A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

Enkrid felt like he might die from sheer joy.

Just because he had chosen his path and committed to walking it didn’t mean he had to stare straight ahead all the time.

Even the great merchant Rengadis once said:

“Keep your eyes open, scan the ground, and watch your surroundings. You never know where someone might have dropped a stray krona.”

Rengadis likely wasn’t the sort to stoop and pick up a single coin, given his stature as a renowned merchant.

But the meaning of his words was clear.

If a pouch of gold coins lay on the roadside, wouldn’t it make sense to pick it up?

If you were planning to sleep rough during a journey, wouldn’t it help to gather dry branches along the way?

If you could kill two birds with one stone, shouldn’t you aim the throw that way?

That’s exactly what Enkrid did.

Will.

Choosing that as his goal didn’t mean he acted blindly or foolishly.

He didn’t turn into a racehorse with blinkers on, charging ahead without regard for his surroundings.

In the recurring loop of today, what else could he do before the Shepherd came in the evening?

Duel. Fight. Reflect.

Enkrid narrowed his tasks down to those three.

He learned the basics of Flowing Blade from Ragna and trained tirelessly on his own.

He also picked up more of the Balrafian martial arts from Audin.

Both of their reactions were similar:

“Have you trained somewhere before? Or have you been secretly practicing without telling me?”

“When did you polish your martial arts to this level? Brother, you make me proud.”

To both, Enkrid gave a simple nod.

Although his progress was the result of being trapped in today, the training was indeed his own. It wasn’t a lie.

Such comments weren’t frequent. Enkrid preferred training over sparring.

He spent most of his time thinking, practicing swordplay, and moving his body.

When his mind felt stuck, he would push himself to exhaustion through the Isolation Technique.

“Are you waiting for me to tell you to take it easy, Brother?” Audin asked, clearly concerned about how hard Enkrid was pushing himself.

“I think better when I move,” Enkrid replied casually.

“That’s true. The brain needs good circulation to function,” Jaxon murmured from the side.

Considering Jaxon’s past—or perhaps ongoing—profession, he likely had an unmatched understanding of human anatomy.

“Yeah, I’ve found that to be true.”

Enkrid had learned it firsthand. When his thoughts stalled, he moved his body.

And when moving didn’t solve a problem, he’d sit and reflect.

By the 180th iteration of today, Enkrid had fully grasped the basics of Flowing Blade, further honed his Balrafian martial arts with Audin, and learned more about sensory control from Jaxon.

Since he had time to kill, he spent it refining and organizing his skills.

But it didn’t stop there.

His swordsmanship, martial arts, and sensory awareness became sharper, more precise, and bolder.

His senses grew keener, his focus sharper, and his decision-making more decisive.

Even so—

Slash!

He couldn’t fully avoid the blade.

The opponent’s blade grazed his hand, leaving a shallow cut.

The sword moved like a snake, twisting and slithering in a style based on Rapid Blade and Illusory Blade techniques.

Once the blade is drawn, blocking becomes nearly impossible.

If Enkrid had the skill to evade and parry without taking so much as a scratch, he might have been able to win unscathed.

But to reach that point—

I’d have to become a knight immediately.

The opponent was more skilled than the likes of Swiftblade.

If it had been the Half-Blood Giant instead?

It would probably just come down to who lands the critical blow first.

Gauging the opponent’s skill meant recognizing that Enkrid could have killed them several times over if he had chosen to.

In nearly 200 repetitions of today, not a single moment had been wasted. That made it possible.

Yet avoiding even a scratch? That was still out of reach. It felt like a completely separate challenge.

Would it be impossible without becoming a knight?

If not, he’d have to spend the entire night defending.

He had tried that too.

And when midnight struck, today simply started anew.

Enough defense.

Dodging and blocking all day through instinct and reflex held no meaning.

So what then?

From then on, there was only battle, as real as it could get.

Enkrid fought again and again.

Even when struck down, he consciously resisted in the fleeting moments before death, fully utilizing every second beforehand.

By repeating today, Enkrid learned from his opponent, absorbed new techniques, and refined what he had already mastered.

It wasn’t tedious or rushed.

There was no reason for it to be.

Every day, there was something new to learn.

Even if resisting the force imbued in the blade seemed pointless, he ignored that.

He pursued enjoyment, which naturally led to numerous revelations.

In hindsight...

Had he been too scattered, learning too many things at once?

As he incorporated each lesson into himself, he felt sturdier than before.

But there was no time to revel in his progress.

Even with the recurring loop of today, each day felt full. There was no break from the tasks at hand.

Thinking, reflecting, and training—over and over.

To anyone observing him, he’d undoubtedly appear like a perfectly insane man.

“What is it that drives you?” the Ferryman had once asked.

Why couldn’t he just let a single day pass idly, even though today repeated endlessly?

It wasn’t that he couldn’t.

He wouldn’t.

Because Enkrid was enjoying himself.

Even if his dreams were faded, and struggling toward them in utter darkness yielded no progress,

Now, with the light of possibility visible just beyond the wall, he felt an unparalleled thrill.

Even if suffering and pain accompanied it.

Enkrid once again felt the joy of growth.

Though he had never truly believed he was stagnant, encountering a chance to advance was always a source of joy and exhilaration.

That joy was what drove him.

After another wound grazed his wrist, Enkrid brushed his hand across the back of the injury.

Blood welled from the small cut, dripping down his hand.

By now, he was accustomed to the banshee-like wails and ghoul-like howls that seemed to pierce his ears whenever he was injured.

It wasn’t that they weren’t painful anymore.

But he could keep it from showing on his face.

And so he spoke calmly:

“Does that sword have a name?”

“...Huh? Are you alright?”

The Shepherd seemed startled.

Having witnessed this scene countless times, Enkrid ignored the reaction and repeated his question:

“The sword’s name.”

After hesitating and chewing on his lip, the Shepherd answered.

“It’s called Idol Slayer.”

A fitting name for such a blade. Though Enkrid had never heard of it before.

He still didn’t understand the sword’s power, the essence of what killed him, or the mechanics behind it.

He had asked, of course, but the Shepherd, for whom today was their first encounter, couldn’t give clear answers.

‘It wouldn’t have mattered anyway.’

Will was something that couldn’t be explained, taught, or passed on.

Baptism was little more than a form of superstition.

It didn’t guarantee the awakening of Will.

“Wouldn’t a gifted individual awaken it when faced with death? If they felt the edge of a blade forged from determination, wouldn’t they come to understand it?”

That question had led to the concept of baptism.

In other words, asking was pointless. Whatever that sword was, if Will truly existed, it was the key to survival.

That sword was forged from Will. So Enkrid didn’t ask further; he chose to endure. To endure and awaken.

“Can you forge it? Can you withstand it?”

The Shepherd’s questions came, as they always did, as Enkrid survived longer and longer against the blade.

And the day reset again.

From then on, Enkrid devised new techniques and tested his theories.

For example...

Instead of spending the entire day parrying and dodging, Enkrid began experimenting with ways to prevent his opponent from drawing their sword in the first place.

Thunk! Thud. Tap.

He struck upward from below the opponent’s chin, causing them to pull back instinctively. Using that moment, Enkrid swung the side of his hand horizontally toward their neck.

The Shepherd, displaying remarkable agility, blocked by tilting their head back, demonstrating a surprising aptitude for unarmed combat.

Enkrid, unfazed, continued his maneuver. His foot came down hard on the opponent’s, disrupting their balance.

The Shepherd’s movements faltered.

Though skilled in hand-to-hand combat, it wasn’t their forte.

After all, this opponent was a swordsman at their core.

Seizing the moment, Enkrid reached out and grabbed the hilt of the Shepherd’s sword just as they attempted to draw it.

Having closed the distance to within the range of their dagger’s reach, Enkrid executed one of his recently mastered techniques.

“The Balrafian Pummel Press.”

A secret technique designed to prevent the opponent from even unsheathing their blade.

It was a move he had trained extensively and ingrained into his body.

“...I’ve lost,” the Shepherd admitted.

Though their pride burned brightly, they couldn’t deny the reality before them. They had failed even to draw their sword—a clear defeat.

Despite knowing the risk of attempting to draw their weapon, the Shepherd had tried and failed.

Acknowledging their loss was only natural.

“No. Let’s try again,” Enkrid said, stepping back.

He retreated to a proper sword’s length and drew his own blade.

Shing.

Enkrid unsheathed his sword and warned, “It’s sharp and dangerous. Be cautious.”

Recognizing the gravity of the situation, the Shepherd bit their lip before drawing their blade.

Ting!

The sound of the Shepherd’s sword being unsheathed was sharp and clear.

Pointing the blade forward, they gave their own warning:

“Even a scratch will kill you. Think of it as being laced with a lethal poison.”

Two moons hung in the sky, their light casting eerie shadows that intertwined the figures of the two combatants.

From the angle of the light, the Shepherd’s shadow appeared larger than Enkrid’s.

‘So considerate, aren’t you? Telling me not to get scratched,’ Enkrid thought wryly, nodding at the Shepherd’s words.

The Shepherd, interpreting the nod as a signal to begin, adjusted their stance.

This time, their posture was more cautious than ever before.

And rightly so.

This was the same opponent who had once rendered their blade useless with only fists and feet.

Now, steel met steel as their swords clashed.

Clang!

Sparks flew as the blades collided.

Even after countless encounters, Enkrid still found something new every time he crossed swords with the Shepherd.

‘They improve as they fight.’

It was a gift, a talent Enkrid didn’t possess.

Recognizing this didn’t make him envious, though.

Instead, he found himself intrigued by the changes in his opponent.

Each day, despite its repetition, felt like facing a brand-new adversary.

Yet this also meant that defeating the Shepherd without being scratched remained impossible.

Enduring through the night and achieving victory were two entirely different matters.

Enkrid wasn’t foolish enough to get stabbed on purpose, but neither was he willing to waste the day merely defending.

And so, today was no different.

Slice.

A shallow wound appeared.

The familiar wails and howls of banshees and ghouls filled the air as Enkrid’s heart stopped, his mind going blank.

It felt as though someone had jabbed a searing hot poker into his skull.

The pain was excruciating.

Horrific.

And so, Enkrid died.

And died again.

And again.

He died over three hundred times.

With each death, Enkrid refined his skills. He became increasingly adept at using the Balrafian Pummel Press to prevent his opponent from even drawing their sword.

Through relentless repetition, his mastery of the technique grew.

Of course, this was merely a secondary benefit.

‘I can’t catch it.’

In the darkness, Enkrid felt like a wandering traveler who had lost his way.

Though he saw a light in the distance, he couldn’t reach it.

And yet, nothing changed.

Even though the path ahead remained unclear, Enkrid walked on. He crawled. He struggled. As long as there was progress, even the smallest amount, he continued.

He was both a wayfarer and a wanderer.

“Idiot.”

The Ferryman’s voice.

Whenever they appeared, it was always to mock him.

“Fool.”

“Brainless oaf.”

It seemed the Ferryman never considered how such words might wound someone.

Not that they bothered Enkrid.

He continued his stubborn journey through the autumn of today.

One day, while walking along a path scattered with fallen leaves, he picked up a single leaf and held it close.

It was then that the light brushed his hand.

“Die.”

A voice echoed through the wailing.

Enkrid reacted instinctively, as he always had.

Though outwardly calm, he was thrashing and clawing internally.

His struggle, his resistance, always boiled down to a single, resolute sentiment:

“No.”

He wouldn’t die. He refused to die. No matter what the blade did, he would not allow it to kill him.

This time, when the Shepherd’s blade grazed him, something changed.

Though the pain was the same, Enkrid resisted for an extended moment.

How long had it been? He couldn’t tell.

It felt like growing a tail where none had existed before. Awkward, unfamiliar, and requiring practice to master.

In the oppressive darkness, the moment of realization came.

‘What is will?’

‘What is Will?’

‘It’s whatever I desire it to be.’

If the Shepherd’s sword embodied death and demanded submission, then Enkrid had only one response.

On the 485th today, despite overwhelming the Shepherd with swordsmanship and strength, Enkrid was grazed on the shoulder.

For the first time, he felt the Will of Death infused in the blade—a suffocating force that burned his mind and constricted his heart.

But now, having felt it, he could reject it.

“...I refuse.”

His voice rang out, calm but unyielding.

With those words, the oppressive force of the blade shattered.

The Shepherd’s eyes widened.

“You’ve realized it, haven’t you?”

“Yeah.”

Enkrid didn’t deny it.

“...I’ve lost.”

The Shepherd let their sword fall to the ground, their arms hanging limply at their sides.

Their expression wavered between disbelief and relief.

Under the light of the two moons, their shadows intertwined.

But now, Enkrid’s shadow seemed larger than the Shepherd’s—a reflection of the shifting tides.

‘So this is Will.’

It was only a fragment, a small piece of the whole.

All Enkrid could do was reject the blade’s intent.

But even so—

“Damn.”

He felt like he might die from sheer joy.