A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

Will is understood. Not perfectly, perhaps, but to some extent it can be defined.

It is, one might say, an invisible force born of resolve.

So then—what is divine power? What is sorcery?

Even those accustomed to learning through physical means were by no means devoid of intellect. Especially here, among warriors who had surpassed certain thresholds in their own paths and reached levels of insight.

Naturally, they had thoughts on the matter.

“A good question,” Lua Gharne commented in agreement.

Audin responded with a soft smile and a question of his own.

“What do you think, brother commander?”

Enkrid considered several possible answers before settling on this one.

It wasn’t a question of divine utility or divine uniqueness—it went deeper.

“A power filled with contradiction. Incomprehensible. A force that begs the question—if gods exist, why do they not act themselves, and only lend their power instead?”

It ⊛ Nоvеlιght ⊛ (Read the full story) could’ve been the residue of those chaotic questions Myl had hurled before he died. Or it could’ve simply been something Enkrid had always wondered.

He hadn’t spent much time pondering the presence or absence of gods. But now, when asked to define divine power, what surfaced was a fundamentally existential question.

Can the existence of divine power be proof of the gods themselves?

Such musings carried the weight of theological doubt.

Not exactly the kind of question one should ask in a world ruled by faith.

Certainly not to someone who was, without question, a priest, paladin, or holy knight.

“Well, damn. That’s a spicy one,” said Rem, watching from the side.

Everyone glanced at Audin, half-expecting an outburst.

“That’s blasphemy, brother,” someone might have said, and justifiably so—but Audin did not.

A snowflake drifted down and quietly melted on his shoulder.

His face still held its usual mild smile—gentle, calm, and unfazed. He replied:

“We are the ones living on this land. It is not the role of the divine to clear the snow at our feet—we must clear our own path.”

Contrary to their worries, Audin didn’t take offense.

If Enkrid hadn’t said it—if it had come from Rem, or Ragna, or Jaxon—would Audin have felt insulted?

He wasn’t sure. Maybe he’d have taken it as mere provocation, not actual heresy. Because he could understand why those men would say such things.

That the words came from Enkrid, someone who typically acted before asking—only made it more natural. Audin understood him, deeply.

‘If he acts, if he leads, then it makes sense he would ask such questions.’

He was someone who didn’t blame the gods for not helping—but still demanded of them why they stayed silent.

Even if it was God.

Of course, if Enkrid said this sort of thing in the Holy Nation, they’d cry blasphemy. Some might even call for an inquisition.

‘Although, maybe not in this case...’

After all, if Enkrid had said it, people might be angry—but they wouldn’t be able to suppress him by force.

Overdeer wouldn’t allow that.

Enkrid had already known that from their travels together, but the way Overdeer had immediately stood by him made it clearer than ever.

‘He’s chosen this side now.’

A man like Overdeer wouldn’t brand Enkrid a heretic over one bold question.

Even setting Overdeer aside—Enkrid had Naurillia behind him. The king had always supported him.

Even if they tried to suppress him with might—his own power, not to mention the Mad Platoon, meant they lacked the means.

Enkrid wasn’t challenging anyone. He had asked a question out of sincere curiosity—and the answer made enough sense that he nodded in understanding.

“That’s true.”

“The hell are you two nodding like you’ve unlocked the secrets of the universe?” Rem said flatly.

“That’s also true.”

Enkrid nodded again, expression unreadable but strangely irritating.

“You’re mocking me now, aren’t you?”

“Sharp of you,” said Shinar, praising the barbarian’s awareness.

“You’re right,” Enkrid added, nodding again—this time prompting Rem to start unfastening his thermal coat as if preparing to throw down. Still, no one stopped the friendly sparring.

Audin smiled quietly.

‘Strange, isn’t it? I’m repeating the very words I learned from him.’

The answer he gave had been born from watching Enkrid. And now Enkrid had asked a question that led Audin to repeat that same lesson back.

He had once seen a man live with no remarkable talent, burning through each day with relentless will.

It had ended Audin’s wandering. Led him to where he was now.

His decision to break his seal, to forsake his place among the apostles of the War God—none of it he regretted.

All of it came from witnessing the way Enkrid lived.

“So why did you come back?” Rem asked, sounding like he needed someone to take it out on.

“Hmm.”

Audin looked up at the sky as if pondering deeply.

He could’ve returned to the Church after lifting his restrictions—but he had no intention of going back to serve the War God. He wasn’t so lost as to not know where he belonged.

“Afraid of punishment if you went back? That’s it, isn’t it?” Rem pushed again.

Audin nodded, replying in the same way Enkrid had earlier.

“That’s true too.”

“...Shit. You’re all crazy. Fine. Today we all die. Forget the squad—Mad Platoon is disbanded!”

“According to whom? Go back to the West then. Oh wait—you stayed behind because you don’t know the way, didn’t you? Shall I guide you? Out of mercy, I’ll walk you as far as the horizon,” Ragna cut in.

That shut Rem up—for now.

Naturally, it was time for another spar.

Enkrid was the first to hop off Odd-Eye, excited.

“Bring it on, gray-hair.”

“Too tired to even taunt properly now?”

Correct.

Jaxon, who had been watching snowflakes fall, went off to gather dry branches.

Rophod and Pell began setting up camp.

“Entertaining,” Lua Gharne said as she sat down nearby, joined by Shinar.

“Watching your sweaty fiancé is always a delight,” she said.

Everyone was chaotic in their own way—but it caused no harm. In fact, it brought joy.

After sparring and dinner, the philosophical question Enkrid had asked earlier returned—now no longer existential, but practical.

“Divine power is a force granted by God for us to live and protect ourselves on this earth. It differs from Will,” Audin explained.

His explanation carried a bit of theological preaching, but everyone listened intently.

Rophod, Pell, and Teresa especially had much to learn.

Later, Enkrid turned to Rem to ask about sorcery.

“What’s different about sorcery?”

“It’s easier to visualize power in sorcery—but that’s something Will can do too, right?” Rophod asked.

“That’s not the only difference,” Rem replied calmly, not snapping.

They weren’t dumping all this at once—everyone added bits while doing their tasks.

Jaxon brought back branches. Esther lit the fire with a snap of her fingers.

Rophod and Pell expertly set a pot to boil and heated stones.

With jerky, grain powder, and water, a field meal came together quickly.

Rem had even hunted three rabbits, which he cooked himself.

“I brought some good wine,” Audin said, pulling out bottles from his pack.

They all took out tin or wooden cups and poured.

Enkrid took a sip and nodded in appreciation—it was fine wine indeed.

Lua Gharne ate dried grasshoppers. Shinar nibbled dried fruits.

They all drank soup made with the grain mix.

Even Frokk didn’t eat only bugs—he just enjoyed them when he could. He’d once said:

“Would you eat a cow raw and still alive, without bleeding it first?”

That was his response when asked why he didn’t eat live flies. Some things are better cooked.

Frokk had preferences—certain herbs he loved, for instance.

Amidst this casual bustle, Enkrid, Audin, and Esther sat in the center—drawing the others into their circle.

“So divine power is stable, you’re saying?” Rophod asked, sipping wine and pouring more.

Snow was falling heavier now, but they had found a shallow cave and pitched a makeshift tarp shelter outside it. It wasn’t cramped, and they were shielded from the weather.

After dinner, seated around a crackling fire with wine in hand, their conversation turned to divine power, sorcery, and Will.

They disagreed, but no one got angry.

Everyone here had carved their own path. Even when they teased, it was never mean-spirited.

Enkrid sat among passionate souls, watching the flames and the falling snow.

‘This is fun.’

A tightrope between joy and contentment.

Enkrid, who often skipped sleep because he loved refining his technique, couldn’t help but enjoy moments like this.

Not just the thrill of growth, but the openness—the camaraderie.

He remembered imagining this as a child.

After becoming a knight, he had pictured gatherings with others like him—discussing techniques, sharing weaknesses, helping each other grow.

They weren’t quite sharing weaknesses here, but the feeling was similar.

He was thoroughly enjoying it.

And he was learning a lot.

Enkrid committed each insight to memory. That was his strength.

One takeaway:

Will can exhaust you. Divine power does not.

“You’ll still get tired if you push it—but it’s not your will that weakens. Rather, it’s that your vessel can no longer hold the divine strength. You may be unable to use it for days afterward,” Audin explained.

Sorcery was different too.

“With sorcery, if you mess up, it’s not just fatigue. At worst—you get possessed.”

“Possessed?” Enkrid asked.

“Think of it as being taken over by a being that’s not the kind of god the glowing lump over there believes in. It’s not the same as being haunted—but close.”

“What’s the difference?” Pell asked.

As a shepherd from the wilds, he had experience dealing with spirits—naturally, he was curious.

“You don’t obey a spirit like a ghost. You follow a primal instinct or obsession. It’s hard to explain. Just know it happens. And people possessed by sorcery become way more dangerous.”

Enkrid didn’t fully grasp it either—but having lived in the West, he’d seen enough of grimers and spirit channelers to understand the gist.

“If it’s a gentle spirit, like a bear guardian, you might just eat some wild honey and get a stomachache. But if it’s not, it can get real bad.”

Will leads to fatigue. Sorcery risks loss of self.

But rarely does one lose the power entirely. In fact, sometimes it even increases—though no one in their right mind would gamble for it.

Compared to that, divine power was remarkably stable.

But that wasn’t always a good thing.

“It’s hard to unleash it explosively. You’d need innate talent for that. Think of divine power as a long, sturdy rope.”

“Sorcery, though—you can push out far more than your usual strength. That’s probably the biggest difference. But there’s always a cost,” Rem added.

Sorcery used catalysts to amplify power. Divine power was durability. Sorcery was volatility—bursting in short bursts of brilliance.

As for Will—how did it differ?

Ragna provided that answer.

“Will is entirely shaped by the user. It changes color with each person.”

As he said that, he glanced at Jaxon—as if to highlight how different their styles were.

Divine power and sorcery had forms of standardization.

But Will was different. It came in a hundred colors for a hundred warriors.

Perhaps that was why the fundamentals—like Future Sight or Endure—existed.

Only once one reached a certain level could individuality even be discussed.

Through all this, Enkrid wasn’t just enjoying himself.

He was awakening to ideas he already held—confirming them, deepening them.

And then—

“The source is the same.”

The voice of a mage added one final piece.

And Enkrid found his perspective expanded once more.