A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

The day, which always ended before the sun set, had changed. Ragna, the proof of that change, turned his body.

After letting his sword fall and catching his breath, the squire, who had looked like a reaper, collapsed behind him.

Blood flowed from the severed end. The already crimson carpet had been freshly stained with more blood.

“How...?”

Enkrid opened his mouth. It wasn’t to the point of shock, but he was definitely surprised.

He was genuinely curious. That’s why he asked.

Was he asking how Ragna got here? Even Сrang, who had been watching, thought the same. It had been a fortunate timing, a stroke of luck that intervened at just the right moment.

In reality, it was the result of a repeated day, the twisted end of today, but Сrang couldn’t have known that.

While Ragna silently wiped the blood off his sword, Enkrid asked the question that had been on his mind.

“How did you find your way here?”

How could this not be surprising?

Ragna had come here alone. He hadn’t secretly followed him from behind; he must have come from the castle gate.

If the goddess of fortune hadn’t kissed him—if she didn’t directly take him by the hand and guide him—such an event would never have happened.

In response to Enkrid’s question, Ragna puffed out his chest.

It almost seemed like he had come all this way just for this moment.

“I know a shortcut.”

“Luck?”

Enkrid asked, his question implied.

Was it by luck that you got here?

Ragna also gave an implied response.

“Skill.”

The ability to find shortcuts was something he was born with.

Сrang blinked.

What the hell were these idiots doing?

It was an incomprehensible conversation.

Wasn’t this the conversation of a bunch of madmen?

Well, Сrang couldn’t really say anything. The important thing was that he was alive.

The night hadn’t even fully arrived yet.

Сrang realized that the work he had prepared was already finished before it had even started.

“I almost pissed myself.”

Сrang said as he slumped down.

It wasn’t something a man who wanted to be a king of a nation should be saying, but saying that didn’t diminish Сrang’s dignity. He was that kind of person.

Why would his dignity be lowered for rejoicing in surviving as a human being?

Even if someone had asked, he would have said just that.

Enkrid finished his brief conversation with Ragna and roughly adjusted his twisted right wrist with his left hand.

Yet, his gaze was still fixed on Ragna.

It was different from the joking expression he had before.

Finding the way here, fine.

But what’s next?

Ragna, pushing aside the person Enkrid couldn’t handle, beheaded him.

He had watched the entire process of the fight.

Anyone who had seen Ragna’s fight and his sword would have known.

Ragna hadn’t yet reached the rank of knight, but he would become one.

He had that kind of talent. Part of that talent had already slipped out and revealed itself. Even Matthew, with his wide eyes and quickening breath, could see it.

It was that surprising.

Enkrid opened his mouth.

“Thank you.”

The words were expressions of gratitude, but his tone conveyed other emotions rather than thankfulness.

Сrang’s ears perked up and his head turned.

Normally, Enkrid would have easily concealed his emotions, but right now, it looked like it was hard for him to hide them.

Сrang looked at Enkrid and shouted.

“Call the healer! Bring the healer!”

Both of his guards had been badly injured. Taking care of them was urgent.

Was it professional duty, or loyalty? Immediately, two attendants came out.

“Yes, yes, your highness.”

Where had they been hiding? They managed not to die or get injured.

No, this was the norm.

If the squire who had died had gotten his way, it would have been the attendants and servants who would have cleaned up Сrang’s death.

Unless he were a perverted psychopath obsessed with murder, there was no reason to kill the attendants.

The dead man had once been part of the knights. Сrang knew that, so he had called for help.

“Call the healer.”

Сrang spoke while still sitting, and the attendants and servants moved. However, Сrang’s eyes didn’t leave Enkrid.

“I almost died.”

Ragna spoke. Obviously, it was Enkrid who almost died. Was it because he felt the emotions in the words of gratitude? Was it a reprimand for the person who saved him? Was it the audacity to include such emotions in gratitude?

It seemed like that meaning was mixed in.

Сrang had a knack for picking up on the hidden meanings in people’s words.

It could be called insight.

Yet, Enkrid’s gaze didn’t change.

Enkrid dreamed of being a knight. Even if someone intended to stop him, they couldn’t.

It wasn’t just him alone; even Сrang’s guard, Matthew, and another spear user had helped, yet this was the result.

He lost. It was a defeat.

A normal person might have tasted despair and defeat. Even if he didn’t feel that way, seeing Ragna would inevitably make him think other things.

If one didn’t feel jealousy, they weren’t human. Could you still call yourself human if you weren’t distracted by jealousy?

That’s how Сrang thought.

And looking at Enkrid, he thought:

‘That’s no mere human.’

“If you’re healed, let’s have a rematch.”

Enkrid raised his right wrist as he spoke.

What was the emotion visible in his burning eyes?

There was no jealousy. Only ecstasy, joy, and a competitive spirit.

Seeing that, Ragna reproached him.

“If you’ve been saved from death, you should know how to exercise restraint.”

It wasn’t something Ragna would normally say, but this time, Enkrid was definitely overdoing it.

Enkrid, realizing that, nodded.

“Сrang?”

He called to him. Сrang thought for a moment before moving.

His mind was filled with tasks for the future.

In Сrang’s eyes, he saw his own “preparation.” His time spent roaming the continent wasn’t just for fleeing.

It was one of the results.

“It’s late.”

A man with short brown hair approached and spoke.

Ragna immediately recognized that this man, coming down the hallway, was no easy opponent.

“Sir Ingis.”

Сrang called him. Enkrid immediately recognized the man’s affiliation.

There was no way he wouldn’t recognize the crest of the two swords and the sun’s rays engraved on the breastplate.

“I am Ingis of the Knights.”

His voice was young. His face too. He couldn’t have been over twenty. In fact, Ingis was only twenty-eight.

His youthful appearance was a complex he had.

Also, the red cloak marked him as the most talented genius within the knights.

During his days of wandering and escaping, Сrang had seen the southern border. Specifically, he had met a knight who defended the region bordering the southern kingdom and the cursed lands.

“Sir Cypress.”

After speaking with the knight who had a name and a regiment, he had seen the southern battles. On that spot, Сrang had almost lost his neck four times.

Thanks to that, he had seen the dangers the southern forces possessed.

“I won’t rise to the throne using the power of the knights.”

Сrang saw the future. He envisioned the future of the royal palace. That’s why he knew that he couldn’t rely on an unorthodox force to rise in the royal palace.

Would the palace need to cut its flesh to obtain the throne?

“You maintain your honor. I will do my work.”

He wouldn’t do that. He would make foolish and stubborn choices. Сrang did just that.

Maybe that was the reason.

He had made one promise and, now, he could see Ingis here.

If he could hold out for half a day, he would appear and provide a solution.

“I came with eight squires.”

Ingis spoke. And it was just as he said. The remaining ones were securing the area in front of the castle gates, and Ingis had rushed here.

His gaze was on the dead squire Ragna had killed.

“Sir Filtan.”

There was a touch of regret in his voice. But he didn’t blame Ragna or anyone else.

He just briefly looked at the dead squire with a sad look. Everything was his own choice. He knew that Filtan had harbored jealousy toward him. But that didn’t mean he wished for this outcome.

He had turned traitor and split sides. Whether it was right or wrong, it was the path he chose.

So, it was right that he took responsibility for the result.

There was even some gratitude. If Filtan had been alive, he would have had to kill him himself.

Ingis raised his head and spoke.

“We must go to Her Majesty, the Queen.”

Master Cypress had given two orders.

Ingis, though concerned about Сrang’s safety, was instructed to quell any potential threat to the royal palace.

“I was just about to go.”

Сrang agreed.

The blade he had prepared wasn’t just for the southern squire. If he had changed his mind, everything would have ended. Did he stake everything on one decision?

Naturally, it wasn’t all there was.

But nothing had come. That meant a problem had arisen elsewhere.

The group moved in one direction.

They were heading to the Queen’s Hall.

***

"Is this the tax collector?"

Jaxon arrived at the royal palace, having reached his destination.

This was where he was supposed to be.

What Jaxon had found was the client behind the assassination guild.

At first, he thought it was Viscount Bentra. After all, he was someone who had benefited from using the Black Blades, a band of thieves.

After finding a few pieces of evidence and moving forward, he realized there was someone else involved.

Much had been gained from killing everyone in the assassination guild.

As a result, Jaxon learned who the leader of the Black Blades was and who the client was.

He hadn’t figured everything out on his own.

It had been the result of external pressure.

This translation is the intellectual property of Novelight.

Specifically, it was because of Crang’s manipulation.

What Crang had done was to physically separate the nobility's faction.

And so...

“I wouldn’t have been able to do it without the captain’s help.”

It was because the Black Blades had been ruthlessly crushed that everything was revealed.

Without that, the assassination guild wouldn’t have been pressured into forming an alliance, nor would they have put out a contract.

No, they wouldn't have even made the move themselves.

"Did we fail?"

The question came back as a question.

A large man, with his back turned to a wide window, stood up. He had quite the build. Jaxon nodded in response to his question.

"Not even close."

"Why?"

"The difference in skill."

"How polite."

"I’ve got a question I want to ask, can you answer it honestly?"

"Sure."

Jaxon had started as a merchant, and by buying his way into the nobility, had become a tax collector, an official who collected taxes for the royal family.

To get to this point, he must have sold his soul to the devil.

“Is it the Black Lily?”

The large tax collector twisted his lips. He smiled, but his face was contorted in a way that made it less of a smile.

"Shit, I should’ve killed and burned them all thoroughly back then."

The image of the mansion burning came to mind.

He had come to the right place.

Jaxon raised his sword.

"The heir of the Vensino family has returned."

The tax collector never once took his hands from under the table as he spoke. Beneath the thick, sturdy, and quite expensive purplewood table, he pulled his hands away.

In his hands were two crossbows.

Modified crossbows.

With the triggers already set, bolts were loaded and ready to be fired.

"Do you think you could dodge this in such a small room?"

“I’ll stand here in the name of the man who lost his family, and in the name of the child who lost their parents.”

“Quit talking nonsense and come at me.”

The Black Blades’ movements and their last-ditch preparation were filthy, but Jaxon didn’t condemn his opponent.

He simply wished for one thing.

"Please. Don’t beg for mercy."

It was sincere.

“Bullshit!”

The tax collector fired the bolt in his left hand. With a thud, the string snapped, and the bolt, painted black, flew into the darkness that had been cast by the setting sun.

The tip of the bolt had been coated with poison, and just a brush would be enough to end things.

Jaxon didn’t hide in the darkness, not trying to confuse his opponent.

This was the moment when he had to act as his instincts dictated, and he wanted to show his opponent who he was until the very end.

He swung his sword and knocked the bolt away.

This was no skill at all.

With a snap, {N•o•v•e•l•i•g•h•t} the bolt snapped and was deflected, bouncing off the wall and floor.

In the meantime, a second bolt came flying.

It was a timed attack.

Jaxon pulled his sword back and struck the second bolt as well.

With a crack, the bolt broke as it grazed the tip of his sword. He didn’t avoid it. He didn’t want to.

A small scratch appeared on his face.

A sharp, stinging pain shot through him. It was poison.

"Enough!"

The tax collector shouted. His voice was unexpectedly light for his size, and that bothered Jaxon.

He didn’t expect the target of his revenge to be some great person.

But this?

This man was just a filthy human.

“Don’t tell me you’re raising your rank in your mind? Do you think the ones who burned your family need some grand reason for doing it?”

The words of his teacher came to mind. They were true. That’s how he saw it. The great ones did what they did because they had to.

A demonic altar, the resurrection of a false god. At least it had to be something like that, right?

Or a great noble who controls the country?

That’s what he thought. That’s what he had built up inside himself. Without that, there would have been no reason to go this far.

No, there was a reason. Humans could kill for the smallest of desires.

A mistake. It was fine. He could fix it.

Hadn’t Enkrid shown him?

When you go down the wrong path, what do you do?

‘You can return.’

You start over. What if mistakes continue to happen? It’s fine. You repeat it. You start over. You do it until it works. Enkrid held his sword and dreamed of becoming a knight.

Was that dream absurd? Laughable? Something to be mocked?

Not at all.

By repeating and advancing, and never giving up, you build your own tower and walk your own path.

That’s how you do it. That’s all you need to do.

Jaxon decided not to be disappointed by his opponent’s filth.

"Ten breaths?"

Instead, he spoke of the poison’s nature.

"...Was it really Geor’s Dagger?"

The tax collector spoke, an air of discomfort and tension was evident in his voice. He quickly grabbed something else and threw it down.

Boom!

Smoke rose. It was a smoke bomb. Jaxon felt the vibrations that numb his hearing. The smoke obscured his sight.

But that wasn’t a problem.

He had pierced through this kind of thing hundreds of times.

He felt his instincts, the subtle shifts in the air. Using just his senses, he found the position of his opponent.

The man had tried to escape through the window. Jaxon swiftly approached, grabbed him by the nape, and threw him back. The man swung his hand.

A weapon, shaped like a hook, was in his hand.

Jaxon grabbed him with his left hand and threw him while pulling out a stiletto with his right.

Blocking and deflecting his opponent’s attack, he then approached the man he had thrown.

The man didn’t scream or moan. In the smoke, he said the words he needed to say.

Of course, they were meaningless to Jaxon.

“If you spare me, I’ll give you wealth you can only dream of! I know the secret vault of the Black Blades!”

“I know the secret vault of the greatest assassination guild on the continent.”

The Black Blades’ secret vault? How insignificant.

The meaning behind his words made the tax collector sweat.

Jaxon opened the door.

The corpses lying outside greeted him.

His own work. Those who had blocked him up to this point.

There were guards and assassins.

The Black Blades’ leader must have prepared things for him.

Not everyone was dead. There was no reason to harm the attendants or servants who had quietly hidden in a corner.

Jaxon waited for the smoke to dissipate and turned his head. He saw a crooked dagger in the tax collector’s hand. Specifically, he saw him holding it upside down and hiding it under his thigh.

Jaxon raised his longsword and easily suppressed his opponent’s intentions by stabbing it into his thigh.

Thunk.

The tip of the sword pierced his thigh.

“Ah!”

A scream echoed. He swung his sword wildly, pulling it out and stabbing his other arm and leg. After cutting through the tendons of the tax collector’s limbs, he threw the weapon aside, tied a cloth to stop the bleeding.

“You crazy bastard!”

The tax collector shouted in a voice full of anger. 𝙛𝓻𝒆𝓮𝒘𝙚𝙗𝒏𝙤𝙫𝓮𝒍.𝓬𝒐𝙢

“I’ve heard that one a lot, but it never gets any more pleasant.”

Jaxon spoke with boredom, taking out a stiletto and a sharpening stone to hone the blade.

He also pulled out a thin-bladed dagger, like a saw, and placed it alongside an awl and tongs. These were torture tools.

“What do you want? The Black Lily? Do you want me to tell you who the rest of them are? Or what? What is it that you want to know? What, you bastard!”

Jaxon blinked a few times and answered.

“Nothing.”

"...What?"

"Please, don’t beg for forgiveness. Your tongue comes last."

Jaxon didn’t think his revenge was beautiful or just.

"So what? I don’t care."

He remembered Enkrid’s words.

Just because it’s needed, doesn’t mean you want to stab your friend in the back.

You don’t just look ahead, you look around as well.

Didn’t they say everyone lives by betraying others?

There are people who don’t.

But that didn’t matter.

He just did what his heart led him to do.

“If anyone asks, tell them that Jaxon from the Vensino family sent you. I’ll send the rest as well. One of them is already gone.”

“AHHHHHH!”

The tax collector’s scream echoed through the mansion.

“It wasn’t me! I swear, it wasn’t me!”

The tax collector shouted in the end, but Jaxon didn’t listen.

***

“Should I say it’s been a long time?”

The Queen’s hall was also in disarray. There was a commotion here as well.

The queen sat on her throne, with a wizard on one side and Frokk Lua Garne on the other.

A few nobles were seated beneath them.

On Enkrid’s right was the Marquis of Octo, and an old man who resembled Marcus, whom he had never seen before.

On the opposite side, there was the man who had been mentioned earlier.

It was Count Molsen.