A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

Enkrid’s gaze shifted to Esther’s eyes. Her pupils simmered with heat, and her hair fluttered despite the absence of wind.

What’s wrong with her now?

“And I never cut in line. Eyeballs, pour me another.”

The scent on Esther’s breath now held something besides the fragrance of the night sky. A sweet yet heavy smokiness.

“Yes, yes.”

Kraiss had already brought a bottle reeking of sweetness and poured it into Esther’s outstretched cup. The aroma was soft, but the alcohol was strong.

“This is the liquor we got as a gift from the Fairy City.”

As Kraiss explained while pouring, Shinar added,

“It’s made from five fruits and infused with morning dew. It’s called Tingtillus Yir. In the continental tongue, that would mean something like ‘Seeping Poison’ or ‘Silent Creeping Mist.’”

So it’s poisonously strong, huh.

“I don’t get drunk. Don’t worry. The Glint spell is like a mage’s secret—one does not reveal their vision to just anyone. Shinar, I’m glad you’re back.”

She’s drunk, Enkrid was sure.

“Liquor? I don’t get drunk. Why do you look at me like that? The night sky spins and spins. Is today the end of the world? Are the stars falling to shatter the earth? If that’s the case, we can’t sit around like this. Enki, come with me. We need to find a place to stay.”

Definitely drunk.

“No seat for me?”

Kraiss cut in with a smile. Apparently, he found Esther cute.

“You claw-thieving bastard.”

Esther suddenly clenched her fist and swung. Kraiss, who hadn’t neglected his training, reflexively bent backward and dodged. The whoosh of air being cleaved by her fist was audible.

If it had landed, it would’ve meant at least a fractured bone. Esther might look slim, but her hands carried the energy of a leopard.

She once told them herself—that it was a perk from transforming into a Lake Panther.

“Not the face.”

What Kraiss said while dodging was the kicker.

So the rest of your body is fair game?

“Why not the face?” Rem asked, having just swallowed a chunk of meat. One might expect his lips to be smeared in grease, but surprisingly, Rem ate neatly.

Come to think of it, there was a lot about him that was unexpected.

Smarter than he looked. Enjoyed setting up others in sly ways. Even when tormenting someone, he always calculated things out.

He didn’t kill nobles at random, either.

He specifically targeted the untouchables to cultivate infamy. That way, only those with true malice bore grudges against him.

Even this neat eating habit was probably something he only showed within the current knighthood.

Well, it just struck Enkrid that way.

“Unlike Rem, I maintain this face, you see,” Kraiss muttered, sidling away from Esther.

Was he even aware of what he was saying?

That’s where Kraiss’s oddness lay. Normally calculated and cautious, yet completely idiotic at moments like this.

Surely, he knew what kind of reaction that remark would provoke from Rem. Yet he blurted it out like an idiot.

“And what about me?”

Rem asked again. The smile on his lips was chilling, one that could snuff out a campfire.

“...The most handsome man the West has ever produced, sir.”

Kraiss scrambled to cover it up.

“Too late, you bastard. Let me give your face a nice masculine look today.”

Rem drew a dagger made from bone. Where he got it was anyone’s guess, but it exuded a sinister aura.

“No, no, let’s not do this! Ragna! Audin! Boss! Boss!”

Kraiss ducked behind the campfire, flames licking sideways in undulating arms.

Seeing the flickering fire, Shinar mumbled to herself with a blank expression.

“It’s okay now. It’s okay.”

The devil’s fire was gone. But a scar etched once does not fade so easily.

“Where’s Bran?”

Enkrid asked [N O V E L I G H T] as the commotion settled. Shinar answered quickly.

“He won’t quit smoking. Funny, isn’t it? A Woodguard hooked on smoke?”

Not funny at all. Especially knowing why Bran burned those herbs.

“I’m going to get some air. Eyeball, a few scars on the face won’t kill you.”

Ragna stood up, and Kraiss flared up in response.

“You don’t have a single scar on your face!”

“That’s because there’s no one out there who can leave one.”

Ragna was usually the quiet type. Always moving like life was a bother. But here, among them, he spoke more. Laziness didn’t show. That, too, was Ragna’s contradiction.

“That’s pretty damn annoying to hear. Say that in front of the squad sometime. Everyone’s getting soft lately.”

Rophod responded to Ragna, and Pell grumbled beside him, then tipped the whole fairy liquor bottle into his mouth.

“You chug that alone, and I’ll gut you and scoop it out.”

Rem dropped another casual threat, and Audin went so far as to grab Pell by the neck and yank the bottle from his mouth.

Pell instinctively fought back—and got smacked for it.

“A divine punishment.”

No, Audin. That’s just assault.

Rophod, not wanting to let Ragna go alone, stood and followed. Meanwhile, Enkrid sampled the liquor Kraiss had brought.

Strong.

But beneath the heavy scent of alcohol was a sweet and tangy flavor that delighted his tongue.

It truly lived up to the name Seeping Poison—the taste hit before the burn, warming the tongue.

With something this strong, it was no wonder Esther passed out drunk.

“I’ll save you. Don’t worry, you dumbasses...”

Esther mumbled from where she lay. At some point, her robe had spread like a thick blanket, but she still looked cold.

He figured he’d bring a cloak later to cover her up.

“A strong drink. Shall we call it a celebratory toast?”

Shinar came over and sat across from him.

“For what?”

He expected another silly joke, but—

“For grasping the shape of what you truly desire.”

Maybe it was the influence of the dancing flames, but Shinar spoke not in jest, but with sincerity.

Enkrid once spoke of peace forged through the sword, reflecting on its value.

He’d also thought these people were the knighthood he had long wished for.

But if he was being honest, it wasn’t that deep.

He just... liked this moment.

He liked standing beside these lunatics. He liked protecting the ones behind him.

He liked being able to act on his will in battle and push forward.

He liked all of it.

“Sometimes, you need to drop the burdens in your head and rest.”

Shinar said. She added, “In my embrace,” but he ignored that part.

Enkrid ate, drank, and slept.

And he dreamed.

“The weather’s good. Let me tell you an old tale today. You’ll love it. It’s about a fairy who loved jokes.”

A former prostitute who had survived by selling her body now found peace and told stories to her grandson on her lap.

“Business is rough these days, but looking at my little one’s face keeps me going.”

A fruit seller pulled his cart, thinking of his wife and child.

Between the flower beds, a shy young couple whispered sweet nothings.

A guardsman grumbled about gaining weight now that there wasn’t much to do.

The baker scolded him for not waking up early to run, and the guard replied that his father should follow his own advice.

The baker, who was the guard’s father, said that if he hated baking so much, he should quit and take over.

In the dream, no one worried about monsters roaming beyond the village.

No one feared the flames of war would someday consume them.

There were no bandits stealing what little they had.

The lord of the land even questioned whether maintaining the walls was necessary.

And Enkrid raised his sword.

Not inside the city—but just beyond it.

Because peace and tranquility never come to those who just lie down and wait.

A knight who will end the war!

A knight who paints dusk in war’s final hue!

We shall call him—The Knight of Dusk!

The Knight of Armistice!

The Knight of the End!

With the bard’s song fading, Enkrid woke.

He rose at dawn and began training.

By morning, Esther groaned through a silent scream as she tried to recall the night before—and then didn’t return to camp for two full days.

According to the soldiers stationed by the mountain pass, strange shrieks echoed from the mountains.

Some said it was the scream of monsters or beasts.

“Well damn. That’s one hell of a way to blow off steam.”

Rem remarked.

Enkrid chuckled quietly.

A few more days passed before Aitri summoned him to the forge.

He wanted him to come immediately.

Enkrid’s heart pounded with anticipation. It wasn’t yet an engraved weapon, but it was a step just before that.

There was no way not to be excited.

Right after morning training, Enkrid raced through the city to the forge.

“You’re here.”

Aitri welcomed him as if he’d been waiting. The heat of the forge blended with the cool blue morning air.

Aitri sat by the fire, his assistant standing beside him in a hood.

“Do you know about the continent’s three great metals?”

Instead of a greeting, Aitri asked.

“Nope.”

Enkrid shook his head.

People tend to be knowledgeable only in their field. He’d heard about Valerian steel, true silver, and black gold in passing—but beyond that, not much.

The assistant brought over a chair, and Enkrid sat.

Two teacups steamed on the table.

Aitri unwrapped a long object wrapped in cloth and set it down.

“From the Eastern yellow iron mines came black gold, and from the Lewis mines came true silver. You do know they aren’t actual gold or silver, right?”

That much he knew. He nodded.

Aitri continued.

“From the Valerian mines, they rarely extract true iron. It’s dark blue. Normally, the harder the metal, the more brittle it is—but true iron doesn’t have that weakness. And when you melt a fallen star, you get meteoric iron.”

Enkrid began to sense where this was going.

“This armor I got contains meteoric iron. The other material is the Philosopher’s Stone—living metal.”

Enkrid’s first sword had been black gold. Then came true silver.

Now, the blade in his hand—Penna—had been forged from moonlight silver by a fairy smith, and shaped by her own hand.

Aitri’s eyes were burning with intensity.

Scholars stake their lives on truth. Knights are absorbed in swordsmanship.

Then what about craftsmen?

Especially those tackling the unknown?

Their desires might shift with time—but right now, Enkrid knew exactly what Aitri wanted.

“You want me to bring true iron?”

“Yes.”

Aitri answered without a breath.

It was like seeing a sword drawn without noticing the motion—swift and without hesitation.

What the craftsman before him wanted now was material.

“Just say that from the start.”

“I will. Next time.”

It wasn’t that Aitri had meant to be roundabout.

He’s just enjoying himself, Enkrid thought.

The process of forging an engraved weapon was something Aitri was savoring.

He didn’t view it as pain or despair.

And that was the right way.

A madman who swings a hammer while enjoying even the process.

That’s you, Enkrid concluded.

If Aitri had heard that, he might’ve stared daggers.

Having finished his preparations, Aitri returned to his usual calm.

He unwrapped the cloth on the table.

“There’s a clear path ahead now. You could say this is my first real test. Do you like the shape?”

The path must mean the method of making an engraved weapon.

And test—by asking if he liked the shape—meant he was ready to lock it in.

The sword was a short blade with a single edge.

Even so, it had served him well. It gripped perfectly. And once familiar, its sharpness became a weapon of its own.

Even Rem grumbled when it clashed against his axe.

“Any more of that and my axe is gonna get cranky.”

Ragna outright declared it was time to find a new sword.

“I think I’ll go fetch a sword.”

“Where to?”

“Oh, I know a place.”

He left alone without naming a destination—a declaration of permanent farewell.

“We decided not to call that a trip. It’s a goodbye, Ragna.”

Kraiss had said what Enkrid felt.

In the end, Ragna didn’t leave.

“Well, I get turned around on the way back.”

That only reinforced how badly they needed to keep him from going.

Ragna—of all people—claimed to get lost?

That man could end up drowning at sea and it wouldn’t surprise anyone.

At any rate, Penna was that good of a weapon.

Finding something better would be hard.

Enkrid grasped the sword grip on the table.

Wrapped in smooth brown leather, the pommel had a simple, pointed rhombus shape.

There were no engravings. The guard was a straight line, unadorned.

“The tip is black gold, the blade mixed with true silver, and the core is meteoric iron.”

The Philosopher’s Stone had been melted to fuse all three metals.

The blade was long—closer to a greatsword than a one-hander. The grip matched in length.

Its thickness resembled a spatha, a bit heavier than most blades.

Overall, it had the form of a greatsword—but with a knight’s strength, even a club forged from five maces could be swung.

And Enkrid had strength among knights.

“I like it. Immeasurably.”

He said it.

A phrase came to mind—seeing a face from afar and falling at first sight.

That was Enkrid now.

The form alone was perfection.

Even without testing its balance, it was exactly the ideal he’d imagined.