A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

Oppression—an innate technique of those who wield Will.

But where did it begin?

A cat emits killing intent so overwhelming that a mouse freezes in place. Monsters could do something similar. They instilled terror into sentient beings, humans included.

It wasn’t hard to imagine a human trembling and dying, paralyzed in fear before a monster.

“As long as it’s a monster of a certain level...”

They knew how to manipulate fear. And that’s where Oppression started.

Crushing an opponent’s mind, dominating them with fear.

Recalling the first moment one experiences oppression makes it easy to grasp: it feels as though your neck could be sliced off at any moment—a suffocating pressure.

“Just like oppression, if you trace Will back to its roots, it’s probably similar. This is just what Imperial scholars have speculated, but they believe the first knight awakened to Will while pondering where monsters’ overwhelming power came from... Oh? Another one coming at me?”

With that, Valphir grinned crookedly.

Wasn’t it Lynox who said Valphir had bad habits before they departed?

Even Schmidt had given a lengthy speech, clearly uncomfortable with the two of them leaving together.

“For now, I need to return to the Empire as well. I have to report what happened. A legendary alchemist becoming a monster, impersonating a god, and being killed—this isn’t a small matter.”

Part of it was because his injured leg meant he couldn’t keep up with Enkrid and Valphir’s pace. But reporting it to the Empire wasn’t something trivial either.

Even so, Schmidt had repeatedly emphasized to Valphir—

“Enkrid of the Border Guard will be a pillar of the Empire.”

That wasn’t something Enkrid agreed with.

He’d never said he’d go to the Empire, nor had he shown any interest. So why this insistence?

“Me?”

He interrupted mid-speech.

“That’s how valuable you are.”

Schmidt said it again. Valphir simply scratched his ear. But that didn’t mean Schmidt could go on nagging him.

Their hierarchy was clear.

Valphir was higher; Schmidt was beneath him.

And Schmidt calling him ill-mannered had likely stemmed from this very moment—

“It’s a ghoul.”

Valphir liked the sound of bones breaking.

Mid-conversation, he stomped the ground and lunged forward, grabbing the ghoul’s arm and snapping it with a crack.

The ghoul hadn’t even managed to swing yet. A few more monsters lunged, but they met similar fates.

Arms and legs shattered, they writhed on the ground before their necks were stomped and crushed to dust.

Only crack, crunch, and snap echoed through the field.

“Monsters just don’t give that satisfying feeling in the hand.”

That’s the kind of thing he’d say.

Valphir didn’t hide his desires. In fact, he voiced them openly.

“Giant bones are the most delightful. Breaking something that seems unbreakable—now that is a majestic sound.”

Apparently, when a giant’s bones snap, it sounds like a stone pillar breaking. That alone confirmed Valphir wasn’t quite normal.

“So oppression originated by mimicking a monster’s killing intent... and Will began from the sight of a monster’s absurd power?”

Enkrid organized the thought out loud.

They walked along a dry path under the warm sun. Green grass had started to poke through the ground. Flowers peeked here and there, but it wasn’t a road people traveled often—the path itself was rough.

It was untamed, wild terrain. Rocks jutted out, making the ground that looked flat from a distance harsh and uneven.

They had crossed several ridges, though this wasn’t the Border Guard’s side.

There hadn’t been any tracks, no new intel received, yet Valphir had chosen a direction without hesitation.

“Some say that. Others—other scholars—say differently.”

The Empire had unified the continent’s languages and currency. Once, it had even aimed to dominate the entire Central Continent. Now, it had stopped.

Why? No one knew. Which is why even someone like Crang kept his senses sharp to the Empire’s movements.

Enkrid shared part of his story as well. If you receive, you give. That’s virtue.

Even if you can’t place both sides evenly on a scale.

He mentioned Count Molsen and Drmul.

The topic turned to chimeras and the forced creation of knights.

“Mass-producing knights? That’s not how it works. A knight is, if I had to put it simply, like a handcrafted piece by an artisan. If you make it from cast bronze, it’ll just crack and break. It only means something when forged through tireless training and carved out by craftsmanship. How does the Empire do it? Knights guide knights.”

Valphir spoke with unwavering conviction and no secrecy.

He didn’t hesitate to share the Empire’s method of cultivating knights.

They raise many, and those knights in turn guide the next.

“Cycle.”

A system that sustains and grows through repetition.

Enkrid learned something else. Was it luck? It had to be.

When he returned to the Border Guard, he figured he could try a few things.

A knight guides a knight.

That core principle engraved itself into his mind.

“Do you think the Empire is evil?”

“I don’t know.”

He didn’t judge what he hadn’t experienced. Valphir quietly admired that.

He liked Enkrid’s attitude.

He still needed to assess his skill more thoroughly, though.

Even with all his own experience, Valphir couldn’t fully gauge someone like this just by looking.

If someone was unskilled, you could judge them by how they walked. If they were skilled, you could read their reactions.

“But this guy doesn’t show much at all.”

Conversely, Enkrid also couldn’t judge Valphir’s abilities. But both knew from experience that this was how it should be.

Even comparing him to the head of the Zaun family, Enkrid could tell Valphir didn’t fall short.

Likewise, Valphir knew Enkrid wasn’t one of the pampered flower-knights raised in a greenhouse.

“Some folks in the Empire call the continent’s knights ‘flower knights.’”

Valphir ✪ Nоvеlіgһt ✪ (Official version) said with a chuckle.

Enkrid walked on uneven rocks without the slightest loss of balance.

With flexibility in his ankles, power from calves to thighs to hips, he moved in a way that allowed him to swing his sword in any direction at any time.

It looked simple, but it was a way of walking that preserved readiness at all times.

It could’ve drained his stamina, but for someone so used to harsh terrain, Enkrid was calm as ever.

“If you don’t struggle endlessly, you stagnate. That’s what you’re saying?”

“A friend who knows ten things when you teach one.”

It wasn’t a compliment he heard often, which made it feel unfamiliar.

While Enkrid kept his balance walking carefully, Valphir crushed rocks with force to forge his own path.

“The world isn’t simple, Enkrid of the Border Guard.”

“Did I say I was?”

He hadn’t. Valphir nodded obediently.

After exchanging words a few times, he realized—this guy couldn’t be beaten with words.

So what now?

Valphir didn’t bother hiding his growing interest in Enkrid.

By evening, they found a place to rest. A small cave.

They lit a fire just outside, and with no pot to cook in, they nibbled on jerky until Valphir suddenly spoke.

“Want to learn a technique?”

It wasn’t a sparring challenge. He just offered to teach, straight out.

And Enkrid wasn’t someone who’d refuse that.

***

Valphir truly knew an array of techniques.

“You don’t have to master them right now—just knowing is enough.”

To put it simply, these were techniques of precise response.

He’d break arms or counter holds based on the opponent’s weapon and stance. Every move stemmed from experience.

So it wasn’t Imperial swordsmanship per se.

Especially wrestling techniques while still holding a sword—these weren’t part of Balafian martial arts.

They weren’t individually spectacular, but they expanded one’s way of thinking.

The more minor techniques one knew, the more refined their combat became.

And Enkrid knew that. That’s why he memorized every bit of it while dripping with sweat.

It must’ve looked earnest.

Valphir started talking about his past.

“I was with the Eli Mercenary Corps. Heard of it?”

They were wrist-locked, bodies separated, Enkrid’s right ankle crossing Valphir’s left.

Hands and feet tangled, torsos apart. Valphir always carried a scent like dust—like opening an old crate or forgotten storeroom.

“Vaguely.”

It was a famous name before Mercenary King Anu swept across the continent.

Named after someone called Eli, though people said the three centurions under him fought even better.

Valphir was one of those three.

“You older than you look?”

“When you awaken to Will, you age slowly. Will comes from the mind, but fills the body with vitality.”

Valphir’s words sometimes turned academic—practical and theoretical at once.

A contradiction, maybe, but true.

“The world isn’t simple.”

You can’t judge a person from just one side.

Enkrid hadn’t forgotten what he learned from Heskal. So he accepted it all as it was.

Is the Empire evil?

The answer would be the same.

You can’t know until you’ve lived it.

Snap. Thud!

A twisted wrist, a pressured ankle—it seemed like Valphir was about to unbalance him, but instead he released the grip and distanced himself.

“This is my specialty. No need to force close combat.”

Valphir patted his waist.

A blunt weapon with hard angles hung there, asserting its presence.

“Since his specialty is the mace, he prioritized creating distance.”

Once you know the objective, their actions become easier to read.

“That’s the essence of observational swordsmanship.”

The more you understood your opponent, the more easily you could predict them. That’s why sharpening one’s insight was essential.

Of course, there were also those who used your assumptions against you.

Either way, knowing your enemy gave you an edge.

That was likely why Valphir offered to teach him.

He was assessing Enkrid now—figuring out his habits and strengths.

Interestingly, in this kind of situation, Enkrid had the ability to throw Valphir’s mind into disarray.

“Sejunghwanqueyu, unbound by the Five.”

Valphir concluded: The more I look, the less I know this guy.

After three days of talking, training, and teaching, they finally spotted their target.

A broad basin halfway up the mountain range.

Only short grass grew here, giving the place a bleak feel. Trees were sparse, and the peaks blocked the sun.

Instead of summer heat, a chill lingered.

There stood a man with a longsword.

Scars ran across his lips and eyebrows. Even without those, his face was rough and intimidating.

His right arm was longer—proof he’d trained with a sword in that hand for years. And despite being on the run, his appearance wasn’t all that ragged.

“Lived fairly well while on the run.”

That was the conclusion.

“Bastards... clingy as hell, aren’t you?”

He muttered.

Valphir grinned and spoke.

“I swear—”

And what followed was completely unexpected to Enkrid.

“If you can beat this guy next to me, you’re free. Gelt.”

This man—once a knight of the Empire—now a fugitive leader of a bandit gang.

“You wanted to see Imperial swordsmanship, didn’t you? I think I twisted my ankle earlier, so I can’t fight.”

A pathetic excuse, but Enkrid played along.

“Then rest up.”

Crunch. Crunch.

He stepped forward, boots pressing softly into the damp, moss-like grass.

“And you are? From the Empire?”

The man, seated on a boulder, asked bluntly.

Gelt had picked up the sword because he liked the feeling of slicing people.

Fighting strong opponents didn’t give him that thrill. He preferred the screams of women and children.

Valphir had told him that on the way.

And he was probably telling the truth—no reason to lie about something so vile.

Ssshing.

Enkrid drew Three Iron and leveled it, gazing at Gelt.

“No.”

“Some flunky from your merc days?”

“No.”

“Then what are you?”

Gelt rose from the rock, sword angled so the blade covered his body, pointing diagonally skyward.

Oppression—its form was made manifest.

“That’s the basic stance for handling Oppression in the Empire.”

Valphir’s voice came from behind.

Imperial swordsmanship went a step beyond what the continent knew.

You could tell just by listening.

And now, Enkrid was about to experience it firsthand.

He focused.

The wind. The sunlight. The stretched shadows. The texture of the ground underfoot.

He drew all of it into his senses.

And prepared the Sword of Chance.