A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

Enkrid didn’t know this, but the Red Cloak Order had different insignias depending on rank.

For example, knights bore the three crossed swords of the royal crest alongside the Solar Tree, a mythical beast with a round head and a flaming mane.

Semi-knights had the same insignia—but with one less sword.

Squires bore only a single sword, and within that rank, the insignia’s shape would change depending on the tests and missions completed.

The one who had just thrust their sword at him bore an insignia with a single sword and a Solar Tree.

A squire, but one recognized for their skill.

They were only a few tests away from becoming a semi-knight.

Their sword was swift and precise—like an eagle snatching prey.

Enkrid, however, did not consider his opponent’s specialty or habits.

Instead, the moment their blades met—he twisted his sword.

Tidding!

The squire’s expression changed in an instant.

The force behind Enkrid’s blade felt like that of a giant.

It was only natural—he had shrouded himself in the Heart of Might.

Clang!

As the two swords clashed and flowed against each other, the squire’s blade was knocked upward—

While Enkrid’s sword traced the exact path he wanted.

A straight thrust.

At the end of that thrust—

The squire’s chest plate.

Thud. Crack. Squish.

Three sounds merged into one.

His sword tip pierced through armor and sank into the organ beneath.

The heart.

Enkrid withdrew his blade faster than he had stabbed, pulling it out in an instant—

And stepped back.

Exactly one step.

Even as blood welled up in his chest, his opponent swung sideways.

Whoosh!

A sword sliced through the space where Enkrid had just been.

Blood vessels in the squire’s eyes burst red.

“Ghhk.”

Still gripping his sword, he coughed out blood and collapsed sideways.

His eyelids fluttered.

The moment of death had arrived.

‘Why...?’

To the falling squire, everything seemed to slow down.

It was a phenomenon caused by thoughts accelerating at the brink of death.

He refused to accept reality.

Why had he lost?

Who was his opponent?

He had sparred with semi-knights before—so how could he lose so easily?

They had exchanged only one attack.

Then, another realization crept in.

‘Was this the wrong choice?’

Regret followed.

He shouldn’t have gotten involved.

But then again—would doing nothing have changed anything?

He had taken on this job in exchange for the right to bear another sword on his insignia.

It was supposed to be a guaranteed promotion to semi-knight, regardless of his actual skill.

It had seemed like the logical choice—to side with the stronger faction.

‘It wasn’t.’

As death loomed, realization arrived alongside regret.

‘This was my mistake.’

When he had first dreamed of becoming a knight—

When he had first been recognized for his talent—

Had it been for power, wealth, and prestige?

No.

“I wish to uphold knighthood.”

In the past, his mentor, his seniors, and his comrades had responded to his youthful ideals with amusement.

“A romantic fool, huh?”

“Let’s call you the Knight of Romance when you earn your title.”

“What the hell? That’s ridiculous.”

“Hahaha! Just do your best, alright?”

He had once dreamed of knighthood through poetry and song.

But at some point, he had forgotten that dream—

And pursued something else instead.

Power. Wealth. Prestige.

The moment he believed that honor came from the eyes of others, ◆ Nоvеlіgһt ◆ (Only on Nоvеlіgһt) he had gone astray.

He had dreamed of changing his insignia.

Of engraving one more sword.

And for what?

Like a withering flower, like a broken sword, a single squire now lay upon the ground.

Before him, a man who had not even broken a sweat stood, sword held low, gazing forward.

A single drop of blood fell from Enkrid’s sword onto the floor.

The corridor was already in shambles—shattered furniture, broken doors, bloodstains, corpses, and shattered blades.

And standing in the midst of the chaos—him.

Black hair. Blue eyes.

Because he had been acting as a bodyguard at recent noble gatherings, a few among them recognized him.

“That... half-wit from the Border Guard?”

One of them muttered.

Then, as Enkrid’s gaze shifted toward him—

The man inhaled sharply and shut his mouth.

Had he heard?

He had whispered so quietly—there was no way.

But Enkrid paid him no mind.

“Who’s inside?”

He asked.

This translation is the intellectual property of Novelight.

It was a simple question—but to those standing before him, it felt anything but.

Because he had just slain a squire in a single strike.

His presence poured forth, manifesting as an unspoken pressure.

It wasn’t Intimidation, but there was little difference.

If the receiving end perceived it as pressure, then it was no different from actual Intimidation.

There were eight standing before the door.

The commander swallowed hard.

Could all eight of them take him down at once?

‘Not a chance.’

As his mind spun in a panic, cold sweat trickled down his back.

And at that moment—

Enkrid took a single step forward.

Tap.

His foot nudged a broken wooden shield lying on the ground, pushing it aside.

One of the soldiers blocking the path instinctively stepped aside.

A few among them gritted their teeth and held their ground before the door.

Enkrid raised his sword as he approached.

If they blocked him—

He would cut them down.

As his will sharpened, Willpower naturally followed.

This time, it was real Intimidation.

One of the soldiers began sweating profusely.

Moments later, he bolted to the side.

That was enough.

Now, there was no one left blocking the way.

“Are you staying because you actually want to fight?”

Enkrid asked.

“No.”

The commander answered.

Then what the hell are you still doing here?

Enkrid’s gaze silently demanded an answer.

“...We’re withdrawing.”

The commander spat out the words bitterly.

Standing their ground would mean a pointless death.

At least Enkrid wasn’t butchering them on sight.

So they shut their mouths and retreated.

Among them were mercenaries under Viscount Mernes, as well as regular soldiers.

They knew they weren’t supposed to abandon their post.

They might even be executed for it.

Viscount Mernes was strict about discipline.

Especially with failures.

And yet—they retreated in silence.

Because his presence was different.

If they fought, they would die.

That much was certain.

It wasn’t just his skill—his sheer aura overwhelmed them.

Their courage crumbled from within.

Their will broke.

Thus, they couldn’t resist.

Thus, they couldn’t endure.

Without looking back, Enkrid pushed open the broken door and peered inside.

“Who’s in there?”

He tapped the half-shattered door with the tip of his sword.

From inside—

A sharp, cracking sound echoed.

A whip.

“...You?”

A familiar voice.

The whip-wielding bodyguard.

‘What was her name again?’

His memory was hazy.

Repeating too many todays came with side effects.

Even with his memory, this couldn’t be helped.

“Ratt?”

Enkrid asked.

“...Who the hell is that?”

Close enough.

“Melon?”

"...Are you doing this on purpose?"

Even in this serious situation, this man was acting like this—why?

Matthew wondered.

Why did his lord trust someone like this? He truly couldn’t understand it.

"Matthew."

"Ah, right. Matthew."

"What about the ones outside?"

"They left."

"...Where to?"

"Wherever they were meant to go."

Enkrid had no obligation to protect any other noble or faction.

He had no interest in doing so.

He also had no intention of killing them all just because he could.

Marcus had asked for his help.

Marcus had told him to protect Crang.

And so, that was all he was doing.

"He’s inside, isn’t he?"

"Come in."

Only then did the dresser blocking the door screech aside.

The moment he stepped inside, he saw that the interior was just as much of a mess.

Seven corpses.

Matthew stood there, half of his face wrapped in bandages.

Beside him was another female warrior, gripping a long trident, her gaze filled with wariness.

She wore a chainmail vest that covered only her upper body.

Her left shoulder was damaged, broken, and slashed.

It was clear she had survived a brutal battle.

She still moved her left shoulder, but it was clearly uncomfortable.

"Where?"

"Here."

Turning his gaze, he saw a familiar face peeking out from a hole in the floor.

"You were supposed to leave even if we died."

The whip-wielding bodyguard, Matthew, spoke, his voice filled with anger.

He genuinely despised this situation.

"Where would I go without you? If this is where I die, then I’ll accept it."

Crang was calm.

Even in a moment like this, his presence was different.

The moment he saw Enkrid, Crang waved his hand.

"You’re late."

"I tripped over a rock on the way."

Enkrid shrugged as he answered.

He left out the part where the "rock" had orange hair, was female, and belonged to the Red Cloak Order.

Crang pulled himself up from the hole.

It seemed to be some sort of emergency passage—but why a hole instead of stairs?

He could hear a ladder inside, and the sound of Crang stepping up it.

It looked like a diagonal escape tunnel.

"You shouldn't."

Matthew stopped him.

Just because Enkrid had cleared the way didn’t mean this place was safe.

Even so, Crang ignored him and climbed up.

The woman with the trident kept watching the entrance.

Enkrid briefly wondered who she was—but figured Matthew wasn’t the only bodyguard Crang had.

'Not the type to be caught off guard, either.'

No doubt he had prepared measures for this.

That was why Enkrid had never believed Crang would die.

But the fact that he had asked for help—

That meant the situation was serious.

It meant he needed Enkrid.

"Didn’t expect you to ask for help."

"Didn’t I say we’re friends? Consider it a debt."

Crang finally climbed up and spoke.

In truth, Crang had planned countermeasures.

But things had spiraled out of control due to time constraints.

If Enkrid hadn’t arrived, he would have fought to the bitter end.

Even after nearly dying, Crang laughed.

He didn’t even flinch a single finger.

"You sought to become a king, yet—"

Matthew spoke, his voice filled with frustration.

From his perspective, this was utterly infuriating.

Because Crang actually listened to him.

That was the kind of lord he was.

"Because I sought to become a king."

Crang’s words carried a different weight this time.

Even heavier than before.

The noise in the room faded.

The atmosphere shifted.

And then, Crang spoke.

"If I sought to be king, yet fled just to save my own life—what would I ever become?"

"If I can't even protect those I care about, what would I do sitting on a throne?"

"Would I just sit there, stuffing my face with grapes peeled by handmaidens?"

"Shut up, Matthew. If I die here, then my fate ends here."

"I have done my best, I have prepared much, and yet I am still here."

"I will not throw away more just to run away."

Enkrid shivered.

It was just words.

But what did it take for words alone to carry such weight?

It was simple.

They had to be backed by action.

Crang had already proven himself.

His own life—

Was something he was willing to risk.

"I must do this to keep my promise to the Queen as well."

Crang spoke and smiled at Matthew.

"So stop nagging me."

His last words were lighthearted, as if speaking to a friend.

Enkrid finally understood why Crang had called him here.

Because it was dangerous? Because it was a crisis?

No.

‘To avoid running away.’

It was a desperate effort not to turn his back on his dream.

And ironically, in Crang, Enkrid saw himself.

It didn’t suit him.

It wasn’t a parallel story.

Yet—he saw his own struggle, trapped in today.

It was the same desperate thrashing—

The same fight to take even a single step forward.

This was how Crang lived.

And for the first time—

Enkrid felt moved.

He wanted to help.

That was Crang’s talent.

"Someone’s coming."

The female bodyguard with the trident spoke.

She moved toward the door, trying to block it with furniture again.

"How many?"

Matthew asked.

"One."

Matthew gritted his teeth.

"This is the worst-case scenario, right?"

Crang asked from behind, still lighthearted.

Matthew had mentioned it before—

They could handle a group.

But if one elite opponent came alone, that was the real problem.

"Time to test our luck."

Crang said cheerfully.

And then—

Enkrid spoke from the heart.

"Then I’ll be your luck."

Crang turned his head.

But instead of waiting for a reply—

Enkrid stepped forward and spoke again.

"Don’t block the door, Matthew."

Matthew had been about to push furniture against the entrance again.

Barricading themselves might work against a horde of soldiers.

But against a true warrior, it was meaningless.

If someone as strong as himself was coming—

Then these shabby obstacles were nothing.

He pushed open the door and stepped outside.

There, a man stood.

To Enkrid, he was a familiar face.

But to the man—this was their first meeting.

The timing-disrupting semi-knight he had faced before.

The man’s left eyebrow twitched.

"Did you kill Aisia?"

He asked.

"I put her to sleep."

Enkrid answered.

His lullaby had been his fists and his feet.

The man seemed like he was about to say something else—

Then suddenly, he lunged forward, sword drawn.

Shing!

The blade flashed down in an instant.

A strike meant to sever his flow from the very beginning.

Enkrid had seen him before—

So he reacted.

He drew his gladius and tried to deflect the strike.

BANG!

Failure.

A thunderous impact.

His right wrist nearly shattered.

Everything—the question, the step, the hidden feints, the swordplay—

Was designed to disrupt rhythm.

And Enkrid realized it instantly.

‘He’s above Aisia.’

So—

He was Rem’s level.

Just barely—

A second blade stabbed forward.

At that moment—

A whip made of twisted beast hide snapped between them.

Matthew’s work.