A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

Tap, tap.

Next to the large bonfire, two chairs sat neatly as if crafted by a master’s hand.

One of the chairs was occupied by a middle-aged man. Behind him stood a young man clad in light leather armor, a middle-aged woman, another man who appeared slightly younger, and Frokk.

It was the same Frokk whom Enkrid had spared.

As Enkrid made brief eye contact, Frokk gave a small nod.

The bonfire’s glow lit the middle-aged man in the chair.

He was the King of Azpen.

Enkrid approached, scanning him with his eyes.

Overall, the man carried a bit of bulk, but his physique bore the signs of training. The veins on the backs of his hands bulged prominently, and through his thin shirt, one could see developed pectorals.

His face didn’t look especially harsh or prickly, though his cheeks were a bit sunken, giving him a leaner appearance. To Enkrid, he felt similar to when he first met Count Molsen.

Though, unlike that lunatic, this man didn’t have the look of someone insane—more like someone who had simply maintained discipline.

To conclude plainly, there was no hint of a war maniac in his appearance. Maybe a slightly edgy air? Then again, there’s no particular look that screams “war maniac.”

The king lifted a leather flask and spoke.

“There’s drink. Will you have some?”

His tone wasn’t exactly gentle. It was as stiff as a stone, but he showed no malice or hostility.

“Gladly.”

Crang didn’t hesitate. Nor was he overly excited. With steady steps, he walked over and sat down naturally, accepting the drink.

He extended one hand and supported the other wrist beneath it, offering a bow with the proper etiquette—every movement radiating composure.

Then, a gulp.

Watching him, Enkrid wondered if he should even be drinking that, but there was no stopping him.

Watching that scene, the conversation they’d had in the carriage earlier resurfaced in his mind.

“Aren’t you curious why I’m going this far?”

Crang had asked that on the way.

In response, Enkrid had slowly blinked twice and replied like this:

“If I charged in, claiming I’d stop your army, would you try to stop me?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’d handle it yourself.”

That was trust.

“And you’re the same, aren’t you.”

With that reply, Enkrid had conveyed his faith in the man—not just as a king, but as a friend. And that was it.

Jaxon didn’t look curious, and Shinar wasn’t interested.

If Andrew had been inside the carriage, he might’ve said, “These guys are all insane.” But he’d likely been enjoying the nightscape, listening to the rhythmic clopping of hooves and the creaking of wheels, so he probably didn’t catch much of the carriage talk.

Then again, even if he had, he might not have butted in.

After asking how they had stopped the army, Crang had appeared, and Andrew’s eyes had transformed into something beyond shock or panic—like a ghoul’s. Eyes that showed not even a flicker of thought.

“I’m going to try coaxing the King of Azpen.”

Crang had added, but Enkrid simply gave him a look that said, Do as you like.

“Are you annoyed?”

Crang had asked ✧ NоvеIight ✧ (Original source) again.

Truly befitting a king—the way he read the mood showed a royal’s finesse.

“No.”

Enkrid denied it. A typical deflection tactic.

“Alright, forget it.”

And then they moved on to idle chatter.

Dunbakel’s eastern march, the events of the current battlefield, killing the enemy knight, changing the palace training grounds, and so on.

At one point, a battle story came up where Jaxon mentioned he’d killed members of the Moonlight Fairies, but Shinar remained unfazed.

If humans draw lines between groups, why wouldn’t fairies?

They were the same.

And if they went out to the battlefield and ended up in life-or-death combat, the ones doing the killing weren’t necessarily the villains. Shinar understood that well.

“Everyone lives by their own will. If what awaits them at the end is rest, then it’s not a bad thing.”

Crang was about to respond to that, but closed his mouth.

Enkrid felt like he knew what topic Crang had been about to bring up with Shinar—but at the same time, he sensed that Crang didn’t want to go there, so he didn’t press.

“The southern empire is raising hell, the holy lands are playing tricks—and in the end, they all seem to have backed Azpen. So I wondered. What am I supposed to do here? Argue just for the sake of arguing? That didn’t seem right.”

Between meaningless jokes, Crang spoke and sorted his thoughts.

Enkrid nodded along, listening.

He wasn’t dull, but politics was another realm entirely.

And Enkrid had no intention of dabbling in that realm. Not before becoming a knight, and certainly not after. He’d been too busy moving forward.

Sword, knight, dream—what direction should he aim for, and what was the reason to wield his blade?

It was a path paved by thought and contemplation. Politics had no space along that road.

Anyway, upon arrival, the King of Azpen stared at Crang with a face like stone—one that wouldn’t bleed even if pierced.

As if to say, What’s so bold about having a drink?

Meanwhile, Enkrid felt a sharp gaze. Looking forward, he saw a young man staring intently at him.

Not exactly glaring—his eyes were clear, and his gaze direct.

Jaxon, regardless of how the man looked, clearly didn’t like it. He muttered a line in a quiet, deliberate voice.

“There’s a leopard in our unit that gouges out the eyes of those who stare without permission. And I fully support and agree with that leopard’s actions.”

Threatening someone by saying you’ll rip their guts out and strangle them with their own intestines is one way—but calmly, quietly saying it with zero killing intent can be far more intimidating.

Like, say, at a secret meeting held after a crushing battlefield victory?

“I mean no disrespect.”

Before the kings could exchange words, the young man spoke first.

Despite Jaxon’s threat, his voice remained clear and bright. Was it the resolve to say what must be said even if he died? Or youthful rashness?

Considering they wouldn’t bring an impulsive child to a meeting like this, it was probably the former.

The middle-aged woman frowned, clearly displeased that the young man was speaking.

Frokk showed no reaction.

The last man, sharply dressed and handsome, just smiled with his eyes.

“It’s best to hold back.”

“I only wish to speak.”

Still not taking his eyes off Enkrid, the young man continued.

“Are you really the Knight of Iron Wall?”

He asked before anyone else could.

Enkrid stared back. It wasn’t a familiar face. Nor did he resemble anyone.

But Knight of the Iron Wall instead of Blade of the Iron Wall? It seemed that was the title known in Azpen.

“When I was a child, the first person who taught me the sword was my cousin. His name was Michi Hurrier.”

A name deeply etched in Enkrid’s memory.

Michi Hurrier—a man Enkrid had fought twice.

“I quickly surpassed my cousin, and then I gained a godfather.”

“Godfather?”

“I am the godson of Barnas Hurrier—my name is Ilrod Hurrier.”

The godfather had died at Ragna’s hand. The cousin who first taught him the sword had died by Enkrid’s.

Ilrod, the young man before him, was Enkrid’s mortal enemy. But his eyes held no hatred or resentment.

Even so, he lowered his head and said,

“First, let me greet you. And offer my gratitude.”

Whatever personal grudges he may have held, Ilrod placed the greater cause above them.

He understood that the man before him had stopped countless soldiers from dying senselessly. Abnaier had told him that much—and he’d confirmed it himself.

Enkrid, who had blocked the army’s advance, was worthy of respect. That was separate from vengeance.

That’s why he wanted to express thanks. The king’s favor had granted him this audience—though returning home would no doubt bring trouble and political complications, he still had to say what must be said.

The man before him had killed his cousin and godfather, but had saved thousands.

Even if he was Barnas’s godson, Barnas had over a hundred fake sons, and Michi Hurrier had bullied him as a child—those, too, were reasons why he didn’t carry a grudge.

In truth, Ilrod was just doing what he believed he had to do.

“If I have the skill someday, I’ll come to challenge you to a duel.”

Ilrod finished saying what he needed to say.

He was a man who lived by clear rights and wrongs. That’s how he functioned.

That’s also why he wouldn’t fall to corruption or be swayed by other colors.

“Do as you like.”

Enkrid nodded.

This translation is the intellectual property of Novelight.

He couldn’t know the man’s heart fully—but he could tell that this Ilrod hadn’t spoken out of malice.

More than anything, his words were full of sincerity.

And to add one more thing—he liked the man.

Setting a purpose and acting on it—that was how Enkrid lived too.

Though, admittedly, Ilrod had less tact than him.

“...Are you insane?”

A middle-aged woman shot a sharp glare and muttered something to Ilrod, which suggested his actions hadn’t been prearranged. As she spoke, she subtly glanced toward Enkrid, as if gauging his reaction. Understandable—if things went wrong and swords were drawn from the other side, she wouldn’t be able to stop it.

Ilrod, for his part, remained indifferent.

That seemed to further sour the woman’s mood. A wrinkle appeared between her brows.

In any case, the exchange ended there.

Ilrod straightened his posture, and Jaxon removed his hand from the dagger he’d been quietly toying with.

Of the two kings, Crang had listened to the interaction with interest, while the King of Azpen remained expressionless.

“He’s an interesting one,” Crang remarked.

“A friend who doesn’t know how to hide his thoughts,” the king replied.

They each offered a brief comment and took another sip from the leather flask.

It was a far cry from what one would expect from a royal summit—no ornate crystal glasses, no rare delicacies. But the mere fact that the king had come all the way here was madness in itself.

For two kings to meet face-to-face was already a rarity on the continent.

Without cities or walls, there was always the threat of monsters and beasts. Even just protecting farmland required large-scale deployment of soldiers.

In a world like that, for one king to cross borders and meet with another was an adventure in and of itself.

Especially a meeting between two kings.

With no concept of a neutral zone, even agreeing to meet was often doomed by suspicion. And even when meetings occurred, both sides would come heavily guarded with knights and preparations. There usually wasn’t enough time or manpower to justify it.

And yet Crang had gone out of his way, engaging in unnecessary trouble just to make this meeting happen.

Meanwhile, Enkrid stood silently, serving as part of the escort.

There was nothing unusual in the air—no signs of malice or ominous energy.

Kraiss had said there was no need for a king to come in person, but also that it wouldn’t be too dangerous.

Then again, it was just like Kraiss to question why one would invite danger in the first place.

Crang had only smiled gently and answered, “Because it’s fun.”

Truthfully, even if the King of Azpen tried something underhanded, it wouldn’t be a problem.

That was what Jaxon and Shinar were here for.

As Enkrid stood quietly, the two kings began their conversation.

And their talk went far beyond what anyone expected.

***

The King of Azpen had been waiting for Crang to press him.

To say: You broke the non-aggression pact—pay up.

Or perhaps: I demand your unconditional surrender.

‘Or maybe a vassal state?’

All things he was prepared to endure.

To be honest, even suggesting this meeting had been strange from the start.

‘To kill me?’

Was all this truly to assassinate him?

If so, wouldn’t a more elegant method have been used?

No—clearly, what the other side wanted was submission. To make him yield. To humiliate him.

”Hey, come out.”

And he would be expected to come. That was the message.

The King of Azpen could not, in the name of pride, watch his soldiers and people die.

He wasn’t a genius, but he knew what had to be protected.

Of course, that didn’t mean he’d obediently do everything the King of Naurillia said. So he spoke first.

“What would you have done if I brought hidden forces here to target you?”

It was a declaration of will—not to kneel so easily, even in the face of demands for surrender or subjugation.

Crang smiled faintly and asked in return,

“Do you have hidden forces?”

Was he implying he already knew all the knights were dead?

To the King of Azpen, the bastard across from him had the tongue of a demon. His face even looked devilish to his eyes.

How much had he laughed behind his back while plotting all this?

Was the smile now one of smug satisfaction?

Fine. If you want to bask in your cheap sense of victory, go ahead.

He would kneel, bow his head, whatever was necessary.

But that victory wouldn’t last forever.

In ten years, twenty, thirty—Azpen would rise again.

Even if he died, his son would live. His son’s knights, those who dreamed new dreams, would rise.

The king wanted to glare at Crang with eyes spitting blood, but he held back. This moment required patience and calm.

It looked like Azpen had started the fight, but the war between the two nations had essentially been over Greenperl.

Azpen sought to use Greenperl to stockpile food, while Naurillia feared a neighboring state building strong military power.

After all, stockpiling food meant a larger army.

Beyond feeding their own, if they had surplus grain to sell, that meant funds for arms.

Greenperl was fertile land with that kind of potential.

Now Azpen would have to fall into vassalage, with its borders pushed back.

Even having resolved himself, the King of Azpen didn’t want to surrender everything easily.

And Crang—

“If that’s my fate, then I’ll accept it.”

He said it simply.

The King of Azpen paused, wondering what that meant. Was this an answer to the question about hidden forces? Or a reply to the possibility of threats?

The response was so unexpected that he hesitated for a moment, and then Crang continued speaking. His voice was bright and cheerful.

“I struggle to survive like anyone else when death is on the line, but simply surviving doesn’t sit well with me. So what can I do if the heavens, the gods, say they don’t like me anymore? That I’ve become boring and should just die? Then I, powerless as I am, would simply die.”

As he spoke, Crang pointed a finger upward.

Against the dark canvas of the sky, with its twin moons and stars, his fingertip almost seemed to touch the heavens.

The King of Azpen knew full well that Crang’s words were calculated. His head understood it completely.

He had come with knights in tow, and Azpen had no force capable of stopping those three.

A clumsy assassination or ambush would only backfire.

If someone couldn’t grasp the consequences of such a blunder, their head was better cut off and kicked around like a toy.

Even so, Crang was difficult to look away from.

“Are you mocking me?”

The King of Azpen asked.

“If I came here just to mock you, I wouldn’t have dragged myself here secretly while pretending to be sick. Do you have a dream? I have one. Small but fulfilling.”

Crang rose from his seat.

Just as slow and gentle as when he sat down.

Three of the four people behind the King of Azpen flinched—Frokk being the exception—but the Naurillia side didn’t even blink.

They merely followed Crang with their eyes.

Under the night sky lit only by moonlight and the fire, Crang seemed to shine alone.

“My dream is to erase the Demon Realms from this world, wipe out all cults, drag every lunatic onto the gallows, and in front of everyone—say, ‘let’s stop fighting.’”

What absurdity.

You could stop monsters, but not the Demon Realm.

And what—call for peace?

It was all nonsense.

Yet Crang’s words and gestures carried a strange power.

He spread his hand and said,

“We—every race including humans—have never once truly united. Isn’t that right? It’s the same for Naurillia and Azpen.”

Everyone’s attention was drawn to his words and motion.

Against the silence of night, Crang delivered a fiery speech.

“Utter nonsense!”

The King of Azpen shouted, his face red.

And from that reaction, Enkrid concluded:

He’s halfway convinced already.

Because no one reacts that way unless they’ve actually been listening.