A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

"Send the Chimera Battalion."

At Count Molsen's command, Rearvart raised a small flag. The messenger, seeing the flag in his hand, ran forward and shouted.

"Deploy! Deploy!"

At the messenger's cry, the second sword, prepared by the Count, surged into action.

The Count had sent a pack of werewolves as part of the Border Guard. These were true werewolves, beings that had transformed from human to monster. Naturally, the Border Guard wasn’t the only force he dispatched.

The main force was still here.

The cavalry had been pushed back, and the mounted archers had been caught by the knights, led by Aisia. The infantry was also struggling in the formation fight.

It was the unexpected forces, outside the planned arrangements, that caused the disruption.

To be precise, it could be said that it all started because of one reckless, foolish swordsman.

Rearvart, though, watched calmly.

Despite the mismatch between the forces and the poor state of the battle, it was a situation where things were being overwhelmed.

No, they were being truly overwhelmed.

Yet the Count merely observed, seemingly unconcerned.

The movements dictated by his commanders were leading to increasing losses in the Count’s army.

In short, people were dying. And in the midst of this, the Chimera Battalion surged forward.

It seemed like an appropriate decision. When things go awry, sending «N.o.v.e.l.i.g.h.t» in another force is the basics of strategy, right?

Those who ran forward were clad in tattered leather armor, some of them wearing ragged cloths with holes torn in them.

They began charging toward the battlefield, their appearance mismatched with the scene. Up close, their eyes were dull, and they were creatures of pure instinct, following the simple command to advance, showing no trace of reason.

At some point, they started running, and they transformed.

Feathers sprouted from their bodies, thick manes and fur like that of a lion grew, and their bodies swelled in size.

Their claws grew sharp, and their cloudy eyes were filled with murderous intent.

Thus, they were transformed into monsters born solely for slaughter.

A combination of owlbears, werewolves, and bear-beasts.

Three kinds of monsters, all charging forward while screeching loudly.

Hooowwww!

Auuuuuhhh!

Grrrraaaaahhh!

A howl so chilling that anyone hearing it would feel a primal terror deep within them.

Accompanied by the howling, the monsters targeted the right flank of the kingdom's forces. The monstrous horde, easily surpassing a hundred in number, would have left the soldiers on the opposite side in despair and utter frustration.

It was then.

A shout rang out from one side, aimed at the monstrous horde. The voice was human, but it carried a different kind of resonance.

Oro-ro-ro-ro-ro!

A voice full of guttural growls and deep breaths, spreading like a wave.

"Chase the wolves!"

"You beasts, you've taken the wrong path!"

Oro-ro-ro-ro-ro!

The shout mixed with a growl echoed across the plains. Then, from one side, appeared a group of soldiers running with unbelievable speed—fast enough to rival even the cavalry's charge.

In fact, compared to the monster horde, they were not at all inferior.

Each of them wore a long staff or spear, and dark-brown leather cloaks.

There could not be more than one such group.

They were the shepherds of the wild plains.

Shepherds who ran across the plains, tending to flocks of sheep.

Located at the northernmost part of the continent, in the mountains they tended to the "thick-horned mountain goats," while in the plains, they handled the most ferocious herbivores, known as the "thin sheep."

There were fewer than twenty of them, but they were a group of knights in their own right.

They ran forward, charging at the monstrous horde.

Fewer than twenty of them charging into a horde of over two hundred monsters. At first glance, it seemed like a collective suicide, but the result was far different.

"May you die and make the land fertile."

At the front was a man named Bell.

He wielded a cursed sword, one that was said to be imbued with the soul of a demon, a weapon used for slaying idols.

A wound dealt with it would be fatal.

The sword was as if coated with poison, capable of severing the soul, not just the body.

It was said that if used continuously, it would awaken the demon trapped within the blade, but against such monsters, it was no time for hesitation.

This was the same sword that had forced Enkrid into repeating today.

Bell shoved the sword into the owlbear's eye. There was no need to penetrate the skull. He merely poked and pulled out the blade immediately. A wound of that magnitude was sufficient.

Of course, gouging out an eye wasn’t exactly what one would consider a 'sufficient' wound.

But to the shepherd, it was just that.

"Uuuuuuu!"

The stabbed owlbear screeched in agony. Instead of dying, it endured. Was it Will? No. It was the power of the monsters themselves.

The sword trembled. A brief vibration was transmitted through it. It was a sign that the monster was displeased. It meant Bell could continue his attack.

Even without offering its soul to the demon within the sword, Bell could still wield its power.

Of course, this meant he would have to slice, stab, and gouge more than when facing true souls.

But if one strike didn't work, two would.

Bell quickly pulled back, then lunged again to pierce the other eye.

With a sharp swipe of its clawed hand, the owlbear slashed at Bell.

Bell, withdrawing his sword, ducked and narrowly avoided it. His eyes shone with sharpness.

He understood and moved by instinct, processing the barrage of information flooding his senses. Bell started to rampage even further.

At that moment, two of his comrades approached. They were older shepherds. One wore a wolf's head as a hat, while the other wore a bear's head.

"Crazy Bell, calm down."

"These youngsters these days."

One wielded a long spear, the other a long staff.

The wild shepherds had a tradition of using long polearms—spears and staves.

Bell, however, was insistent on using his sword.

"Can't you just let me handle it?"

Bell, kicking the dying owlbear, spoke.

"Are you really going to nag me now?"

"Your lack of manners is something to take up with your father, don't you think?"

The old men grumbled.

Bell, despite his thoughts, spoke aloud.

"Yes, my apologies."

"Just talk, no action."

"These youngsters these days."

The old man with the bear's head seemed to have a permanent grumble about the younger generation.

It was best to ignore him.

Bell thought it might be better to chat with the owlbear, considering the situation.

"Chat" being a conversation filled with laughter, but the laughter would only be from him.

The dying creature couldn’t laugh, and Bell wouldn’t allow the monster that luxury.

The two older shepherds followed Bell, assisting as they moved in formation.

As they did, others joined, making their way toward the horde. Five of them moved as one, their actions coordinated.

It was the basic formation of the shepherds.

Five as one, striking with spear tips, iron-banded staves, and Bell’s sword—mercilessly slaying the monstrous test subjects.

Count Molsen’s Chimera Army ultimately achieved none of its objectives.

So, how were the wild shepherds here?

It was the work of Crang.

He had wandered the continent, made an alliance with the shepherds by chance, and sought their help. The shepherds came to repay their debt.

To be honest, it had been years since they came.

They didn’t wait just for today.

They too had something they wanted from this encounter.

Of course, Crang knew all this and fully utilized the situation.

Using what the other side wanted, he set the stage. It was basic politics.

Crang had done that, and in doing so, the wild shepherds, fewer than twenty, were now here.

The soldiers felt like Enkrid's Mad Platoon had doubled.

An older commander might have thought it was as if the knights were divided into three factions, wreaking havoc on the enemy.

Aisia, the squire group.

The wild shepherds.

And Enkrid with the Mad Platoon.

Ironically, the most powerful of all was the Mad Platoon.

The destructive power of the Red Cloak Knights was unmatched.

Though there were no knights, it was still an absurd sight.

***

Count Molsen was, in a sense, like an infected wound.

It hurt if left alone, but touching it recklessly would only make things worse.

Such a wound needed to be excised at once.

And so, Crang made a seemingly absurd proposal.

“We need a civil war.”

What Crang meant by "civil war" was to gather all the illnesses caused by the wound that was Count Molsen and cut them out, burning them in the process.

Thus, the battle taking place now was more about Crang's intentions than those of Count Molsen.

But did Count Molsen not realize Crang's intentions?

Though Count Molsen might have been a natural politician, he was still a man with ambitions and schemes. He knew. He understood and responded accordingly.

And here they were.

Marcus's mind was spinning faster than ever before.

Based on the information from the scouts, he began moving the troops.

Marcus saw no room for error and felt the need to destroy every means the enemy had prepared.

So far, this was the outcome.

While doing so, Marcus inwardly asked a question toward the Count.

"Did you expect it to go this far?"

A completely different force had been called upon. Instead of the knights, it was the enemy’s Chimera Battalion. This, naturally, would have thrown the enemy into confusion.

It was said that Crang had promised to grant them land in exchange for bringing the wild shepherds into the fight.

The leader of the shepherds would take a title of nobility, but their land would become a self-governing territory.

These shepherds controlled land not only in the northern regions but also throughout the kingdom and empire, though they didn’t directly govern it. They only took a portion of the crops raised by tenant farmers.

This could only have happened with the help of the Marquis of Octo.

Without his skill, it wouldn’t have been possible.

So, this was likely an unexpected move for the Count.

"Try to stop it, you traitor."

This translation is the intellectual property of Novelight.

Far off in the northern continent, the sword that once tended sheep was now tearing through the Chimera horde sent by the enemy.

Count Molsen, for some reason, sent more reinforcements to them.

The Count’s next move was unexpected.

"What?"

Marcus frowned. What was he trying to do now?

"Is he pushing forward with numbers?"

These weren't elite soldiers. The troops split and charged forward in an unorganized manner, with the rear units following like a flood.

It appeared as though a wave was coming, so many were the soldiers. Yet, there was no formation, only a reckless charge.

"Farm soldiers?"

These were civilians who usually worked in the frontier, tasked with cultivating land, but during wartime, they were conscripted to fight.

These "farm soldiers" underwent basic military training. Some even transitioned into professional soldiers, but most remained at a level of training required by law.

But these soldiers were not farm soldiers.

They didn’t form ranks, they were simply rushing forward in a disorganized frenzy.

The Count had handed them spears and sent them out as if to give them no choice but to fight.

Behind them, a group of archers was readying arrows for a demonstration.

To force soldiers to fight, even by killing those who ran, was known as a "poison squad."

The Count had created such a force.

If they retreated, they would die by arrows; if they advanced, they would die by the enemy’s swords.

There was the promise of land and nobility for those who survived, but Marcus had no way of knowing the full details.

Marcus desperately tried to think.

“Is he trying to exhaust us?”

It was a strategy that, even if Marcus understood it, could not be avoided.

The Count was no fool. He was a man who had once been the guardian of his lands.

When he was younger, he had been called the protector of his territory.

As the meat shields sent by the Count reached the enemy, they were torn apart by the oncoming force. This was an expected result. Soon after, the army raised by the Count began to push forward.

The battle continued without rest. What the Count’s intentions were remained unclear, but one thing was certain.

Just like a downpour on this land, blood was going to flow.

***

Ragna was busy stabbing and cutting through enemies.

"Die!"

"Kill them!"

Blood splattered. Bones cracked. Heads burst open, spilling brains onto the ground. Severed limbs fell, with one corpse lying beside them, eyes wide open in death.

Ragna paid no mind to those dying. In fact, it would be more accurate to say he didn’t care at all.

Instead, he focused on sharpening his skills.

He treated the battlefield as a place to train.

That was fine.

He stabbed, cut, and swung his sword, reflecting on the fight, learning, and coming to realizations.

He did all of this at once.

Through it, he developed several new techniques.

Naturally, he combined and refined his abilities, discarding what was unnecessary and keeping what was useful.

"Breaking their grip is a grab."

He had learned this technique from the semi-knight he had fought before, but upon reflection, he realized it didn’t require much thought.

It was effective against weaker opponents but meaningless against those on a similar level. It might disorient them for a moment, but it wouldn’t produce significant results.

Thus, it was unnecessary. Ragna easily discarded it from his mind.

There were other small realizations as well.

"Faster and stronger."

The goal was to increase both power and speed. From there, he would enhance his basic techniques of cutting and thrusting. The key was strengthening his physical abilities.

This went beyond simple training—it was about enhancing his abilities through Will.

He didn’t need to question whether it was the right path. He didn’t need to ask anyone for guidance. There was no need to check the stars or shake his head.

This was talent.

He was a genius, gifted by the heavens.

Ragna continued to sharpen and perfect the techniques he had created, repeating them again and again.

In the midst of this, soldiers who didn’t know how to fight came into view.

They were the so-called "farm soldiers" the Count had sent out, with no real military experience.

"They’re in my way."

Why? He didn’t need to know. Without hesitation, Ragna moved forward. He charged, seeking those who could offer him a proper fight—professional soldiers.

Not long after, he spotted a group that was more fitting for a battle.

As he approached, the soldiers opened up a gap in their formation as if inviting him to enter.

Ragna stepped into the center of their formation. Immediately, soldiers with thick square shields began to form a circle around him.

They had trained like hunters pursuing wild beasts. The signs were clear.

"Now!"

As soon as Ragna entered, nets were thrown over him from above. Along with the nets, crossbows and arrows came flying from all directions, aiming for him.

Ragna raised his sword and sliced through the net.

It wasn’t difficult.

Dodging the arrows and cutting the net was also easy for him.

He flowed like water, advancing and swinging his sword horizontally toward the shields. He intended to cut them all down in one sweep.

However.

Clang! Thud!

For the first time, his sword was blocked. These weren’t knights or even semi-knights, but their shields weren’t ordinary.

The shields were made of iron, five times heavier than normal, layered in three thick layers.

Even with the strength of his sword and Will, it was impossible to cut through something beyond the blade’s length.

That’s what had happened just now.

His sword did cut into the shield, but it was too thick to break it.

The soldiers behind the shields took heavy breaths and glared at Ragna.

Ragna glanced at his sword, then looked up.

He could see their fierce, determined eyes beyond the shields.

They were soldiers trained to endure fear and stand firm against it.

Ragna saw this as the perfect opportunity to test his newly learned technique.

"Faster."

Stronger.

Better at cutting.

Better at thrusting.

That was the core of the technique Ragna had just developed.

He was ready to cut through these thick shields and thrust through them, practicing his new abilities.