A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

From a small, narrow stage,

The one who will end all this will come!

The knight who will dye war and life in twilight!

We shall call him the Knight of the End!

The one who will finally bring everything to a close!

The hero who will end the war!

Zhoraslav listened to an old song, passed down for generations in the village.

Outside his window, a few children were singing, almost like they were reciting a Holy Scripture.

Across the Continent, the legend had spread as a song of either the Knight of the Ceasefire or the Knight of the Apocalypse, with similar melodies and lyrics.

Some called him the Knight of the End, while others said the Knight of the Apocalypse.

In certain regions, he was known as the Knight of the Twilight.

The original lyrics had long since been forgotten.

That’s why, in some places, they alternated between End, apocalypse, and twilight in the song.

And to these people, it was more than just a song.

”Knight of the Apocalypse.”

Or, as some called him, the Knight of the End of War.

Such a figure was said, according to legend, to one day come and protect them.

”Do you really think he’s the Knight of the Apocalypse they speak of?”

The apocalypse described in the song refers to the end of this world.

And that world refers to the Demonic Domain.

In other words, it meant a knight who would bring about the downfall of the Demonic Domain.

There are those who interpret it this way, though it’s not necessarily the only truth.

Zhoraslav looked at the people seated around the large table.

They were in the meeting room of the Village Hall.

More than ten people, over twenty eyes in total, were all focused on him.

Zhoraslav was a realist.

That’s why, up until now, he had always thought this:

’It’s just a song that sings of hope.’

From a practical point of view, this song existed simply out of necessity.

What does a person need most to live?

Food, clothing, and shelter?

People can scrape by, even if they’re missing one of those things.

But when the heart breaks, it’s over.

What’s the point of surviving like this?

For someone who feels that way, even being given food, clothes, and a place to sleep would be meaningless.

Is there a reason to live?

Is survival worth it if you have to become a Corruptor?

Do I really have to go on living like this?

If someone were to ask him, there would only be one answer.

Of course, the answer is that I want to live.

There were days when you’d watch a child take a sip of bland soup—made with dried-out, tough turnips—and pretend it tasted good, smiling all the while.

The day that child was born is still vivid in his memory.

Even if life was neither prosperous nor peaceful nor comfortable, here, among these walls, they had found the beauty of living.

They could stroll beneath the changing seasons and, beside someone they loved, talk and care for one another.

They yearned for life, wanted—however humbly—to keep going, to have all these things.

And one of the means to sustain that life was hope.

The thing most essential for people to live was hope.

So, as far as Zhoraslav knew, the old song handed down over generations was simply a tool meant to kindle hope in this community.

A hero who would one day put an end to our suffering and bring us a better life is coming?

And that’s the Knight of the Apocalypse?

That’s what the lyrics say, but he never believed it.

At least, he never did.

Surviving—even if it meant relying on the Demon God for the rest of their lives—that was the reality they had.

That’s what Zhoraslav had believed all this time.

He didn’t cling to an old folk song; he faced reality and accepted it.

”I can’t help but think that maybe he really is that kind of person,” he said.

It was a friend of his, someone who used to be even more harshly realistic and cynical than himself, who spoke now, eyes shining.

The eyes of those whom nobody had ever looked back at, who had been ignored and abandoned, were beginning to fill with hope.

The song that was handed down, the man who, without the slightest hesitation, cut down the symbol of the Demon God, who also slaughtered every monster and beast around him and then turned his back on the carnage.

A person who entered the Demonic Domain without expecting any reward.

To Zhoraslav, he truly seemed like the Knight of the Apocalypse.

A hand, armored in kindness, reached out to those who had never tasted even a crumb of hope.

Could they possibly reject it?

No, they could not.

Because they, too, longed for a better life.

Everyone in the village prayed for the one who had stepped inside.

***

Teresa stood on the small, narrow stage she had made for herself.

She hadn’t drawn her sword; for now, she didn’t need it.

”So I took in a girl who only knows how to fight, and this is how you repay me—with ingratitude?”

Why did that moment come to mind now?

It was when the Cult Bishop held everything about her as collateral.

A time when the world was nothing but black and gray fragments.

That was when she met Enkrid.

And for the first time, she found joy in swinging her sword, in what had always been a meaningless act.

It was the first time.

’I will fight, and fight again, to prove myself.’

That was the answer she had given Enkrid.

He had once asked her how she wanted to live if she were reborn.

Everything from that moment still came back to her with vivid clarity.

The very air, the temperature—she remembered it all.

There had been a deep, heated exhale, and there was a version of herself who looked back on her past with regret.

So, the Teresa of the Cult died, and she was reborn as Wandering Teresa.

At first, she tried to hide behind a small mask, but it didn’t take long for her to realize it was pointless.

’I will keep fighting to the end.’

Those words weren’t just for the giant’s blood that ran in her veins.

They were words for who she had been, and for who she would become tomorrow.

After all, fighting didn’t always mean throwing fists or shedding blood.

Teresa had fought against her former self, embraced a new god, and learned the teachings of the Holy Scripture.

Standing atop the little stage crafted from her shield, she turned her head to look behind her.

The hero who had saved her was watching her intently.

Meeting his gaze, she parted her lips.

”Ah—”

A rough sound, somehow captivating no matter how it was heard, vibrated in her throat.

She faced forward once more and, as she looked at the monsters oozing pus as they approached, and at the fortress walls in the distance echoing with ghastly screams, she began to sing out.

Then her voice began to rise and fall, sometimes connecting, sometimes pausing, even her breaths blending in as part of the melody.

In other words, she started to sing.

Soon, her hymn of praise to the Lord soared up to the sky and made the earth tremble.

Awakening Divine Power is a gift granted to only a select few.

The talent to move others’ hearts through song is equally rare.

In other words, awakening Divine Power and performing chants properly each require separate talents.

If, by chance, someone was born with both gifts and worked tirelessly to hone them, they could wield Divine Power through song.

Within the Holy Knights Order, such people were respected and honored with the title Sacred Cantor.

Sometimes, they were also called Holy Cantor.

Audin had glimpsed traces of that talent in Teresa and guided her to awaken it.

It was for the same reason that, when Enkrid left for Yohan, Luagarne had stayed behind to lend her support.

She could sing a unique battle song called the Frog Song, and her cries affected everyone nearby.

In a way, it was based on the same principle as a chant.

The Half-blood Giant would plant her shield in the ground to create her own little stage, then step onto it and sing.

The melody woven from her voice was both beautiful and refreshing.

Whenever she raised her pitch, it soared so powerfully it felt like the air itself burst open.

Ah—ah!

Just hearing it made you feel invigorated.

”This…”

Enkrid spoke in a murmur.

As Teresa sang, something was taking shape before her, and seeing it made his mouth fall open.

Ah—ah.

Teresa’s artistry, turning even her breaths into part of the song—lyrics without words—sent a shiver down his spine.

They say an excellent Bard can play instruments and a truly great one sings as well.

The melody was deep, with a resounding power that spread wide. It was majestic, warm, and comforting.

The gentle air wrapped around Enkrid and everyone nearby, so calming that it was hard to believe they were standing in the heart of the Demonic Domain.

”May the Lord protect us,” Audin murmured in prayer.

This sense of peace was more than just a feeling.

Though her voice wasn’t loud, Teresa’s hymn, infused with Divine Power, took physical form and blocked the Ghouls’ charge.

A wall, aglow with white light, appeared—not as high as the shield Teresa stood on, but easily towering over an adult man’s head.

The barricade of white light spread out to both sides, pushing back the darkness of the Demonic Domain.

That spectacle alone was breathtaking.

”She told me she was inspired by what you did, Captain Brother.”

”Oh.”

With a brief sound of awe, Enkrid realized what she meant.

The wall he once raised to stop Aspen’s soldiers—that was the source of her inspiration.

At that moment, Enkrid recalled that he had also woven Will’s voice into his own before, and that too had influenced Teresa.

Audin had always said not to worry about Teresa.

Even so, he hadn’t expected she would show them something like this.

”It’s not perfect. They’re coming through the gaps.”

Luagarne rolled her large eyes and spoke.

She was right.

Through a gap in the wall wrought from Divine Power, a Ghoul tried to squeeze its body through.

Its flesh hissed and sizzled in the white light, smoke rising as it burned, yet it forced its way past the wall.

With a dull thud, it dropped one knee to the ground, curled its fingers, and stabbed at the earth, trying to crawl forward no matter what.

And right in front of it stood a human, who coolly swung a short sword without hesitation.

Slice.

Monsters, too, are made of bone, flesh, and muscle.

For Jaxen, who knew exactly how to stab and slash at the right angles to kill, cutting them down was almost effortless.

However, the reactions of the wounded Ghouls were anything but normal.

Brrrrt.

Yellow pus began to swell from the severed area.

Pop.

With a wet burst, the pus exploded.

Normally, it would have scattered plague spores, but Teresa’s Divine Power pressed down on the spores and extinguished them.

As the pitch of the song rose, white light gathered and pressed down on the exploded Ghoul.

Audin moved as well.

There were several gaps.

As he dashed across the ground, it seemed he was present in three places at once.

It was the afterimage left by his swift movement—an agility that belied his large frame.

After darting around like that, each light flick of his fist shattered a Ghoul’s head.

Where the heads burst, yellow pus swelled up like an overinflated pig’s bladder and burst again.

Audin didn’t bother waiting for Teresa’s help.

He couldn’t sing the Hymn, but when it came to wielding Divine Power, he was twice as skilled.

He stretched his hand over a Ghoul’s head he had just slain.

Following his hand, a veil of white light unfurled and settled like the hem of a cloak.

Even the burst of pus couldn’t penetrate that light.

Thud—

All it managed was to release a dull noise.

”You have some talent,” Luagarne remarked in admiration, drawing her whip.

Compared to a sword, her weapon was longer—meant for middle and long-range combat.

It was also a relic that could conjure fire at will.

A Plague Ghoul struggled to force its way in, only to have its skull shattered by the flaming whip.

The weight on the end of the whip was made of Dark Gold, and the whip itself, when wielded by someone skilled, could deliver high-speed strikes even with the strength of an average adult.

But the one wielding it now was the well-trained Frog.

The whip was woven from the hide of a Beast.

Since speed increases with strength, there was no need to mention just how formidable its power was.

Crack—! Crack—!

The whip sliced through the air, searing the Ghouls’ heads with fire.

To even follow its movement, you needed the reflexes of at least a Knight.

When the Ghoul’s skull or body burst with pus at the whip’s strike, even that simply fed the flames.

Now Ragna joined in as well.

With a lazy gait and steps wandering as if in a daze, he made his way toward the Plague Ghouls.

At some point he’d drawn his Greatsword, which gleamed with a faint red light.

Even as the sun began to set, there was no shortage of illumination here.

Ragna swung his Greatsword like a farmer cutting barley ears with a sickle.

He kept the blade’s path tight, relying just on wrist snaps as he moved his feet—simple, repetitive motions, again and again.

Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap.

With those simple movements, it wasn’t barley ears, but Plague Ghoul heads that popped up and tumbled to the ground.

Pus would also swell at the cut surfaces of those felled by Ragna, but the bubbles were much smaller than before.

Splat

They didn’t even burst properly.

Sunrise rejects all things unholy.

It’s called Sunrise because it’s a sword imbued with the Sun.

It’s an heirloom passed down through the generations in the Yohan family.

This kind of result was only to be expected.

With so many charging at once, quite a few managed to slip through one by one.

No, at this point, it might as well have been Teresa purposely letting them through.

She gathered what Divine Power she had left and scorched most of the Plague Ghouls with it.

The Ghouls with their mouths sewn shut couldn’t even scream.

Watching the Ghouls get swept away like that, Rem grinned and said,

”Hey, you two should help out a little more,”

This was directed at Ropord and Fel.

Teresa’s Hymn had formed a wall of Divine Power, but it couldn’t reach high enough to cover overhead.

Cawww!

Which meant that the massive bird diving down from above was still left to deal with.

But was that really a problem?

Probably not