A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

A slender jawline?

Today’s ferryman looked leaner than before, almost like he’d lost weight. But Enkrid wasn’t about to comment on it—there was no point in pointing things out to someone who never answered.

So, he kept his mouth shut. The silence blanketed the river like fog.

Neither spoke. They simply looked at each other through the haze.

Enkrid gazed blankly through the thin black mist at the robed figure. The ferryman also remained silent.

There was no vibration in the air, no preparatory movement.

And though Enkrid hadn’t blinked once, he realized the ferryman had suddenly appeared right in front of him.

He couldn’t help but be surprised. But that didn’t mean he would flinch or panic.

Even in this mental space, Enkrid remained composed. It was a calmness that had become second nature.

The ferryman reached out silently. His palm, cracked like drought-scorched earth, came into view.

Something wriggled in the black crevice of his palm. The moment Enkrid focused on the squirming black line, he was no longer standing on the boat on the black river.

An illusion.

There was no need to think it through—he recognized it immediately.

Guessing the ferryman’s intentions was never easy. They’d met countless times, and even now, the ferryman remained a companion of enigmatic repetitions. Still, Enkrid saw what the ferryman wanted to show him.

“Ugh.”

He couldn’t make out the ground or weather. Only faint outlines drifted between the soot and smoke—but even those were clear enough to recognize.

Ragna.

Ragna coughed up blood, wiped his mouth, and raised his head.

“You said you don’t shy away from any kind of fight. So don’t shy away from this one either.”

Who was he talking to?

Behind Ragna’s hazy silhouette, someone seemed to be lying on the ground—just barely visible.

Too faint to identify. Ragna’s image dissipated like smoke. It looked close enough to touch, but strangely distant.

Like hearing and seeing from far, far away.

As soon as Ragna vanished, another figure rose from the smoke.

“...Admit it. I could’ve fixed everything. I won.”

“You idiot. If you’re dead, you lost.”

“I am the elixir, the panacea, the remedium omnia.”

What the hell was she rambling about?

The words were incoherent. Enkrid gave up trying to decipher them and focused on the situation instead.

Anne had been hurt by someone. And she was speaking right before dying.

Who is she talking to?

He couldn’t see the other person. The voice was unclear—gender indiscernible.

“If you’re dead, you lost. You’re nothing.”

Anne coughed and faded into smoke.

Then the smoke condensed again, and a new figure appeared—an older man.

Thick eyebrows. Hollow cheeks. Broad frame.

Enkrid couldn’t sense his aura, but even just his appearance told him something.

Lean face, no excess fat—that meant the man still trained, maintained his body even at his age.

He reminds me of Greyham.

There was a lord in the border guard who never let go of the sword despite his age and had risen to quasi-knight level. A paragon of human tenacity, respected by all the troops.

“It’s never too late. Only I failed to act.”

A line Greyham often said.

This man had clearly internalized and reinterpreted something Enkrid once said.

If he reminded Enkrid of Greyham instinctively, then the man was likely similar. As a knight trained in sensory arts, Enkrid’s intuition often bordered on reliable prediction.

The unfamiliar man stiffened and finally spoke.

“So you’re saying this is all my fault?”

Another plume of smoke—Ragna again. His chest was soaked in dried blood, and his clean-shaven chin now bore a crusted blood-beard. Holding a sword, he asked,

“Isn’t it?”

Whether the man had left a pause or not, Enkrid felt the answer came after a short silence.

“...This was my best.”

“Bullshit.”

Ragna responded instantly, without even taking a breath.

The smoke dispersed again, and suddenly Enkrid was back at the boat’s edge. The ferryman was standing with his back turned, holding a lantern.

“Why are you showing me this?”

Enkrid asked.

The ferryman turned his head slightly. His face, barely visible between the folds of the robe, was pitch black—featureless, just like the first time they met.

Then, instead of a voice, a single line of meaning shot toward Enkrid and touched his forehead. It wasn’t a spoken word, but more a direct transfer of intent. Enkrid interpreted it into speech.

“You’ll remember this, won’t you? Don’t forget.”

And then he awoke.

Dim twilight.

The texture and tone were completely different—reality.

“Bad dream?”

A voice called out. Enkrid looked down toward the tent opening and saw Magrun standing there. It was early evening. Behind him, the sky had turned a deep blue, twilight fading away. His shadow stretched out faintly and reached Enkrid’s feet.

“Not a nightmare.”

Enkrid answered as he stood. The ferryman’s intent remained elusive as ever.

The line walking fire is different had clearly been advice.

Before, it had been interference.

Advice? If anything, the ferryman had never said what Enkrid wanted to hear. And maybe that’s what made him a good advisor.

A joke, really. Not one he could share with anyone.

Still—what was this latest vision about?

He’d just shown people, a few fragments of conversation. The ferryman hadn’t spoken a single word. And even that last message felt unlike his usual style.

“Nothing happened?”

“Not yet.”

Enkrid asked, and Magrun answered.

The ambush wouldn’t be a one-time event. Magrun knew it. So did everyone else. So did Enkrid.

“You’ve got that look like you just chatted with a ‘considerate scholar.’”

Magrun said, noticing the shift in Enkrid’s expression.

“What?”

“It’s a joke they tell in the Empire.”

“What kind of joke?”

As Enkrid stretched and loosened his stiff body, Magrun crouched by the tent, resting his chin in his hand.

He hesitated, wondering where to even start—if it was even worth explaining.

Screw it. Let the listener interpret it.

“You know, one of those throwaway lines. Sounds dumb when you try to explain it. Scholars always think they’re wise. They love hearing themselves talk and don’t care if anyone else understands. But the considerate ones try to soften the mood with a joke before saying something profound—and that just confuses people even more. That’s the joke. They’re considerate because they lighten the mood, but the topic they bring up still makes no damn sense. Explaining it makes it worse.”

“Yeah, it’s worse.”

“Exactly. It’s one of those things Empire folks just get. Not my fault.”

“Didn’t say it was.”

Enkrid walked outside. Ragna was gazing blankly at the sky. Odinkar stood by the horses, absentmindedly stroking a mane.

Anne stood near Ragna, while Grida looked up, using the stars to get her bearings.

“No rain tonight.”

Grida said, sensing Enkrid’s approach. He gave a nod and turned to Anne.

“Did you get any sleep?”

“No.”

He didn’t ask why.

She’d been soaked in beast blood, spent the night awake, and learned she was being hunted by a monster.

Few people would sleep soundly in that situation—unless they were part of the Mad Platoon.

“Get some rest tonight. We won’t slow our march.”

“Yes, sir.”

It wouldn’t be easy, but Anne wasn’t foolish enough to complain in a situation like this.

“We’ll stay another day.”

Grida’s words meant they’d depart tomorrow, not tonight. She had planned for this when they chose this spot.

She lit a fire. Enkrid pulled out preserved rations. He filled a pot with water and made a stew of jerky and vegetables.

He chewed through some pemmican, too. Kraiss had supposedly improved the taste, but it still felt like survival food.

He also added what knights called ”combat mix”—dried meat, fish, and fruits ground ◆ Nоvеlіgһt ◆ (Only on Nоvеlіgһt) into powder. When mixed with water, it delivered far more calories than pemmican.

Taste? That was irrelevant. It was battlefield food.

If they hadn’t expected combat, they might’ve hunted. But that wasn’t an option now.

Soldiers fight better when properly fed. Knights were no exception.

As he ate, Enkrid considered the options.

First choice: go back to the city.

We haven’t come that far.

They had horses. They could ride back.

Second: send Anne back, then return here.

If someone’s targeting her, the border guard’s safer.

Esther was there. A sloppy mage wouldn’t stand a chance.

There were more troops there, too.

But Anne probably wouldn’t want that.

Third: bring reinforcements. Slower, but safer.

If Jaxon had been here last night, the enemy wouldn’t have escaped so quietly. His detection skills were near unmatched.

Fourth: keep going with what they had.

The first three would all delay them. And delay might be exactly what the enemy wanted.

Maybe the attack hadn’t been about Anne at all—but to stall them.

Should they speed up?

Not easy.

Even if Ragna carried Anne, she wasn’t a knight. Even if she endured being carried, it would take a toll.

Ragna couldn’t run all day either.

A proper march wasn’t about max speed. It was about maintaining combat readiness and avoiding disadvantages while moving fast.

Carrying Anne? Sprinting? That would drain stamina fast.

Even if she held out, other problems would arise.

“Are these kinds of fights a pain?”

Ragna asked beside him.

Enkrid replied on instinct—his honest thoughts, spoken plainly.

It was how he always talked with the Mad Platoon: Rem, Ragna, Audin, Jaxon, Kraiss.

No lies, no filters. That’s why they’d never shown him unnecessary hostility.

So he answered without thinking:

“I don’t shy away from any kind of fight.”

The moment he said it, Enkrid flinched, glancing at the fire with a sudden chill.

He slowly looked up into the darkness.

That shiver came from the dream the ferryman had shown him.

“I don’t either.”

Ragna echoed, sincerely.

And Enkrid thought—

The future?

Maybe what the ferryman showed wasn’t the past or present—but the future.

Or maybe it was the “present” he was about to become trapped in.

Just like before. The ferryman often showed fragmented pieces of things that might happen.

They didn’t always come true, but something close usually did.

This time, he had shown a vision without any explanation.

Why?

Unknown.

Enkrid knew better than to overthink it.

So—what to do?

Narrow the choices. Start with what’s easy.

What could he handle right now?

His eyes landed on Odinkar.

Tension and anxiety showed clearly on the man’s face, even as he ate.

Right then, a fifth choice came to him.

Split the group.

Odinkar was strong—no guarantee Enkrid could win if it came to a life-or-death fight. He knew the route back to Zaun, and his instincts wanted to return.

“Let’s send Odinkar ahead.”

Enkrid said.

Grida and Magrun looked at him.

“Can’t we?”

He asked again. They exchanged glances.

Odinkar blinked, then clapped his hands once and said,

“Right, of course. That’s an option too. You always pull some unexpected move. Fine. I’ll go first.”