A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

Barnas Hurrier never claimed to be the best on the continent, nor the strongest.

But even so, he hadn’t thought he would be taken down by a knight whose name he didn’t even know.

‘Does this even make sense?’

He had collapsed to the ground.

The opponent was standing there, stabbing their sword into the earth and staring at him.

The thick black greatsword had only half of its blade remaining, and only one side of the guard was intact.

All of it had been split by Barnas’s own Wave Blade.

Just as Jamal had trained by watching Corwin and learning the Proper Sword Ritual, Barnas’s Wave Sword also had its roots.

Wave Swordsmanship was Barnas’s specialty.

Unusually, he had never crafted an engraved weapon.

He used his own claws as weapons, and it was only after Cypress broke those claws that he finally prepared a claw-type weapon.

In other words, he made his engraved weapon late.

Still, he believed he was stronger now than he had ever been.

The principle of the Wave was vibration.

It amplified power through tremors, and although transmitting Will through the claw weapon was harder than doing so through his own claws, he could pour in a higher amount of Will than usual.

To transmit the Wave into his own claws and flesh, he had to use Iron Armor simultaneously, which consumed a lot of Will.

In short, by not using Iron Armor and channeling more Will than he could with his claws, he could say that his power had increased.

In other words, he fought better now than he had before.

In truth, his improved skill had little to do with the weapon—it was more that, after being defeated by Cypress, he had been filled with frustration and relentlessly honed his craft, grinding his fangs.

Whatever the case, his technique had reached a new stage.

‘I thought I could even take Cypress again if we met.’

Barnas felt the strength drain from the muscles at the severed stump of his left arm.

Not just his arm—he had lost a leg, too.

His left eyelid had also been slashed, so he couldn’t see in front of him.

‘Did my eye get damaged?’

As long as he survived, living as a one-eyed man wouldn’t matter.

The key was surviving.

The problem was, the situation offered no guarantees of that.

“Freakish bastard.”

Barnas replayed the moments of battle in his head.

“Full assault.”

At his lieutenant’s command, fifty Ironclad spearmen advanced in formation, closing in with crushing pressure.

Barnas charged alongside them.

Crack!

Transforming into a Beastkin was a given.

Like Dunbakel, who had been born with a special constitution—though Barnas didn’t look exactly like a lion—his fangs had grown sharper, ears perked up, and even the whiskers and body hair had become as hard as wire.

It was the moment when the blood of the Beastkin boiled, awakening his primal hunting instincts.

Barnas used that instinct but wasn’t consumed by it.

In other words, he didn’t attack first.

Instead, one of the Ironclad spearmen drove his spear deep in.

Barnas moved left and right while creating afterimages to draw the enemy’s attention, allowing the allied soldier to land the first strike.

It was a fine thrust.

Not particularly fierce or fast, but a spear with a tangible, physical blade.

You could say it was enough just to dodge it—but the moment you did, you’d create an opening.

Barnas could exploit such an opening with ease.

More than that, he could thrust in and dig around.

Yet even with the spear aiming at him, the man with the greatsword didn’t take his eyes off Barnas.

Even as Barnas leapt left and right, leaving afterimages, that gaze never once lost him.

‘His eyes are good.’

The thought came and went in an instant—so did the action.

Within that moment’s gap, the man’s greatsword moved.

Whoosh—so fast it swallowed even the sound of air being cut.

The black arc it traced was more like a dagger swing than a greatsword strike—short, compact, and sharp.

Clang!

Instead of striking the spear shaft, he struck the blade itself, shattering it.

The spearhead fragmented like scrap metal and scattered in one direction.

“Guh!”

The soldier holding the spear had their tough leather glove burst open, the protected palm tearing and splattering blood.

Before the droplets even hit the ground, Barnas stopped his side-to-side movements and charged straight in.

He stamped the ground with his left foot to brake, then dashed forward in a straight line.

An illusion formed, as if his body blurred and stretched sideways—caused by the sudden stop.

An ordinary human couldn’t imitate such a move without Beastkin agility.

The enemy didn’t stop their swing after shattering the spearhead.

They brought the sword straight down, as if the spear had merely been in the way of where they were going to strike anyway.

‘Genius move.’

Anyone could deflect a flying spear while keeping an eye on a charging enemy.

Any knight worth the title should manage that—and maybe even meet the attack while dodging.

But this opponent went beyond that.

‘He used the force from hitting the spear?’

He added acceleration to his sword using the rebound from striking the spearhead.

The speed of the incoming sword confirmed it.

“Hah!”

Barnas let out a spirited shout, more amused than irritated by the opponent’s clever move.

Zzzzing!

Barnas’s claws vibrated as he slashed the black greatsword.

Drrrrrr—ting ting ting!

The greatsword deflected sideways, scraped and tossed by the claws.

The vibrations caused by the Wave stressed the enemy’s grip and spread through his entire body.

Usually, victims of such a strike would back off to regain their balance.

But the mad killer maniac swung again—whether off-balance or short on force, he just struck again.

“Hoo!”

Barnas saw the man’s lips purse as he exhaled.

Thud!

They clashed once more.

When Barnas stepped back, a spear blade filled the gap.

This was the rotating-wheel tactic he’d coordinated with his commander.

Of course, all the timing was dictated by Barnas’s movements.

How could a mere soldier insert himself into a duel between knights fighting in earnest?

But Barnas’s specialty was the Wave, and knights struck by it couldn’t fight with their usual speed and power.

“A clash would shake your guts.”

The fairy observed.

Even so, she didn’t move to protect the mad killer.

Instead, she moved behind an Ironclad lancer, who was swinging their spear.

‘She knows how to think.’

Even though it would’ve been safer to stay together, she chose to separate.

Barnas charged at the fairy.

He figured he could cut her down in three or four moves at most.

“He’s mine.”

But the mad golden-haired lunatic intervened.

Even as his cheek was grazed and blood splashed from an allied spearhead, he didn’t flinch—he just dashed toward Barnas’s back.

“Cocky bastard.”

Barnas scowled.

He should still be shaking from the Wave.

Where did he think he was going?

Thud!

The third clash.

Barnas experienced something strange.

Instead of his Wave shaking the opponent’s insides and rattling their brain, it met a similar vibration and seemed to cancel out.

“So that’s the trick, huh.”

What the hell is this guy saying?

Barnas furrowed his brow.

Even Jamal, whose specialty was stealing techniques, took four months to partially grasp the Wave.

From this point on, Barnas had to fight a battle that diverged from all his expectations.

The man with the greatsword faced him.

The fairy knight—if she could be called that—began dancing with the Ironclad spearmen.

Tat tat tang!

The lieutenant’s leadership was dazzling.

He ❖ Nоvеl𝚒ght ❖ (Exclusive on Nоvеl𝚒ght) spread their formation wide to face the greatsword, then shifted back into tight formation.

Still, they died one by one.

That was inevitable.

But the fairy didn’t seem in a rush to kill them all.

She merely struck and blocked at intervals.

Even so, casualties piled up.

Originally, Barnas should have fought the two of them while the Ironclad cavalry applied pressure.

At first, it looked like it would go that way.

But when the man with the greatsword blocked his claws, the situation changed.

‘So these guys understand tactics, huh?’

Barnas wasn’t flustered.

The opponent was a knight.

Such skill wasn’t unthinkable.

It was still impressive to absorb the Wave within three tries, but what could he do?

It had already happened.

Besides, no battle ever played out exactly as you expect.

He was experienced enough not to panic at such things.

And more importantly, he had ways to turn the current situation around.

So this guy’s a genius at learning how to endure the Wave, huh?

Then how about this?

Only after three clashes—when the fairy had pierced the skull of the third Ironclad spearman—did it happen.

The fight had barely begun.

Barnas revealed his secret technique a little early.

Wuuuuung.

The claw’s blade trembled like a hummingbird’s wings—then, the vibration stopped. The noise vanished as well.

Ragna held his greatsword at a diagonal, watching the tip of the claw.

To his eyes, it looked like the claw-blade had ceased vibrating.

This was the ultimate form of the Wave Sword.

A vibration invisible to a knight’s eye—yet from it, cutting power was born.

Even Barnas’s body, which disappeared in a whoosh, trembled similarly.

By making his entire body resonate with the Wave, he could produce faster, more violent strength.

The claw dropped down toward Ragna’s head.

This translation is the intellectual property of Novelight.

Ragna bent his left knee halfway and caught it with his sword.

Claw and greatsword collided.

To an ordinary person, it was a moment so brief it seemed to split time itself—but for the two, it was a meeting of mutual consent.

Through insight, one would strike and the other would block. So calling it an agreement wasn’t wrong.

It was the instant two hunks of steel met.

Iron struck iron—yet the sound was like leather tearing. Buuuuuk.

Ragna saw the middle of his blade rip.

The claw tore through steel.

Its beast-like blade vibrated, delivering a cutting power unlike anything before.

It was the mystery born of a stable frequency.

Barnas was sure of his victory now.

And in that instant, Ragna saw what he could do.

His talent, which had carried him from the moment of divine awareness to the path of knighthood, responded more sensitively than ever.

The trigger for this awakening wasn’t Barnas.

Ragna already knew he could overcome this trembling Beastkin before him without risking much.

No—this stemmed from the shock he’d received just before the war began, from that monster Enkrid.

His talent saw the mass of Will packed into a man who, though low-born, had carved his path with effort.

Even if you chipped away at it, it was too big to break.

‘How do you overcome something like that?’

It was the first time Ragna ever pondered.

A massive Will never tires.

And if refined skill joins it, and the battle drags out...

‘I lose.’

Ragna’s talent had already calculated the outcome.

Even if he spent ten—no, twenty years polishing his craft, the result would be the same.

If he stuck to defense and held out, Enkrid would have the advantage.

So he couldn’t keep fighting like this.

“Is that your limit? Is that the line you’ve drawn?”

Long ago, when he first learned the sword, someone had told him:

“You’ve decided with your head that your potential ends there. Then that’s where it ends.”

As a child, Ragna had seen the road he had to walk—and the destination.

A set path.

A fixed something.

And then again—

That cold shock like a splash of water waking his dazed mind.

Because of Enkrid, Ragna was now using his talent.

This was the stride of someone who’d forgotten what limits were.

‘Vibration. Trembling.’

That’s what created destructive power.

The claws that cut through anything.

What made them possible again?

Vibration.

What makes a sword tremble?

Will.

How do you move Will?

You just have to feel it with your senses.

Ragna moved his Will, creating a tremor.

Tremble.

If you moved with intent, that was Will.

Ragna’s half-broken greatsword, filled with Will, began to hum.

Wuuuuung.

“...What the hell are you doing now?”

Afterward, Barnas felt an overwhelming sense of loss—and blamed his own arrogance.

‘I thought I stood at the center of the continent.’

Maybe he couldn’t end the war—but he believed he could be the spark to set the continent ablaze.

Barnas Hurrier, the knight who would lead change.

That’s what he believed.

But was he wrong?

What Barnas wanted was a new kind of knight order—one that trained and raised knights in a way never before seen.

He thought it would shift the balance of the continent.

That dream had already been shattered before he even met Cypress.

But would he just bow down and break like this?

Barnas began pouring out everything he had.

Against the lunatic who copied him in real time—

He threw dirt into his eyes, spat in his face, and bit him.

The mad blonde bastard hadn’t perfectly copied his Wave.

But he could at least withstand it.

‘He’s doing this without an engraved weapon?’

Thanks to that, Barnas managed to break one of the opponent’s legs and crush his shoulder.

One of his eyes turned red just like Barnas’s, and three fingers on his left hand snapped.

That half-broken greatsword wouldn’t be usable anymore.

But the opponent had survived.

And Barnas knew he wouldn’t.

“Sir Barnas!”

The surviving commander’s voice called out to him as he lay collapsed.

Barnas stared at the sky while lying on his back.

He was in a clearing.

The sky that peeked through the trees was so high, so blue.

‘An order of more than ten knights wasn’t just a dream.’

It had been closer to reality than a fantasy.

He believed he could shatter the idea that knights had to be few in number.

An order that surpassed what he’d known.

Ten knights working together in coordinated battle.

That was the dream.

A dream now about to die in a Beastkin’s chest.

“...I learned a lot.”

The killer said.

Was it the goddess of luck raising the other side’s hand?

Or had his belief—that he stood at the forefront of change—been mistaken?

“What’s your name?”

“Ragna.”

“That’s it?”

The mad blond stared at the Beastkin for a moment, then added:

“Ragna Zaun.”

“Zaun family?”

“You know it?”

“Heard of it.”

With that, Barnas closed his eyes while still gazing at the sky.

He thought—maybe hearing the name of a near-legendary family as his final opponent wasn’t such a bad end.

There could’ve been lingering regrets—but thinking about it, even if it was called a dream, perhaps it hadn’t truly come from the heart.

‘If I’d truly meant it, shouldn’t I have left something behind for someone?’

But he hadn’t.

He wanted to accomplish it with his own hands.

Otherwise, it meant nothing.

So it hadn’t been a dream—it had been greed.

A final realization before death.

Because of that, there was no need to die with eyes wide open.

Barnas let out his last breath, eyes closed.

“We die here.”

The commander, after confirming Barnas’s death, struggled internally for a moment—then made his decision.

He ordered the fifty Ironclad spearmen to charge.

If things went well, they could at least finish off that knight who looked half-dead.

If they lost Barnas, then the enemy should lose a knight too.

Even if they all died here, it had to be done.

“You know, I think about this sometimes—You all really underestimate me.”

The fairy blocked his path, speaking with calm venom.

The commander’s eyes were still fixed behind her.

Just one good thrust could finish it.

But the one blocking the path was also a knight—like Ragna.

Shinar spoke without a hint of a smile, drawing her leaf-shaped sword.

She hadn’t intended to kill meaninglessly.

She had wanted to give them a chance to retreat.

But if they wouldn’t take it—then she only had one option.

Whoosh!

The leaf blade moved.

It struck the neck of one of the Ironclad spearmen three steps away.

Ka-ga-kak!

The chainmail around his neck shredded.

A crimson line sliced clean across.

“...The hell is this now.”

One soldier muttered, trembling.

“It’s a blade made of pure current.”

Shinar explained gently.