A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

Was it thanks to Luagarne repeating it almost like brainwashing for days on end?

Or was it simply because it was a song everyone in the village had been humming for ages?

Even when the scenery in the village suddenly changed and the sounds of fighting erupted everywhere, not a single villager called out for the Demon God.

”O Knight of the Apocalypse. Save us.”

An Old Woman muttered this, and a child responded,

”They said it’s the Enigmatic Knight.”

A thick shadow stretched over the entire village.

The shadow was both physical and psychological.

All at once, the ground burst up in places and formed walls, and before anyone realized it, a ceiling had appeared overhead, blocking out the sunlight.

And then, those who fed on their fear showed themselves.

There were two Swordsmen.

One wielded a thin sword with a blade as flexible as a willow branch, while the other held a grotesque sword, a perfectly rectangular blade from hilt to tip—a Ricasso sword.

”Wonder if this one will be worth slicing.”

The one with the grotesque blade muttered.

”I’m sick of this job. I just want to leave the Demonic Domain.”

The owner of the thin blade replied.

The two seemed quite used to situations like this.

”You know that once we’re on the Continent, we can’t play this Labyrinth game anymore, right?”

Beelrog’s ability to turn a place into a labyrinth could only be used in areas heavily influenced by the Demonic Domain.

That much could be inferred from their conversation.

Of course, aside from these two who had just appeared, that fact mattered little to anyone else present.

When you’re facing imminent death, none of that is important.

”Grant us The End.”

The Old Woman bowed her head.

At that, one of the men raised his perfectly rectangular short sword—the one who’d been musing about the pleasure of slicing.

His sunken cheeks, the dark, almost grayish skin underneath his pale eyes, and his greasy hair, grown long enough to brush his shoulders—in the dark, if you ran into him, it wouldn’t be unreasonable to scream ”murderer” on the spot.

On top of that, he wore a jacket stitched from leather.

Pants, vest, coat—none of his clothing looked ordinary.

All his garments were tanned from human skin; this was his own signature protective gear.

He had spent his life using murder as a source of pleasure, so calling him a killer at first glance was more accurate than not.

He raised his right hand.

If he brought it down, the Old Woman’s head would be split clean in two, right down the middle.

Even though her skin had turned purple, her brains would be unchanged, and her blood would still be red.

Of course, the sensation of slicing something felt through the hand would be just as he expected.

He couldn’t help but look forward to it.

Normally, he had to settle for cutting down monsters, beasts, or the guy right next to him, but taking on someone by his side wasn’t easy, and monsters or beasts never gave him that satisfying feeling.

A portion of his twisted desire surfaced on his face.

With eyes burning with anticipation, he brought his rectangular blade down.

Thunk.

His blade failed to reach its target.

Nevertheless, the murderous glare didn’t leave his eyes.

He turned to look at the person who had blocked his sword.

He’d been aware this person was approaching and would stop him, but had let it happen.

A broadsword blocked his blade.

It was crafted with dwarven skill, and the owner of that sword was a man named Ropord.

”And who might you be?”

Ropord stared straight at his opponent as he spoke.

Compared to the killer, Ropord’s features were noble and eyes upright.

He’d been in the middle of a fervent training session, exchanging—though not exactly friendly—banter with Fel.

Suddenly, the terrain shifted around them, and out of nowhere, someone who looked like a professional killer appeared.

So, he blocked him.

Ropord’s eyes were already analyzing his opponent as if picking him apart—watching his stance, his attitude, the look in his eyes.

The heat flickering in his opponent’s eyes was nauseating just to look at.

It was a desire that reminded him of an old man lusting after a young woman.

His opponent retrieved the blocked sword and, without a word, swung his other hand.

In that hand, he also held a short, rectangular blade.

A cooking knife?

Ropord parried, noticing how unusual the weapon was.

It was a shortsword shaped like a kitchen knife.

On his opponent’s face—who looked as if he’d never once shown an expression in his life—a faint smile appeared.

”Hoo. I can tell you’d be really satisfying to slice.”

Hearing him exhale those words made a chill run inexplicably down Ropord’s spine.

Whoosh.

The opponent moved his feet, quickly closing the distance.

Between them, the Old Woman was still cowering with her head down.

She didn’t even dare to lift her head, just shivering in terror.

His opponent’s weapon was relatively shorter.

Ropord’s longsword was at least twice as long.

That meant he’d have the advantage by keeping his distance.

The problem was, that kitchen knife in the man’s right hand was clearly not aiming for him.

He deliberately tried to stab the Old Woman to death.

It wasn’t just an impulsive act—he had calculated it.

You’re going to protect this Old Woman, aren’t you?

Then shouldn’t you stay right where you are?

That seemed to be what he was asking.

Ropord extended his sword to block the kitchen knife slashing at him from the man’s right hand.

Clang!

The blades collided and sparks flew.

Now that the terrain had changed and it was getting darker, the sparks stood out even more.

While Ropord was busy blocking the kitchen knife in the right hand, the left aimed for his neck.

Ropord, still with his sword outstretched, stepped to the side and bent his knee, lowering his stance.

Shifting his posture, he balanced his weight on one leg, then used the other to kick at his opponent’s ankle.

His opponent, swinging the kitchen knife, whirled around the Old Woman to dodge the kick.

He understood that fighting with the Old Woman caught between them gave him an advantage.

”Are you just going to keep protecting her?”

The unspoken question lingered.

On top of everything, he wasn’t alone.

Ropord frowned.

Was this troubling for him?

That wasn’t exactly it.

It was just that a certain memory had come to mind.

Even if something you’ve only ever heard about suddenly appeared before your eyes, it’s hard to recognize it right away.

Especially if there’s a gap between the image you formed in your imagination and reality.

Ropord’s opponent was a protagonist from a very old story.

To be precise, a villain.

In other words, it was one of those horror tales parents tell to frighten disobedient children.

That’s why even a single word—not an intimidating glare or gesture—had sent chills down his spine.

It was the power of memories etched in childhood.

”Murderer Damer?”

Murderer Damer, or Damer the Tanner.

A legendary killer who made clothes from human skin, wielding two butcher knives.

He was raised enduring countless abuses in his childhood; his father was a master leatherworker.

One day, when Damer—now holding a knife—was being beaten with a leather strap, he fought back for the first time.

His parents became his first victims.

On the day he first picked up a knife, he killed them, then wrapped the handle of his blade with his father’s skin.

After that, he kept on killing people, tanning their skins and selling them, which is why people called him Damer the Tanner.

”How can this be real?”

With the cowering Old Woman crouched between them, their positions hadn’t changed.

Yet Ropord asked the question as if nothing was out of the ordinary.

Damer couldn’t help but find that fascinating.

Is this bastard fearless?

Or is he just good at acting?

Whatever the case, he seemed like someone who would be satisfying to cut down.

Ropord gazed at him quietly.

’Hasn’t he been dead for decades?’

That’s why, despite such a distinctive appearance—patching together various hides for clothing in a way that looked anything but normal—he hadn’t recognized him right away.

”Yes, I’m that Damer.”

Three thick wrinkles, like earthworms, etched across his forehead.

That was one of the features that had always made Damer an object of fear.

’So it was real?’

When he was a child, he was just the main character in a scary story.

There were few city kids who hadn’t heard of Damer the Killer.

That alone made this whole thing extraordinary.

”He’s real?”

Damer nodded, then tried to kick the Old Woman.

Ropord reacted to that movement.

Damer planted his foot on the ground instead, and as the bastard came into range—right where his weapons could reach—he swung his two blades in a crisscross motion.

Clang!

Ropord just barely managed to halt his momentum, lifting his longsword at an angle to block the attack.

As his movement and breath stopped dead in that instant, a blade bent around from behind and shot forward, aiming for the back of his head.

Bang–!

It wasn’t Ropord who blocked it, but another sword.

Of course, it was Fel.

”Two against one, is that how you want to do this?”

Fel spoke as he glared at his opponent.

”Tsk, what a waste.”

The man wielding the flexible, lashing sword clicked his tongue and backed off.

Lightly tapping the ground, he narrowed his eyes and stared Fel down.

’He blocked it?’

He had figured his sword would be just a little faster, so even after seeing Fel step in, he let it go.

By his calculations, his weapon should already have pierced one of their heads, and the one in front should’ve been too late to stop it.

In other words, this guy was no pushover either.

If that was the case, this duel would probably drag on for a while.

He was a master of True Sword Style, capable of calculating dozens of offensive and defensive moves in an instant.

Damer took pleasure in tormenting his opponent—mind or body—little by little before finishing things with a single strike; these two had a completely different style of swordsmanship.

Ropord sized up their stance, weapons, attitudes, and way of speaking, and got a rough grasp of each one’s style.

But what if he’d read them wrong?

If these were people who could fool both his senses and judgment?

”Well, then I guess I’ll die.”

He recalled the words spoken by Luagarne.

You’re not supposed to expect to survive when facing opponents of that caliber in the first place.

He also remembered what Fel had interrupted to say back then.

”If you want to live, train harder. Talentless Ropord.”

That guy just made up nicknames as he pleased.

Still, it was probably thanks to him.

Reading Damer’s intentions came easily to Ropord.

Compared to Fel’s unexpected strikes, Damer was endlessly straightforward.

Damer himself didn’t think so at all, but in that moment, Ropord naturally awakened a new talent.

Like seeing himself from above, he gained an objective perspective—understanding his opponent’s viewpoint as if he saw himself through their eyes.

In a situation like this, reading your opponent’s intentions was almost too easy.

Damer thought he was slowly wearing his enemy down.

Ropord simply played along.

He pretended to stumble, pretended his breathing was ragged, pretended to despair that, at this rate, they’d never be able to save the Old Woman.

From the Enkrid-style Orthodox Swordsmanship—Deceptive Sword.

It was all about fooling your opponent.

Thinking he had found an opening, Damer put everything he had into his strike.

After repeatedly swinging his blades from side to side and mixing up his timing, he suddenly raised both knives high above his head, gathering his strength to bring them down.

It was a powerful blow delivered out of rhythm, breaking his pattern.

This was the moment Ropord had been waiting for.

He gripped his sword’s hilt tight with his right hand and, with his left near the Ricasso , received both knives, holding firm.

[TL here, Think I migh’ve mentioned this before but the Ricasso is part of the sword, above the hilt that is unsharpened so it can be gripped and provide a place that when gripped and force applied is more effective because it’s further from the pivot.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ricasso

This is the wikipedia link if you want to understand better

As for the Physics involved, it’s basic level so just search it on chat gpt or gemini if you’re interested.]

Bang!

It was a strike infused with Will.

His opponent was a murderer who had climbed to the level of a knight through killing.

Well, that’s what he’d been a long time ago.

Ropord stuck his sword to Damer’s knives, using the Bind technique.

He absorbed the force Damer sent his way, dispersing it through his knees and hips so the blades wouldn’t separate.

Then, as Damer extended his foot past the Old Woman, Ropord stomped down on it.

Blocking and stomping happened at the exact same moment—he stopped the attack and kicked down in a single motion.

Damer couldn’t dodge.

Ropord’s foot slammed down on his instep, so hard that the dull thud echoed loud.

Crack.

Crunch.

Damer’s face twisted in pain as the bones in his foot shattered.

In the next instant, Ropord released his sword, reached out, grabbed Damer’s jaw and right shoulder, and twisted them in the opposite direction with a single motion.

Crrrack.

The cervical vertebrae spun, wrenching his neck into a spiral.

He had picked up this hand-to-hand move watching Audin and Enkrid, and had even received a bit of instruction from them.

Without so much as a final scream, Damer collapsed to his knees with a thud.

Ropord killed the fear of his childhood.

Not that he thought it was anything remarkable.

Meanwhile, Fel had also finished his fight.

The guy who pretended to be a master of calculations tried to think his way out, but Fel charged straight at him, swinging a diagonal slash with the technique he’d learned from watching Enkrid’s Vortex.

The man with the whippy, flexible sword couldn’t predict Fel’s attack, and collapsed as his body split apart, his intestines spilling out in a messy heap.

Instead of blood, Black Mist gushed out along with his entrails.

”You are all doomed to die by the Master’s hand anyway.”

That’s what the man said.

”Master?”

Fel asked, and the man cackled in reply.

”You’re all stuck in the Labyrinth right now!”

After shouting that, he vomited out a torrent of Black Mist and died, his body dissolving into the mist as it disappeared.

”Labyrinth?”

Ropord, who had come over, asked, but Fel just shrugged.

It was only then that the Old Woman timidly lifted her head.

”It’s all right now.”

Getting killed by the Master or being trapped in the Labyrinth—those were problems for later.

For now, Ropord had achieved what he wanted.

Like Enkrid, he had protected someone.

Even if that person was the Purple-skinned Old Woman, he still felt a sense of pride.

”This isn’t the end, is it?”

”Well, in that case, we’d better get moving.”

The two of them started walking, seeking out any signs of life or ominous presence they could sense.

Before long, they came across a Frog, who was supporting herself on the ground with the Loop Sword.

One of her legs and one of her arms had been severed.

Her opponent must have been killed already, as only Black Powder remained in front of her.

”What happened?”

Ropord approached and asked while helping her up.

The frog tensed her muscles to stop the bleeding and replied,

”Something suddenly jumped out at me. It was at least Knight-level.”

”And then?”

”Jaxen got rid of them with a quick slash.”

Ah, so that’s what happened.

Their group, now three, continued on and soon met Audin, Teresa, and Roman.

And that’s when they saw Audin fully intent on fighting.

’Just like when he broke through the Castle Wall.’

But this time, he looked even more dangerous.

”To think you would dare keep those meant for The Lord from their rightful path!”

He looked downright unhinged.