A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

Dawn broke. Cypress laughed, and Crang laughed too. It was a laugh with bewilderment in it more than joy.

“Those bastards—so they’d decided to keep that hidden, huh?”

“Looks that way.”

“Is the South always that underhanded?”

“If we’re talking underhanded, they’re the best on the continent.”

From the direction the Naurillia army was facing, the front and the left were a cliff and a precipice, respectively. The enemy had swung wide and lined up on the Naurillia army’s right from that same perspective. It was like they’d deliberately picked flat ground because they meant to fight.

In response to Rihinstetten’s movement, Naurillia also turned the army’s head as if to greet them.

One side was a sheer drop, the other was land littered with rock. It wasn’t terrain you could call good for cavalry to run.

That was why neither army operated cavalry separately. Instead, Rihinstetten had brought elephants, but that had already been taken care of last night by a few knights—still, they couldn’t just get drunk on yesterday’s victory.

They had to spend a night full of vigilance. Why? Because the initiative was still in Rihinstetten’s hands.

They had more men, and they had more hidden away. So our side had to wait and counter.

“People say the best defense is offense, but that’s not something you can apply right now.”

Those were the words of Aurelia, Cypress’s granddaughter and Squire. In the current situation, the top priority was time.

Time for the noble forces to join and at least fill out the numbers.

‘If we fight like this, we lose.’

This wasn’t like before, when that madman Pell drew one line in the dirt with a stick and said anyone who crossed it would die, and they had the numbers to hold.

If Cypress and everyone did what that madman had done, would the enemy knights just stand there and watch?

‘Knights stop knights.’

That was the basic premise of battle. If the premise didn’t hold, all that waited was one-sided slaughter—or surrender.

‘And if the main battle loses while the knights are fighting.’

It affected the knights’ morale. Even if it was a very small part, with that small part someone died and someone lived.

And someone achieved what they wanted, and someone failed.

If the main force stepped up to fight, it didn’t help the knights’ fight—it got in the way.

To keep that from happening, Aurelia thought through the best move. The conclusion she reached was that what they needed right now was to endure.

And after one night passed, the next day, when dawn broke and it was no longer hard to make each other out even from far away—she couldn’t laugh like Crang or her grandfather. Her expression hardened. The situation was racing toward the worst.

“They all look like knights. Is that right?”

From childhood, her eye had been unusual. Her discernment, and her sense for gauging an opponent’s level, were both excellent.

Thanks to being born into a family that revered martial strength, starting with her grandfather.

Of course, talent had played its part too.

And to her eyes, that black mass standing there in front of them—every last one of them looked like a knight.

Even as she asked, Aurelia couldn’t take her eyes off the heavily armored unit lined up in a single row. Reflexively, she counted. She swept from left to right once. It didn’t take long. There was no need for it to.

Because it wasn’t in the hundreds.

‘Forty.’

A total of forty. If they were all knights, then who the strongest on the continent was had just become clear.

“That’s right.”

That was Ingis’s answer. Having it confirmed threw her into a pit of despair. Our knights had to stop forty enemy knights.

That premise had to hold for this to even be called a battle at all. If even one of them dropped into our ranks, could it be contained?

‘It’s over.’

Before it even started, her heart caved in.

What was funny was that Aurelia did resemble her grandfather. Her grandfather was Cypress of the Red Cloak. He had the epithets ‘the one who can do anything’ and ‘the one who somehow makes it happen.’

‘On the premise that someone stops them.’

Someone stops them. Whoever it is.

The king and her grandfather laughed. Was it laughter at the absurdity? There was some of that, sure, but no matter what, there was also the spirit that they wouldn’t retreat from here.

Then what she had to do was clear.

Even if you fell into a pit, you just climbed back out. She did exactly that. She spoke to her adjutant.

“Tell everyone there’s no retreat. The tactic is fight to the death. Even if we all die here, they can’t cross this place.”

You could say it fit the spirit of the southern front perfectly.

“We!”

“Hold!”

Like a unit’s chant.

“We’ll stop them.”

Ingis spoke without hiding his expectations. Whether he stepped up himself or someone else did, a crisis like this wasn’t the first.

The history of the knighthood was spoken in the blood that soaked that cloak. And the bright red cloaks they wore were things that had been soaked in blood, again and again, countless times.

Forty knights in pitch-black masks that didn’t even have eyeholes stepped forward in a line.

Thud.

That was how well their hands and feet matched—like they’d poured their souls into drill training for years. They stepped their left foot forward, placed their left hand at their waist, and let their right hand hang down. Every motion was the same. They moved as if they were forty pairs of twins. It was a step that carried the look of having endured time of hardship through training and discipline.

Their steps didn’t make the ground rumble like elephants, but their momentum was greater than that. Watching, one of our commanders swallowed hard without meaning to.

Someone stuck their head out from within the line of black-armored knights. It was a Frokk. Its cheeks weren’t white but grayish, and it had no hair. Its slick skin and the breastplate reinforced around the heart were black.

Thanks to that breastplate, it had earned a nickname: the master of the black “thing.”

And it was also the kind of bastard who would sell even their god to win, an owner of madness who quenched desire through victory and slaughter.

“Hey, Cypress. What’re you gonna do now?”

It was Frokk’s frog-cry. The voice boomed like thunder, yet the pronunciation was so clear the meaning carried cleanly. Everyone on the battlefield heard it.

Some shrank back, some slapped their own cheeks. Some clenched their teeth, and a very few watched with a bored attitude.

The voice even fell down the precipice and came back as an echo.

Raaaeen—.

“Do you know that Frokk?”

Crang asked. In that instant, his heart jolted. The moment he saw it, he could feel the violence it carried. If things didn’t go its way, that Frokk would crush someone’s head and smash every rib to bits while laughing. It was pure instinct, but that was how it looked.

“We’ve got a deep bad history.”

That was Sir Lien’s answer, as if he’d appeared out of nowhere. Cypress still wore that faint smile.

“Your Majesty. Would you cover your ears for a moment?”

It was something he said with a smile.

“All right.”

Crang didn’t ask back. He did as told and obediently covered his ears. Cypress drew in a breath.

His chest swelled. If he’d been wearing plate, the seams would have popped. But he wore a gambeson and leather armor instead of plates, so it only stretched as if it might tear. The fact that it didn’t tear in the end meant the material had excellent elasticity.

A knight could, if they wanted, pull off a trick like Frokk’s frog-cry.

He mixed Will into the breath he’d taken and shouted.

“Too—scared—to—even—come—at—me—alone—you—frog!”

Even with his ears covered, Crang’s whole body trembled. At this point, it felt like he could kill someone with his voice.

Didn’t it feel like your lungs were shrinking and your heart was being squeezed tight?

“You’ve got a hell of a voice.”

When Crang opened his mouth to speak, his ears felt muffled. He couldn’t hear his own voice well. Sir Lien had blocked in front of him—if he hadn’t, it seemed likely his eardrums would’ve burst.

“I’m not taking the bait, you little shit!”

From far away, Frokk took the line.

In a way, it sounded like a friendly conversation. Like something old friends who hadn’t met in a while would trade.

“I know. I just felt like trying it.”

Cypress answered at an appropriate volume.

If you wanted to talk about how these two started, you’d have to go back to when Cypress still couldn’t even carry an epithet.

You’d have to talk about the moment that left a long scar across his chest, and the moment he survived against five knights.

It was a deep connection. Because Frokk existed, Cypress kept striving until he reached the present. And it was the same for Frokk.

They were two who had met as enemies and spurred each other on as they came this far.

“My gut says that isn’t all of it.”

Lien said while checking his gear. He was talking about the forty knights.

He tightened the gauntlets on his hands, his greaves, his elbow guards, and more. They were clearly specially made arms—items with even magical workmanship in them.

He didn’t use straps. When he tightened and pulled the latch on the inside of the forearm, the armor clung to him as snug as clothing.

Watching closely, Crang saw it wasn’t leather straps at all, but metal straps. Equipment with astonishing technique in it.

Crang went “Aah—” and checked his voice a few times, then looked forward again.

‘Forty knights.’

Something Enkrid had said came back to him.

“Not all knights are the same kind of knight.”

When he’d said it, Enkrid had been excited—expectant—like he was enjoying himself. Like a born climber who feels joy at finding a new mountain, he’d been glad to realize that becoming a knight wasn’t the end.

His friend had talked about levels among knights.

Then if you became a knight whose level was truly different, could you face forty knights alone?

He didn’t know.

In battle, Crang was an inexperienced king. In truth, he also thought he was inexperienced even in politics. Because he was inexperienced in everything, he trusted others. He trusted the people who helped him and stood at his side.

Trust was Crang’s sharpest sword and his thickest shield.

“Sir.”

The king called.

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

Cypress answered.

“Will you stop them for us?”

“Of course.”

There was no hidden meaning in that short exchange. Literally, that was all it was.

Crang spoke, then swept his gaze around. Yesterday, the Madmen Order of Knights had killed elephants and stopped the vanguard. That momentum had faded the moment dawn broke.

To sap the meaning of that feat in a single night.

‘Great Emperor, you really are something too.’

Those who’d had that feat stolen from them also started, as soon as dawn broke, to watch the enemy’s movements from one side.

Crang’s gaze landed on them briefly, then stopped.

If they all joined, would it be enough?

Even if he wasn’t a battle expert, there was one thing he understood.

That wasn’t all the enemy had. Those forty knights might be the true vanguard they’d prepared.

If so, who would stop the knights remaining behind them?

Crang didn’t break into a cold sweat.

When crisis came, instead of trembling hands and feet, he only repeated what he had to do.

Now wasn’t the time for him to step forward. So he would quietly wait for the time.

“Is it the two of you?”

Lien asked. Cypress shook his head. He knew it too. Those forty weren’t the end—they were the beginning.

The Great Emperor’s intent, shown the instant dawn broke, was vivid.

He could hear that voice.

It was a little personal, but Cypress didn’t think of that voice as the Great Emperor’s. He thought of it as someone else’s.

Meaning, he heard the voice of Frokk Beharlikh, with that nasty temperament.

“What’re you really gonna do? If you burn yourself out here, you die to me later.”

Cypress laughed. A low chuckle came out on its own.

Of course. For a Frokk, it was a bastard who constantly spun little schemes without rest.

A crazy Frokk drunk on victory and slaughter.

He gripped his weapon and stepped forward. Flap—his red cloak covered his back, then whipped as it caught the wind.

A cloak woven from the fur of a Sunsu repelled most spells and gave warmth to the body of the one who wore it.

He took that warmth into his Will and turned it into heat, warming his body. Thanks to that, there was no need to loosen up separately.

Moderate heat would relax the muscles and turn them into a weapon that could produce exactly as much force as needed, exactly when needed.

A knight’s body itself became a weapon.

That was why.

He drew his sword as is and aimed forward. His weapon was a single longsword. And of course, it was an engraved weapon.

The sword’s name was Resolve.

In other words, Determination.

Cypress walked forward alone and opened his mouth.

“I’ll stop them by myself. All of you just watch. I swear on my Will right now that I will stop them alone.”

What did it mean, ‘the one who can do anything,’ ‘the one who somehow makes it happen’?

Resolve.

Cypress’s true epithet was the Knight of Resolve.