A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

Originally, in the Valen-style mercenary swordsmanship, this technique was about kneeling on one knee without drawing your sword and calmly watching your opponent—pretending to be composed.

The key was always the eyes and hand position.

You were never supposed to grip your sword; just let your hand hang loosely at your side.

When Enkrid first learned this, he had thought: If deception goes this deep, then the creator must have been obsessively sincere about it. He’d admired that dedication. But now, he had a different thought.

Valen-style mercenary swordplay was, from the start, built upon Will.

“If you have Will, you can go beyond deception—you can dominate.”

A more evolved form of intimidation, perhaps.

Enkrid interpreted it his own way and named it False Slash.

You didn’t really need a name. You were supposed to just use it without labeling it. He knew that. Rem had taught him, others had said the same, and he’d come to realize it himself. But he still struggled to make things come naturally. So instead, he gave techniques names and shaped them in his mind.

You can’t walk without standing up. No one can leap from a sitting position. So for him, naming a technique was the first step toward standing.

”Shinar’s energy blade helped.”

Spiritual energy formed an invisible blade. He had experienced it countless times, and so naturally reached this point. This too, was a gift from Shinar.

It resembled the thread-web of Acker, the sword of pure swordsmanship, but the density this time was different. He also had to pour a considerable amount of Will into it.

His left foot pressed into the ground, energy building as if he were about to lunge forward. Enkrid’s right hand, hanging loosely, swung twice in front and behind him. That was how he drew out his Will—not to form a shield, but a blade. A blade that couldn’t be seen, didn’t exist, and wouldn’t leave a scratch even if it hit you— That was the False Slash that fell toward Pell.

“You bastard!”

Pell drew Idol Slayer, swinging it instinctively. That was the sword they had agreed not to use during sparring. But his strike carved through nothing but air.

***

“What the hell was that?”

Even just standing and staring at Enkrid had Pell sweating cold from his brow and spine. He’d seen it. Enkrid charging him, sword raised to split his skull. His body—suddenly magnified several times.

So naturally, Pell had swung his sword in response.

But nothing had happened.

And it wasn’t just Pell. If Enkrid had really swung a blade, it would’ve been wild and sweeping—big enough to endanger anyone nearby. Lua Gharne, standing nearby, had reacted too. Before he knew it, she had drawn her whip and sword and taken up a defensive stance.

“Valen-style mercenary swordsmanship. A reinterpretation of intimidation without a sword. False Slash.”

Enkrid gave the explanation politely. Though the process he’d gone through was condensed into just a line.

“What the hell does that even mean?”

Pell was uncharacteristically agitated. Even if it had been fake, he’d just experienced something like death. It hadn’t really happened, but he clearly felt his head split open, even felt something like pain. Of course he was shaken.

“Calm down.”

Enkrid met his eyes. Calmness was the starting point. If your mind wavers, your body will too. This sparring match had begun for Pell’s sake.

Of course, Enkrid also aimed to polish his own technique. He was learning from Pell too.

Gap exploitation? Weak point detection? It was part of understanding Pell’s unique combat talent and absorbing it.

After all, nothing ever comes with only one benefit.

“What?”

“I said: calm down and just watch. You didn’t really die, did you?”

To Pell, Enkrid sounded like someone who’d died many, many times.

“It felt like I did! Like I died and came back!”

The veins on Pell’s forehead bulged. Enkrid realized in that moment that his own experiences of dying and reviving were what had fed into the technique.

It was only natural for one’s experiences to be embedded into their swordsmanship.

“So it became a sword that shows death to the opponent.”

He’d died so many different ways—it wasn’t hard to etch that into his Will and project it outward.

Enkrid explained further. And then resumed the sparring.

“Again?”

Pell grumbled, but assumed his stance.

It was rare. A technique evolved from mere intimidation into something else entirely. It was fascinating. Even if experiencing death was unsettling.

Enkrid killed Pell two more times. Even knowing the structure, Pell couldn’t find a way to stop it.

Ironically, it was Lua Gharne who found a solution first. She reoriented her thinking: If the heart isn’t split, you don’t die. So she started intentionally giving up limbs instead—mentally escaping the pressure.

“Wouldn’t work so easily on Frokk.”

That night, after the second day ended, Enkrid fell asleep and saw the Ferryman.

The Ferryman said nothing at first, simply staring. Then he spoke a single sentence:

“I saw.”

“Saw what?”

“Your future.”

Enkrid wasn’t trying to joke, but a reflexive bit of nonsense slipped out:

“Son or daughter?”

“You thinking of having children now? Planning to take a wife and settle down someday?”

“No. Just making a joke since you said you saw my future.”

Without Shinar, he’d ended up delivering fairy-style humor himself. Maybe that meant he really should find Shinar again soon.

“You’re a tough one to break. Fine, I’ll show you.”

The Ferryman raised the hand without the lamp.

“This one feels different from the last Ferryman.”

That was the impression. He opened his palm, and a black hole bloomed inside his gray skin. It rapidly expanded—swallowing Enkrid in a shroud of darkness.

Only blackness remained.

Then the Ferryman’s voice came, though more accurately, it was meaning, transmitted through Will.

“Within the dark tunnel, you will meet an unmovable wall.”

Enkrid focused his eyes. There was something beyond the dark. The longer he stared, the more its form came into view.

Though it had no face or scent, Enkrid recognized the silhouette. It was far too familiar to pretend otherwise.

“That will be your wall.”

The Ferryman’s words were like a curse.

“I see.”

But curses often relied on how deeply they unsettled the recipient. And Enkrid... was unfazed.

Most would have been rattled. That was part of a curse’s power: to shake your soul. But Enkrid remained calm, simply pondering.

The figure was a woman. A silhouette he knew too well. No need to wonder. It was Shinar. The one he was always trying to reach.

Enkrid had spoken with many Ferrymen over time. Few had ever explained things directly. So he’d gotten good at gleaning clues from short exchanges.

“Not ‘she,’ but ‘that.’”

The Ferryman hadn’t said she was the wall. He’d said that was the wall. It wasn’t a slip. Meaning—Shinar wasn’t the wall.

Enkrid immediately woke.

And the Ferryman who had shown him out fell into silence.

“Who the hell forged him into that?”

He mumbled.

“I poured a curse on him and he didn’t even flinch. Why’s he so good at catching my slip-ups?”

The Ferryman had read a part of Enkrid’s inner thoughts—and was annoyed he’d noticed the difference between that and she.

All the Ferrymen who’d met Enkrid before fell silent. They’d once gleefully tormented him—but they had forged this Enkrid.

“We made a damn snake.”

The Ferryman sighed.

***

Enkrid? He didn’t care about walls or last night’s dream. Worrying about what the Ferryman said would only distract him. And even knowing there was a wall—what difference did it make? He wasn’t turning back. Not an inch.

So on the third day, he kept walking «N.o.v.e.l.i.g.h.t» south along a familiar path. He passed through a small forest, then a stretch of piled rocks, when he heard snoring in the distance.

“Some crazy bastard’s sleeping right on the road,” Pell muttered.

Lua Gharne tilted her head.

Whoever it was, Enkrid just kept walking. Eventually, they saw a creature dozing with its back against a massive boulder.

Its size broke the rules of perspective.

A bipedal beast—one of the species known as a Beast of Red Blood.

A giant.

As Enkrid approached, the creature’s snoring paused. It twitched its nose and slowly opened its eyes.

Eyes—bright blue. Its tangled hair was greasy and matted, suggesting it hadn’t been near water for at least two weeks. It reeked.

Bone fragments and scraps of leather littered the ground nearby.

“Hrk.”

The giant burped. Even from where Enkrid stood, the stench hit him.

Even sitting, the giant was taller than Enkrid. Naturally, Enkrid’s gaze tilted upward.

Their eyes met. And in a flat, joyless tone, the giant spoke:

“Blue eyes.”

The voice rumbled like a low tremor, radiating outward from its enormous frame. Pell grimaced at the stench.

Enkrid wasn’t the only one who caught it.

“You’re blue too,” Enkrid replied. Flat tone matched with flat tone.

“Yeah. I know. Up I go.”

The giant stood up from the boulder. The rock slid back with a loud scrape—testament to the sheer weight of the creature.

Giant folk didn’t float. If they fell into water, they just sank—straight down. If Frokk feared his heart giving out, giants feared deep water. They could wash and drink fine, but still waters—lakes, not streams—made them uneasy.

But here, there was no water. So the giant exuded a leisurely air.

Showing off his blackened teeth, he asked:

“Name?”

“Why do you want to know?” Pell interjected.

The giant looked at Pell.

“Wait your turn. You’re after him.”

He pointed to Enkrid.

“After him for what?”

“To kill. You’re next.”

“Who are you killing?”

Lua Gharne stepped in.

The giant smiled again.

“You’re Enkrid, right?”

Enkrid kept his calm.

“Didn’t expect to be welcomed on the roadside. Do we know each other? Or did someone send you? Maybe a man in a black hood carrying a lamp?”

The giant chuckled.

“You should’ve kept a lower profile.”

“So no referral. Then how did you know I’d be here? That’s what I’m curious about.”

Still unfazed, Enkrid volleyed his own question.

“Keep that up, and you’ll meet assassins. Or, if you’re really unlucky—me.”

They each just kept talking. Eventually, Enkrid cut in.

“You old?”

“Very.”

“How old?”

“Over a hundred.”

“That’s it?”

“You little human—”

“I know a woman over four hundred.”

So what?

The conversation was senseless. Just empty words thrown around.

Still, something about it irritated the giant. Was this brat fearless, or relying on something? Maybe Frokk? But Frokk wasn’t exactly a threat.

All of it—itched. The tone, the attitude, the way this prey spoke—

The giant was thoroughly annoyed.

“You won’t die pretty. I’ll chew you alive.”

“I’ll make sure you die clean. Where should I send your wrapped-up head?”

“GRRAAAAGH!”

The giant howled into the sky. A sound that could freeze most people solid.

It was like a Howl—

A fear-inducing sound some monsters use, powered by Will.

Enkrid naturally triggered Rejection Will, and shrugged it off.

Pell exhaled sharply and stepped back. Lua Gharne retreated two steps, then leapt farther away.

From that howl alone, it was clear: This giant was at knight-level.

Enkrid already knew. Even before the howl, his instincts flared just by the giant’s posture.

His hand gripped the hilt of True Silver, and the giant spoke again.

“Say it again.”

“Wrapping. Where. A clean death.”

Enkrid mocked the giant just like he would mock Rem.

The giant didn’t like it. Didn’t like that his howl didn’t faze Enkrid. Didn’t like the way he talked.

“I am Hatun! Apostle of the Demon Sanctuary Church!”

As he shouted, the giant reached behind the boulder—he’d hidden his weapon there.

It looked like a whip—

But it was no whip.

It was a massive iron chain.

WHOOM!

It ripped through the air, crashing down on where Enkrid had just stood.

BOOM!

Dirt and rock exploded upward. The force was so great, even embedded stones were dislodged and hurled.

Calling those fragments “rocks” would be like calling the sun a firefly.

THUD!

Pell knocked away a flying chunk of stone with his sword. It hit the ground with a heavy thunk.