A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

“Stay still.”

After carving the Onekiller to pieces, Enkrid lowered his sword, steadied his breath with a few slow exhales, and spoke.

Everyone around him held even their breathing in response. Honestly, even if he hadn’t said a word, none of them would’ve known what to say anyway.

After speaking, Enkrid turned his gaze inward for a moment.

His limbs trembled under pressure. His entire musculature screamed in fatigue.

Even though he had dedicated everything to maintenance—

It hurts.

It was inevitable. The fatigue weighing on his entire body was simply the price of such a battle.

And only now did he understand the parts of Oara’s battle that had slipped by him before. He fully grasped everything that had once passed by like a dream. His heart thudded with joy and a surge of satisfaction.

The Wave-Stopping Sword.

It wasn’t just a technique. It was a completed sword style—meaning, application, and discipline all refined into one form.

He couldn’t help but feel as though he had stepped into a new world.

A few stray thoughts, some theories, started to blend together, sparking ideas.

Not now.

Instinctively, he knew—this wasn’t the moment to chase after sudden inspiration. That would come later.

In other words, the inspiration was already there. Which meant it was time to do something else.

He needed rest.

Not just his body. Accelerating and splitting thoughts to fight like that—it didn’t matter how you dressed it up, it was mental self-destruction.

Still, regardless of his condition, it wasn’t time to discuss rest yet.

The Onekiller is dead, but the demon realm remains.

Shinar tried to mask it, but to put it crudely, her ass had already started to shift in her seat.

She had started to rise, but stopped when Enkrid told her to “stay still.”

That black-haired, blue-eyed man approached. At this moment, he no longer looked like a madman.

Like all those he had saved, Shinar saw light in Enkrid. With the death of the demon that had radiated orange light, its illumination had vanished. Yet even in the dull, sunken darkness, Enkrid seemed to shine.

Crackle.

After two days of endurance, the True Silver Sword had been reduced to a shattered blade. Only the hilt remained.

Enkrid set it atop its sheath and began wrapping it tightly with torn cloth.

At that moment, the fairy Brisa lifted a new luminous stone and spoke.

“...He won.”

It had been a fight that lasted two whole days. Exhausting even to watch.

The cold sweat on her back had felt like blood, with more than a few moments terrifying enough to chill her bones.

She had stayed silent until now because she couldn’t trust her own voice. For two days, it had always seemed like that man standing before her could simply drop dead at any moment.

And if he had died, hope would’ve vanished—like the wag of a flesh-dog’s tail.

Even if they had used Khaos, killing the Onekiller would’ve been nearly impossible.

“Yes, we won.”

That came from Bran, who was probably more shocked than anyone. Despite the towering Woodguard’s words, Enkrid didn’t react.

After sheathing his shattered blade, he approached Shinar.

She lifted her head from the stone chair. ✧ NоvеIight ✧ (Original source) With her chin tilted up and green eyes shimmering mysteriously, she looked up at her savior.

The savior spoke—or rather, asked.

“Are you really four hundred and forty-eight years old?”

There was a brief silence.

Then Shinar laughed. For the first time since those days of playing with her sisters and spending time with Aden, her face bloomed with a full smile.

“You bastard.”

The words were a curse, but within them was affection.

Enkrid felt a deep satisfaction. After all, he’d finally gotten her back for all the fairy jokes she’d made at his expense.

Behind him, Pell clicked his tongue and muttered.

“That guy’s really a fucking lunatic.”

Hearing that, Lua Gharne puffed out her cheeks. In human terms, it was like giggling.

“As expected of you.”

Instead of the broken True Silver Sword, Enkrid drew Sparks and began slicing at the back of the stone chair.

Sparks already had a visible crack. It wouldn’t last long.

Thunk! Crunch!

After countless todays, he knew well that the chair was alive.

His command to “stay still” had meant wait while I deal with this chair.

While Shinar remained still, Enkrid carved the stone chair mercilessly.

He sliced through something vein-like inside the chair, releasing a fluid.

It was a dark greenish-black—somewhere between blood and ooze.

“A chair that drains life force,” Shinar said.

Veins remained attached to her back, but the connection had been severed.

“They said it was a courting demon, but I guess it didn’t steal virginity. I’ve lost my chance to escape spinsterhood.”

“Thanks for saving me, but I’ll say it again. Whether it’s a human, a fairy, a dwarf, or a beastkin—mocking a woman’s age is shameful.”

“Well, I’m a shameful person by nature.”

Their banter was light, but a strange current flowed between them.

After hacking away all the veins, Enkrid extended his hand.

Shinar took it.

He pulled, and she rose.

Dizzy, she swayed—and collapsed into his arms.

Fwump.

The tiny fairy’s body fell into his embrace. Enkrid held her gently with one arm.

“What are you doing?” she asked from within his hold.

“Esther clung to me all day, but for you, this much is enough.”

With those words, she slipped from his arms. Despite still being in the labyrinth, she smelled of grass and flowers.

Even after stepping away, her scent lingered faintly, teasing his nose.

If Esther resembled the night sky, then Shinar’s scent felt like the heart of a forest.

Enkrid casually dusted his hands and spoke.

“This doesn’t feel like the end. Does it?”

The demon of the labyrinth had supposedly split itself in two.

One part was left to defend this place.

What about the other?

Shinar had the answer.

“Was that a hunch? Or do you know something?” she asked.

Of course, it was based on what he’d gathered during all those todays.

“Just a guess.”

“If it’s just instinct, then the goddess of luck must’ve marked you. Yeah. This isn’t over.”

Shinar herself confirmed it wasn’t the end.

“What else is there?” Bran asked, stepping forward.

To him, this felt like some surreal today rather than reality. He was so shocked he hadn’t even lit a smoke yet.

Same for the other fairies.

At that moment, Arcoiris approached and carefully removed the remaining veins from Shinar’s back.

It should’ve stung, but Shinar remained calm.

Fairies, with centuries of emotional restraint, struggled with expressing feelings.

Even so, everyone here was unusually stirred.

They had killed a demon.

That alone made their blood boil.

After watching the battle in a semi-awakened state for two days, they had momentarily forgotten their fatigue.

“The labyrinth’s demon was split in two,” Shinar explained, pointing behind her.

This was the deepest point of the straight path.

From here, three more tunnels extended inward.

“One became a battle-type to guard this place. The other... likely a production-type meant to consume the city.”

A demon that births monsters? Yes, such things exist.

Places that can be called true demon realms often harbor such entities—and guardians for them.

The Onekiller had been such a guardian.

This labyrinth could be considered akin to the demon realm beneath the city of Oara.

Where that one had a shard of Balrog, this one had a flesh-devouring demon and the spirits of fairies.

Where Shinar led them—there, they saw the true body.

A massive lump of flesh. There was no other way to describe it.

It was large enough to swallow a person whole.

Its center twitched open repeatedly, revealing a grotesque blend of flesh, blood clots, and bone fragments.

“A demon that births monsters. It’s weak to fire,” Shinar said.

Fairies weren’t fools. Not Shinar, and not the others.

If it wasn’t the Onekiller, they would’ve had ways to kill it. Enkrid wouldn’t have needed to step in.

Arcoiris pulled a green stone from his robes.

“A stone infused with pure essence is called Khaos. This one’s been refined,” Bran explained for Enkrid’s sake.

“What’s it used for?”

“This one contains the forest’s life force we’ve gathered for years. Set it off—and boom.”

As he spoke, Bran casually struck flint and lit a smoke. Puffing, he exhaled thick smoke.

Shinar spoke at the sight.

“You can stop smoking now, Bran.”

Bran was her teacher. And her sisters’ teacher as well.

The demon had come with warmth, then burned the city. Fire, for Shinar, symbolized terror and trauma.

Bran had smoked ever since. To help erase that memory from her.

A wood giant wielding fire was rare.

Outside of Bran, perhaps unheard of.

It had been a desperate act to free her from fear.

Even if he had fire-resistant bark, Woodguards were still weak to fire.

“I can’t go a day without it now,” Bran replied indifferently.

A subdued exchange—yet emotions flowed beneath it.

Long years chained to a demon were nearing their end.

“I’ll stay behind,” Arcoiris said with a calm face. Were he human, this would be a moment of grim resolve.

Someone had to detonate the refined Khaos—compressed forest essence.

Lua Gharne puffed her cheeks and stepped forward.

“Can’t we just throw it and run?”

“Each demon realm is different, but in this labyrinth, that thing is the master. Once it dies, the maze will collapse.”

Arcoiris’s tone was calm, but unyielding. When fairies showed emotion, it was usually a vow.

That creature had likely birthed the manticores and drowned ones.

As they spoke, the mass of flesh twitched and tried to vomit something up. A malformed hand emerged, pressing against the floor.

Blue-black spots. Long nails. A monster’s hand.

“Absolutely disgusting,” Pell muttered, and with a swipe of his blade, severed it.

Shhk! The blade of the Idol Slayer sliced it clean.

There was no scream. It hadn’t yet formed vocal cords.

Even the demon must’ve sensed danger.

Did it not anticipate that its combat-half would fail?

Apparently not—no new monsters leapt out to block their path.

Only the grotesque lump of meat, desperately trying to create something.

Dark blood slithered across its swollen veins.

It was trying to create—but destruction is always faster than creation.

Even after two days of fighting, their legs weren’t completely dead.

Still enough to run.

The others hadn’t fought directly—they had strength to spare.

“Lua?”

Enkrid glanced at the gem, calling her name. The nuance in his tone wasn’t lost on her.

A sharp one, that Frokk—he understood instantly.

If she wrapped it in her whip and flung it, she could throw farther.

“Should work. If it explodes on impact, I can add a spell-based shock too.”

Lua Gharne uncoiled her whip. It was magical.

Wrap, swing, throw—easy enough.

“I’ve still got a trick or two left. No need for you to die, Arcoiris,” Bran said, still trying to convince him.

“We must erase it completely,” Arcoiris replied, shaking his head. Stubborn.

It was obsession born from years of torment.

If there was even a chance the demon might survive, he couldn’t let it go.

“If it doesn’t work, we’ll come back and kill it again. Recreating a Onekiller won’t be easy anyway.”

Enkrid spoke up. Just because sacrifice was the surest way didn’t make it the best way.

“Then let’s do that.”

Arcoiris changed his mind instantly. Enkrid had opened his mouth to begin convincing him—but stopped.

That was easy.

Not even a four-year-old would obey that quickly.

Wait—are four-year-olds even obedient?

“Let’s move,” Bran said, turning. Shinar followed.

Lua Gharne began measuring distance for her whip throw, and when she reached to take the Khaos, Arcoiris hesitated.

It was the product of years of hidden effort—if it failed, they couldn’t make another.

Enkrid had been wondering if he could just carve the demon apart with Will-infused slashes.

Based on his feeling from fighting the Onekiller, it’d take months.

Even then, he’d have to shred it nonstop—and the Onekiller had writhed endlessly even when dismembered.

At the moment, though, he was too drained.

“Hand it over. If it fails, I’ll suffer for a few months.”

Enkrid spoke casually. Again, Arcoiris obeyed instantly.

He activated the stone and handed it over.

“Here.”

Lua Gharne took it and wrapped it at the tip of her whip, twirling it in circles.

“You look like Rem,” Enkrid said.

The sight of her swinging the whip overhead reminded him of Rem’s sling throws.

“Is that a duel challenge?”

Lua Gharne asked, raising a brow. Was this man obsessed with sparring even now?

“No. Just saying.”

“Oh, not an insult then.”

Lua Gharne grinned and activated her whip’s magic. Red light spiraled—flames roared to life.

Fwoosh!

A flame meant for the demon who brought warmth, then burned them.

If poetry had its way, the demon who rose in flame would die in flame.

The fire wrapped around the Khaos—crack!—splitting the stone’s surface. Lua Gharne hurled it.

The whip stretched taut as the green gem launched forward.

Thunk!

The concentrated essence slammed into the fleshy demon.

“We need to run,” Shinar said.

It might’ve seemed like she had spent the whole day sitting idle—but she had been drained of her essence, unable to fight within the labyrinth.

She lagged behind. Enkrid scooped her up without hesitation.

Bran ran well, despite his bulk. Surprisingly fast for a giant.

The rest were just as quick.

Enkrid looked back once.

A green flash burst—the light surged forward like a wave. The concentrated essence was erasing the demon.

Rrrumble...

The labyrinth began to collapse.

Enkrid, having lived through hundreds of todays, found himself confused—he hadn’t memorized the maze’s paths.

He paused. Pell passed him and said,

“This way. What, trying to act like Ragna now?”

Enkrid couldn’t help but mutter his inner thoughts aloud.

“Duel when we get out.”

Crash!

Debris fell from above.

Pell grinned and picked up speed.

When they reached the entrance, there was no light shining in.

The exit itself had been part of the magic. So had the entire labyrinth.

Didn’t matter.

They just had to run through it.

Pell and Zero burst out first. Enkrid followed.

Leave my bride behind!

A remnant flame—or perhaps the demon’s lingering will—lunged at him.

A flaming blade dropped from the entrance above, only a handspan away.

No killing intent. No presence. He didn’t register it in time.

Mental exhaustion dulled his reflexes.

The final strike aimed for Shinar’s crown.

Enkrid’s perception fractured.

Accelerated thought turned everything into snapshots. Insight foresaw the outcome.

Too late.

He was holding Shinar—he couldn’t block it. But surrender?

No.

Without hesitation, Enkrid reached for the dagger on his back and flung it upward.

A throw without aim—just a flick from the fingertips.

He hadn’t used Aitri’s dagger during the battle. Would Aitri be disappointed?

That thought had lingered—and now, it guided his hand.

The blade flicked upward, glanced off Enkrid’s shoulder, and altered its path.

Clang!

It intercepted the incoming demon blade. The strike meant for Shinar grazed Enkrid’s cheek instead.

Shhk.

A shallow cut.

The moment it touched him, he knew—this blade was the same as the Onekiller’s.

From his cheek, pain surged. Weakness consumed him.

And then—blackout.

Darkness closed in. Time passed, unknowable.

The first thing he noticed was the sensation of rocking.

Sway—

Then he understood where he was.

A black river.

A current flowing like the path to the underworld.

A lone figure stood upon a boat, holding a violet lamp.

The ferryman had come, as always.

And for the first time, his face was clear.