A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

In the fairy tongue, Penna was an abbreviation. Its full name was Kiis Seko Fedna—meaning ”the feather that cuts all things.”

Enkrid swung it with just enough Will to avoid collapse, and a pale bluish glow rose from the blade. At the same time, the sword clung more tightly to his hand.

What should he call this feeling?

A sense of becoming one with the sword?

That was how it felt. He thought back to how Rem always said his axe was like an extension of himself—maybe this was what he meant.

The extended blade of Penna grazed across the bridge of the martial artist Molmon’s nose, right after cutting down the vampire.

With a soft slicing sound, blood spattered across the man’s face. The sound was faint, but Penna’s blade was so sharp that it left a fairly deep wound.

As blood poured down, the martial artist contracted his facial muscles to stop the bleeding.

It was a muscle control technique taught in Balrafian martial arts. Clearly, the newcomer wasn’t an ordinary fighter. Still, he was manageable.

Enkrid could easily block, dodge, and strike back.

With accelerated thinking and mental division, he deployed the Wavebreaker Sword and deflected the attacks. Compared to the time he faced the One-Killer, this was twice as easy.

He tensed his muscles, let his knees absorb the impact, twisted his waist, and launched his blade with a sweeping motion.

CLANG!

He used the recoil from clashing against the weapon of the one called Black Serpent to drive his elbow backward.

THUD!

That elbow struck the martial artist’s fist. The man spun his body and launched a kick.

His leg whipped around like a lash—so sharp it could be mistaken for a slashing blade.

Even within the stretched perception of time, Enkrid saw that fast-moving leg and leaned his waist back, raising his knee and pointing his toes. The One-Killer had attacked from every posture.

His entire body was a weapon—perhaps that was why.

But then... can’t I do the same?

What he thought became action. He had a body forged in Balrafian martial arts. If needed, he could mix in unarmed techniques. His form didn’t fall apart.

Wavebreaker Swordsmanship wasn’t just about moving a sword. It was a discipline for sharpening the mind. By that definition, this was still Wavebreaker Swordsmanship.

Besides, Enkrid had survived over five hundred days like this not long ago.

He could fight like this for three more days. If he pushed himself, maybe even a full week. He’d be exhausted, of course.

As for the occasional interjection of spells? They weren’t cute, but compared to Walking Fire, they were manageable.

In conclusion—it was a very winnable fight.

Could it be... these guys are fake?

Enkrid wondered that as he aimed a kick at Black Serpent Ele’s chest. But spikes sprang from the man’s breastplate.

Typical of someone who specialized in deceptive swordsmanship—he’d rigged his armor with a nasty surprise.

Enkrid switched from a flat-footed kick to a sharp upward jab with his toes. Ele, dodging, was struck by the edge of Enkrid’s helmet.

Thunk.

Not a powerful hit, but enough to rattle his skull.

What a freakish bastard, Ele thought as he clenched his teeth. Enkrid kept doubting.

They have to be fakes, right?

If the cult had set a trap, it wouldn’t be something this light.

But no—they weren’t fakes. They were real. And they weren’t average fighters.

And yet, this was the result.

Enkrid simply didn’t realize how far he’d come. That was why he could afford such thoughts.

The vampire and the one called Black Serpent—those two were unconventional.

The newly joined martial artist, compared to them, relied more on strength and speed. A classic approach.

By Enkrid’s newly refined system, the vampire and the Black Serpent were Sustained-Art Type, while the martial artist was a Forged-Finisher Type.

Of course, all three had reached the level of a knight, so perhaps they should be considered Versatile Types.

The higher one climbed, the more their weaknesses got filled in.

Even if one was a Finisher Type, it didn’t mean they lacked sustainability or technique.

The ideal is a perfect circle.

A point where protruding strengths are balanced and hidden.

In that regard, Rem, Ragna, and Audin still had room to grow.

Beyond Finisher, Sustainer, and Versatile—there lies the Complete Type.

Perfection doesn’t exist. But at a certain level, one could be called complete.

The vampire flailed in three pieces—effectively dead.

The next was the martial artist. Seeing an opening, Penna swept across his throat. His windpipe was severed, and blood surged skyward.

What kind of life he had lived, what he had sought or desired by being here—no one would ever know now.

The dead cannot speak.

Black liquid, turned darker under the red moonlight, spilled and spread across the floor.

With a thud, the man’s knees dropped first, then his head followed.

As he fell in a curved motion, it appeared to everyone as if time had slowed.

Everything that begins must end. His slowly tilting head finally touched the ground.

Liquid continued to pool beneath his collapsed body. When red deepens, does it eventually look black? Just like their blood? Who could say?

“My wish will be fulfilled in the end.”

Black Serpent Ele lunged forward, muttering something unintelligible. Though Enkrid could hold off three foes, he couldn’t afford to go easy against someone attacking with their life on the line.

It was a winnable fight—but one mistake, one lapse in focus, and he’d be the one to die.

Then again, having gotten used to walking a tightrope against that demon One-Killer, even three enemies felt manageable now.

So mistakes were not an issue. Neither was carelessness.

Knights were monsters too. To others, they seemed to perform miracles without error. Yet even they were impressed by Enkrid’s precision.

There were no openings. Perhaps that’s why he was known as the Ironwall Knight.

Even Ele found this line of thought natural.

CLANG! CLANG-CLANG!

Enkrid batted aside the stretched blade flying at him with Penna and leapt to the left. The sword, transformed like a black serpent, chased him.

The deflected sword turned its head and aimed for the back of Enkrid’s head. It really looked like a snake lunging in midair.

Enkrid retreated, jabbed his right thumb into the ground, and reversed direction. The sudden movement created an illusion that he was dashing to the side.

But in truth, he had already repositioned himself and was sprinting toward the middle of the elongated enemy blade, pressing Penna against it.

CLACK-CLACK-CLACK-CLACK-CLACK!

Sparks flew as he left a trail behind. Enkrid’s feet moved faster than the enemy’s sword.

A pale bluish comet streaked up along the black serpent. In the end, the serpent failed to hit its mark—and Enkrid’s Penna sliced Ele’s neck.

Squelch!

A crisp sound cut through his throat. It was so fast that only a single line traced across the neck—his head didn’t even fly off.

Penna’s blade was so sharp, it left just a thread-thin slice and passed on.

“Die, you bastards.”

Even as he died, Ele cursed them. Tears of blood trickled from his neck like drops.

Soon, his head tilted—and instead of drops, blood gushed out in a torrent.

Had it not been a human head being severed, and the blood not blood but water spraying from a city fountain, it might’ve been beautiful.

No one could’ve known that a man who lost his wife at nineteen and daughter at twenty-two came to despise humanity itself. That man was the Apostle of Rebirth—Black Serpent ✪ Nоvеlіgһt ✪ (Official version) Ele.

As he died, Ele felt himself sinking into a black pit.

His wife and daughter were not there. He had gladly drunk demon blood for revenge against the world.

So he knew—his place was beside demons.

“...Truly astonishing.”

The man holding the staff ceased his spell and spoke. Seeing the result of the battle, the Apostle of Rebirth no longer sounded surprised, only calm.

“Did I underestimate you? Or was my calculation off? Or is this divine mockery? I can’t understand any of it, but questioning won’t change a thing.”

“Are you going to fight?”

“I’m the only one left. So I must.”

The apostle was a collector of spells and physically formidable too. But as Enkrid would say, he was an Incomplete Circle.

A perfect circle can still be pierced by a sharp needle.

That was Enkrid’s belief. When a system was defined, it always led to inspiration for the next swordsmanship.

As he fought, Enkrid conceived a new form of swordplay.

He only had a vague idea of its meaning—but this was the beginning. It might fade without a trace, but still.

The apostle had hoped to become their misfortune, but that wish was not granted.

Tap. Snap!

He had used over half his spells, but none had landed.

Even the black orb that turned anything to dust upon contact had been severed by Enkrid’s blade.

“In the end, we will win,” said the apostle.

Stab. Slash.

Enkrid barely listened. He thrust and slit the man’s throat.

Blood flowing from the neck blended with the moonlight. Deep red. Despite being a cultist, the man was still human.

Worshiping a god of the Demon Realm didn’t make you another species.

His head, sliced clean, hit the ground with a dull thud.

The sinister red moonlight still bathed the land—but no more enemies remained.

The necromantic traces the apostle summoned faded the moment he died.

Some spirits tried to use the opportunity to run amok, but Lua Gharne’s whip and Zero’s sword cut that short.

“Phew, guess my approach was flawed.”

Then the severed head spoke, despite lacking a body. The Apostle of Rebirth showed off another strange skill—trying to converse with only his head.

“...Are you some kind of immortal?”

What if I chopped his head into eight pieces?

As Enkrid asked and raised his sword again, the head quickly answered.

“No, I’ll die soon. At most, I’ll last until morning. The red moonlight is just sustaining me with its power.”

A lie? It didn’t sound like one.

“Chopping my head won’t change anything. If you feel mercy and want to let me live, just bring five virgin men and five virgin women, spill their blood on my body, and reattach my neck... but I doubt you’ll do that.”

“If I were going to do that, I wouldn’t have beheaded you in the first place.”

“Even so, it doesn’t really work. Having sex doesn’t change the nature of blood. Maybe if it were the blood of a saint...”

And now, jokes?

“Shall I smash him with my whip?” Lua Gharne offered kindly.

“I can split him. Afraid of a curse?” Peld stepped up too.

“If it’s that, I can do it,” added Zero.

“Everyone’s so eager to kill an old body. Show some mercy. It’s exhausting just talking with what little mana I have left.”

“Do you have anything you want to say?”

“Just regrets and a proposal. Regrets are personal, so let’s skip those. As for the proposal—switch sides.”

“My whip, then—” Lua Gharne raised it again.

The truth was, the apostle was barely hanging on. He only had a few more words in him.

He could’ve cast one last curse—but he’d already tried that. It hadn’t worked. It wouldn’t work. So leaving a few words was the best he could do.

“You can’t win this war. There’s no reason to fight for the losing side.”

Speaking with no body, only a head—and yet the words carried weight. He wasn’t quite as stirring as Crang, but he could deliver a speech.

This apostle, too, had once dominated his era as a wily strategist.

He had stood with the Demon Realm and become an Apostle of Rebirth, following the doctrines of the Demon Sanctuary Church—but right or wrong, one could not say he lacked heroic charisma.

A misguided faith doesn’t reduce a person’s capabilities.

Likewise, talent and character are not proportional. And just because someone walks the righteous path, their future isn’t guaranteed to be bright.

Enkrid silently stared at the severed head. The apostle continued.

“In the end, you’ll be stopped by our blades.”

That could happen. Enkrid knew the man was speaking truthfully, without deceit.

But Enkrid’s fight hadn’t started with the expectation of victory. It was a path he’d walked and crawled, despite lacking any great talent.

He wanted to build a world where a mother trying to protect her child could live in a monster-free city.

Where even a half-rotten apple could be split and shared by a smiling fruit vendor.

Where an old woman who once worked a tavern could find peace in her later years.

Where a simple mercenary who calls his child a genius could sleep without nightmares.

Yes—that was the world he wanted.

So he picked up the sword.

So he sang.

The song of a war-ending knight hadn’t even begun.

“It doesn’t matter.”

Enkrid dispelled the apostle’s spoken curse with words of his own. It wasn’t hard. He didn’t even try to grasp the intent.

That’s just how it turned out.

“...You’re saying you’ll fight a losing battle?”

That’s your thought. Enkrid didn’t reply with a cliché like You won’t know until you fight.

Instead, he spoke from something deeper.

“I’ll keep fighting until I win.”

“...I see.”

Behind him, Peld once again found clarity. The apostle stared at the madman and left his final words.

“It’s a pity I won’t get to see the world of the Demon Realm.”

A devoted Apostle of Rebirth, to the bone. But now dead, the wish no longer meant anything. With that, the head said no more.

The red moonlight tilted away. Darkness without moonlight.

It was the time before dawn—a moment known in the western tongue as Urquiora, the dim morning.

And after the dim morning, daylight always follows.

Bluish light enveloped the area, and then dawn came. Light descended upon the world. The sun shone brightly, as if nothing had happened.

“Nice sunlight,” Lua Gharne said.

As the party cleaned up the corpses, some fairies—sensing ominous energy—approached from the front. These were ones highly skilled in managing natural energy.

“What happened? An ambush?” one of them asked, scanning the surroundings.

He had traveled the continent before and served as the guide for this mission.