A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

"Like brown shit, stubborn!"

"You!"

Esther grabbed the opponent's forearm and snapped it with a quick twist.

Galaph was horrified when he saw his barrier shatter.

The pain that hit his brain was the next blow.

"Ugh."

That was the end.

While a mage's fight is also a contest within the world of spells, the physical body exists, and physical damage can also have an effect.

To put it simply, if it hurts, concentration is lost.

And despite the absolute difference in the amount of mana drawn from the world of spells, wasn't the battle still proceeding at a similar level?

That meant the opponent knew how to use and apply spells much more efficiently than he did.

Galaph broke out into a cold sweat as he endured the pain.

The way he was attacked just moments ago was genuinely absurd.

He cast a defensive spell, but Esther, that wicked witch, conjured flames in her hand and simply slashed through the barrier.

There was an immense force in that motion.

Whoosh!

For a moment, steam clouded his vision.

It was the result of combining the Blue Lake spell with the fiery hand spell.

Galaph, panicking, tried to cast a few spells, but his arm was caught and broken.

Why had this witch gotten so strong?

Only questions filled Galaph's mind.

Had she always fought so well?

The nickname "fighting witch"—was it given not because of her temper, but because she truly fought well?

A mage with as many nicknames as the witch before him was rare indeed.

Galaph had always thought it was a bit of a trick.

The method of scattering many nicknames so that the opponent couldn’t see your real nature.

Whether it was a trick or not, one thing was for sure.

The nickname “fighting witch” attached to the witch standing before him was real.

"Not going easy."

The witch with black silk-like hair said expressionlessly.

Her two disciples had been defeated by her summoned creature, which now stood still in one corner, looking confused.

It seemed like a golem patched together with flesh and bone, but it was impressively well-crafted.

The stitch marks on one side of its face and its unfocused eyes indicated the golem’s true nature.

It seemed like a golem # Nоvеlight # someone had spent their life creating.

"Ugh!"

Galaph resisted.

Naturally, escape was also on his mind, but the gap in strength was too clear from the start.

Esther’s nickname, "fighting witch," was not something she intended to gain.

It was a rumor that had spread because of her insane fighting style.

Galaph was the opposite.

He spent his time building a foundation and leading disciples.

The difference between them was vast.

Esther had sensed this difference from the start.

This was a fight she was never meant to lose.

The density and solidity of the spell world?

That was Galaph’s advantage.

But all spells must be used in the right place and at the right time to be meaningful.

Especially in battle.

Esther had done that, while Galaph had not.

And this was the result.

"Goodbye."

Her words came with a refreshing tone.

Swoosh.

Instead of casting a spell, Esther drew a knife and stabbed it into Galaph’s heart before pulling it out.

With the blade lodged in his heart, Galaph coughed up blood, gasping for air, and collapsed to his knees.

"Shit, damn..."

Galaph turned his head to the side, mumbling through clenched teeth.

Esther pressed her foot down on his mouth.

A mage's mouth should never be left free.

She crouched down and brought the knife down on the back of his hand.

Swoosh!

The blade pierced through Galaph’s palm and embedded itself into the ground.

A mage’s mouth, of course, wasn’t the only thing that couldn’t be left unchecked.

"Ugh!"

Galaph’s body twitched.

That was it.

A fairly powerful mage had lost his life.

In other words, one of Abnaier's trusted cards had unexpectedly been taken out.

Esther checked the corpse for any tricks, wondering if there was anything hidden.

There was no movement of mana.

She then ran her fingers through her long hair.

If only she had a hair tie.

Blood splattered throughout her hair.

It was the same on her black velvet coat and the white skin hidden beneath it.

Drops of blood trickled down from her chest area.

It was unpleasant, and she felt the urge to wash herself, but another thought came to mind first.

"I wonder what my nest is up to."

She muttered to herself.

She wondered what Enkrid might be doing.

Maybe he was getting beaten somewhere.

The river's current gripped by Galaph.

He was a mage whose name she had vaguely heard of.

If there was a mage of this caliber here, there might be something else elsewhere too.

After rummaging through Galaph’s belongings and taking whatever was useful, she unsummoned her creature and sent it back to her spell world before leaving.

The flesh golem, with its head as its core, could still function, but Esther’s body was far from normal yet.

Her mana pathways weren’t intact, which meant the golem's operation time was short.

Though it seemed like an easy fight on the surface, maintaining a human form drained the mana she had stored in her spell world.

‘Guess I’ll have to live as a leopard for a while.’

Without hesitation, Esther transformed into a leopard.

***

The Azpen unit, formed into ranks, watched as someone charged in like a madman.

"What is that?"

"Is he crazy?"

"Should we stab him?"

The person had pierced through the formation and taken position behind them in an instant.

Some of the Azpen soldiers subtly turned their spears backward.

Even though they were in formation, the one who had entered behind them looked dangerous.

The three soldiers exchanged looks.

They were about to kill him and return, but the squad leader nodded as if giving tacit approval.

They were just about to charge when—

"Hold."

One of the nearby squad leaders checked the figure’s face and spoke.

To be precise, it was the distinctive appearance that immediately stood out.

‘Blonde hair, white skin, red eyes.’

One of the impressions Abnaier had specifically shared with all the commanders.

"Let him be."

The unspoken agreement between the three soldiers ended.

It was an order from higher up.

They froze.

The squad leader’s gaze turned toward the approaching enemy.

The man, without wearing a helmet, strode boldly forward, stepping with quick, purposeful movements.

He wasn’t running, but his steps were incredibly fast.

With a sword in hand, he was moving swiftly.

It was as though each step he took covered two of their own.

And in front of him stood an Azpen soldier holding a short sword.

Actually, the soldier wasn’t wearing a regular uniform but hardened leather armor.

He scratched his head and spoke through his helmet.

"He’s really following us."

Ragna didn’t respond, but simply moved another step.

Whoosh!

The Azpen soldier in leather armor threw a dagger.

Ragna nodded and dodged it.

The flying dagger embedded itself in the ground.

Ragna didn’t even glance back as he continued walking.

The dagger had failed to stop his stride.

‘If you’ve greeted him, finish it.’

The soldier kept chasing, only looking at Ragna’s back.

He wasn’t about to lose his scent.

The enemy didn't seem to be getting any farther.

Ragna had no thoughts of retreating among the enemy ranks.

As Enkrid had once said, the Mad Platoon members could do worse things than Rem, depending on the situation.

Ragna had once returned, having slaughtered hundreds of enemy soldiers simply for getting lost.

This was nothing to him.

No one ever demanded strategy or tactics from Ragna.

"Just fight."

Kraiss had said this.

And Enkrid as well.

"Fight as you see fit."

And that’s exactly what Ragna had done.

He fought as he saw fit.

He had fought like this all along.

But now, things were a little different.

Now there was a bit more added to the equation.

It was called ambition.

"Hey, you gonna keep following me?"

The enemy soldier scratched his head again, speaking.

Yet his pace never slowed.

He wasn’t a regular soldier.

Ragna recognized that immediately.

‘Gotcha.’

Why did he want to catch him?

The exact reason was unclear.

However, one thing was certain—if he chased that guy, he felt like he might see something he was expecting.

That alone filled Ragna with enough will to move forward.

The red eyes, focused entirely on one singular goal.

The enemy soldier deliberately moved farther away from the main camp.

To be precise, he had stepped outside both Naurillia's and Azpen's range of vision.

He must have been running hard enough to feel winded.

‘He's keeping up well.’

The enemy soldier thought.

He was confident in his leg strength, more than anyone around him, yet this was the best he could do.

Despite that, this guy kept following him.

His chest was heaving, but his breath wasn't too ragged.

‘Damn, this is humiliating.’

His original affiliation was with the Royal Knight Order of Azpen.

He was a squire.

In terms of leg strength, he was the best among the squires.

No matter how high the opponent's rank was, being outrun like this was a blow to his pride.

The enemy was breathing less heavily and appeared less fatigued.

"You really are something else."

The squire asked in disbelief.

Ragna stared at him and then asked, "You're not alone, are you?"

The squire didn’t nod.

What difference would it make if he knew?

Ragna could feel the rising, ambiguous drive in him.

Ambition, desire.

What could he call it?

An impulse to fight surged through his chest, but it wasn’t just because of the opponent in front of him.

Not at all.

Ragna drew his sword.

The enemy soldier, a squire from the Royal Knight Order of Azpen, stepped back.

From the tall grasses, an opponent who had given Ragna the motivation to move forward appeared.

"Is it really surprising, even after I warned you?"

The woman who had appeared spoke to the squire.

She had dark skin and a tall frame.

Her long hair was tied back, and she wore a custom-made helmet.

It was a deformed helmet, with the faceplate lifted, allowing her hair to pass through a hole at the back, with spikes protruding from either side, like the ears of a beast.

Her speech was oddly different, and she didn’t seem to be from this continent.

Her appearance and skin color backed that up.

She seemed Eastern.

And she was a woman.

"You're really fearless."

She said.

She stretched out her long arm, and it was roughly the same length as Ragna's arm.

Ragna, holding his sword, stood still, adjusting his breathing.

His breathing had already become steady.

The squire frowned even more upon seeing that.

How could someone with such good stamina?

It was no surprise, really.

Ragna often got lost.

Getting lost had become a part of his daily routine.

For someone else, a month-long journey might turn into a year-long one for Ragna.

If he had a map or a guide, it would have been easier, but Ragna’s travels weren’t that well-funded.

Maps weren't cheap, and he never saw the need to hire a guide.

After all, someone with no fixed destination had no need to worry about losing their way, living only for the present day.

So, Ragna never thought of himself as someone who got lost.

When things went poorly, he sometimes traveled for months without even stopping at a village.

Running and jumping—those things naturally developed to their extreme.

"If you’re a knight-in-training, you should be close to me, right?"

The squire said, fiddling with the grip of his sword at his waist.

"You’re lower-ranked than me."

The dark-skinned woman answered immediately, her eyes never leaving Ragna.

"Are you sure?"

"Are you doubting my eyes?"

Or is this just stubbornness?

Neither of those is ideal."

"...My mistake."

"I didn’t want to lose in leg strength, but you're strangely irritating."

"Even if you’re not a knight-in-training, I’d say you're at the level of one."

Ragna listened to their conversation, trying to find the woman’s opening.

It wasn’t so much with a plan, but a natural action.

In his mind, he had already executed four attacks.

A wide horizontal slash from the left to the right.

A downward chopping strike from above.

A thrust to push forward.

A circular cutting move from the lower-right to the upper-left.

Ragna’s mind had already mapped out four hypothetical attacks, which the woman casually deflected.

Then, her sword would touch his shoulder or abdomen.

‘Can I avoid it?’

If he moved his feet, he could dodge, but that would put him on the defensive.

Once on the defensive, it would be hard to turn the tide.

There was no way to win, no matter what.

The genius’s perspective and talent were already mapping out the course of the battle.

Of course, it could all just be a baseless delusion.

No one knows the outcome of a battle before it begins.

Ragna, with no change in his expression, opened his palm and rubbed it across his thigh.

Sweat was forming.

"You're still not really a knight-in-training."

"You seem to know a little bit about Will, though."

She continued after taking a few steps forward.

"And, by the way, I was told to make sure you die."

She added, her voice casual.

"I’m Ayada, a knight-in-training from the Azpen Royal Knight Order."

"Do you have any thoughts about switching sides?"

A knight-in-training from the Royal Knight Order.

Alongside the squire.

Ayada was brimming with confidence.

She had been a knight-in-training for four years now.

Ayada knew better than anyone that not all knights-in-training were the same.

The knight order brought together those with similar talents and abilities.

Knights-in-training who had undergone rigorous training there.

The difference between them and those wandering the continent as knight-level warriors was clear.

The intensity of the duels and battles they could experience was different.

Ayada didn’t even consider the possibility of losing, which is why she proposed it.

Ragna wiped the sweat from his right hand, then his left.

He then gripped his sword with both hands, raising it in front of his face.

The cold winter wind cut through the sharpened blade.

The sunlight also split in the same way.

The weather was pleasant.

His heart was racing.

The ambition that sometimes rose when watching Enkrid now filled his chest with a sharp force.

Why?

Why was this surge of ambition coming up so strongly?

Was it because he wanted to cut down his opponent?

Was it the impulse to kill?

It wasn’t that.

It was because his opponent was strong.

At first glance, the way she moved wasn’t ordinary, and her affiliation was the same.

The Azpen Royal Knight Order.

Even with the Red Cloak Knight Order of Naurillia, Azpen’s declaration of war was one of the reasons it had caused the conflict.

A symbol of power.

And now, such an opponent had appeared?

Of course, that wasn’t all of it.

Ragna’s ambition had been provoked.

The impulses he had gained through Enkrid had created a thirst in him.

Because of that, sometimes he focused on training.

But a thirst once developed couldn’t be quenched by just that.

Even if he walked the path laid out for him, he couldn’t know everything that would happen along the way.

Only now did Ragna realize.

‘Ah.’

A small exclamation echoed inside him.

What he needed was a trigger.

A reason to move forward, beyond this point.

Something that couldn’t be solved with just ambition.

He couldn’t give his best against Enkrid or the idiots around him, so he couldn’t give his all.

But this knight?

He was someone he could show his best to.

A worthy adversary in the realm of death, a trigger.

He couldn’t even hear her suggestion to switch sides.

He just wanted to fight right now.

So, provoking his opponent would help.

Ragna, too, had learned something from Enkrid, and he did as he had been taught.

"What's that supposed to mean, you brown turd?"