A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

One of the traditions of a knights’ tournament is the duel. You go one-on-one and see who wins. Everyone else becomes a spectator.

Being the first to step forward is a display of confidence. A knight of Lihinshuteten seized on that.

“That bastard.”

Lien ground his teeth, krk—, as he waited for his turn. It was the guy who’d gotten a blade into him the other day.

Well, it wasn’t exactly a grudge. More like... a punk whose little tricks were laughable. For the skill he had, the way he acted was childish.

Lien cracked his neck left and right. This time, he’d break his nose.

There was no place that suited him better than a knights’ tournament. His engraved weapon was a pair of gauntlets that wrapped his fists, and greaves strapped around his shins. His specialty was breaking joints, and his hobby was smashing faces with his fists.

The knight called Lien was a man who found it twice as easy to face a single knight as it was to face an army.

The guy who’d stepped out now was the sort who was hard even for him to deal with, but that didn’t change anything.

When it’s time to fight, you fight.

If you have to block, you block.

If you have to die, you die.

The ones guarding the southern front all had that same mindset, from the lowest soldier on up. That was how they’d held the line until now. The name “guardian god of the kingdom” hadn’t come from nowhere.

Thump.

Lien slammed his fists together. Sparks flew, as if speaking for his heart.

Wasn’t this exactly what Master had been preparing him for, keeping him from going out there until now?

He wasn’t injured anywhere, and his stamina was overflowing.

“Who among you is the fastest?”

The guy who’d stepped out asked.

Across the whole continent, when people talked about speed, there was one alias that never failed to come up: Gale. And the alias compared to it was Blitzkling, Lightning Blade—and that belonged to Alexandra Zaun.

And the man who’d stepped out now was a lunatic who worshiped speed, dreaming of the day he’d meet Gale and Lightning Blade.

His alias was The Fastest. In all the south, there was no one faster than him, so he was the Fastest Knight.

“My name is Rados, and they call me the Fastest Knight. Fastest one among you, come out. Let’s measure speed.”

He finished speaking, and Lien was just about to step forward—

“Is it my turn?”

Dunbakel moved her foot. She was a beastkin. She was confident her burst acceleration was faster than anyone here. That was why she started to step out—then, before even that foot could plant, she hurriedly ducked her head.

Whip— A fist passed through the spot where her head had been. The evasive move born of instinct didn’t betray her today, either. The back of her head didn’t meet the violence-packed fist.

“Where do you think you’re going, stench? He’s calling me.”

It was Rem. He spoke as he swung his fist. From the start, he hadn’t meant to land a hit—he meant to stop her from stepping out. His intent worked. Dunbakel stopped. She couldn’t just ignore it and go anyway, with a barbarian that crazy standing behind her.

“Why do you lead with your hands instead of your mouth?”

“I used my mouth, too.”

He said it with a cackle, and it was obnoxious, but he wasn’t an opponent you gained anything by jumping. Dunbakel spat once—ptoo—onto the ground and backed off.

“The lying barbarian should withdraw.”

Would Ragna just watch? The genius swordsman who held sunrise stepped out beside Rem.

“You need to learn when to butt in and when to get out.”

Rem growled. The two of them bickered like they always did.

In the middle of it, Shinar looked at Enkrid and asked,

“What do you think? Do you think I’d be faster?”

If it was just speed, Shinar wasn’t the type to lag behind anywhere. If Jaxon were here, he would have said that what mattered wasn’t being fast, but moving as much as you needed, at the right moment.

And Jaxon’s way of thinking like that would sometimes drive out a sword faster than any knight’s.

If Jaxon were here, would he have stepped out? Maybe he would have.

He used to like hanging back and watching.

When Enkrid saw him this time, Jaxon was in the middle of performing acrobatics against five knights alone.

The fact he was acting like that at all was surprising. When Enkrid stared straight at that moment, it even gave him goosebumps.

The will to protect what was behind him came through to Enkrid plainly. So strongly it made a desire boil up inside him—to stand right beside him and swing his sword.

Of course, Enkrid had been faithful to that desire. He’d dropped in, and gotten his wish.

Even now, his mindset was similar. He felt fatigue from flying and fighting all day, but he didn’t want to sit this out.

Who was the fastest?

“I think it’d be fine if I go out.”

Enkrid said it instead of answering Shinar.

“The betrothed really does ignore other people’s words like they’re nothing. Is it because human ears are short? Or is it because you ate the wrong poisonous herb when you were young?”

It was neither. It was just his personality.

Enkrid didn’t particularly react to Shinar’s words this time, either.

The moment he heard the two characters “Fastest,” he was drawn in. The other guy had practically advertised his appeal. He’d be a proper knight, someone worth crossing blades with. A quiet anticipation rose up inside him. That said, it didn’t mean it was really his turn.

“Captain, get some rest.”

Rem said it. He meant there was no need to step out when his condition wasn’t normal. Rem was right.

Enkrid nodded, but it wasn’t only because of Rem’s words. More than that, he stopped because he saw someone else step out first.

Lien, dumbfounded, stopped watching and spoke up.

“Isn’t it my turn? Commander?”

Cypress answered with a snickering laugh.

“Your matchup doesn’t suit him anyway, so why not just watch? Besides, one from our side has already stepped out.”

Among the available forces, it was the lunatic who’d been rolling his eyes around, looking for something, instead of moving his mouth. Instead of talking, he simply walked straight forward.

There was no grand resolve or killing intent in those steps, and no one had expected he’d step out like that, so even Rem couldn’t stop him from going.

“That bastard?”

Rem said, frowning.

How dare he step out without permission.

When you get back, we’ll see.

As Rem carved a grudge into himself, Rophod had also roughly tended to his body and come out to watch the situation. He looked for the guy who’d put holes in him.

Looks like that bastard.

He hadn’t seen his face, but the aura like a quiet lake was hard to forget. It was the same as the man stepping out from the other side now.

And the ally facing him also came into view.

Why does that bastard Pell look angry?

Who knew.

***

Pell walked out, step after step, and asked,

“It’s you, right?”

“......?”

The other man showed his doubt with his expression.

“It’s you. You weasel.”

As Pell spoke and gripped Idolslayer, Knight Rados also placed his hand atop his sword’s hilt.

The distance was more than ten steps, but it was close enough to trade swords as if they were having a conversation. Between them was barely a ten-step gap.

The moment they drew, neither would need to say who was first—they would both spring forward. And they would both strike with the swords in their hands.

Then it would be decided which of the two was faster.

Pell, too, excelled at putting everything into a single blow.

He could’ve fought head-on.

When Rophod faced the drugged-up unit on the front line, this bastard had only hunted for openings.

Weaselly bastard.

He was the kind who safely pulled his body back, stabbed, stabbed, stabbed, and then ran. What was that?

Amusement? A game? Humiliation?

Why he did it didn’t matter. Pell knew when he saw the wounds all over Rophod’s body.

He played with him.

Rophod endured it and held on, even knowing that. He must have known that if he collapsed, the formation would collapse.

I couldn’t have done that.

With his personality, it would be hard. Even if the formation broke, he would have tried to take down a knight.

You knew that, and that’s why you stepped out, you prig?

Rophod knew how to take responsibility. That was the difference between them.

Words he’d once heard from his clan’s elder echoed in Pell’s head.

“The only thing you can do with talent alone is slaughter. Even if you kill dozens of coyotes, the dead sheep won’t come back.”

“Learn responsibility, Pell. Without it, you won’t be a shepherd—you’ll just be a swordsman drunk on killing. That’s where the right to swing Idolslayer begins.”

Up until now, Pell hadn’t failed at protecting sheep many times. It would be hard to call him the best, but he didn’t think he lagged behind as a shepherd.

Wasn’t it enough for a shepherd to just protect the sheep well? Was it really a job that needed lofty words?

That was what he’d thought.

Until he saw Rophod fight, the root of that thinking hadn’t changed. Only after seeing him did his framework crack. Through this event, he’d grown a little more.

Childish and immature.

Pell looked back at his past self, and realized the prig who always growled at his side was an adult.

He showed responsibility. Even if he died, the prig would have held his position.

Prig bastard.

Even if he died today, he wouldn’t say this out loud.

In a fight to protect, you’re above me.

Pell admitted it. It was something only he hadn’t been able to admit until now. Everyone in the Mad Order of Knights besides him knew it. When they led troops and fought, Rophod always won.

But inside that Mad Order of Knights, had anyone ever lectured Pell about responsibility? No one had.

“You lost again? Pfft, pip, pfft.”

That bastard Rem just made weird laughing sounds and busied himself mocking him.

“If you cut down everything yourself, you win.”

That lunatic named Ragna spat out nonsense like it was nothing.

“Effort. You lack effort.”

Enkrid wasn’t that different from Rem. What else could his intent be, copying Pell’s words all the time?

So did Pell resent them? No. Even if he cursed them inside, he didn’t resent them.

“Do you know what you need in order to learn? It’s knowing what you lack.”

Proc, Lua Garne’s words cut into his thoughts like lightning.

If you ask questions, you learn the answers.

If you reach out your hand, you can grasp something.

If you move your feet, you can reach where you want to go.

Simple logic tore through his head. Pell focused more than ever. Before the other man even drew, he predicted the trajectory he would swing.

At the same time, he also drew Idolslayer and swung.

Clang!

Metal met metal and exchanged greetings. A crisp sound cut between them.

Pell, keeping the motion of his swing, moved forward to the left, and the other man sprang off in the opposite direction like a mirror.

There was no time to catch his breath. Pell immediately turned his body and swung Idolslayer. The pitch-black blade reflected light and left an afterimage like someone had spread a wide sheet of black velvet cloth. The other man’s thin, thin blade met that velvet afterimage.

Clang!

Neither weapon was ordinary. When the blades exchanged force, a flash of light burst between them.

Then, both of them holding their breath, they began to strike.

Clatatatatatatatatatang!

It sounded like thousands of beans being roasted at once. That sound rang out in a chain.

Some soldiers covered their ears. Those who had risen above the rank of knight watched without blinking.

He isn’t getting pushed back.

That was how Enkrid saw it.

In pure swinging speed, the other man might be a little faster, but—

He fills the gap by controlling his line.

Pell minimized everything in the motion of swinging and withdrawing his sword. That closed the speed difference.

Pell, forgetting stray thoughts, was busy swinging, blocking, and pouring out what he had inside. Like always, he was about to forget himself and be sucked into the world where only the sword remained. That was his specialty. But unlike usual, in the middle of it, one thought forced its way in.

“If you die, who will protect the sheep?”

The elder’s last words.

And—

“From now on, you’re this unit’s guardian.”

Those damn words from the prig.

Guardian, my ass. He was an executioner-swordsman.

At that moment, Pell saw a needle flying at his eyes. He didn’t know when or how it had come flying in. He hadn’t sensed it, and he hadn’t seen any preparatory movement, either.

He only reacted because he saw a few dots. In the middle of reaching out with his sword, he hurriedly switched to evasion. Pell put strength into both big toes and performed a move close to a stunt. He kept his knees as they were and lay back. He braced with his waist, and it was like he was lying on an invisible bed.

It was something he’d done with astonishingly trained abs, thigh muscles, and toe strength.

And above him came the cutting strike the Fastest Knight boasted. Pell raised his sword upward.

Tiririring.

The other man’s blade struck and passed straight by Pell’s left shoulder area. Maybe he should call it lucky that he hadn’t lost his arm.

Pell’s blood dripped onto the ground in fat drops. Pell held his sword up to block and put strength into the sole of his foot, kicking off the earth to raise his body.

Throughout the entire motion of standing, he kept his sword raised in his right hand, pointed at the other man. There was no carelessness. Carelessness here would lead to defeat, and death.

The man called the Fastest Knight faced him with his left hand behind his back, his right-hand sword still held out in front, and spoke.

“First, the left arm.”

Pell couldn’t raise his left arm. A tendon or something had clearly been severed cleanly. In other words, one arm had already been forced out of the fight first.