A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

“It’s just time for me to die. Everyone dies eventually.”

Enkrid looked at Jaxon, who accepted his own death with calm. After Jaxon, it was Audin.

“The Apostle of War shall guide you.”

Audin gathered his last breath to offer a consecration prayer.

“I think... this was the happiest time of my life.”

Teresa, the half-blooded giantess, sang softly as she died.

“My betrothed, it’s your turn to take an evil spirit as your bride.”

Shinar kept joking right up [N O V E L I G H T] to the moment of his death.

So very like him.

Grrrrng.

‘Why is Esther a leopard again?’

The only witch Enkrid had ever known died in the form of a leopard. And many others died too. The inside of this book of nightmares was stuffed full of loss.

He couldn’t see exactly how they died, but the sheer presence of death—its approach—pressed in with gut-wrenching reality.

“Enjoy the show. This is just the beginning.”

The Ferryman deliberately chewed at Enkrid’s mind.

Like a squirrel scraping away the shell of an acorn, he slowly drove slivers of psychic poison inward.

When Enkrid awoke, he pushed the nightmare aside. It had a more extravagant cast than the previous night.

Remembering it wouldn’t change anything, and even if he argued with the Ferryman, it wasn’t as if the nightly torment would stop.

More than that—though it was just a feeling—

‘He’s aiming for something.’

The Ferryman had a reason. It wasn’t easy to understand, so Enkrid didn’t bother responding.

He simply focused on what he needed to do.

Pell had collapsed just last night, after standing for three days straight.

“What did you gather us here for, brother?”

Audin asked as Enkrid stepped forward in the training yard.

“Don’t you see I’m busy?”

That came from Rem, who seemed to have nothing better to do.

“What’s this, so early in the morning...”

Even though the sun had long since risen, the lazy one still insisted it was “dawn.” Jaxon stood with arms crossed, silent. Shinar gave a faint smile—one that sometimes reminded Enkrid of Dorothea’s portraits—but today his face was as impassive as ever.

Esther had taken leopard form and was watching with her head resting on her front paws. Teresa sat quietly next to her.

Enkrid looked at them all as he loosened up. He began from his fingertips, carefully warming up every muscle in his body.

“For real though—what are we doing?”

“Stand in front of me, Rem.”

Enkrid looked the brawling barbarian in the eyes.

The atmosphere shifted.

The only movement was Enkrid sliding his left foot slightly forward.

Lua Gharne, watching from the sidelines, instantly recognized the move as part of his tactical swordplay.

‘That left foot could be the start of an attack—or the beginning of a feint.’

Tactical swordplay is about seizing every possible advantage in combat.

Rem started to say something, then shut his mouth. His hand was already gripping the handle of his axe.

They stood at perfect striking distance.

Of course, both of them were experienced enough that they could fight from nearly any range—but if either swung now, it would land.

The world’s noise vanished. Enkrid’s field of vision narrowed until only Rem remained in his sight.

‘The range favors me.’

He’d left Three Iron with Aitri, so the only blade at his hip now was Penna.

Still, it was longer than Rem’s axe. That gave him an edge in reach.

As for the environment? Rem had the upper hand. Spatial optimization was his specialty—he moved by instinct and intuition, utilizing every part of his surroundings.

Still, Enkrid kept his eyes locked on him, taking everything into account: environment, footing, timing.

And Rem did the same.

Neither of them blinked. Even as dust swirled past them on the wind.

The early summer sun warmed the grass pushing up between the stones of the sparring yard.

It was too hot to just stand there doing nothing.

And then they moved.

Enkrid and Rem struck at each other at once. It was impossible to say who attacked first.

That’s how fast it was. How well they read one another’s rhythm.

‘You’ve improved again.’

Rem thought his blade was as fast as Enkrid’s axe.

CLANG!

Steel clashed, sparks flew.

Dozens of invisible attack lines had tried to reach each other’s bodies—but all missed.

Enkrid moved by calculation. Rem followed instinct, swinging his axe and shifting his stance.

He didn’t hold back. He invoked Descent, flooding his body with sorcery and spinning wildly. The strain would leave an aftershock in his body.

Enkrid responded in kind. With a burst of intent, he flooded his entire body with Will.

Their fight was like a cart picking up speed down a steep hill. To stop it would take someone capable of absorbing that momentum.

Helping one side kill the other would be easier, actually.

But stopping both without injury? Not even Anu, the Mercenary King, could do that easily.

Could Ragna and Audin pull it off together without causing a scratch?

Not likely.

Enkrid’s sword swung—and he sank into his own mind.

‘Faster.’

He narrowed the gap between thought and action. Matching Rem’s instinctive intuition.

His blade sped up. Not just a flash—a chain of lightning bolts.

As the white arc of his sword carved through the air, Rem’s axe rose to meet it.

He became a storm swallowing that lightning.

His axe traced the perfect line to intercept.

Enkrid went one step further—condensing the burst of intent into a single point.

At the end of that exchange, Penna spun on his left foot and sliced a clean arc through the air.

Rem’s arm was caught in that line.

Skeghk.

Enkrid cut off Rem’s right arm.

He heard the sharp wet sound beside his ear.

At the same time, he brought his axe down. It hit Enkrid’s shoulder—but didn’t slice through. It left a solid wound, but nothing fatal.

So Rem knew: if this went on, he would lose.

‘I lost.’

It was his honest thought. With time, the one who lost an arm would inevitably lose.

And it wasn’t just an arm. With it gone, he’d suffer sensory dissonance. Adjusting to a new center of gravity would take time.

And that time would be fatal in a fight with a knight.

‘Still, I won’t lose cleanly.’

Enkrid, too, admitted it silently—eyes narrowed.

Even without an arm, Rem wasn’t easy prey.

He could clearly picture him swinging an axe one-handed, berserker-style.

In a life-or-death fight, where you let flesh be cut to crush flesh, bone be shattered to shatter bone—

You didn’t need balance. Just madness.

It was all there.

But there was no need to go that far.

This fight ended here.

“...What the hell was that?”

Sweat dripped from Rem’s jaw to the ground.

“Fun, wasn’t it?”

Enkrid asked in return.

Rem rolled his right arm around.

It was all an illusion. More precisely, a simulated clash born from mutual understanding.

They had fought in the mental realm.

“It was fun.”

“I heard the Empire teaches this—projecting pressure into form. I figured we could try it.”

When he first saw the head of House Zaun, the greatsword on his back looked like it would strike at any moment.

That was manifested pressure.

Handled more delicately, it could allow for sparring entirely within a simulated domain.

It meant they could fight brutally—without actually wielding weapons.

It was a way to spar at high intensity without risking real injury.

Enkrid had no interest in “dueling forms” for training.

He didn’t mind strengthening techniques, but—

‘Nothing beats live combat.’

That was something he learned while teaching people struggling to survive in tiny villages.

In the end, what Enkrid and Rem did was nothing more than shifting foot positions and curling fingers—fighting with nothing but the pressure they gave off from where they stood.

It required incredible insight and a deep understanding of one’s current self.

“The servant of the Lord awaits the next match.”

“You’ve made something truly fascinating.”

Audin and Ragna chimed in. Shinar’s aura flared—he was ready to step forward, too.

Jaxon unfolded his arms.

“If it’s this kind of duel... I believe I can show you something interesting too.”

Sparring in the simulated domain, then crossing real blades afterward—

If this wasn’t enjoyable, what on earth was?

Moving your body is pleasure. Swinging a sword is more than pleasure.

Every time Enkrid faced an attack outside common sense, he was filled with euphoria.

By now, the nightmare from last night had faded into complete black.

Shinar showed a summer thunderstorm, different from his usual winter breeze.

Audin used his muscles like coiled steel, detonating them to show that Will alone wasn’t dangerous—his body was a weapon, too.

Once caught in those hands, there was no escape. His grip could crush anything.

Ragna casually displayed his sword.

“Its name is Sunrise. The Rising Sun. When it touches you, it burns.”

It was a family weapon, infused with his Will.

Not newly forged, but it felt made for him.

The sword radiated heat. Even brushing your clothes against it could spark a flame.

In real sparring, its power was more pronounced than in the simulated realm.

‘Even a graze sets clothing ablaze.’

He could produce heat hot enough to vaporize sweat.

Sunrise lived up to its name. After all, nothing is hotter than the sun.

With Jaxon, it was a single blow duel.

His Lethal Thrust before was a kill without malice.

This time, he struck with no regard for his own body. He was ready to lose an arm if it meant killing his target.

“Block this if you can.”

Jaxon grinned.

It was a satisfied smile.

It wasn’t just Enkrid who felt euphoria.

This was the Mad Knights, after all—a collection of lunatics like this.

“It really is fun.”

Rem’s words spoke for them all.

They returned to Border Guard and resumed daily life.

Sweat had washed the nightmares away—but that night, and the next, the Ferryman returned.

“My child now has no father.”

It was Owl—Rem’s wife. A newborn was cradled in her arms.

Presumably, her and Rem’s child.

“Is this really right?”

She asked.

As if to say—was Rem’s death the only choice? Was this the best possible outcome?

The Ferryman’s nightmares were a series.

After loss came resentment.

“My son is dead.”

Then the ragged saint appeared, staring blankly at Enkrid.

Leonar, slumped to the ground after losing her merchant band, murmured that this wasn’t what she wanted.

“It’s not over yet.”

The Ferryman said.

Following loss and resentment, he revealed the third nightmare.

Its theme was despair.

Enkrid dreamed a long dream.

He lived another dozen years.

Border Guard held strong, and with Crang’s help, Naurillia grew prosperous.

But one day, darkness surrounded Border Guard.

Monsters and beasts filled the city. All contact with the outside was cut off.

The inevitable outcome of a demonic zone.

“Captain!”

Kraiss called out to him.

It wasn’t hard to read the emotion in his eyes.

“You’re going to fight to the end, right?”

He asked.

Enkrid’s example had imprinted on Kraiss. He wasn’t overwhelmed by fear.

But he knew how this would end.

“We’re going to fight until the very last breath, right?”

Everyone acknowledged they would die here.

As Kraiss spoke, they all gathered.

Enkrid and the others fought the darkness for an entire year.

Food ran out. Even the cries of the dying faded.

You could survive if you left. You know that, don’t you? Leave. Go. Find peace. Walk toward a quieter life.

Was it a dream within a dream? The Ferryman whispered from within the despair.

Enkrid didn’t listen.

The enemies remained. He couldn’t stop them.

Caught in that dying day, still battling monsters and beasts, the Ferryman asked him—

“Is this really what you wished for?”

Loss. Resentment. Despair.

Three blades twisted in his chest—but none pierced deep.

He had already answered the Ferryman, long ago.

‘Waiting for someone to save you is for fools.’

And yet—no one can do anything alone.

Enkrid had long since accepted that truth.

When he shook off the nightmare, he still heard the Ferryman’s last words.

“You’re not breaking.”

To Enkrid, that meant the Ferryman had worked especially hard this time.

But in the end, he had failed.

When Enkrid went outside, the sun hadn’t even risen yet.

But someone was already there.

Pell stood in the yard, the tip of the Idol Slayer resting against the ground. His eyes were calm. Unshaken. Like a still lake.

“Captain.”

“Yeah.”

“If I win... do I become the new commander?”

Enkrid saw it at once.

A lunatic drunk on omnipotence had picked up a sword.

“Then I guess today’s the day I take the title.”

Pell had gone even madder than when Enkrid first met him. Probably thanks to Rem’s influence.

In the Mad Knights, it was rare to find anyone who stayed sane.

Enkrid picked up a practice sword. No edge. Just a good solid club.

Let the duel begin.