A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

Resolve: not breaking a vow or an oath. The more you endure a difficult situation, the more Will you build up. That was the ability Cypress possessed.

But if he retreated even once, he would lose everything he had. He’d had small vows and oaths go crooked before, but he had never once lost a gamble like this.

Anyone who knew him well called him a born gambler.

This time, too, he was only taking a gamble that, by his standards, had high odds.

‘Forty.’

Forty knights. Are they proper knights? No.

‘If they go into the Demon-lands, how long would they last? A month? Two months? Two months is out of the question.’

The minimum, by the standards Cypress had set, was half a month. If you looked at them one by one, maybe they’d barely clear those fifteen days? You could spot a few who were relatively better here and there, but overall, the level wasn’t high.

Still, there was an oddity to them. Cypress caught a vile stench coming off them. He wasn’t a beastman, so he wasn’t literally smelling anything. It was just how his senses translated the warning.

‘The smell of the Demon-lands.’

Like the scent you’d get from iron heated in a fire, mixed with the rancid tang of dried blood.

‘What the hell did they do?’

The thought snapped off, brief and fragmentary. He didn’t have leisure spilling over, so it couldn’t be helped. He was only doing his best today, like always.

He drew back the hand gripping his sword and pulled out the shield he’d kept hidden. Something he’d tucked at his waist. Its name was the Wing Shield. It didn’t mean anything special. He’d named it that because of how it looked.

In the first place, humans were the ones who named relics. So the one who owned it got to slap on whatever name they wanted.

With his left hand, Cypress gripped a rod-shaped tool, swung it outward, and stopped.

Thump!

With that motion, thin iron plates like wings snapped out from both ✧ NоvеIight ✧ (Original source) sides of the rod. The shape really did resemble a pigeon’s wings spread wide. The material let light through, and he could faintly see objects beyond the shield.

Boom!

A thick greatsword struck the opened shield. Cypress caught it and bled it off, then slammed the edge of the shield into the enemy’s chest. Because it was wing-shaped, the tip of the edge was sharp like a blade. Then, from beside the greatsword wielder, a spearhead shot in and chopped down on the shield’s edge.

Since all of it had been bait, Cypress relaxed the strength in the hand that had been swinging the shield, spun his Will, and poured it into the Resolve in his right hand.

‘Change.’

If he wanted, he could change the nature of Will. The Will that had been flowing and moving flexibly like water turned into steel. That change affected only a part of his body. Only the motion of extending his arm, and the force carried on his sword. Only that far.

If anyone had glimpsed the inside of him, it would have been a stunt shocking enough to make them gasp, and, precisely, there were two reasons they should have been shocked.

One was the feat of changing Will’s nature and using that power only on a specific part, and the other was the fact that he used it at exactly the needed moment, perfectly timed and appropriately.

Using the opening created by drawing out the shield, striking, and blocking, he thrust his sword.

Puhk!

Another throat was punctured. Blood bubbled out in thick surges, then stopped. The man had clenched the muscles in his neck to halt the bleeding, and, without even looking back, charged and threw himself in.

He meant to restrict Cypress’s movement even with his body. The instant Cypress stabbed, he moved to the side.

A spearhead grazed his flank. He accepted the loss. With that, the threat vanished before it even began. The man who’d rushed him ended up sprinting into empty air.

After that, he was too busy to keep thoughts going. He forgot himself, forgot the present, until only his sword and the enemy remained.

His vision narrowed, and he did nothing but repeatedly unfold the swordsmanship carved into his body over a lifetime. Evade, block, strike, clear.

All of it was the years he had piled up, and experience, and will, and vows, and oaths.

Sitting in place like that, he fought forty.

Blood kept spraying. Killing all forty without overreaching was difficult. He’d known that from the start. So he overreached.

Small wounds multiplied across Cypress’s entire body. The end of his cloak tore, and flame flared up. That was a trait of the cloak woven from solar-beast fur.

Using the flare of flame, he chopped down onto the instep of the man beside him. There was no sound. He only moved to do the next thing. Dense concentration stole sound from him. Stole sight, too.

He didn’t see. He felt everything. Seeing the future a split second ahead, he kept driving his sword away and swinging it through.

With the advantage gained from the flame, he took another neck—because he’d chopped the instep and then swung his sword to the opposite side.

The man whose instep was shattered rolled back to escape. A new blade filled the space he left. All their helms were the same, but their builds were different.

Cypress’s focus registered that difference. The man who handled the greatsword hid his blade behind his back, then swung.

A monstrous, brutal strike. Were they trying to see if he could dodge even this?

He had no intention of dodging. Instead, he swung his sword.

Kagagagak!

Sparks flew, and another head went spinning off. Cypress’s Resolve split the enemy’s greatsword in half and shaved off part of the head as well.

If your right cheekbone was cut above the ridge and you lost around a third of your skull, even a knight died instantly. There was no scream. Only one more corpse.

Cypress repeated the fight. Recalling the past, living today, he drove his sword toward tomorrow.

***

“Master.”

The Red Cloak Order of Knights knew the name of the person who led them. They knew the weight that name carried.

His epithet was that he somehow got it done, that he could do anything. His renown had not bent, and it had not faded. He was still the guardian god of Naurillia.

‘Because you protected us, we have this moment.’

Watching, Crang clenched his fist so hard his fingertips nearly turned white.

Not that anyone would have noticed his fist in the first place.

Even those who’d come as an escort couldn’t take their eyes off Cypress’s fight now.

“Don’t interfere. I’ll really kill every last one of you.”

Even the barbarian who made a hobby of venomous remarks only showed cold killing intent toward the enemy. Each time some of the forty tried to peel off and leave their positions, he let that killing intent spill.

Ragna rested a hand on her Dawn Tempering and spoke with her eyes. If you tried anything stupid, she would cut you down. A declaration of will.

The one standing up there was enough to be called a hero. A man of valor who did not retreat even against forty knights.

“This is what the Red Cloak is.”

Lien said it with a smile. Their Master might die here. No matter how exceptional your skill was, if your neck was severed and a hole was punched through your heart, death was the same.

‘We’ll think about that when it happens.’

His thinking was simple and stubborn. Respecting the Master’s will—until now, the back of the man standing up there had been his signpost, his goal, his life. If he died keeping his oath, then he would respect even that.

“No one take your eyes off him. See one more thing. Remember it. Carve it in.”

Ingis was officially responsible for the Red Cloak Order of Knights’ training. At his words, the entire order didn’t even answer. They simply focused.

Ingis, who had spoken, hadn’t wanted an answer. He, too, was only focusing to see one more thing and remember it.

Aurelia felt restless. What if her choice had been wrong?

‘Maybe saving the Master would be the better choice.’

Of course, it was the Master’s choice to step forward. When he said he would face forty alone, she understood the meaning packed into that action.

“Don’t waste your strength.”

It was as if she could hear her grandfather’s voice.

“Prepare for what comes next.”

No genius was completed without experience. Aurelia’s present existed thanks to her grandfather’s teachings and the experience she’d built following him.

That was why, from his actions alone, she knew what his will was, what his intent was. Bloodshot veins rose in Aurelia’s eyes.

‘But Grandpa.’

Something pale flashed as it cut past near her grandfather’s shoulder. With Aurelia’s eyes, it was hard to grasp the entire flow of the fight.

Still, she knew one thing. No matter how great a knight you were, you couldn’t easily overcome numbers.

Something had brushed past his shoulder, but blood didn’t spray out.

‘Was he cut?’

He must have been. And the moment he was, her grandfather would have stopped the bleeding.

His control over Will was beyond comparison with anyone else. And even so, he looked precarious. Maybe they should pour in their remaining strength right now.

‘Forget the forty—should we strike behind them, at least?’

If even one person had fought alongside him, the result wouldn’t look like this.

Her anguish deepened. Each time another wound appeared on the body of her Master, her grandfather, another option was born. Forks in the road multiplied without end, tangling in her head. It wasn’t just that the path split. It turned into a mess, knotted like a child’s ball of string.

Aurelia knew her state right now was as wrecked as that knotted ball. But she couldn’t stop thinking. Ominous imagination accelerated, like a cavalry mount that couldn’t be reined once it started running.

‘What do I do in times like this?’

Among what she’d learned from her grandfather, there was nothing she could apply to a situation like this. Of course there wasn’t. Some things weren’t learned with your head, but with experience. You had to live them, suffer them, to know them. Aurelia was simply going through that process now.

In that moment, a voice dug into her ear.

“Do nothing. The knight who stepped forward will shatter the enemy’s heart and mind by stopping forty alone.”

It was Lua Gharne. She neither puffed out her white cheeks, nor let oil seep from her skin.

When you saw someone too outstanding, sometimes your heart went quiet. Like now.

‘Enkrid.’

She wanted to see the one who had claimed her mental affection as much as Shinar had.

‘Right now, there’s a madman as crazy as you up there. Don’t you want to meet him? Don’t you want to see him? Don’t you want to measure skill against him?’

The questions lingered in her mouth.

Twelve of the forty were dead. And yet the situation hadn’t improved. It had gotten worse.

Among the remaining twenty-eight, the ones with even minor injuries fell back. There were four. They wrapped their bodies in bandages and drank medicine. They treated themselves and reset. The remaining twenty-four gathered into four groups of six.

Greatswords and spears were their main weapons. They used the spears to keep pressure, and with the greatswords, they didn’t swing unless they had a perfect opening.

No matter how good someone was, they made mistakes. Those men were looking at the fight long-term. They were waiting for their opponent to make even the tiniest mistake.

Even someone who’d become a master at carrying a cup filled to the brim with liquor would sometimes spill a few drops. They were waiting for those few drops to fall.

They didn’t seem like the sharpest thinkers, but they were extremely familiar with tactical movement. It wasn’t a competence you built with training alone. They had experienced situations like this countless times.

That was why things were as they were now.

The fight that began at dawn continued until twilight drew near.

If even watching was hard, what was it like for the one actually fighting?

Anyone could see Cypress was tired. The moment he stepped on a stone lying where he planted his foot, his balance wavered for an instant.

A greatsword knight whipped his blade down without hesitation. One who had been waiting for the opportunity.

With a whoomp that tore the air, the falling greatsword split Cypress straight down the middle.

For an instant, that’s what it looked like.

Parararak!

Cypress dodged, leaving a razor-thin gap. The slash kicked up a violent wind, and that wind snapped his cloak backward.

And in the opening where the cloak had covered, the one who’d swung the greatsword toppled forward.

Rem, watching, was shocked again.

‘This time, I couldn’t even see it either.’

He only felt the Will over Cypress’s entire body change for an instant. And then the enemy bled from his eyes, nose, mouth, and ears, collapsing sideways.

Thud.

Even with the weight of armor, the body hit the ground with a heavy sound.

Cypress jumped to the side again. The shield in his left hand was shattered all over, leaving only half a wing.

“Heart destruction.”

Lien muttered. A technique where you put your hand on the enemy’s body, create a pulse, and burst their organs. Easy to say in words, but extremely difficult to do in practice, and one of the Master’s specialties. Lien himself specialized in martial arts, but it was hard for him to imitate.

Hadn’t Cypress said he’d built it by borrowing parts of a paladin’s techniques?

Its purpose was to kill Frokk, who clung with an obsession so vile it was nauseating.

And that owner of vile obsession was, at this very moment, hiding on the ground, waiting only for a chance to strike—

a dagger no one on the battlefield had noticed.