A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

The fairy who had volunteered as the guide had once worked as a mercenary in the Information Guild. He had learned much in those days. His eyes scanned in all directions. It was a habit—he memorized whatever entered his sight.

A black-armored knight sprawled on the ground caught his eye. A familiar figure.

Black Serpent Ele?

They had met briefly in passing, but the unique shape of that armor hadn’t been forgotten.

It was too distinct to forget. The names engraved neatly on the black armor stood out. Though the armor radiated ominous energy, those engraved names seemed filled with affection.

Olivia. Sophia.

Hard to forget, indeed. Judging by the surrounding context, it was easy to grasp the flow of events. The fairy, who had been chosen as Ermen’s successor, now stood as the guide. His gaze kept tracing the battlefield’s remnants.

He took them all down alone.

It would’ve been shocking enough if all three had taken down Black Serpent Ele together, but the evidence suggested the opposite.

“He was a cultist. One of the Apostles of Rebirth,” Lua Gharne said just then.

The fairy nodded solemnly and shifted his eyes.

The body holding the staff with the round iron ring at one end must have been the other culprit.

Apostle of the Rebirth Church. The continent’s evil. The devil’s spokesperson.

So many titles for the being Enkrid had slain. Not a demon himself, but a man who had done worse.

It was said he had annihilated an entire city alone. Turned hundreds into wraiths through curses.

Had another decade or so passed, the man might’ve entered the realm of legend.

That was the fairy’s assessment.

“He was tough, but nothing too much,” Peld said, puffing up with bravado.

The fairy, having fully assessed the situation, was stunned. So stunned he forgot to suppress his emotions.

Is this for real?

“You killed an Apostle?” he asked, amazed.

“Seems like a fake,” Enkrid replied, utterly calm—genuinely so. The fairy could tell Enkrid truly believed that.

If anything, it was Enkrid, not the fairy, who was the one showing emotional restraint. The fairy’s eyes were wide, while Enkrid was utterly composed.

“A fake?”

It didn’t feel that way.

The fairy asked again. Lua Gharne shook her head and called out to Enkrid.

“Enki.”

“What?”

“When we get back, have a spar with Rem.”

“I was going to do that anyway.”

“Then you’ll know.”

What exactly he would know, no one said. But somehow... he had a feeling.

“If this was fake, then the ones who prepared it are the best acting troupe on the continent. Otherwise, they’re soul-bound thieves. Even that armor and the staff the apostle wielded are incredibly rare artifacts.”

The fairy successor to Ermen had many strengths—but also a few flaws. Chief among them: he talked too much for a fairy.

He rattled off that whole sentence in a single breath, then turned to Enkrid.

“Is that so?” Enkrid asked with a slight nod.

The fairy inhaled deeply and began to speak in a leisurely flow.

“Yes, that was Black Serpent Ele’s insignia, and what the apostle held was an artifact forged of magical metal. Do you know what magical metal is? Ah, this takes me back to my first year as a mercenary in the Information Guild. The woman at the guild reception desk was named Emily. She was curt with me at first—I thought she hated me. Turns out she didn’t. I hadn’t adapted to the human world yet. I sensed she liked me, but her tone was always so cold. Thanks to her, I learned a lot about human speech and behavior. Especially... bed manners. Ah, not that I fathered any half-blood children or anything. Emily helped me get my first mission, and—”

Fairies didn’t normally talk this much. It was a side effect of adapting to the human world.

Fairies couldn’t lie—but being a mercenary for an information guild often required deception.

So the fairy found a workaround: speak in a roundabout way, mixing in random stories to confuse the listener. Eventually, it became a habit.

He never felt the need to fix it. Among other fairies, it was acceptable—they were patient and could glean the core of what was said.

Enkrid understood it too. But that didn’t mean he enjoyed it. The rambling was excessive.

“Get to the point,” Enkrid cut in.

He’d interrupted right as the fairy was about to describe his second date with Emily.

“Pardon?”

The fairy obeyed instantly. After all, this was the idol speaking.

“Summarize it,” Enkrid said.

“Ah, yes.”

The fairy hesitated, then realized he had no need to lie—so he shortened it.

“It’s expensive.”

Looking at him, Enkrid thought—not of Ermen—but of Kraiss.

A fairy version of Kraiss, huh.

A single compressed line tied to krona. Was it just wear from worldly experience?

Not exactly. This fairy had handled commerce on behalf of his kin, so naturally, this kind ~Nоvеl𝕚ght~ of thinking had become ingrained.

It wasn’t a bad thing.

Since they had ventured into the wider continent, they had to learn communication, not isolation. Trade—exchanging goods—was the clearest starting point.

Mutual respect and consideration came later. First came haggling over profit.

Enkrid didn’t think that deeply about it. He figured Kraiss or Abnaier could handle those matters. All he did was ask what interested him.

“Why is it expensive?”

“That staff is made of a metal that can absorb mana. As it continues to absorb mana, it develops a bond. That’s why they call it a living stone. Some even call it a philosopher’s stone. I’ll correct myself. It’s not just expensive—you could buy a small castle with it.”

Is that so. Who would appreciate something like this? Esther? Kraiss?

That thought passed through Enkrid’s mind as he nodded.

No further enemies blocked their way home.

The cultist’s death would ripple through the continent not like a thunderstorm, but like a soft drizzle.

He had never acted publicly—always from the shadows.

If Enkrid hadn’t been so threatening, the Apostle of Rebirth wouldn’t have come out in person. On the flip side, it meant Enkrid had thwarted many of the cult’s schemes up until now.

From toppling the gnoll colony to ending the Naurillian civil war.

He had killed the Apostle of Curses and the Apostle of Alchemy.

To the Apostles, he had become a threat that could no longer be ignored.

They had no choice but to delay other plans and mobilize all power to stop him. It made sense. Why had it taken so long? The real question was why Enkrid had survived this long.

Curses didn’t work. Neither did alchemy.

Even renowned assassins from across the continent returned with their heads severed.

Well—Enkrid had, in truth, died countless times. But only he knew that.

“It’s raining,” Peld said up ahead.

Sure enough, drops began to fall. Not snow, but rain—a sign the sky was announcing the end of winter.

Several more days passed, and when they returned to Border Guard, Lua Gharne fully grasped how much Enkrid had changed.

“...You son of a bitch, what the hell did you go off and do?”

Rem had lost. A one-on-one spar with Enkrid.

Enkrid stood awkwardly, asking back, “Are you kidding? Take it seriously. No need to let me win.”

“Hmph. Fine. Let’s fight for real, you mad bastard.”

That day, Rem went all out.

If it’s a sparring match—not a battle to the death—there are few sword styles more suited than the Wavebreaker Sword.

It was founded on hundreds of sparring bouts, so maybe it was only natural.

Just now, Rem had shifted his foot in an instant, trying to strike Enkrid’s head with his axe while stomping on his toes with his right foot.

If Enkrid dodged the axe, his foot would get stomped, and Rem could use the positional advantage to chain attacks.

A clever technique that was hard to read—meant to push the opponent into defense.

The old Enkrid might’ve used brute strength to block with his sword, endure the stomp, or retreat and regroup.

But this time, it was different.

Enkrid lifted his foot, kicked Rem’s away, and deflected the axe with the short sword he’d gotten from the fairies.

Neither movement lacked strength or timing. He had processed both actions simultaneously.

Rem was momentarily surprised—but didn’t stop his hands and feet.

CLACK.

The clash of sword and axe wasn’t loud. Yet Rem felt immediate danger.

And that threat became real in the next moment. Using the rebound force from the clash, Enkrid drove the short sword downward.

Rem had no time to dodge or block. He grabbed Enkrid’s wrist with his left hand.

Just as he thought he had seized it—thud—a headbutt landed square on his forehead.

Mind games or not, Rem staggered back. Stars filled his vision as he swung his axe—but it hit nothing.

That was it. Enkrid didn’t follow up. He just looked at him with ambiguous eyes.

It was just a spar, and neither was going all out. Still, it was disorienting.

He didn’t say it aloud, but a truth settled in his mind.

Did I lose?

Rem’s pupils trembled. Even when he fought that bastard Ragna, he had never been pushed like this.

Of course, if he used all his spirit-enhancing rituals, it might’ve gone differently. One headbutt wasn’t enough to call it a loss.

But this was a spar. By that standard, he had lost.

What if Enkrid had kept attacking after that headbutt?

Speculating on what didn’t happen is pointless—but still.

I might’ve lost.

He adjusted the thought.

If judged by percentage—he was eighty percent likely to lose.

He’d been so surprised that he asked what the hell Enkrid had done—and when Enkrid said not to joke, Rem swung seriously.

“Damn, you’re blocking everything like a rock.”

It was all blocked.

“I named it the Wavebreaker Sword,” Enkrid said.

“My axe should be stronger than waves,” Rem replied.

“That so?”

The joking tone vanished. They were dead serious.

And yet—Rem couldn’t overwhelm him. No, he was slightly being pushed back.

Unyielding...!

A bottomless well. That was Enkrid’s Will. Rem might not lose easily, but if this became a war of attrition—he knew he wouldn’t win.

Even in a real fight—I wouldn’t beat him.

His instincts told him the truth. No wonder he was shocked.

And in Enkrid’s hand was not even his main weapon—just a short sword.

A treasure, yes—but still a short sword. A disadvantage in length.

“Let’s go again.”

Another brief exchange. In the truest sense—a very brief spar.

“Enough.”

With those words, Rem twirled his wrist and slashed four times before stepping back.

A trick he’d used recently against Ragna—who had once lost footing blocking it.

With divine power flowing through his arms, the small movement packed tremendous force.

But Enkrid tilted his blade and blocked every weird-angle slash. He parried them all.

CLACK, THUNK, PING, CLANG!

The two weapons were like instruments playing a duet.

When the final clash ended and the sparring paused, someone had already risen.

Audin, who had been quietly reciting prayers and sacred verses, was standing and watching.

From another corner, basking in the warm sun like a blanket, Ragna had sat up, resting his hand on his sword grip.

Even Jaxon had crept to the edge of the roof, resting his chin on folded hands, eyes gleaming.

All three had seen and felt the same thing.