A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

When the nameless crusader asked his question, Rophod, hearing it, spared him a brief glance—then courteously stepped aside for the leopard passing by his side and turned to show the crest stitched onto his cloak to the crusader.

A single, uneven line—it symbolized a wall, a barrier of iron.

”You recognize this?”

He asked while presenting it. It was hard not to recognize. Ask anyone who’d shaken the continent recently, and this name would come up. Rophod and his group didn’t live hidden away in the mountains, nor did they ignore the world by dealing solely with cultists. Even so, it was difficult to overlook what they represented.

“Border Guard?”

The warrior from the Order of the Cult-Slaying Priests blinked and replied, his expression one of clear surprise. He was correct—it was indeed the symbol of the Border Guard. But there was one more symbol on Rophod’s cloak. One that represented Enkrid.

Rophod lifted the cloak again and showed it.

A pitch-black emblem crossed by a single slashing line. It meant cutting through the Demon Realm. It was the insignia of the Mad Knight Order.

A noble from Naurillia had once seen that emblem and asked, “Does this mean you just cut down anyone who bothers you?”

“Do you know this one too? It’s the only knight order under the Border Guard.”

Rophod added. They’d been taking on more missions outside lately and had become quite influential. But technically, Rophod was standing outside the Border Guard’s territory right now.

He mentioned it thinking the crusader might not know.

“Mad Knight Order?”

The reply came immediately. Originally called the Mad Ones, people had taken to calling them the Order of Madness instead. Well, it meant the same either way.

In some places, they were even called the Ironwall Knights. Rophod had experienced that firsthand.

“Yes, I’m Squire Rophod.”

He revealed his identity. Though his actual strength rivaled that of a knight, Rophod remained a squire.

The title of knight once stemmed from noble rank, but now it signified those capable of wielding Will—the essence of true martial power.

The status of quasi-knight held similar symbolic meaning, but Rophod didn’t care much about all that. That didn’t mean he lacked pride or a sense of belonging—he simply saw no need for a title beyond Squire of the Mad Knight Order.

Even if his captain, Enkrid, called him a knight, Rophod would remain a squire until he accepted it himself.

In that sense, madness clearly lived in Rophod too.

And so, introducing himself that way, Rophod figured it was only right to introduce the person beside him in kind. He held out a hand in that direction and said:

“This is Guest Soldier Pell.”

Technically, there was no such thing as a mere soldier in the Order—but whatever. As far as Rophod was concerned, that’s what Pell was.

Without a hint of humor, Pell shot back.

“Is a squire beneath a soldier?”

“Maybe out in the backwater wastes you come from. Not on the # Nоvеlight # continent, soldier.”

“Huh? A squire talking back to me?”

As they began bickering, the towering half-giant with a kind smile spoke up, chuckling.

“They don’t just go around cutting or maiming people. You can relax, brother.”

Though her immense size drew the eye first, on closer look, she was an astonishingly beautiful woman. Not that anyone was paying attention to things like that right now.

“Ah...”

The nameless crusader’s mouth hung open. Words failed him.

The Mad Knight Order?

They were the most talked-about force on the continent right now. Why were they here? What were they expecting to gain?

People always moved for profit. Even if he himself, nameless as he was, didn’t... expecting otherwise from others was naive.

So of course he was filled with questions.

And he wasn’t the only one.

Everyone must’ve been wondering the same thing: Why are they here?

Getting involved in this conflict meant stepping directly into the Holy Nation’s civil war.

Outside, people were already shouting that Noah’s monastery was a den of demons, claiming they’d received divine revelation.

Even if no one believed it, when the one making such a claim held power, a small monastery had no hope of resisting.

Sure, they might survive with help—but if things went wrong, they’d be branded as servants of the devil.

Even if they made it through the battle, they’d carry that stigma forever.

Knowing all this, he’d still come to the monastery, prepared to die.

“Before the Cult-Slaying, I thought about what I wanted to do. What came to me was simple: pray for those who suffer unfairly.”

That’s what the nameless crusader had said when he left the Order and stayed behind.

He still prayed under the moon each night, trying to steel himself.

It was never easy to walk into death.

Which made what he saw now all the more jarring.

Why were they so calm?

They had strolled in without hesitation. Wandered the city without a care. He couldn’t understand it.

They bickered. They hummed tunes. The gray-haired barbarian whined about the cold. Another asked where the front gate was—despite having climbed over it himself.

One of them, walking beside a leopard and wearing the same cloak, made a point of staying separate, as if it didn’t matter.

Watching it all, he felt something indescribable.

Why was he so stunned?

Because none of them showed the slightest sense of danger.

And that made his own resolve feel small. That’s what threw him.

***

“It’s been two days since we last ate,”

Noah said as he brewed tea with his frail hands. Enkrid accepted the cup and drank.

Thanks to Marcus, Enkrid had experienced real quality tea before. This wasn’t it.

Just hearing they hadn’t eaten in two days told him enough about the monastery’s condition.

Still, to bring out tea at all—it meant something.

Marcus had once said:

“Expensive tea doesn’t make it good. What matters is who’s sitting across from you. What time it is. Drink tea with someone you hate, and it’ll taste like piss, no matter the price.”

That was what Marcus said whenever he had to drink tea with his father. He hated those visits.

Enkrid remembered that, and he thought now: this tea isn’t so bad.

It had a bitter edge, and the floral scent clung to the mouth just enough. It was a rough blend, dry and unrefined—but that didn’t ruin the taste.

“We’re grateful you came, but I think you should understand the situation,”

Noah said again. He was serious. Sincere.

On the way here, Enkrid had expected this. Most people would bow, thank him, and beg for their lives.

Even lie or make promises they couldn’t keep. At the very least, ask for mercy for themselves or a few others.

But sometimes you met people who didn’t fit into easy measures.

Noah’s lips, cracked and dry, opened again. Red showed in the split flesh. One small movement might split them further.

“We’ve already been marked as sacrifices. If you stay, you’ll be treated the same—as devilspawn. By those outside worshiping the Gray, and even by some in the Holy Nation.”

So many lunatics in this world, Enkrid thought.

Worrying about others in this situation?

But that was Noah.

He’d already lost an eye and an ear. It could have ended in death—and not a quick one. Yet he’d still rescued Seiki.

“Now that I think about it, Uncle Noah might be a little messed up in the head,”

Seiki had once said.

“I used him, sure, but still.”

Right now, Noah was saying: This is dangerous. You might regret it.

Enkrid believed this man belonged among the mad.

Noah went on, and Enkrid listened in silence, sipping hot tea.

“If it’s at all possible... could you at least save the children? The monks and I have chosen to stay. Yes, I suppose this is the price for my past sins.”

He smiled, genuinely. Because maybe—just maybe—a few children could be saved.

Could a smile like that really exist?

Asking to save the children while knowing death was coming. And smiling as he did.

Enkrid stared at him.

After all that torture, his eyes should’ve been dull and lifeless—but they weren’t.

He had one eye left, and in that hollow space, light still shone like starlight.

A mere monastery. A few dozen lives.

People might say it wasn’t worth it.

But what wasn’t worth it?

To rescue someone who truly embodied what a saint should be?

“Don’t abandon your neighbor just because you’re poor.”

“Don’t shove others aside to grab fallen fruit.”

If anyone followed every single teaching from the scriptures, weren’t they worthy of being called a saint?

“Let’s be friends,”

Enkrid said.

“...Pardon?”

“Let’s drop the formalities. From today on—we’re friends.”

He set down the teacup, brushing dust from his black hair. Flecks floated in the light filtering through the window, and to Noah, it looked like stars in the night sky.

It felt like seeing a glow.

Enkrid looked at Noah as if seeing light.

And Noah... saw it too.

Why had this man come?

There’d be no real answer. Because the reason was too simple.

He came to save people.

If the ferryman saw this, he’d probably sigh and say, ”Off to save tomorrow again, are we?”

Not wrong.

In Enkrid’s eyes, Noah was right and good—a necessary person in this world. That was all there was to it.

Even if it was on a whim, he had no regrets.

“Friends,”

Enkrid said again.

Noah, likely older than him, blinked at the unexpected declaration. Then he folded his hands over his knees and smiled.

“Yes, let’s be friends.”

Was it just a comforting gesture?

Even so—it made him happy.

And once again, as had happened before, the hero spoke on behalf of the divine.

The one who bore the light opened his mouth.

“Then this fight is now to protect a friend. I’ve got my cause.”

He could be branded a demon.

So what?

He could be rejected by the Holy Nation and the followers of the Gray God.

The army gathered at their doorstep was a real threat.

But he already knew all that.

“And you’re still going to fight?”

someone would ask.

“Exactly why I have to,”

Enkrid thought, rising to his feet.

They hadn’t eaten in two days. He wouldn’t let that continue.

There were children here—one who’d nearly been exploited as a saint, and others who weren’t. Too many, honestly, for such a poor monastery.

Noah hadn’t turned away any of them.

Among them were those who’d sacrificed themselves for Seiki. Others who’d been bystanders but had finally changed their hearts.

Thankfully, any potential traitors had already been dealt with—”wore their shoes backwards and died,” as the saying went.

“Ah—Seiki says hi,”

Enkrid said before stepping outside.

She’d told him:

“Would I help if I came? Probably just get in the way. I’ll join when I’m stronger. Take care. Say hi to Uncle Noah for me.”

What a blunt little brat.

But her words held one unspoken truth: If you go, it won’t fail.

That trust pushed Enkrid forward. A push that felt good.

Even Kraiss hadn’t expressed worry as he left. That was a first.

Enkrid was filled with the desire to repay that trust.

He wanted to bring the same relief he saw in their eyes to Noah’s face now.