A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

What are you supposed to do when things spiral beyond your control, and watching it unfold fills you with nothing but unease?

This isn’t good.

Kraiss disliked how events were unfolding—so different from his calculations. It was even disturbing his sleep.

It was his first bout of insomnia in a long time.

Ever since Enkrid’s return and the subsequent chaos within the Holy Nation, Kraiss had been monitoring every move of the Gray God’s divine army. He had reached one conclusion:

The cult’s influence ran far deeper across the continent than he had initially thought.

Perhaps the cult wasn’t orchestrating every aspect of this chaos, but their involvement was undeniable.

Can we really wipe them all out?

How? No solutions came to mind, and the worst-case scenarios kept surfacing again and again.

What if there was someone among the cult who could curse others with just a touch?

Kraiss didn’t know such a figure had already come and failed.

If it were me, I’d go for the commander first.

No matter what anyone said, the Border Guard revolved around a single man.

If Enkrid were gone, no one could fill that void. The unit nicknamed Madmen, or Madness, would scatter instantly.

How do you keep Rem, Ragna, Jaxon, and Audin together?

Who else could carry them all?

And then there were Esther, Shinar, Pell, Rophod, and Teresa.

Kraiss knew he couldn’t handle even one of them on his own.

Enkrid bore all of their hopes—on his back, in his arms—and yet remained unshaken.

If it were him, he’d probably break under the weight. But Enkrid, as always, simply swung his sword.

“I’ve told Aitri. You should head out,” Kraiss said.

“You’re not going to scold me for breaking the equipment for once?” Enkrid asked.

“Would scolding make a difference? And this is innerwear woven with pure silver thread. Esther added a protection spell. Take it.”

As Kraiss handed over the thin, nearly transparent garment, Enkrid stared at him and asked, “Are you feeling sick?”

“The hell? Even when I take care of you, you act like I’m being weird?”

“Get some sleep, man.”

Even after that, Kraiss didn’t share his worries. He spent several more nights without rest.

Then, Enkrid brought up deployment.

And just like that, without anything specific happening, his sleepless nights vanished. Maybe it wasn’t intentional, but watching Enkrid in action gave Kraiss an answer.

What do you do when things go against your intent?

What else?

You move according to your own will. If that doesn’t work, you start by changing what’s around you.

If you don’t change, neither will your surroundings. And if the surroundings don’t change, nothing else will.

One step at a time.

That was the life Enkrid had shown.

Kraiss, ever the realist, added his own layer:

But is the world something that changes just because you want it to?

Of course not.

Then what’s required to fulfill your dreams, to follow your ideals?

Power.

Not just brute strength or swordsmanship—this world counted things like resolve and conviction as power, too.

Still, what he needed right now were fists and blades.

Maybe everything Enkrid had done until now was training for exactly this.

Kraiss couldn’t be sure.

But for the first time in his life, he felt it.

“I’m going,” Enkrid said as he mounted his horse. The rest of the knights followed.

Oddly enough, Kraiss felt no foreboding.

So much so that he didn’t even feel the ➤ NоvеⅠight ➤ (Read more on our source) need to offer them a blessing.

“You know what he said when I thanked him last night for saving Cross Guard?”

It was Abnaier, casually approaching, speaking like a friend.

“What did he say?”

Kraiss preferred formal speech and stuck to it. Abnaier respected that.

“He said it was just a swing of the sword.”

Abnaier looked after the departing riders and added, “Yeah, maybe it was just a swing. But for someone, that one swing could change their whole life. And for someone else, it could be the moment they realize they made the worst choice of theirs.”

“Ah.”

Kraiss exhaled, the words resonating deeply.

Watching Enkrid, he had learned how to confront problems.

If power is what you need, then use it. Swing your sword to defend the values you believe in.

That was the kind of knight Enkrid was.

He suddenly thought:

“To understand abundance, one must know poverty. To feel joy, one must have known waiting. A fruit does not ripen without first forming.”

Abnaier was a longtime believer in the God of Plenty.

“Then perhaps it’s time someone else learned what poverty is,” Kraiss said—his words aimed at the Gray God cultists.

Of course, they’d never get the chance to hear it.

***

Moving quickly didn’t mean missing the beauty of the world.

The sky, the wind, even the winter flowers—all came into view.

Not a day had passed when the bitter wind brought sleet.

Snow under a clear blue sky—an unusual and captivating sight.

The temperature dropped sharply, but the sleet sparkling in the air was mesmerizing. Like white paint spattered across a blue canvas.

Crack.

But even in such a picturesque moment, someone couldn’t help but boil with irritation.

“Couldn’t the bastards have picked summer to attack?” Rem growled. He hated the cold. Ragna, by contrast, enjoyed it.

Ragna preferred this to heat. In summer, he barely moved.

“Cold is better. Move your body, build some heat. Problem solved.”

Rem’s eyebrow twitched at Ragna’s reply. Not a simple twitch—his brows rippled like waves, a rare show of extreme irritation.

The first time Kraiss saw it, he’d asked if Rem used to work in a circus.

“Hot is better, you ass. Just sweat it out, drink some water, jump in a lake, done.”

“Oh, right. I forgot I was talking to a beast.”

“Get lost and ride ahead. Can’t stand the sight of you. If you go first, maybe I’ll never have to see you again.”

A familiar exchange. Every summer and winter, they argued about this.

It rarely escalated to blades.

In summer, Ragna was too lazy to fight. In winter, Rem couldn’t be bothered.

“Let’s go fight those gray freaks instead of bickering here,” Enkrid interjected.

Their grumbling quickly shifted to focus on the real enemy.

“Come at us, you damn fanatics.”

“I’ll gladly swing my sword for idiot cultists who can’t even read a map.”

Jaxon followed silently on horseback. Occasionally, Teresa would break into song as she jogged beside them.

Enkrid, riding, reviewed his techniques and refined his form. He had learned more from his companions in recent days.

“It’s cold, but I’m fine now. I can stand on my own,” said Shinar.

She had changed strategies—or rather, shifted the tone of her jokes.

She often said she was fine without being hugged, that she was okay alone.

Enkrid, curious, finally asked, “Do you actually find that funny?”

“What do you mean?”

“The jokes.”

“Extremely, profoundly, thoroughly.”

With clear green eyes, too radiant to merely call beautiful, she replied:

“It’s fun.”

So it was sincere.

Enkrid nodded. As they galloped toward Noah’s monastery, they passed several towns.

At a relay station, everyone switched horses—except Enkrid, still riding Odd-Eye.

“You’re not hurt, are you?” he asked, sensing the beast’s muscles had grown denser.

Odd-Eye snorted and shook its head side to side.

Whinny.

It sounded like, Don’t talk nonsense.

Enkrid recalled his conversation with Aitri.

“Did it break?” he had asked, returning with his shattered black-steel sword.

Despite having crafted the weapon with great care, Aitri spoke calmly.

“Should I apologize?”

“Not at all.”

Without missing a beat, Aitri brought out a new sword.

“It’s lighter. Mixed with pure silver.”

His last sword had been heavy; this one, infused with silver, was agile.

“It’s high-quality silver from near Rewis. Excellent material.”

Enkrid nodded, tested it—it was lighter. Despite the thicker blade, it weighed less than a spark.

The old black-steel sword absorbed light. This one caught and reflected it, glinting softly.

Depending on the light, the blade even looked golden.

It changed hues with the sky.

A light, strong, beautiful sword—and more than that, proof Aitri had grown.

It fits even better in my hand.

More than the black-steel blade, this one felt right. As if it whispered, You are my master. Though, of course, swords don’t speak.

“You trying to show off now? Hold back. It’s not time yet.”

No need to talk to it like Rem did with his axe.

On the ride, Enkrid noticed Pell and Rophod’s intense gazes. They clearly had things to say, but said nothing.

They seemed to be sorting things out internally.

Having risen from the ground up, Enkrid had developed sharp insight. He could read people better now—and he understood.

Teresa, of all people, looked the calmest.

“Divinity belongs to the faithful, but power too follows laws. That’s why even Gray Holy Light exists,” she said occasionally, but otherwise stayed quiet.

Esther, following in her leopard form, said nothing, naturally.

Among them, Teresa—a half-giant—seemed the most composed.

Eventually, the enemy came into view.

“There’s a detachment ahead. No formation.”

“Which side?”

Wasn’t Overdeer supposed to be gathering forces too? It could be his men.

Enkrid’s group had ridden so hard, they missed all recent news.

Even Jaxon had no time to gather intel.

They were, quite literally, charging in blind.

“They’re enemies. Confirmed Gray Holy Light. Some crusaders are leading a siege unit in front of the monastery,” Jaxon reported after scouting far ahead.

Noah’s held out, huh?

If the siege weapons were still being set up, the real fight hadn’t begun yet.

Noah had fortified the monastery, dug in, and even stalled for time with offers of negotiation.

Myl, self-proclaimed pope of the Gray God, knew this was a rare opportunity to consolidate power.

Attacking the monastery was just an excuse to gather like-minded followers.

If he started the battle too soon, the hesitant might scatter.

Still, the monastery was but a candle in the wind. Once ready, he would crush it and use the victory as proof of his divine mandate.

He might even claim he waited to see if the Holy Nation would send reinforcements.

Enkrid couldn’t have known all this.

All he saw was the enemy—and that the monastery still stood.

They were outnumbered. Under normal tactics, they would regroup before attacking.

But not these people.

“We strike,” Enkrid declared, charging forward.

Odd-Eye thundered into motion, completely unfazed by the long journey.

At one point, the gallop was so fast that even the sound of hooves vanished—Enkrid felt like he was flying.

The knightly acceleration struck like a bolt.

They hit the enemy’s flank. One responded—wearing gray-plated armor and riding a horse.

The man’s mouth dropped open in shock. He raised his flail.

At that exact moment, Odd-Eye adjusted pace.

Enkrid drew his new blade. The silver reflected sunlight in golden flashes.

The flail came swinging, targeting Enkrid’s forearm—clearly a seasoned fighter.

With just his wrist, Enkrid flicked his sword.

The blade shifted line—and severed the enemy’s wrist.

Splatter!

Blood sprayed. The hand hit the ground.

“Aaagh!”

A scream followed.

Enkrid flicked the blood from his sword and turned.

Odd-Eye twisted smoothly beneath him.

Not bad. No—maybe even better.

The black-steel sword had been heavy. This one, almost too light—but its speed made it perfect for nimble, rapid strikes.

Another win for Aitri’s craftsmanship. The severed wrist rolled away.

“You—!”

The man couldn’t finish.

Thunk!

Rem’s hand axe buried itself in his skull. The body fell off the horse like a rag doll.

“The fuck?” one soldier cried.

“Huh? Huh?”

“What the hell is that?!”

“They’re—shit—they’re enemies!”

Boom. Boom.

The corpse rolled into the enemy lines as the Madmen smashed into them like a storm.