A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

Some of the nobles had never even seen Enkrid in person, and to them, everything happening at the Border Guard felt like a distant story.

Greenperl? So he had taken over that land? He stopped an army all by himself? Not defeated—stopped? Just telling them to back off made an army halt? How could that possibly make sense?

Some rumors sounded far too ridiculous, and even the more believable ones seemed irrelevant to their lives.

Sure, they’d heard he ended the civil war and earned the title of Demon Slayer—but for many, it was nothing more than a story.

Among them were a few who genuinely worried about the royal family, others who simply wanted to check Enkrid’s power, and still others who had no thoughts at all—just attending because they were supposed to.

Either way, all of them fell silent at Crang’s words.

Just because he was smiling didn’t mean he was being friendly toward them.

After silencing the entire hall with a single sentence, Crang rose from his throne.

He could have lashed out at them.

”Are you seriously saying that to the hero who ended the civil war and defended the border? I’m so ashamed I want to bury my face in water and drown myself.”

He could have persuaded them one by one.

”Enkrid is not that kind of man. He is my dearest friend and the sword that protects the royal family. I will vouch for him.”

He could have soothed their anxieties.

”I know what worries you. But fear not. My mind is still clear, and I will not forget my duty for personal reasons.”

If he were more of a merchant at heart, he might even have promised the nobles rewards in exchange for their silence.

But Crang did none of that.

He didn’t soothe anyone’s fears.

He didn’t get angry.

He didn’t explain or justify himself.

Instead, he simply enjoyed the moment.

He remembered back before he had even dreamed of becoming king—back when he first met Enkrid in a military camp.

For Crang, that had been the beginning.

”What do you want to become?”

He asked, using exactly the same words he had used back then.

Enkrid blinked once, then smiled.

It had been so long that it almost felt like an old tale—but standing before Crang, the memory returned naturally.

The throne stood atop seven steps. From the elevated platform, Crang naturally looked down.

Enkrid, in turn, stood at the base, showing his respect in an official setting by kneeling briefly before rising again.

Their gazes met.

One looked down from above, the other up from below—yet neither thought about their respective positions.

Both were simply remembering.

Back then, while talking with Crang, Enkrid had wondered whether dreams were just remnants left near the heart—and he had immediately answered himself: no, he was moving forward.

Enkrid gave the same answer now.

“Knight.”

It had been a foolish fragment of a dream, spoken by a mere squad leader with no status and mediocre skill at best.

He had dared to speak of standing at the pinnacle of warriors.

And Enkrid had meant it.

“So, a knight, huh.”

Crang’s reply now overlapped perfectly with what he had said back then.

So much time had passed since, yet Crang hadn’t changed.

He didn’t scoff at the dream. He accepted the words seriously, with the weight they deserved.

He listened—truly listened.

”Have you figured out how you’re going to live?”

Enkrid asked, throwing Crang’s old question right back at him.

Crang’s lips trembled briefly—and then he burst into hearty laughter.

Pahahaha!

“Yes. I’ve come this far. Did you achieve your dream, my friend?”

Maintain royal dignity because so many eyes are watching? Crang didn’t care.

This moment, standing here, was everything he had ever wanted.

The man in front of him made him remember dreams he had tried to forget.

How could he not cheer for him?

He wanted, so desperately, for this man to achieve his dream—to reach knighthood.

Back then, Venzance had sneered like a wet blanket, but here, no one dared.

The man who once spoke of becoming a knight had stitched together his broken dream and «N.o.v.e.l.i.g.h.t» stood here, while the man who never mocked that dream had found his own path to the throne.

“Some of it.”

Enkrid, still ambitious, admitted that his dream wasn’t fully realized yet.

Crang nodded. He felt the same.

“All of you, leave.”

Crang said, still looking at Enkrid.

“...Pardon?”

One noble, half bald and sun-scorched, asked in shock.

“I will receive the knight’s oath.”

He was about to officially appoint Enkrid as a knight of Naurillia—right here and now.

“But the Commander of the Red Cloaks isn’t present—”

The Marquess of Barnas said, barely hiding his panic. He had raised this issue before: the king could not simply appoint someone into the Red Cloak Order without the commander’s approval.

He was right.

And Crang knew full well that even if he offered it, Enkrid would not join the Red Cloaks.

“I know.”

“Then what do you intend to do?”

The Duke of Octo chimed in.

Marcus stayed silent—he could already see where this was going.

The king hadn’t said it outright, but the shape of things was clear now.

It wasn’t that the two high nobles were too stupid to understand.

It’s just... so radical.

It was an idea so extreme that no one would normally even think of it.

But really, was there anything more fitting for a man who had earned such achievements?

Especially given the sheer force of will and strength Enkrid possessed.

“My friend will become the commander of a new Order of Knights.”

What did he just say?

The Duke of Octo blinked and looked at the Marquess of Barnas.

The marquess looked about the same.

What?

“Leave. The oath will be sworn in private.”

Normally, a knight’s oath would be sworn before all the assembled nobility—but what could they do?

Right now, there was no persuading Crang.

Thud—

The royal guards thumped the butts of their spears against the floor.

“We will escort you out.”

The guards swiftly moved to lead the nobles out of the hall.

As Marcus passed Enkrid, he clenched his fist and gave him a small, firm gesture.

Marcus, too, had always supported Enkrid’s dream.

The nobles streamed out of the room.

It should have felt empty.

But instead, Enkrid felt something igniting inside him.

It was the same feeling as when he first became a knight.

If it was light, it blazed bright; if it was a flower, it bloomed vivid; if it was a star, it burned brilliantly; if it was a dream, it soared.

Will stirred within him.

It burned through his whole body, filling him with searing, overwhelming energy.

Crang stood before him.

The knight’s oath was founded on a binding vow—breaking it would deal a fatal blow to one’s Will.

Thus, for a king, receiving a knight’s oath was a matter of course.

There was no nation on the continent that did otherwise.

“This is the dream you wished for. Walk the path you desire.”

And Crang—he ignored all of that.

If the man before him ever chose to stab him with a sword, then so be it—that would simply be his end.

A gamble? No.

He was a king.

And a king must know how to see people—and how to believe in them.

This was not a gamble; it was trust.

It was the kind of faith a king, not a merchant, showed to the one he trusted.

Chrring.

Crang drew his sword and rested it atop Enkrid’s shoulder.

Enkrid did not kneel, nor did he lower his head.

“I hereby appoint you as a knight of Naurillia.”

Crang spoke.

Enkrid felt the weight and sensation of the sword resting on his shoulder.

There were those who had deceived and betrayed him—but there were also those who had planted dreams in the heart of a child.

Among those he sought out, there were some who cursed and pushed him away—but others who patted his back.

Why did he wield his sword?

Because he wanted to protect the farmer who would never again lose a leg.

Why did he move forward?

Because he wanted to save the child whose dream was to become an herbalist.

Thus, he had stitched together a shattered dream to become a knight.

Save for a few, no one had expected it of him—no one could have been certain he would make it.

He had not stopped just because there were those who sneered and mocked him.

Even when arrows flew and struck him.

Even when blades sliced his flesh and hammered his bones.

Even when the walls blocking his path grew larger, and the waves of despair loomed high to crush him.

“Whether wave or wall, no matter what comes, I will surpass it and protect everything behind me.”

The vow was brief, but that didn’t matter.

What mattered more than words spoken aloud was the conviction engraved deep within the heart.

And Enkrid had proven it through every step he had taken.

Crang lifted the sword from his shoulder.

Typically, knight investitures involved many formalities, but all of that was cast aside today.

“What do you want to name your order?”

Crang’s tone shifted.

Gone was the solemnity—he sounded just like any village youth now.

Well, perhaps a little too handsome to be called ordinary, but still.

“Isn’t that the king’s job?”

“Ah, the Red Cloak Knights got their name from the hair of the Sunbeasts. Then maybe... Ironwall?”

The Ironwall Knights.

Not a bad name.

But Enkrid pondered the identity of his own group.

Would it really suit the ones who followed him?

He had earned the nickname by happenstance, but he thought: he wasn’t someone who only endured.

He moved forward.

“Blue Cloak Knights?”

He tossed it out casually.

“...Why do you say ridiculous things so seriously, you bastard?”

Crang laughed as he spoke, his words far less refined than usual—probably more natural this way.

Honestly, what did a name even matter?

Enkrid wasn’t concerned with that.

Instead, what weighed on his mind was something that had just occurred to him.

It was an unexpected realization.

Surely everything had contributed to it.

The fight with the knights of Azpen, where he had emptied out everything he had.

The endless training, the countless sparring matches, the constant reviewing of techniques.

Just now, when he made his oath, he had felt it—Will surging through him like a crashing wave.

No wonder the word “wave” had slipped into his oath.

He wondered:

If I swing my sword following the shape of that wave—what would it look like?

If it worked, perhaps he would call it the Wave Sword.

Not only geniuses who gathered every element of swordsmanship with dazzling brilliance could create new techniques.

Even someone like Enkrid—who built everything with steady, relentless effort—could feel something solid taking form.

This was swordsmanship.

The foundation was to mix flowing sword techniques with proper, deliberate strikes.

He would weave in the method Knight Jamal had shown him—the move that forced any opponent to block instinctively.

Even the spiderweb-like techniques of Acker would blend in.

Lost deep in thoughts of swordsmanship, Enkrid decided:

he would just leave the name of the order as they had always called themselves.

“Let’s call it the Mad Knights.”

“Are you serious?”

“It was the name of our unit, after all.”

“Oh, Lord... someone fix this lunatic’s head already.”

That sounded exactly like something Audin would say.

“My head’s just fine.”

Crang muttered the name a few times and ended up nodding.

Did a grandiose name matter anyway?

Probably not.

Still, what would the neighboring kingdoms think when they heard “Mad Knights”?

First, they’d probably ask, “Are they serious?”

Second, they’d curse, “Those bastards must be truly insane.”

Crang figured it was close enough.

Enkrid didn’t care.

If he were the sort to be swayed by what others said, he would never have made it this far.

Besides, names always changed with time.

Just look at how his own had evolved—from “the Demon Squad Commander” to “the Demon Slayer,” to “the Sword of the Iron Wall.”

“There’ll be a banquet tomorrow. You better come. Wouldn’t be right for the guest of honor to skip it.”

The founding of a new knight order.

For one kingdom to have two orders of knights—this hadn’t happened on the continent for nearly a hundred years.

Of course there would be a banquet.

***

After parting ways with Crang, Enkrid returned to his quarters, passing by Marcus and the two dumbstruck great nobles.

As soon as he entered, Rem shot up from his seat.

“Did you hear?”

Had news of the new order already spread?

Enkrid asked calmly,

“What about?”

“I mean, they’re calling me a noble butcher, Audin’s some bear beastman who tears people apart, the lost kid’s a mad sword freak who kills people just by meeting their eyes, Esther’s a witch, the fairy’s demon-blooded—crazy rumors everywhere—and yet that bastard has no nickname!”

Rem gestured wildly as he spoke, utterly serious.

As Enkrid removed his coat and touched his shirt, the handmaid and servant approached, flinching a little but helping him undress.

In the palace, this was routine, but Enkrid still found it awkward.

While he tossed his clothes aside, Rem—breathless but unrelenting—rushed out again:

“Does this make sense to you?”

“You’re talking about Jaxon, aren’t you?”

“This is a conspiracy.”

Rem was restless.

Or maybe he really had become good friends with Jaxon.

Naturally, if he said that aloud, Rem would probably storm back to the Border Guard immediately—to swing an axe at Jaxon’s neck.

“That’s right. Even the scriptures say not to blindly accept injustice as fate.”

Audin chimed in, making it clear both of them were dead serious.

They didn’t care about the nasty rumors—but that one bastard escaping without a nickname irked them far more.

“There’s a banquet tomorrow. You going?”

The Jaxon stuff was half a joke, surely.

Enkrid thought maybe they should take the chance to clear up some misunderstandings.

Show the nobles that Rem wasn’t some brainless butcher, that Audin wasn’t a murderous beastman.

The first official appearance of the Mad Knights.

He didn’t care about public opinion—but since these two seemed to, offering them a chance to fix it didn’t seem bad.

“We should all go.”

He thought they might refuse, but Rem immediately nodded.

“Sounds good.”

“I will join as well, brother.”

Audin agreed without hesitation.

As for the reason—just listening to Rem’s earlier rant made it pretty obvious.

“There needs to be a rumor about a crazy tomcat prowling the streets at night, getting rejected by every woman he touches back at the Border Guard.”

For a moment, Enkrid wondered if bringing them was a good idea.

But he didn’t think about it too long.

Right now, he wanted to focus again on the wave—the wave and the sword that had just begun forming in his mind.