both hands gripped the hilt, shoulders relaxed.

The upper guard stance of a heavy blade.

Specifically, a variation of the swordsmanship passed down in a northern family.

Ragna’s family name was Jaun.

And it was Ragna who had altered the Jaun family’s swordsmanship as he saw fit.

Enkrid wasn’t aware of that. He simply prepared to strike.

Ragna’s eyes widened slightly in surprise.

‘Not bad.’

Posture. Presence. Will.

There was nothing to criticize.

This was the best stance Enkrid had ever taken.

Especially since he was imitating him.

Ragna felt an odd sense of satisfaction.

And he wasn’t the only one surprised.

Rem had already been impressed since the wraith battle.

‘He never once faltered.’

Enkrid had matched the rhythm of both him and Ragna.

It was becoming harder to recall the old commander.

‘This is fun. This is really fun.’

Rem tightened his grip on his axe, ready to hurl it if necessary.

Audin, unable to clasp his hands together, muttered a prayer under his breath.

The pain in his skull felt like it would shatter his head, but he endured and continued praying.

“The lamb has shed its wool and become a shepherd beneath the Father’s watchful eye.”

And the shepherd’s role was to strike down what was false and wicked.

The holy restriction was no trivial thing. A misstep could drive one to madness from pain. Many had succumbed to it due to lack of discipline.

But the duty had to be fulfilled.

That was what Audin had learned from watching Enkrid.

Jaxon slowly took Carmen’s stiletto and pressed it into his own stomach. Carefully avoiding his organs, he aimed for the source of the frost.

Puhbuk.

Suppressing the freezing pain, he looked ahead.

The blade was in his stomach, but it wasn’t fatal. He had avoided his internal organs, and with proper treatment, he would be fine.

It wasn’t even a deep stab.

And yet, he felt regret.

‘Careless.’

He hadn’t fully utilized his assassination techniques.

His master’s teachings suddenly surfaced in his mind.

“You want to do your best? Then first, find a place to stay.”

Why did he say that?

Jaxon had already committed himself to inheriting Geor Dagger’s legacy.

Didn’t he already have a place to stay?

If one fought at full power, they would eventually become intoxicated with the act of killing.

That’s what his master had warned.

Jaxon had, in truth, felt that before.

So how did one avoid that?

His mind drifted into unnecessary thoughts.

Jaxon forcefully cut them off.

That wasn’t the priority ✪ Nоvеlіgһt ✪ (Official version) right now.

He looked ahead.

There was no longer any need for his help.

The commander stood before him, filling his vision.

Standing at the cusp of swinging his sword.

“Hahh… damn bastards.”

The count steadied his breath.

He had been pushed back, again and again, but seeing his enemies slowly fall one by one, he clawed back some semblance of composure.

His gaze locked onto Enkrid.

The count also knew how to handle a sword.

Seeing Enkrid assume a stance, he decided he couldn’t afford to let him strike first.

The flickering black veil would nullify most attacks.

Running the calculations, the count lunged forward first.

He pushed off the ground, thrusting his sword ahead.

A textbook-perfect stab.

The pinpoint tip of the blade flew straight toward Enkrid.

Precise. Powerful. Fast.

Enkrid calmly swung down.

His sword struck the count’s blade.

Clang!

The count retrieved his deflected sword and attempted to strike again.

Enkrid mimicked Ragna’s Severance for a moment.

His foot pressed against the ground as he surged forward. At the same time, his shoulder turned smoothly, and his waist became the pivot that redirected his blade’s trajectory.

The sword, which had originally been swung downward to block the count’s thrust, altered its course like a fish gliding through water.

Heart of Might surged through him, reinforcing his strength. On top of that, he added his will.

Cut.

It was the Will of Severance.

Enkrid’s sword leveled with the ground and slashed just above the count’s nose.

Kakak!

The barrier was cut.

Will was the power of intent. The Will of Severance split the count’s barrier and then his skull.

A silver fragment of bone shattered and flew away.

Enkrid remained in the same posture, the momentum of his slash settling as he finally exhaled the breath he had held.

Both hands still gripping the sword, he stood there with blue eyes that seemed to shine against the darkened world the count had created.

At that moment, he looked as though he stood in a different realm entirely.

“Hoo.”

Enkrid released his breath and felt the ache in his arms. Lowering his now-broken sword, he turned his back.

The count had lost the top of his skull.

To an observer, it had seemed like a simple exchange of sword strikes.

Enkrid had deflected the thrust and, rather than pulling back to reset his stance, had seamlessly transitioned into a horizontal slash.

The count hadn’t even been able to react before he was struck down.

It was partially a technique Ragna had demonstrated moments earlier, imbued with the Will of Severance.

That was why Enkrid had said he was borrowing it.

“Krrk…”

Blood-flecked foam bubbled from the count’s mouth.

Dehan Molsen, the treacherous schemer who had upended Naurillia, was still bound by the same mortality as any man.

Even a blind arrow could kill, and a decapitated man could not live.

Blood trickled from his severed head. The thick crimson stood out even against the darkness.

And then, something unthinkable happened.

“This cannot end here.”

This translation is the intellectual property of Novelight.

A voice rang out, sharp and grating, reverberating in their skulls.

The count spoke even in death, his voice splitting into two overlapping tones.

Blood ran down his lifeless face, yet his mouth moved to speak.

Audin finally understood what they were dealing with.

This is…?

A terrible sense of foreboding seeped into his skin—something one would only feel in the depths of the Demon Realm.

“…A demon?”

Audin murmured to himself.

As he spoke, black smoke billowed from the count’s body.

“Not a hundred thousand, only ten thousand wraiths, and yet you cut through them. I acknowledge it. And as such, I shall bestow upon you a curse most profound… Hmm?”

Just as the black smoke was about to coalesce into a humanoid form, Audin’s muttered suspicion—a demon—was punctuated by a distant rumble of thunder.

Kwarurung.

The forming figure hesitated.

Enkrid, gripping his broken sword, watched intently.

Drip.

And then, rain began to fall.

“…So, I’ve been played.”

The count, headless, and the yet-unformed demon spoke in unison, their voices overlapping once more.

Enkrid now understood why the count’s voice had sometimes carried an eerie duality.

He had been housing a demon.

Not that it changed anything.

Enkrid tossed aside his broken sword and reached for his gladius.

He would use the gladius as a distraction. The real killing blow—

Blaze.

In that instant, he visualized the course of the battle.

While the others were still reeling from shock, he alone was ready to fight.

The demon’s gaze returned to him.

“You insolent little—”

There was no trace of emotion in its voice. Not that it mattered.

Enkrid simply intended to end an unfinished battle.

His entire company was either injured or exhausted.

That meant he alone could stand.

Anyone else might have questioned whether this was an insurmountable wall.

But Enkrid did not.

He simply did what he could in each moment.

That was how he had lived.

And so, he would do the same now.

Beyond the material world, the Ferryman let out a laugh.

“How fascinating.”

What a perfectly insane man.

***

The count had been exceptionally gifted, and his ambition had long since surpassed human limits.

Thus, he had taken a demon’s heart and become something more.

The demon ignored the crazed swordsman and instead observed the witch’s interference.

“If you block even my final curse, I might just take offense.”

Though its tone was light, the weight of the word demon was far from trivial.

A being of the Demon Realm, a monster of the highest danger level.

A creature possessing intelligence, one that thrived on tormenting and killing humans.

“…A demon.”

Enkrid muttered, his gaze locking onto the entity.

“You,” the demon mused. “Yes, you are… intriguing, human. But unfortunately, we cannot fight now.”

The demon might not have known the full extent of Enkrid’s journey, but it recognized what had just occurred.

Had they not all rallied around this one man?

Even the witch who had interfered—was she not his ally?

“If you lay a finger on him, I will hunt you down and kill you wherever you hide.”

Across space itself, the witch’s voice reached the demon.

Even demons did not welcome annihilation.

The threat was irritating.

“How audacious, little witch.”

Within the swirling black mist, only a pair of eyes materialized, surveying the scene with a dull, oppressive gaze.

Enkrid’s instincts sharpened as he perceived the entity.

There was no doubt—it was not human.

But did that mean it could not be cut?

Was that truly the case?

It said it would not fight.

But was that the truth?

Should I test it?

The moment the thought crossed his mind, he prepared to move.

Gathering the last reserves of his strength, he was about to lunge when—

The demon’s gaze fixed upon him.

Up until now, its tone had carried an air of amusement.

This time, it did not.

“We will meet again.”

Beyond the mist, Enkrid could vaguely make out its form, though it remained too indistinct to identify.

“I am the master of ten thousand wraiths.”

With those final words, the demon’s body collapsed in on itself.

Drip. Drip.

The raindrops grew heavier.

The witch had infused her magic into the rain. This was a natural force, capable of dissolving anything artificial.

Even the falling rain was warm.

The witch had opened her domain to let her enchanted downpour cleanse the battlefield.

The demon vanished.

The rain washed away the magic that had allowed Dehan Molsen’s wraiths to manifest in the mortal realm.

Just before its essence fully faded, the demon grasped its own heart and read the final thoughts of its pawn.

Everything was in my grasp…

The last remnants of Dehan Molsen’s resentment.

“You think the world is that simple?”

He had died bitterly, but there was nothing left to be done.

Only the demon had heard his final lament, and even that lingering soul soon dissipated.

The demon clicked its nonexistent tongue.

It had lost its chance to carve a lasting mark upon the human world.

Just before its fragment of a soul completely disintegrated, the demon turned its gaze toward the one who had slain it.

A man with black hair and blue eyes.

“…Enkrid.”

It had heard someone call his name.

And so, it remembered.

If they met again, it would make him beg for death.