A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

From the perspective of the Gray Holy Army, it was as if some lunatics had suddenly broken through the middle of their formation. They even saw them casually strolling into the monastery, and in the chaos, four paladins had been killed. It was a clean hit. And that one strike—became the signal that ignited the battle.

Coming at them instead of waiting to be judged?

Myl squinted to see what kind of mad bastards had come. He caught sight of them loitering inside the monastery. The monastery was nestled in a basin atop a sloping path, and its gate sat high on that incline. From below, you could see inside. There was a wooden palisade and a bramble wall set up before it, but that wasn’t enough to block the entire view. Anyone who stepped forward could be seen. Likewise, those inside the monastery could also see out.

Myl saw the one standing at the center of the enemy’s formation. No helmet. Black hair. The man made no effort to hide himself—nor did he seem to have any intention of doing so. That alone rubbed Myl the wrong way. Simply put, he didn’t like the sight of the bastard just standing there. He wasn’t close enough to see the man’s eyes, but there was something lazy in his posture. Arrogant, even. Was he feigning composure? What a joke.

Myl had fully registered that four paladins had been killed and that their formation had been broken. He acknowledged their strength—sure, anyone who could take down paladins had skill. But that didn’t mean the situation had changed. Surely they had thrown everything into killing those four. Myl assumed the balance of power still favored their side. That assumption, of course, was a mistake.

“Let’s end this,” Myl declared. Truthfully, all it took was a word. What strength did that monastery have to stop an army, anyway? It began with the holy priests—those who specialized in battle magic. They invoked their divinity, gathering pale gray light to shape their spells.

“The hour of punishment is upon us.”

Myl added the line with false gravitas. When you aimed to become pope, appearances mattered. How very fitting for a priest tainted by the secular world.

***

“Gray Burst Spell!”

A mass of gray light, sprouting four long wings on each side, was about to launch forward like a projectile. The nameless paladin recognized the spell and flinched—but the others around him didn’t so much as twitch.

“Everyone, take cover!”

He shouted, but no one moved. Instead—

He turned his head and saw someone standing beside him. Someone who hadn’t been there a moment ago.

’Wait—when did she get here?’

A woman with black hair. A beauty so striking you could never forget her after one glance. The paladin, stunned by both the spell and her sudden appearance, could barely react.

The woman stretched out her arms. Her fingers moved in the air as if playing invisible keys. It was like she was standing before an organ, conducting a silent performance. The air vibrated.

Then—

Puh-puh-puh-BOOM!

The gray dragonflies, which should have homed in on living targets and exploded, all burst against the monastery wall instead. The woman spoke without a trace of a smile.

“Crude.”

Esther had taken human form, opened her magical realm, and activated her spiritual sight. She saw the enemy’s spell for what it was. Intuition—a gift given only to those born with talent—told her exactly what the enemy had done.

‘They mixed sorcery with divine magic.’

That so-called divinity they relied on was actually corrupted divinity, forming the core of the Gray God’s spellwork. Esther unraveled it instantly. Intuition led to answers. And with answers came solutions.

She simply imbued a formless power spell with vital energy, and detonated the explosion spell in reverse.

Suddenly, more gray projectiles—known as holy burst orbs—hurtled in from where the enemy soldiers had gathered.

Dudududududung!

Had this been someone else’s fight, it might’ve been a spectacle. Each lump of gray light, larger than a man’s head, streaked through the air.

“Hmph.”

Wind Wall of Drmüller.

Esther murmured. It was a borrowed spell. The magic she had condensed within her magical realm burst forth, forming a wind barrier at her command.

Tudududududung!

The nameless paladin heard a racket like iron balls hammering a wall. It was the sound of holy burst orbs slamming into the formless barrier in midair. With sharp cracks and booms, the orbs shattered and dispersed.

Then the Gray God’s priests began chanting in earnest:

“O Lord, strike down our enemies with divine thunder!”

“Smash them with the hammer of reconciliation!”

“Scorch them, burn them, show them their sins!”

Bolts of gray lightning shot toward them. Massive gray hammers, each the size of a grown man’s torso, flew as well.

The paladin judged this to be the work of seasoned priests—definitely not novices. Then came a flame-like gray orb, rippling as it flew. Another high-level spell. Desperate, he cried out again.

“Get down—!”

But he didn’t finish his sentence. To the untrained eye, these were threatening spells. But to Esther, they were full of openings.

Before ❖ Nоvеl𝚒ght ❖ (Exclusive on Nоvеl𝚒ght) the paladin’s sentence even ended, Esther whispered another incantation.

“Drmüller’s Scythe. Del Grecher’s Sneeze. Bonhead—let loose.”

Three spells were all she needed. She expelled the mana from her magical realm. A gust took scythe form and cleaved the thunderbolt.

KWAAANG! KUUUUU!

Spell met spell. The resulting vortex of force cancelled the lightning, leaving behind only a faint birdlike shriek. A flurry of snow followed. The cold condensed into a single mass, extinguishing the flame orb and shattering the massive hammer.

And that wasn’t the end. A flesh golem had appeared.

Bonhead.

It spun its arms in front of the Gray Paladin division.

CRACK! SMACK! CLANG!

It held no weapons, but Esther had watched Enkrid’s spars and training closely. She had absorbed martial knowledge.

And what is a mage, if not someone who uses their accumulated knowledge?

Because of this, Bonhead now moved in ways that no previous flesh golem could match. Where most were lumbering meat shields, Bonhead was different.

He grabbed a soldier’s spear, kicked another in the stomach, then  swung the shaft sideways to bash a third one’s shield. His strength, speed, and technique were more than decent. He didn’t feel pain, and he didn’t die easily. That alone made him a nightmare to face.

Even the holy spell Turn Undead had no effect.

It was part of the exorcism category, but not permitted to those wielding Gray Light. One priest who could use White Light tried to cast it—but failed.

Dead things were supposed to return to the dead. But Bonhead wasn’t powered by lingering life—it was raw mana.

Unless the mana supply was cut off, no purification spell would work.

“Stop it!”

“How dare you!”

“Crush it!”

When spells failed, physical violence was the next option. They stabbed and hacked and pummeled Bonhead in an effort to bring him down.

More gray bolts flew, but none of them were creative or clever. Just repeated effort.

Esther stood alone and blocked every last spell cast by the dozens of enemy priests.

“She’s blocking... all of this?”

The paladin muttered, stunned. But this was only the beginning.

While Esther held off the spells and Bonhead drew attention—someone standing silently beside Enkrid vanished.

In broad daylight, he sought shadows. He slipped over the wall without anyone noticing.

Then, he began identifying the enemy priests casting spells—and started killing them one by one.

Thuck. Stab.

The enemy realized something was wrong only after a priest named Noma, Myl’s prized disciple, was found dead.

Noma had been the second-best caster after Myl himself.

“Noma has been killed!”

Someone shouted.

“What?”

“How?”

A paladin escort panicked.

The one who spread the news was Jaxon. He altered his voice to shout that Noma was dead—drawing everyone’s attention to him.

If you couldn’t hide your work, then make sure everyone looked at it when you wanted. It was a technique—create confusion, and use that to escape.

While everyone stared at Noma’s body, Jaxon moved again. Another priest fell, throat slit from behind.

Cutting beneath the larynx meant no scream could escape. Just a faint wheeze—quickly drowned in a wash of blood.

The next priest was stabbed through the back into the lungs. Without air pressure, he couldn’t even cry out.

Two died in silence. A third was preparing a high-tier spell when Jaxon embedded a Silence Knife in his neck.

Fsshhh.

The divine power he’d gathered scattered like dust.

“Urk.”

A few priests who had been transferring divinity choked and vomited blood from the backlash.

Finally, one paladin caught sight of Jaxon.

“There!”

Some among the Gray Holy Army had skill. A few leapt in with deadly intent.

But that only worked on someone who could be caught.

The paladin had raised his hand to point—but Jaxon was already gone.

He had vanished just before the shout, leaving only an empty spot behind.

Now, among the soldiers, Jaxon feigned shock.

“What’s going on?” he muttered, eyes wide, as he quietly slipped away from the battlefield.

A nearby soldier with thin eyebrows dumbly asked:

“Hey, where you going?”

“Nature calls.”

Jaxon answered casually. The soldier stammered in confusion but nodded.

‘Huh. Yeah. Could happen.’

Before the soldier could say anything else, Jaxon tapped the ground and picked up speed.

Shockingly, many of the enemy’s elite priests had been taken out just like that. Noma and several divine casters—gone.

The Gray Holy Army’s morale rippled.

What the hell is happening? Who’s doing this? Why can’t we see them?

People fear what they can’t see more than what they can. Jaxon knew that. He counted on it.

If you wanted to hold back an army with a handful of people, psychological warfare was essential. He’d done it many times before.

But the enemy reacted faster than expected.

“This is the work of evil spirits!”

Myl cried. He had recognized Noma’s death and made a snap decision: label the enemy as servants of demons. It was a smart move.

“Damn devilspawn!”

Those who had followed blindly were convinced. Those who knew the monastery had nothing to do with demons nodded along. Even the few with lingering consciences took comfort in the narrative.

So what if it wasn’t true? Even if someone questioned it later, they could just say—

“At the time, it was the only logical conclusion.”

And throughout it all, Enkrid remained still, quietly watching.

***

“A lot of interesting bastards here.”

Among the followers of the Gray God were some particularly confident in their strength. They had not yet been granted the title of Holy Knight, but their skills were on par—or beyond. They were hidden weapons of the Holy Nation.

The last few decades couldn’t exactly be called peaceful, but most major military powers had kept a portion of their strength hidden away.

Just as Azpen had done, so had others. The Holy Nation was no exception.

Seen from a continental perspective, Enkrid’s Mad Knight Order was dragging these hidden forces out into the open one by one.

“My spear.”

One of them raised his weapon—a barbed glaive surrounded by chilling air. It was a magic weapon infused with freezing spells—his personal signature armament.

Though his name was unknown, he had already reached the threshold of knighthood. He understood divine power.

“Hmm. Good. Excellent.”

Beside him, a knight called Azratik muttered while winding a long ribbon around his wrist.

Still, neither of them moved first. The army would begin. The wave had started. Step by step, the soldiers began to march.

It was just then, as the army began to roll forward like a swelling tide—

“Almost missed it.”

A new ally arrived at the monastery.

“Captain Brother.”

It was Audin Pumray, a member of the Mad Knight Order, his frame like that of a bear.

“Oh? You made it?”

Rem greeted him first—but, naturally, without warmth.

It was the kind of greeting you gave someone who was always expected to return.

“Yeah. Took a long enough break.”

Audin answered in the same flat tone. No reason to make a fuss. He was simply back, as expected.

Everyone felt the same.

Enkrid gave him a simple nod and said,

“Rophod, Pell, Teresa—go out and block them.”

That was their answer to the ripples of enemy troops pressing forward.