A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

If one could feel Will and move it, couldn’t it also be transformed?

“It can be.”

He had already experienced it through his body and proven it in practice. The milky light flowing across his blade—that had been the result of transferring concentrated Will into the sword.

If he could do it with the sword, he could do it with the body too. Gather the remaining Will, condense it, and release it.

Ragna swung Penna four times with that intent.

***

Ragna stood ahead and slightly to the left of Enkrid as he swung.

Drmul was separated from his two companions, which, from an outside view, made it look like Enkrid and Drmul were one group, and Ragna with the other two formed another.

Enkrid, even before Ragna stepped up, had been furiously calculating inside his head.

Lua Gharne-style tactical swordplay didn’t rely purely on instinct.

Instinct was Enkrid’s personal addition. The foundation of tactical swordplay was probabilistic calculation.

“What’s the path to survival?”

Or—

“Which options lead to victory?”

His face and posture may have looked calm, but in his mind, the computations raced. This battlefield was filled with variables.

And among them, one large variable entered Enkrid’s gaze.

Though conserving strength, he remained seated in the wet dirt to avoid wasting even a drop of energy. From there, he saw the peril Ragna faced.

The three-eyed elder had cast lightning with a few simple gestures.

And in front of Ragna, the horned scaler-mutant extended a hand and unleashed telekinesis.

The falling rain was caught and shaped by the force. Two massive hands, formed of rainwater, began to close in on Ragna from either side. It was a telekinesis that trapped even the rainfall itself. No scaler Enkrid had seen possessed such superiority.

And while maintaining the telekinesis, the mutated creature raised its left hand and charged, swinging down at Ragna. The speed rivaled a knight’s empowered dash.

To Enkrid, the descending hand appeared in slow motion.

The air warped around the edge of the hand. Just as he thought it was moving slowly, its speed doubled.

He couldn’t afford to dedicate brainpower to calculations.

Part of it was the sudden distraction. Part of it was his shattered physical state. But more than anything—it was instinct.

A quiet voice from the depths of his mind compelled him: You must not miss this.

Just before the lightning struck Ragna, Enkrid’s full concentration locked onto the young man’s sword.

Light clung to Ragna’s blade. Even the falling raindrops split apart when they touched it.

It was Will, visibly condensed into light. Ragna swung.

His first slash was from the left. As Penna cut through the air, it pulled the lightning along, dragging it sideways into the ground.

Then, with fluid motion, the blade extended straight forward. Just as the scaler-mutant’s hand came down.

Ragna’s thrust pierced through the hand—and continued on through the horned head.

BOOM!

The thunderstrike hitting the ground masked the sound of flesh being pierced. The two happened nearly simultaneously.

That’s how fast Ragna’s strikes had been. One to the left. One forward.

It was like two Ragnas had struck in unison—so seamless were the movements.

But he didn’t stop there.

He withdrew his blade and charged at the three-eyed elder, swinging again.

Instantly, countless barriers—wards, artifacts, protective spells—activated around the elder to shield him.

Even the embedded eye on his forehead flared red at the last moment.

And still—not one defense could ✧ NоvеIight ✧ (Original source) stop the blade.

The elder didn’t even manage to open his mouth. Ragna’s sword traced a clean line across his neck.

Three slashes in, Ragna propelled himself again.

His body, like Enkrid’s earlier, had pushed past its limits. To any untrained eye, it might’ve looked like teleportation.

No afterimage. No lag. He closed the distance in an instant—and his final strike dropped toward Drmul’s head.

But unfortunately, his blade never reached its mark.

CLANG! CRAAAACK!

A barrier.

Bad luck? No. It was expected.

“Mages are deceitful.”

Enkrid recalled Esther’s teachings.

A fracture rippled around Drmul’s form. The air itself cracked like glass, splintering and shattering.

It was the spell that had guarded Drmul’s body for forty years—finally broken.

“Impressive,” Drmul murmured, sweeping his hand.

Telekinesis hit Ragna square in the torso.

WHAM!

After four slashes, Ragna had nothing left. He was flung to the side like a rag doll. This time, he couldn’t even stabilize in midair and tumbled across the ground.

Thud. Thump.

Right now, he probably couldn’t fend off even a passing ghoul.

But still—he gripped Penna tightly in his hand.

Lying there, Ragna coughed up blood. He tried to push himself up by stabbing Penna into the earth. His body swayed.

Matted with mud and rain, his hair clung to his face, now a mess of blood and filth.

Dark, dirty water—mixed with blood—streamed down his jaw and pooled at his chin.

“I’ve planted the seed of plague in your body. Just lie there. You’ll still be unable to die, even if you want to.”

Ragna couldn’t reply. Blood streamed from his mouth and nose. His pupils were unfocused—unconscious, perhaps. Or just barely holding on.

Still, he tried to fight—bracing against the earth with his sword.

Enkrid couldn’t hold back.

“Did you see that? Just a ‘mere swordsman’ pulled that off.”

Two of the people you brought are dead. Only one remains.

A deliberate provocation.

“Consistently insane, the lot of you,” Drmul replied.

There was a hint of displeasure, but no panic.

Why? Because the two who died weren’t important to him.

What mattered was divinity. His descent into this world.

“Come then. I still have strength left,” Enkrid said.

Watching Ragna fight and endure stirred something hot in his chest.

He wanted to cut down that rotting corpse in front of him. So be it.

He reached for Three Iron—

And then Ragna’s voice rang out.

“Come on. I’ll take you.”

It didn’t matter what he meant exactly. The will behind the words was crystal clear.

Even half-conscious, his resolve blazed.

Enkrid clenched his jaw.

His senses were too dulled to detect an approach.

“That’s enough. Son.”

A shadow blocked the rain above Ragna.

The man approaching—Tempest Zaun.

Ragna’s father.

He placed a hand on his son’s shoulder.

“It’s over now.”

His voice held no emotion. Just fact. And truth.

Lynox came up beside him, groaning about his aching back.

Enkrid almost asked why they arrived so early, why not wait till morning like planned—but he stopped himself.

This variable, one he had accounted for, hadn’t come late after all.

And now he couldn’t say anything.

Neither of them looked unscathed. Especially Lynox.

He was missing his left arm.

Meeting Enkrid’s gaze, the aging swordsman who had protected Zaun grinned and said:

“Guess I’ll have to make do with just three swords now.”

He had once wielded six with both arms. Now only one remained.

Yet he joked.

Could he regrow it? Not unless Seiki made some miraculous deal with the gods she fled from.

“I... I...”

Ragna kept repeating himself, unaware of the hand on his shoulder.

Everyone had seen what he had done.

The three-eyed elder was decapitated. The horned, mutated chimera had a gaping hole in her head.

After stabbing her with Penna, Ragna had twisted the blade, shredding it from within. The wound was jagged—ripped open like with a dull blade.

In other words: dead.

He had killed two—and nearly a third.

Drmul had seen their approach—but didn’t care.

“You didn’t die. Somehow. Did Heskal fail to do his job? Or did you all simply exceed my expectations?”

Drmul didn’t panic—he marveled. To show this much force...

Everything he had prepared now lay dead on the ground. He had coffins ready for them, but hadn’t expected it to turn out this way. Truly unexpected.

And for that—he was slightly pleased.

This, perhaps, would be his last amusement before becoming divine.

He looked down upon them all.

His body had grown larger. Now, his head towered two above Enkrid’s.

Blackened bone jutted from his decayed flesh like scaffolding, supporting his monstrous form.

Pulsing, engorged veins swelled between those bones, adding strength to the frame.

“You will all be reborn. I shall gift you new life by filling you with divinity.”

One might think someone had asked for it.

“You,” said the family head.

He stepped forward, ignoring whatever Drmul was saying. The increasing size was surprising—but clearly irrelevant in his eyes.

He too was covered in cuts. The wounds didn’t bleed, but had blackened. Poisoned.

He walked forward with heavy, deliberate steps.

Ten strides or less. If he sprinted now and swung his greatsword, Drmul’s neck would be within reach.

Meanwhile, Drmul’s neck extended unnaturally, his chin lifted as he looked down on them.

“You’re uglier than I imagined,” said Tempest Zaun.

Behind him, Lynox nodded in agreement.

“Yeah, he is.”

Drmul stared down at the ones remaining.

“You helped that child endure. I should’ve killed him earlier, after all.”

No one could understand Drmul’s words or actions.

And he didn’t want them to.

A god does not ask understanding from its creations.

Still, he spoke:

“Why do these pitiful, struggling creatures resist so stubbornly?”

Even if not understood, surely his greatness, his suffering, deserved to be heard.

That, after all, was not understanding—but doctrine.

“There was a time when a reaper whispered to me. Yes, a long time ago. I created a very special potion back then. It let me exist on a different time.”

He spoke like a sermon.

“What do you think would happen if one day became twice as long for me?”

Drmul had always possessed rare talent—but he wanted more.

He delved into alchemy, and eventually entered the world of spells.

In the process, he entered the Demon Realm. Visited the Empire. Peered into the continent’s secrets.

And only then did he realize what he truly desired:

To become a god.

“That potion was just a small gain from my studies of immortality and undeath.”

His rotting mouth curled upward—flesh dropping off to the floor. Sickening to look at.

Now his skin shone like a gemstone—smooth and hard.

But not clear. Like a gem filled with filth.

“Listen. These are the first words of my divine revelation.”

Drmul’s voice overlapped with itself, echoing.

To Enkrid, it felt just like when he faced a demon.

A being with purpose and perspective so alien it felt wrong—utterly incompatible with man or beast.

A choking pressure fell over the world. Even the falling rain seemed forgotten.

Dominance—or perhaps gravitational pull. It sucked in all awareness.

Only after overwhelming the field did Drmul recite the first verse of his gospel with his rotting tongue:

“One day for them was ten for me. And I lived over a hundred of those days. This is how the ordinary surpasses the extraordinary. The beginning of a man who surpassed demons and became a god!”

The overlapping voice shook the heart.

Even the air bowed before his words, as if kneeling in reverence.

At that moment, Enkrid murmured, almost unconsciously—

“Barely?”

It was quiet. But everyone heard.