A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

Cypress and Crang had both seen through part of the south’s ploy.

“Even so, they wouldn’t have sent a whole pack of knights just to hit the rear, would they?”

That was Crang’s judgment.

Striking the kingdom’s back and cutting supply lines were important, but if you lost the main battle at the front, the ones sent to the rear would be nothing more than bandit bands roaming inside the kingdom.

How many knights called calamities would you send to a place like that? You couldn’t send that many.

“You can’t know that, Your Majesty.”

At Crang’s words, Cypress shook his head.

“I’m speaking from a tactical standpoint.”

“War is harder to know than a woman’s heart.”

The words of a man who had lived on the battlefield for a long time with a sword in hand carried a different weight.

The battlefield was fire and water. It shifted, changed regardless of intent, you never knew where it would spread or where it would flow. You could try to guide it, but not everything went your way.

Cypress knew that truth.

“We’ve only sent Enki as our knight. What if there are at least two on the other side?”

At Crang’s question, Cypress quietly thought about the human called Enkrid.

’Up to two.’

Unless they were fairly skilled, they wouldn’t be a threat. Enkrid’s skill was far from ordinary. Cypress’s eye, honed by meeting and fighting many knights, was as unusual as a Frokk’s.

Even if he didn’t have theory like Enkrid, who had systematized knightly standards, he had his own method of grasping someone’s level.

’A ten-year one.’

He used how long they could endure in the Demon-lands as his standard. He took everything together—how the body was trained, posture, attitude, way of speaking—and felt it by intuition.

That was why it couldn’t be turned into a theory. It was purely judgment based on his own accumulated experience.

In his view, even if Enkrid were dropped into the very middle of the Demon-lands, he would live more than ten years.

By the standard of surviving in the Demon-lands, ★ ★ that was high praise.

’All of them.’

Moreover, there wasn’t just one or two like that. The Mad Order of Knights was a collection of men who looked like they would still be alive even after ten years.

Ordinary knights he rated at a year, five at most.

“Two, he could handle.”

Cypress murmured.

Of course, having the number of knights go from two to three wasn’t simply a matter of having two blades to avoid.

The course of a fight grew mixed with complicated factors. If the goddess of fortune herself decided to play a prank on top of that, even a mercenary who had swung a sword all his life could have his neck cut by a fifteen-year-old girl who had just picked up a blade.

Even so—

’I don’t see that friend going down easily.’

His prediction was correct. Enkrid hadn’t given ground in the least against two knights. He had overwhelmed them. Even after flying all day hunched over, eating and sleeping on Odd-Eye’s back before fighting, he had killed two knights.

There was a reason the watching soldiers shouted that “the flower of war is a knight.”

Everyone who saw it was swept by a shudder that made every hair on their body stand on end.

Cypress’s gaze turned to the remaining members of the Mad Order of Knights.

Southern knights were famous for their rough temper, but—

“If you smack a gryphon’s head a few times, will it stop listening?”

“Got any trick to turn into an eagle, barbarian?”

“The lord who governs war says thus: ‘You lot already have sturdy legs.’”

In order, those were the words traded by Rem, Ragna, and Audin.

Whether it was the holy knight who, even after unleashing the absurd miracle called declaration of sanctuary, was merely tired, or the barbarian who said he would beat a monster until it listened, or the swordsman who looked like he was from the north, urging people to turn into eagles, they were all the same.

’They’re all insane.’

That was Cypress’s evaluation.

Perhaps once this war ended, even the south’s famed warlike nature would be pressed down by these people’s madness.

It was the opinion of someone who had spent long years on the battlefield, piled up with experience. His intuition agreed as well.

“Then what about three?”

Crang, king of a realm, asked. When Cypress didn’t answer right away, Crang asked again.

“If he faces three?”

“Your Majesty, having the number of knights go from two to three isn’t merely an increase in count.”

Cypress replied. As always, his tone was calm and matter-of-fact.

“So you’re saying it would be hard?”

“I’m saying you only know once you fight.”

“How many southern knights do you think there are?”

At that question, this time the answer came at once.

“At least twenty.”

If not for the Demon-lands holding things in check, Naurillia and Rihinstetten’s difference in strength would have been so clear that war wouldn’t even have been possible.

“How many have you fought yourself?”

The man who had filled the gap between the two countries’ forces together with the Demon-lands showed a smile. When the epithet “somehow gets it done” or “can do anything” had attached to him, Cypress had once immobilized five knights’ hands and feet by himself. The wound across his chest from then remained as a dark scar, and the person who had cut his chest was likely still alive.

***

Ester quietly looked back. In her eyes she could see the fortress walls taking the sunlight and the army arrayed before them.

“Ester, when war breaks out, how many people do you think will die? Ten? A hundred? A thousand?”

The words of that bastard Kraiss had entered her head and wouldn’t leave. She hadn’t liked him back when she was a leopard, and that hadn’t changed.

He had gone out of his way to press her and push her back. She would have stepped forward even if left alone. Yet he had deliberately come and said such a thing. She didn’t like that attitude.

Even so, the Will in his actions and words had been real.

’I’ll do anything.’

Kraiss would do so to protect this city as it was now.

’Then what about me?’

Their existence had changed the way she viewed her spell world.

Jury, who sold marmalade; Vanessa, who had built a library; the woman who grilled seasoned jerky; the ex-soldier whose specialty was needlework.

The existence of people had made her feel new emotions.

“I’ll protect everyone.”

She murmured, full of awkwardness. Was that the sort of thing that suited a witch of struggle? What would her master have said, if she were still alive?

Fortunately, she had known from the start what words her master would have spoken.

“Do as you want, Ester. Child of the Star, whatever. A witch’s specialty is living as she pleases.”

She’d been a truly wonderful master.

“Master, we’re ready.”

The voice calling her from behind. Now Ester was the one being called master. That, too, was awkward. With the way she had learned, she couldn’t teach spells, so she’d had to relearn everything from scratch, like a baby taking its first steps. Only then could she teach.

That was how this magic unit had been made.

At first, it had begun with just a few talented soldiers, but now their number had passed twenty.

Some among them had talent, but some, even without such things, had walked and run and pushed forward diligently until they opened part of a spell world.

With a spell world opened that way, he would never reach the stars in the end. He would remain a mediocre mage his whole life. That was why she had asked him why he went so far, and the soldier had answered.

“I won’t regret it. This is how I protect my wife, isn’t it.”

He had a fiancée in the city. He’d said they would hold the ceremony next month.

Ester wondered if his answer had brought her to where she was now.

If Enkrid had been the start, these people were the process. Every word they’d spoken had affected who she was now.

Where had the witch gone who ignored other people’s words and carved out her own path?

“It’s time to greet uninvited guests.”

At the very least, the witch standing here now was different from before. Who knew how she might change tomorrow, but for now, that was how it was.

The witch who had once been captivated by the human named Enkrid now treasured people. What she was about to do was for that.

“I pray to Rutrarlatra, who was born and raised in the swamp and came to rule the world.”

Normally, the witch for whom “Drmul’s Scythe” would have been enough as the entirety of a spell chanted a long incantation. Her overlapping voice made the air tremble.

“In exchange for borrowing your authority, your miracle, your magic, I offer up that land.”

Just as she had taught them, the twenty soldiers gathered their mana and dedicated it to her. As worship for someone else, they delivered mana they had condensed into their spell worlds.

All the soldiers rolled their eyes back to the whites and drooled from their mouths. Quite a few of them trembled all over.

If there had been a mage present who had implemented their own spell world, they would have leapt up in horror.

The relatively righteous mage among them would have spoken first.

“Forbidden magic!”

The magic her magic unit had just displayed was forbidden magic. The spell’s name was “Worshiping Corpse,” a spell that fattened one’s own world by sacrificing those who had constructed spell worlds similar to one’s own.

Anyone involved in this spell died. They became a corpse in a posture with knees on the ground, forehead touching the earth, and palms facing the sky. That was where the name came from.

Next, the mage who valued profit over justice would have clicked his tongue, astonished, and dropped his jaw.

“Twisting forbidden magic?”

Ester had not taken the lives of those she had personally raised.

She was a genius. She had analyzed the spell structure of forbidden magic, grasped its framework, and then redesigned it.

To someone who didn’t know, that might sound like something you could say “I guess that’s possible” about, but to those who worked in magic, it was an act beyond belief.

To put it in another way, it was like guessing the place and date of someone’s birth just by looking at their face. No, even beyond guessing, it was like disassembling the components that made up that person and reassembling them into a similar yet different person.

Of course, Ester couldn’t actually tell someone’s birthplace or date of birth just by looking at their face.

It was only because she had an innate talent for sensing spells that such things were possible when it came to magic alone.

She had used forbidden magic and twisted the worship. She had changed the structure of a borrowing spell, a system where you obtained power from an otherworldly being and paid a price.

’What I borrow is power.’

The price was a portion of land.

With that, the contract was concluded. Among borrowing spells, this was top-tier. An otherworldly being worked a miracle.

Rumble—

The soil within the designated area turned sludgy under the authority she had borrowed. Moisture seeped into the dry earth, and within it, muddy bubbles popped.

***

One of the Ocher Corps’ specialties was marching. They were an army made up solely of infantry, without cavalry or anything else. That tradition had made the intensity of their march training several times higher than other units.

For such a unit, Naurillia’s Safe Road was close to a promenade.

“Did they pave this road because they want us to kill them?”

The Ocher Corps strode forward without hesitation. Squish—then the ankles of the vanguard scouts sank into the ground.

“What the hell?”

“A swamp? It’s a swamp!”

“Hey, get a rope!”

Magic was miracle and marvel. In other words, it was a series of events that made no sense from an ordinary person’s point of view. The first soldier whose foot sank in hadn’t thought much of it.

From the outside, the bare earth turning into a swamp wasn’t anything unusual.

There were far harsher terrains than this in the Demon-lands. The scout vanguard of the prisoner corps were the sort who gambled again and again with their lives on the line.

Through such experiences, they had grown outstanding senses for detecting danger.

“Wait. Something’s off.”

A few soldiers spoke.

“What the—”

“When?”

“Huh?”

All around them had turned into swamp. In the time it took for them to shout for a rope and for some soldiers to move back and forth on that, their legs had started to sink, to the point that their calves were buried.

“It’s swamp here too!”

Feet sank even in ground that had definitely been firm just moments before. Several soldiers had their calves swallowed, some had mud up to their waists.

“What’s with the fog all of a sudden, huh?”

Suddenly, water mist formed above the ground. There was no lake, and the warm sun was beating down from a clear sky. Yet it happened. Light seeped in speckles through the mist, reaching the earth that had become swamp.

Under normal circumstances, sunlight should have driven away the mist, but now that normal process wasn’t happening.

Ester had paid land as the price and spread mist that called forth illusions.

The command staff were less flustered than the soldiers. Only a portion of the leading scouts had fallen in.

“Someone cast a spell.”

That was the mage who had joined the Ocher Corps speaking. The south, naturally, had people who used spells, and among them, three had been sent here on the High Pontiff’s orders.

Each had an epithet: “Blood Appraiser,” “Master of Moles,” and “Corpse Collector.”

All three were competent enough in their own way that they could roughly grasp what their opponent had done.

“Hmph, must have offered up some lifespan.”

It was a large-scale spell wide enough to envelop the entire corps. At this level, the mage who had implemented the spell world would be barely breathing, dragging out their breath.

“Must be the work of that Child of the Star bitch.”

The Blood Appraiser spoke. They knew of Ester’s existence. The south knew more than people thought. They had listened to rumors and hadn’t taken them lightly.

Knowing, it was only natural to prepare.

“Gurupeng Panisha.”

The third mage was from a mountain tribe that lived in the western fringes of the south. The man with his face painted in black and red dye spouted words no one could understand. To the other two mages, it was something they were used to.

“A method to break it.”

The commander suddenly appeared among them and asked.

“Kill the mage.”

The Blood Appraiser spoke. He was a vampire. His blood-red eyes looked as if they were filled with blood.

“Pustis, go kill them and come back.”

The corps commander immediately sent one of his subordinate knights. A mage would be weak to sword swings, wouldn’t they?

“And you three?”

He then asked the mages.

“We’ll go together.”

The Master of Moles spoke and moved at once.

“And reversing this swamp?”

The commander asked the remaining mage.

“No chance. They’ll have offered their lifespan.”

The vampire answered.

The commander nodded and spoke.

“Then go do your job. Even if the ground doesn’t go back to how it was, it’ll stop once you kill whoever’s casting the spell, won’t it?”

“The odds are high.”

The Blood Appraiser said so and then followed after the other mage. The one who had been babbling strange words also hefted a spear decorated with eagle feathers and waddled after them.

It was just as the three mages slipped out of the commander’s sight. Just before each could display their specialties and move.

How to put it—at that moment, it would be right to say that no one had made any sort of preparation at all.

Within the Mud Order of Knights, the knight called Pustis hadn’t even departed yet.

Among the three mages whose greed had gotten ahead of them, the Master of Moles had his throat opened before he could even chant a single spell.

Thunk—

Compared to the cries of the soldiers far away, shouting to be saved because they were stuck in the swamp, the noise was tiny.

A transparent blade slipped back out, avoiding the spine, soaked in blood. Its form was barely visible in patches because of the blood. It was a pointed, skewer-like blade.

One mage died. Considering what he could have done, it was all too futile.

Not that that wasn’t how assassins’ exploits usually were—but even seeing it, you couldn’t help being shocked.

“......Gah!”

The startled vampire jumped in place. The mage with the spear decorated in eagle feathers did the same. The mage whose throat had been opened fell to the ground, but the one who had done it was nowhere to be seen.

It was a strange thing.

“An assassin!”

The vampire shouted. He closed his eyes and used one of his tricks. It was a technique for sensing the waves of sound. A skill also called echolocation, fitting for detecting someone unseen.

“The ground!”

He shouted urgently.

The mage and shaman with the eagle-feather spear didn’t even have time to let out a battle cry before he stabbed the ground with the spear tip. The spear point thrust into the earth with a thunk. Only then did a human shape come into his eyes.

The man was wearing brown leather of a texture similar to the ground. Still lying down, he twisted his body and rolled as he rose.

The spear came out between his ribs. Whether he had dodged it or the shaman had simply stabbed in haste and missed, no one could say.

The man who stood wore a hood and a mask, his face hidden.

“Durudur!”

The shaman immediately yanked the spear free and thrust forward once more. For a mage, he was exceptionally skilled at handling a weapon.

Of course, to a man specialized in assassination, whose physical power was on par with a knight’s, it was crude at best.