A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

Kill them all and leave? The statement itself wasn’t impossible. At least, not in practice.

For Enkrid, Shinar, and Audin, the three of them could easily kill the five in front of them. Even though one of the five seemed to be at the level of a quasi-knight, he posed no real threat. Enkrid alone could handle them without letting a single one slip through his fingers.

Alma’s brow twitched at Enkrid’s question. Kill them all? Who? Me? Wasn’t I spared because of the Church’s influence?

“What?”

Alma stammered in confusion, but couldn’t find more words. Shilma was the same.

Her bloodshot eyes burned with divine duty, but even she couldn’t believe what she had just heard. Never had she imagined someone would dare say such a thing.

To kill members of the Church to silence them? If the man before them was serious, wasn’t it already a given that they’d all die?

Yet Enkrid had shown no overt hostility. He had spoken in a calm and even tone. It was just that the weight behind his words was unmistakable.

The man known as the Ironwall Knight didn’t speak of things he wouldn’t do. If he said it, he would follow through. If he couldn’t do it, he wouldn’t even bring it up.

That alone overwhelmed the group.

Shinar casually placed her right hand atop the grip of her blade. Killing a few people, if necessary, wasn’t difficult at all.

As tension rippled through the air, a distant wailing cry echoed—beast or monster, it was unclear.

Audin exhaled deeply and shook his head. He hadn’t succumbed to the whispers of the devil. Surely Enkrid didn’t mean it either. It was only a threat.

A message: “What gives you the confidence to act so boldly?”

Naturally, Shilma, Alma, and the rest of the five believed in the Church. In terms of influence across the continent, the Church was stronger than even the banks. Banks of the Trade Federation were only in the major cities. But temples and monasteries of the Church existed everywhere.

So, what could the Church actually do right now? That was the implication.

Audin knew well that Enkrid was more cunning than most assumed. And now, even Shilma with her burning eyes, and Alma with his brute strength, had both been silenced.

Just before the mood completely turned, someone reacted first. Shinar’s pointed ears twitched.

Audin’s ears had perked earlier too, but that had just been a feeling. This time, Shinar’s ears truly moved. The twitching tips turned in one direction.

Enkrid turned his head the same way. Audin’s gaze followed slightly after. All eyes now pointed to the path they had come from.

Someone was approaching from there. Though still a fair distance off, for a knight trained in Will, it wasn’t far.

A steel breastplate. Balanced steps. A metal rod hanging from the hip. Seven grapes embroidered on the outer robe. No one needed to say it—it was clear.

A servant of the Temple of Plenty. And clearly, not someone to take lightly.

A chilling sensation, one Enkrid hadn’t felt even from Alma, now pricked at his nerves.

The man descended the small hill the group had just crossed—not quickly, but not slowly either. After watching him walk about five steps, Enkrid had a strange vision.

The man suddenly lunging forward, grabbing his neck, and slamming him into the ground.

Was it just a hallucination? Enkrid decided it wasn’t.

It was a glimpse caused by Will. A vision of what was about to happen, revealed through insight.

And so he reacted.

Bang!

At the same moment, the man’s white robes fluttered violently as if torn, expanding before Enkrid’s eyes.

The one wearing the steel plate had closed the distance in an instant, his leg snapping like a whip toward Enkrid’s shin. A brutal dash followed by a sweeping low kick.

Enkrid perceived it all with his ultra-sharp vision, catching every motion—how the man approached, how his leg arced through the air. And with that perception, a single point of focus activated naturally. His thoughts expanded. Time seemed to slow.

Fast.

Should he dodge? No—bracing was better.

With that split-second judgment, his body moved in support of his will. He bent his knees, tightened his ankles, and raised his Will.

Thanks to his drastically improved reflexes, his foot was struck with a resounding crack, but his center of gravity didn’t waver much.

At the same time, a hand reached toward his neck. Enkrid threw a diagonal punch.

Using Balraf-style martial arts, he twisted his hips and rear leg to drive weight and power into the strike.

Bang!

Their hands collided, the air between them bursting with compressed pressure.

A sharp crack echoed. Just as swiftly as he came, the man retreated.

Whish!

Shinar’s blade slashed through the space he had just vacated.

Her Leaf Blade vertically cleaved the slowly descending sunlight. Even light was split. That’s how fast and sharp the strike was. But he had already evaded it.

His insight, his ability to see one step ahead, must’ve been extraordinary.

But Shinar didn’t stop there.

Thanks to his heightened focus, Enkrid perceived the entire scene as though time were slowed. To an untrained eye, it would be impossible to follow the attack and defense exchanged in such speed.

Shinar’s Leaf Blade swiped through the air—then suddenly veered vertically and shot forward again.

It danced like a swallow gliding freely through the skies. Enkrid had once killed a man named Swiftblade, but the name should now belong to Shinar.

And yet the man blocked it too.

A blade as fast as Enkrid’s own throwing knives—

But the rod on his hip was already in his hand, parrying the strike.

Bang!

The clash of the two weapons exploded with a shockwave.

The sound was intense enough to make ears ring.

From the moment Enkrid had seen the vision to now, all of this had happened in a single breath.

The opponent was fast, bold, and wasted no motion. “I told you to block, but I didn’t expect you to do it this well.”

The man spoke in genuine admiration. Enkrid didn’t enjoy being on the defensive, and his leg still throbbed. The skin and muscle were fine, but the tendons and ligaments beneath pulsed with dull pain.

Even with the Ironwall technique, this had happened. Not even a giant kicking at full force would cause this.

This meant the man had used some kind of skill. Likely the same kind that triggered that earlier vision.

Enkrid, though his leg ached, calmly lowered his hand. It stopped near his grip.

He was ready to draw his sword at any time.

Though he’d learned Balraf-style hand-to-hand, Enkrid’s real skill shone only when he gripped a sword.

Shinar lowered her hand, Leaf Blade in grip, and asked,

“What did you just do?”

She too possessed insight. If he had done something, she should’ve noticed before it happened.

Even if her reaction was a bit slower, she still should’ve sensed it. She had the sensitivity to hunt assassins.

But she’d felt nothing as he approached, kicked, and reached for her.

What did that mean? That he was superior in skill? No, even then, it should’ve been detectable.

Then what? He used some kind of trick. Clearly, it was a trick involving Will.

Just from that short exchange, it was obvious. The man was a knight.

And as if to confirm it, the paladin Alma shouted,

“Sir Overdeer!”

Unfamiliar name? It was to Enkrid. Then the inquisitor Bert added in explanation,

“The Prophet!”

That name—Enkrid had heard it before. A central figure in the Holy Knight Order. A man who had lived for so long, it was impossible to guess his age.

Though his appearance was that of a middle-aged man, they said he was a monster who had lived well over a hundred years. They claimed divine blessing had slowed his aging. His title was The Prophet.

Prophet—one who foresees. But his prophecies only applied to those who stood against him.

He possessed the ability to imprint visions of their own defeat onto his opponents using Will—more precisely, divine energy. It was no different from forcing the future upon them through sheer will.

And because not once had his prophecies proven wrong, he had come to be known as The Prophet.

A single iron rod in his left hand, another at his waist. The droop of his eyes suggested a gentle nature, but his silver irises gave him an air of mystery. And it was with those silver eyes that he spoke.

“A faint revelation came to me, and I doubted it. But truly, the will of the Lord is never mistaken.”

So spoke the Prophet Overdeer. As he did, he drew the second iron rod from his belt.

One rod in each hand. These two rods were his signature weapons. He crossed them in front of him at an angle—clearly, a declaration of intent to fight.

“These people seek to oppress us and steal away the Saintess!”

Shilma shouted immediately, not to be outdone.

“Revelation?”

Enkrid responded, seemingly out of nowhere.

Though Shilma had cried out, Overdeer did not respond to her. His gaze remained on Enkrid. Perhaps he found this conversation more interesting than anything she had to say. Or perhaps, he simply couldn’t tear his eyes away.

Even as he spoke, Enkrid’s presence continued to build. His will began pressing down on Overdeer like a force of intimidation. It wasn’t enough to overwhelm him—but to say Overdeer didn’t notice it would be a lie. His gaze too remained fixed on Enkrid.

“Yes. I received a revelation.”

Overdeer answered. His stance didn’t change. His tone remained calm.

Hearing that, Enkrid recalled the ferryman who had appeared in his dreams these past few nights.

“There will be nothing ahead of you but hardship and trial.”

“Got any more to say about swordsmanship?”

“You’ll come to wish you were trapped in today forever.”

“How about something more useful than that whole ‘wave-blocking’ thing?”

“You shall become an immortal.”

“When your opponent strikes like this, you parry flat like this, and then close the distance...”

When the ferryman said the word “immortal,” Enkrid had even demonstrated on the rocking boat, keeping his balance. He had been reviewing what he’d learned during his travels across the continent, recalling the things taught to him in exchange for krona.

The ferryman had a surprising depth of knowledge in swordsmanship. His offhanded advice had often proven surprisingly helpful.

“...I won’t curse you.”

The most recent ferryman had only said what he wanted and left, but Enkrid had done the same—so it was no one’s fault.

Thinking of that ferryman brought a strange question to Enkrid’s mind. He stared into the silver pupils of the man before him and asked:

“By chance, was the one who gave you that revelation standing on a boat? Gray skin? Skin freshly split? Holding a purple lamp?”

It was a bizarre question. Nonsense, really. No one could understand what he meant—not Audin, not Shinar.

But Enkrid didn’t care about that. He didn’t care what others believed. You could say he was free of prejudice.

He didn’t insult fanatics, nor did he scorn those who took bribes in the name of faith and veered toward corruption. As long as someone didn’t cross his personal line, that was all that mattered.

So, this question came from that kind of thinking. Perhaps someone else’s voice had slipped into their faith. Maybe it even denied the existence of the god they believed in.

But Enkrid hadn’t really thought that deeply about it. After all, if the god they worshipped was real and truly just, then why must a child be imprisoned under the title of Saintess? And why did corrupt priests and believers go unpunished?

Because he could not answer those questions, Enkrid did not believe in gods. And because he didn’t believe, he could ask things like this.

If Overdeer had known what Enkrid was truly thinking, even his century-old calm might have cracked. But he couldn’t read Enkrid’s mind, and if he’d learned anything in all that time, it was this:

Don’t waste words on nonsense.

And so, Overdeer responded as he had learned.

“Revelations come only from my Lord.”

In other words: I’m not entertaining your foolishness.

Enkrid hadn’t expected an answer anyway. He’d asked half in jest. The ferryman only ever appeared in dreams or visions, and he wasn’t going to argue about that now.

He had merely wondered if the ferryman was playing some trick again—but after asking, he figured it was unlikely.

Not that it mattered.

The ferryman had said Enkrid’s path would be full of hardship. That he was fated to become an immortal repeating the same day. That endless walls would continue to appear.

But Enkrid hadn’t taken any of that to heart.

Life was filled with hardship and trials by nature. Whatever walls came, he would simply climb them. That was all. Even now.

Whether it was some Prophet or a Holy Knight—whether the ferryman had summoned him, or it really was divine will, or mere coincidence—none of it mattered.

His heart simply pounded.

Strong.

Just one exchange of blows had made that clear. The boldness of his hands. The strength of his body.

A fighting style entirely different from Audin’s.

Those two iron rods—the Prophet’s weapons—caught Enkrid’s eye.

Ting.

He clanged the rods together and crossed them. Shinar raised her Leaf Blade, tilting it slightly toward him.

“Paladin Alma declares: That man is a heretic and a fugitive!”

Alma pointed directly at Audin.

Audin glanced to the side. Of course, no one was there. He tilted his head and jabbed his own chest with a finger.

“Me?”

The tone was as smooth as Enkrid’s own. He’d learned a thing or two over the years.

Truly commendable acting. He could easily manipulate five puppets at once in a monastery puppet show.

A true abbot caring for orphans might’ve thought so. But to Alma, who had raised the accusation, it just made him want to curse out loud.

“Of course it’s you, who else would it be?!”

Alma couldn’t hold his anger and shouted. The fact he hadn’t thrown in a curse word was a small miracle.

He was boiling inside. Like a volcano about to erupt. His heart blazed as if someone had set it alight.

It was extreme rage.

He’d been kicked, punched, embarrassed—and then Enkrid had thrown out that threat to kill them all, and Alma hadn’t even been able to respond.

All he could do was stammer, “What...?” and shut his mouth.

Shame and wounded pride only made him angrier. Naturally, he was furious at how things had turned out.

Then Bert mentioned something about Audin—a heretic and fugitive. A criminal, then.

The Prophet Overdeer’s eyes swept over Enkrid, Audin, and the fallen Saintess.

“Hm.”

He let out a short cough. His expression revealed nothing.

Enkrid, having watched the little comedy unfold, subtly shifted his position.

The sun was just setting, and when he moved a little to the side, the slanting light came down the mountains and hit Overdeer’s eyes.

Whether it was the effect of the Gigant Mountains or something else, today’s sunset leaned more violet than orange— a purple tinged with pink.

Even as the light hit his eyes, Overdeer didn’t move. Only his gaze followed Enkrid.

“I will not kill you. For this is not your fault.”

Overdeer spoke.

Ah, is that so.

Enkrid responded with a slash.

He dashed forward with a single step, closing the gap in an instant, aiming to cleave Overdeer’s skull.

Fast and heavy—A sword strike as if copied from Ragna.

Clang!

A thunderous crash.

Rod met blade.

Shinar did not intervene.

This was a duel. Victory couldn’t be claimed by stabbing someone in the back. That would go against honor and conviction.

There were lines that must be respected. And Enkrid would never allow interference.

So he went in alone— And lost.

But he didn’t die.