A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

Enkrid adjusted his grip on Silver.

At the same time, he reflected.

The charging horse, the flying spearhead.

The Beast’s Heart granted him composure, and One-Point Focus allowed him to perceive the enemy’s movements as if they were disconnected, piece by piece.

His heightened senses naturally calculated the moment the spearhead would reach him.

And so, he cut.

Yet something nagged at him.

Not enough.

Something felt lacking.

The review lasted only a moment, and he quickly identified what needed adjustment.

What if he had stepped forward just a little more?

Half a step more—just that much. Then, the force transfer would have been smoother.

The difference in stride affected the transfer of power.

Enkrid swung his sword, adjusted his grip, and pulled back, moving exactly as he had envisioned.

He widened his stance. Corrected his posture. Then, he swung toward empty air.

Whoosh.

There was no need for speed. He only needed to feel the transfer of force.

The blade carved through the air, stopping precisely where he had aimed.

Conclusion—this was right.

The adjustment in stride made the force transfer significantly more efficient.

Enkrid understood it in his mind and engraved it into his body.

“Not coming?”

He lifted his gaze.

Thousands of men were gathered here. The army was watching.

Of course, Enkrid wasn’t looking at them—he had only raised his head to see if the next opponent was coming.

Why weren’t they?

He simply stared, questioning.

It had been the first engagement, a duel.

The soldiers standing further back couldn’t see clearly, but those at the front had witnessed everything.

Naturally, so had the enemy.

It was only natural that no one stepped forward so easily.

***

A single strike?

Jalban’s brow furrowed.

He had two aides. The one who had stepped out was the weaker of the two, but still a talented warrior—not someone who would be easily overwhelmed, even against a knight order’s squire.

“Did he let his guard down? Fool.”

The other aide spoke as he stepped forward.

“Wait.”

Jalban raised his hand.

At his command, the aide stopped, gripping his reins.

Jalban had judged that his opponent’s skill was not ordinary.

However, it was also true that his aide had been careless.

The man should not have fallen in a single strike.

After a brief moment of consideration, Jalban made his decision.

“I’ll go myself. Binyu, follow behind me and support.”

Jalban did not go alone—he brought an aide.

The key was making it seem as if the aide was merely following from a few steps behind.

Binyu’s specialty was throwing spears.

A single well-timed strike would be enough.

Even if someone from the enemy ranks came forward to help, it wouldn’t change the outcome.

Few warriors had the skill to throw a spear with such deadly precision.

“Let’s go.”

Hiiiiing.

Jalban urged his horse forward, his aide trailing behind.

***

The guild master accompanying Enkrid’s group had frozen, mouth agape.

Only when two figures emerged from the enemy ranks did he finally find his voice.

“S-shouldn’t someone from our side go out as well?”

He spoke toward Rem or Ragna.

“Hah, that level isn’t even close to being enough.”

Rem answered with a yawn.

A month of watching Enkrid had made one thing clear.

There was no need to worry.

Ragna, meanwhile, had produced an apple from somewhere and was methodically chewing through it.

He was eating so thoroughly that even the seeds might not be spared.

Jaxon remained silent, arms crossed, eyes closed.

No one could tell what he was thinking.

To the guild master, that was how it appeared.

What is with these people?

Would no one from the main force step in either?

He turned toward the main army.

Silence.

No—there was a murmur of voices, but no signs of a charge.

They were merely watching.

With Ingis gone, Marcus had taken command of the kingdom’s forces.

His palms were sweating.

If they lost this duel—this fight—they would lose in an all-out battle as well.

If their morale crumbled now, there would be no recovery.

The enemy had an overwhelming numerical advantage.

This is a nightmare.

That had been his first thought when he learned the enemy’s numbers.

After assessing their training, even Marcus had nearly lost his will.

And then, at the most unexpected moment, in the most unexpected way—

Enkrid had stepped forward.

This fight had begun because of that.

Marcus hadn’t seen Enkrid fight in a long time.

And now, he was utterly shocked.

He was this strong?

Their opponent was one of the five monstrous warriors raised by the count.

Even an aide of such a warrior was no ordinary fighter.

Yet, in a single strike, the man had been cut in half.

It wasn’t luck.

It wasn’t about exploiting an opening.

Enkrid had stood face-to-face with his opponent and crushed him with superior strength and speed.

That much, Marcus could recognize.

After a moment of hesitation, he considered his options.

Right now, their army was hanging by a thread.

It was like standing in a swamp, desperately searching for solid ground.

Both situations were the same.

One wrong move and they were doomed.

It was a moment for caution.

“Should we send reinforcements?”

Rather than making the decision alone, he turned to the knight standing beside him—Aisia.

“Just watch.”

Aisia responded bluntly.

I should be the one out there.

No orders.

No signals.

No warning.

Enkrid had simply walked forward and cut down the enemy.

I can’t just step in and tell everyone to reset and fight again.

For a brief moment, Aisia imagined herself marching forward, calling off the duel, and demanding they start over.

Of course, that was ridiculous.

More than that, if Enkrid hadn’t stepped up, they might have lost before the battle had even begun.

They had scouted the enemy’s forces.

But they had miscalculated their level of training and equipment.

The count’s army was solid.

Like a stone wall.

The difference in power was staggering.

It was only natural to freeze for a moment upon seeing that.

The more experienced a soldier was, the more likely they were to hesitate.

So had Enkrid simply charged in recklessly, unaware?

No.

He had known everything—yet he hadn’t hesitated.

He had thrown himself forward and seized control of the battle’s momentum.

Aisia admitted her defeat, cleanly.

Not just in strength—but in spirit.

A damn impressive bastard.

She thought to herself as she watched.

The man standing out there in the distance, prepared to fight.

The man who had once boldly declared his dream was to be a knight, even as his own face had been half-smashed.

The man who had saved her life.

“Ah, just go and kill them all.”

Aisia muttered.

She hadn’t even realized she had spoken aloud.

In the heart of the battlefield, with both armies watching, a battle cry rang out.

“Kyahhh!”

One of the five monstrous warriors.

Jalban, the dual-spear wielder.

Even from a distance, Aisia saw him charging forward.

***

Enkrid saw the dust drifting in the air. He also noticed the scattered droplets of blood beading in perfect circles on the grass.

About ten paces ahead. The one on horseback leaped down in a single motion.

The moment his feet hit the ground with a thud, the dust at his feet billowed up in distinct granules.

The grass blades swayed in the wind. A faint, rustling sound echoed—the sound of leaves greeting one another.

The weight of the sword in his hand was palpable. So was the sensation of fabric and armor pressing against his body.

A good weight.

He had named the sword he held Silver. And today, the weight of Silver felt particularly right in his grasp.

Looking down at the blade, he noticed a few minor nicks along the edge. It could use a sharpening.

"You must be confident in your skills to have come all this way. What’s your name?"

The approaching man asked.

Enkrid didn’t answer. He simply absorbed everything through his senses.

The wind grazed his cheek. The sunlight pressed down on his helmet. A shame.

He removed the helmet.

The warmth of the sun and the cool wind felt closer than before.

The vast plains offered no mounds or cover—nothing to hide behind. This was a place where the wind could run free.

The Naurill Plains were once called the Land of the Wind in ancient times.

The wind raced across the open land with nothing to halt its course. A ceaseless sprint.

Whoooosh!

A strong gust came from somewhere.

Jalban instinctively braced his feet.

Enkrid, however, relaxed his body. The wind coursed through him, wrapping around before dissipating.

Jalban furrowed his brow. Did he just... float for a moment? No... Was that a trick of the eyes?

He wanted to rub them.

But at the same time, he couldn’t afford to look away.

Even the slightest lapse in focus, and his opponent’s blade would find its way to his gut.

The first one to charge in hadn’t been careless, yet he hadn’t lasted long. Seeing it up close only confirmed his suspicions.

It’s real.

The man before him was stronger.

Jalban clenched the spear in his grip, veins bulging across his hand.

He steeled himself, mapping out the course of battle in his mind.

Block with the left hand...

As he thought, his gaze shifted to Enkrid’s waist. Two more swords. A belt for throwing daggers strapped to his chest.

Three swords. He hadn’t brought them for no reason.

Which meant he’d use them all.

A closer look revealed a knife strapped to his ankle as well.

His opponent stood still, arms hanging loosely at his sides, carried lightly by the wind.

Again.

Jalban rewrote his plan from the beginning. Block with the left hand, thrust forward with the spear in his right. If he struck first—

No. Again.

Sweat began to bead on Jalban’s forehead. The effort was draining him.

Once more, he reconstructed the fight.

Thrust with the left. Force him to defend.

Then twist the spear’s grip with his right. Yes. Use every trick in his arsenal. That was the way.

His eyes burned. It felt like he was locked in a prison where even blinking wasn’t allowed. And yet, he endured the pressure.

He, too, was a warrior who had crossed the river of death countless times.

This was nothing new.

Kill him.

The moment he moved, his subordinate would throw a javelin.

Even I wouldn’t be able to stop that.

This translation is the intellectual property of Novelight.

A javelin thrown mid-fight, from outside his line of sight. And his second-in-command was skilled—better than most squires.

As a javelin thrower, he could be considered nearly a knight in his own right.

A drop of sweat hit the ground.

Enkrid blinked. Jalban flinched, his shoulders tensing.

This bastard? At a time like this, when he should be laser-focused, he had the nerve to blink?

For a moment, he almost lunged out of sheer reflex.

Illusionary swordplay?

A feint? No, it was a feint. The moment he confirmed that, he pushed forward.

He slowly closed the ten-step distance with careful strides.

Enkrid saw his opponent approach. And he saw beyond him.

Everything remained as clear as before—every little detail vivid in his vision. He felt everything around him just the same.

But suddenly, his view widened, as if everything had shifted into focus at once.

That one over there, sneaking sideways.

If things turned ugly, he’d interfere. That spear slung across his back was irritating to look at.

The one approaching cautiously—so slow it was almost frustrating.

A thought crossed his mind.

If I lose here, the damage will be severe.

He already knew the outcome.

Their forces were superior. More in number. Better trained.

The count had prepared well.

Still, he didn’t feel concerned.

On this continent, war was decided by elite warriors, not sheer numbers. The power of a knight determined the tide of battle.

The first knight had changed the very meaning of knighthood, shifting it from a title to a force that shaped battlefields.

Knights altered the course of wars.

And Enkrid was here because he wanted to change something, too.

Change.

Why had he wanted to be a knight?

To protect. To save.

To fight for what he believed in. To shield those behind him.

The moment he held a sword, that had been his wish.

A bard’s song had lodged itself in his heart and become his guiding star.

He had walked and walked, and now he stood here.

His faded, tattered dream bore traces of dawn.

Ignoring his opponent’s slow approach, Enkrid strode forward.

His steps were light, almost like skipping, yet not hurried.

His sword swung slightly with each step, its rhythm natural.

When the gap shrank to five paces, Jalban kicked off the ground.

"Kkiyot!"

He lunged with his left-hand spear.

Enkrid twisted his wrist, blocking diagonally with Silver.

A blade didn’t turn to cotton just because it moved smoothly.

The moment steel met steel, he let the force flow past. His sword redirected the spear’s energy, letting it slide along its length.

He saw his opponent’s eyes—brown, bloodshot. Was the air dry today? Why do his eyes look like that?

A stray thought intruded. The man thrust forward with his right hand.

It didn’t reach.

Yet he made the motion anyway.

Boom!

With an explosive sound, the spear’s tip shot forward—a weapon with a special mechanism.

Enkrid didn’t strike it away but pulled back instead.

Clang!

The explanation was long, but it happened in an instant.

Jalban thrust with his left, fired with his right. Two metallic rings, followed by a single, wet sound.

Thud!

Enkrid blocked twice, then swung once.

All with the single sword in his right hand.

His third strike carved into his opponent’s chest.

Jalban wore layered leather, thick inner garments meant to double as armor.

Yet Enkrid’s blade cut through them all, tearing flesh and muscle in a precise stroke.

Directly over the heart.

The bloodshot in his opponent’s eyes deepened.

"Guh—!"

Jalban coughed blood, staggering back a few steps before collapsing. His knees hit the ground first.

A sharp inhale sounded from behind.

The javelin flew straight at Enkrid’s face.

The wind pressure hit him first.

He brought his sword down.

Clang!

The javelin deflected sideways, tumbling to the ground.

The subordinate hesitated, his hand tightening around the next javelin.

But he didn’t throw.

Because nothing would change.

Enkrid swung his sword a fourth time.

And ended «N.o.v.e.l.i.g.h.t» the fight.

Jalban watched as the ground rushed toward him. The world turned red. And as he fell, he thought:

The difference in skill was clear from the start.

His opponent was on another level. He had attacked twice—one of those times, firing a hidden spearhead at an unexpected angle—and yet, his opponent had blocked both with ease.

How did it come to this?

The answer was simple.

His opponent had struck faster, more precisely. He had built something far beyond what Jalban had.

That was his conclusion.

Enkrid flicked his sword in the air, shaking off the blood.

The javelin thrower had yet to attack or flee.

He only darted his eyes around.

"Not going to fight?"

Enkrid asked him, his voice calm and steady. It wasn’t a taunt or a challenge—just a simple question.

A strange tension filled the air. The javelin thrower tightened his grip around his weapon, steeling himself.

"You lunatic!"

One of the enemy soldiers, unable to bear the pressure any longer, suddenly charged. Yanking on the reins, he dashed forward.

Dududududu!

But instead of closing in, he stopped twenty paces away and let go of the reins. From atop his horse, he raised a shortbow, drawing back the string.

That, too, was an impressive display.

Mounted archery was no common skill.

A shot fired while closing the distance would be as fast as a streak of light.

Enkrid watched his opponent gallop forward and draw his bow. Then, he flicked his left hand.

Of course, he imbued the motion with Will.

The moment he unsheathed his gladius, he accelerated the motion and threw.

Whoosh—shing!

The sword and the arrow crossed paths in midair.

Thud!

A crisp sound rang out.

The archer loosed his arrow the moment the bowstring twanged—but before he could lower his weapon, a blade struck his chest.

His body lifted slightly off the saddle before tumbling backward.

It was Enkrid’s gladius.

It had flown in a straight line and lodged itself deep into the archer’s chest.

To Enkrid, the incoming arrow had appeared as nothing more than a dot within his perceptual range. There was no need to hesitate.

So, the moment he threw the gladius, he rolled to the side to dodge.

Thunk!

The arrow embedded itself in the ground.

Beyond it, the horse, now without a rider, galloped wildly in one direction.

Clatter, clatter, clatter!

Hiiiiiiing!

The horse let out a long, pained cry.

Perhaps it understood that its rider was dead.

The archer, with a sword buried in his chest, tumbled to the ground. His blood seeped into the grass.

Enkrid walked over, step by step, and retrieved his gladius.

Crunch.

A dull, cracking noise rang out as ribs broke and shattered.

If, by some chance, he had been given three separate ‘todays’ to deal with these enemies, what would have happened?

Here and now, he felt he could prove the answer.

Instead of three todays, he had condensed it all into one month.

Today, Enkrid felt lighter than ever.