A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

“Aaaargh!”

“It’s a monster!”

“Run!”

Most of the soldiers near them broke into a panicked retreat, save for a few exceptions. Among the fleeing mass stood one immovable rock—a crusader radiating Gray Holy Light. He watched the intruders carefully.

They fight well...

They’d crashed in out of nowhere and were already deep in combat, but he couldn’t place who they were. Mercenaries? Reinforcements summoned by the monastery?

He caught a glimpse of a navy cloak, but paid no attention to whatever insignia might have been embroidered on it.

What he knew for certain was simple: they were strong.

And sometimes, that was all that mattered.

Where the hell did they crawl in from?

Myl’s confidence in declaring himself a prophet and godly figure wasn’t just born from divine absence—it was also because so many elite warriors had flocked under his banner. Strength drew followers, after all. If someone powerful enough insisted on a new god, people might just believe them.

The presence of so many strong fighters said it all. Half the crusader order had been assembled here.

Enkrid had now crossed paths with one of them—a crusader from the “Scales” division.

Could these be knights Overdeer secretly trained?

Rumors had already spread of the prophet Overdeer marching with his forces.

But a sneak attack now? For what strategic gain?

It didn’t make much sense.

Still, dwelling on it was pointless. The crusader decided it was more important to break their momentum than to figure out their motives.

Just one man, silently swinging two swords, had scattered the entire army like a flame chasing insects. The sight was maddening.

“Hah.”

The Scales Crusader kicked his warhorse into motion. All across the field, similar movements began—crusaders trained in tactics and warfare since childhood targeting those slicing through their ranks: Rem, Ragna, and the others.

“You go no further.”

The Scales Crusader muttered as he thrust his thin, specialized blade—fast, silent, perfect for ambushes.

He moved in from the side, quietly, blade ready to skewer.

But Enkrid had already sensed him.

He’d suffered enough ambushes from Jaxon to be done falling for that kind of thing. As Jaxon once said: “Even if a Geor Dagger assassin comes, you mustn’t die.”

So no, he wasn’t getting hit by this cheap strike. He couldn’t allow it.

Enkrid moved just enough—holding his firesteel blade diagonally to intercept.

Clink.

Steel met steel, and the crusader’s attack was knocked off course.

He blocked it? The crusader’s surprise was plain on his face.

He pressed his blade into Enkrid’s, trying to shove him off his saddle—especially since Enkrid rode without one.

But it was a foolish tactic.

Odd-Eye snorted disdainfully and shifted his hind legs, helping Enkrid maintain balance. Then, with a graceful twist, he headbutted the enemy’s horse.

Crack!

Neighhh!

“What in—!”

The warhorse buckled in panic, throwing the crusader off balance.

Enkrid silently thanked the unintended help and drove the silver blade forward.

No saddle? Didn’t matter. Odd-Eye arched his back, helping channel Enkrid’s lower body strength. Enkrid twisted at the waist and shoulder—then thrust.

The golden flash of the blade pierced the gap in the crusader’s armor—through the throat.

No armor covered everything. Especially not plate.

Thunk.

A wet sound followed, and a fine jet of blood sprayed from the hole.

Right then, Rem smashed an axe into another enemy’s forehead.

Crunch!

“What, do I look like a stray ghoul to you?”

That one had been radiating Gray Light and swinging a hammer.

Rem discarded the spear he’d picked up earlier, slammed the axe down on the crusader’s skull, and punched the enemy’s horse in the face.

The crusader couldn’t respond—because corpses don’t speak.

The horse fared no better. Rem’s fists, while not quite Audin’s level, were weapons in their own right.

The crusader’s eyes popped out as he crumpled. His steed followed, a strange form of companionship in death.

Ragna slashed through both man and horse with a single strike—splitting them clean down the middle.

It was a head-on clash. Ragna charged, then swung—imbuing his strike with Will and the explosive power Enkrid had demonstrated upon arrival.

He’d stolen another technique again.

Neighhh!

The horse’s knees buckled under the sheer force, but Ragna balanced his weight and finished the swing.

Slice.

Steel, flesh, and bone parted cleanly.

The crusader’s torso fell in two. His ⊛ Nоvеlιght ⊛ (Read the full story) mount’s head split open and died instantly.

Three elite crusaders were stationed in this sector—and all three were felled in a single clash.

It helped that Enkrid had already sliced through the stronger enemies within the ranks, destabilizing their formation.

“Run!”

“AAAAHH!”

“They’re monsters! Demons!”

“Please, spare me! Mommy!”

“Rona! Rona!”

Screams of fear echoed across the field as soldiers began to flee en masse. The area around Enkrid cleared rapidly.

A path had opened.

Ragna and Rem stood amid equally empty space—like Enkrid, surrounded by silence and corpses. The Mad Knights regrouped near their captain.

“Let’s go.”

Enkrid walked forward as casually as a man on a stroll. It was a short path, but in that time, he reviewed what had just happened.

He hadn’t meant to—but he’d shattered their momentum completely.

He retraced the steps that had led to that result. What triggered it? How had he pulled it off?

A genius might not have needed this reflection. But Enkrid wasn’t one, so he did.

And then it clicked.

Accelerated cognition.

It wasn’t just the Will techniques he’d earned by cutting through walking flame.

In the countless battles of today, Enkrid had continuously trained himself to think faster.

He pushed his mind to find solutions within impossibly short windows of time.

All that desperation had crystallized—turning into refined judgment, into moments of brilliance like this.

Not bad at all.

The sword Aitri had forged for him also fit his hand like a part of his body.

The area in front of Noah’s monastery was tangled with thorns, broken palisades, and shattered logs.

Jagged wood, fibrous splits, and coarse brown grains bore witness to past battle.

Bloodstains. Archers with bandaged arms. A man in plate armor guarding the entrance.

He looked exhausted, but his eyes were sharp.

“Who are you?”

It was a natural question. Seconds ago, they’d all been certain of death—then a small force burst through the enemy lines, slaughtered three elite crusaders, and stood there like nothing had happened.

He saw the corpses in the distance—but still couldn’t believe it.

Who were these people?

Even he wouldn’t be confident facing those crusaders one-on-one.

So yes, his voice carried shock. But deep down, he was praying these strangers were allies.

And they were.

“I’m an acquaintance of Abbot Noah. May we enter?”

The man who spoke had black hair and blue eyes. No helmet. Just quiet confidence.

The armored man wanted to nod—but hesitated. Just days ago, Noah had nearly died due to a traitor inside.

But Noah himself was just behind him.

One of the Cult-Slaying Order turned to look back—and there stood the abbot, a good-hearted man missing one eye, stunned.

“How... how are you here?”

It was the kind of question you ask when faced with the impossible.

The others from the order watched as Enkrid replied:

“For a cup of tea.”

It was a plain answer—an excuse, really. But it was one he’d used before.

“Next time I visit, prepare something decent.”

Yes. He’d said that. And Noah had remembered—he’d even dried some decent leaves in preparation.

He hadn’t eaten for two days, but hadn’t touched the tea. A luxury, too frivolous for this hell.

“No tea?”

Enkrid asked again.

“I have some,” Noah answered, still dazed.

“Then let’s go.”

There were no gates, only thorny brush and broken barricades. But as one Cult-Slaying warrior had done before, the group climbed the walls.

Most of the horses were left behind. A few pried open a path through the palisade. Odd-Eye leapt the barrier with a few steps back and one great push.

Even the enemy soldiers—who had been watching in stunned silence—couldn’t help but gape.

“Whoa...”

“Waaah...”

Voices spread among the soldiers and those inside the walls.

“Whoa!”

“Ugh!”

Someone dropped their makeshift spear and fell on their butt in surprise.

“I don’t bite,” Enkrid said nonchalantly, dismounting and walking forward.

Noah followed behind.

Shinar, who’d watched everything from start to finish, turned to Lua Gharne.

“He seems embarrassed. Am I reading this right?”

Rem answered, laughing.

“You’re spot on. Bastard gets shy. Can’t bring himself to say he came to help, so he says it’s for tea. Guy’s got more shame than he lets on.”

Shinar nodded. She never told fairy jokes unless Enkrid was around.

Lua Gharne puffed her cheeks in amusement.

“Come to think of it, he always says that. Like when he saved a city, said it was just a single sword swing.”

Even though it had been several swings.

“Exactly! You’ll never hear him say, ‘I saved you, now worship me.’ But when people adore him, he’s clearly thrilled and tries not to show it. Didn’t you notice?”

Rem snickered, chatting with those who agreed.

Ragna, meanwhile, spoke up.

“Was it necessary to come in from the side? Not the front?”

He had been on the front lines—so the question made sense.

Rem snorted.

“Someone implant a compass in that bastard’s skull already.”

Jaxon walked in silence, slightly apart from the others—too dignified to join their nonsense.

But in this situation, someone calmly walking with perfect spacing didn’t seem all that ordinary either.

Pell, Rophod, and Teresa—formerly aloof—had adjusted well after years with the Border Guard.

“Hey, how about a duel to mark our arrival?”

Rophod challenged Pell.

“Let this lady join in,” Teresa added.

“You can’t match me with your level of talent,” Pell replied.

Rophod scoffed. This guy had been training so hard that even his tongue sweated—and still spouted nonsense about lacking talent.

Everyone saw him as the hardest-working knight in the Border Guard. Everyone but him.

“I’m incredibly gifted,” he’d insist.

And so, the Mad Knights strode through the monastery—and everyone inside saw and heard them.

They hadn’t eaten in two days.

Everyone had eyes, ears, and thoughts—and the logical conclusion had been we’re all going to die.

Hope was long gone. Many had even considered suicide—but their faith forbade it.

So they’d held on.

And now these strangers had arrived—so relaxed it was almost surreal.

One of the Cult-Slaying Order couldn’t take it anymore and asked:

“Who... are you people?”