A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

After filling his stomach with crumbly bread, watery soup, salted meat, and thin, mushy cookies made from grain flour, Enkrid followed through on what he'd resolved.

“Pwah! I’m gonna die!”

Dunbakel resisted, but it was useless. Enkrid shoved her head into the bath. Her head burst out of the tub with water spraying in every direction.

“Come on, I washed ten days ago!”

She protested.

If dabbing water on your face counted as washing, well—technically, she wasn’t wrong.

“I could toss Rem into the same bath.”

“I’ll bathe alone.”

Dunbakel gave up.

While she washed by herself, Enkrid asked for another tub to be filled.

“I’ll scrub your back,” Lua Gharne offered kindly.

“I’m good.”

Enkrid declined.

Soaking in the warm water, the fatigue from the journey seemed to melt away.

He felt like he’d forgotten something, but it couldn’t have been that important.

He thought about what he had to do, recalled Lady Oara, and soon a wave of drowsiness came over him. There was no reason to resist it, so he closed his eyes.

Enkrid fell asleep leaning back in the wooden tub.

“You’ve come to an interesting place.”

Splash.

A purple lamp swung before his eyes along with the river’s flow. The face beneath the black hooded shadow blurred, then gradually revealed a nose, mouth, and eyes.

Stone-gray skin like a pile of rubble. Empty eyes, devoid of emotion. The Ferryman.

“Is misfortune approaching?” Enkrid asked.

The Ferryman didn’t move a muscle.

But if he had been human—if he were—he’d be grinding his teeth and clenching his fists right now.

Maybe even gone as far as to punch that bastard's face without realizing it.

Purple veins bulged on the hand gripping the oar.

“No?” Enkrid tilted his head.

The Ferryman struggled to hold on to his sanity.

Since he’d begun steering the boat, never before had his emotions surged like this.

Until now, he’d only ever felt cruel amusement—mocking and scorning others with a kind of base pleasure.

But now, a new emotion stirred inside him.

In a strange way, it might have even been a positive development.

Had he not gone so long forgetting what it felt like to be angry?

The Ferryman forced himself to think logically, suppressing the emotion.

“If you don’t know, that’s all right too.”

Enkrid meant no harm. As far as he was concerned, the Ferryman was some divine being.

So he had simply voiced his honest thoughts.

He’d hoped—but if there was no answer, then so be it.

It was clear in his tone and attitude, which allowed the Ferryman to remain composed.

“Piss off, you crazy bastard.”

Welcome to the Demon Realm. May your day be blessed.

Perhaps, once he met the cruelest day of all, he would finally understand regret.

The Ferryman never even managed to deliver the taunts he’d prepared.

***

Whether misfortune was coming or not, nothing really changed.

From the next day on, Enkrid adapted on his own.

“Good morning.”

He greeted the soldier cleaning the dining hall—Rowena’s boyfriend or maybe a client—and the man looked up.

Dunbakel followed behind, her hair now white instead of gray thanks to the bath. She called out to the soldier.

“Hey, beggar soldier.”

An inspired nickname.

“...Why am I a beggar soldier?”

“I saw you in that alley, asking for a discount 'cause you didn’t have any krona.”

Dunbakel wiggled her hips suggestively.

The soldier flushed with embarrassment. It had indeed been a shameful moment—especially when he’d raised his hand because he couldn’t hold back.

“I’m a decanus too,” he muttered.

Enkrid acknowledged it with a simple “is that so” and kept walking. Dunbakel didn’t even pretend to hear, just followed him.

“Don’t you have roasted larvae?”

Lua Gharne’s question came next as she descended.

“We don’t have anything like that.”

“Okay then. Keep working hard, soldier with healthy parts down below.”

After the three of them left, the soldier spat under his breath.

“...I’m a decanus too, you bastards.”

Still, reality was what it was—if your contribution points were low, you had to haul food in the mess hall.

He’d overextended himself trying to gather krona.

Not something to regret, though.

So he shut his mouth.

Enkrid stepped outside and picked a spot in an open area.

Since the whole city was one big garrison, there were wooden training dummies everywhere.

Houses were scattered sparsely, and empty space was plentiful—enough to turn any spot into a training ground.

He’d rested well yesterday. Washed up, slept properly. No lingering fatigue now.

“You’ve got a sturdy body. Excellent,” Lua Gharne said approvingly.

Under the morning sun, they repeated the same training they had done countless times.

The Isolation Technique was a method of training the body to its physical limit.

Enkrid followed through again today.

Even if misfortune were coming, he wouldn’t have changed his habits—but with no misfortune in sight, he simply continued as always.

Training.

Moving his body, swinging his sword.

Lua Gharne drew her blade. Ting. The Frokk with the Loop Sword wasn’t someone to take lightly.

They began warming up with light sparring, and soon the muggy sun broke through the clouds, casting golden light down upon them.

Enkrid moved with the steps he had learned. Drawing lines with his sword, he disrupted Lua Gharne’s balance through feints and subtle pressure.

He feinted right, then suddenly lunged for her left shoulder.

Using a step she had taught him, he shifted his weight to his left foot and stabbed with the blade in his left hand.

It looked like the awkward footwork of a nervous soldier—a “tree frog step.”

The movement was inspired by how tense beginners would often move their arms and legs together, stiff and uncoordinated.

Thanks to his constant use of his left hand for writing and other tasks, he’d gained precision in his motions.

All those efforts came together to enable this movement.

“Nice!” Lua Gharne shouted gleefully.

This translation is the intellectual property of Novelight.

She didn’t usually have a strong fighting instinct, but when sparring with Enkrid, she sometimes got excited without meaning to.

After working up a full sweat—

“Shouldn’t someone go looking if a person disappears?”

A gray-haired barbarian approached the training ground.

“...Ah.”

Enkrid now remembered what he'd forgotten in the bath yesterday.

Rem.

“Where were you?” he asked.

“You actually care?”

“No.”

He figured they’d gone off hunting on their own. Leaves and dirt clung to them, a clear sign they’d been out and about.

There was even a faint scent of charcoal.

They must’ve been burning something overnight.

A heavy pouch hung at their side, stones poking out of the top.

Rem had been exploring the city and found a decent whetstone. When told she couldn't buy it without contribution points, she went out and found her own—natural whetstone.

If you baked them in fire, they became harder. And to sharpen a Rewis-forged steel axe, you needed something like that.

She’d spent the night finding stones, checking the surroundings, and going back to the forge to fire them.

“Anyway, let’s get some sleep.”

Fatigue piled up. When it was time to rest, one had to rest.

Whether it was Thousand Brick or the middle of the Demon Realm, Rem wasn’t someone swayed by her surroundings.

She just did what she always did.

And Enkrid simply went back to training.

After more time spent swinging his sword, a voice cut in.

“Planning to become a knight, huh?”

When had she arrived? It was Lady Oara.

She was crouched on a tree stump at the edge of the training ground, elbows resting on her knees, arms dangling.

Oara had a plum in one hand and was munching on it.

Juice stained her lips a dark purple with every bite. One drop trailed down.

Under the sunlight, her hair was clearly brown.

Loosely curled with a natural wave, it looked good on her. A neat cloth was tied around her forehead.

Her eyes were wide, her gaze sharp.

She was clearly sober now. Oara chewed, then spat out the pit with a tchk. It landed on the ground—about the same color as her hair.

“Yes. That’s my intention,” Enkrid answered.

“Mhm.”

Oara nodded and said nothing more. She simply watched.

Enkrid resumed his training.

She kept watching for a moment, then suddenly stood and walked off between the houses.

From one of the tall trees nearby, she snapped off a branch.

Then, with a few sharp chops of her hand, she stripped it. Leaves fluttered to the ground.

Finally, she pulled out a knife and began shaping the branch.

“Guess I’d better focus.”

Lua Gharne, who had been watching, spoke.

It was the moment Oara turned around holding the prepared branch.

Crack!

Dunbakel kicked off the ground and leapt back over five steps. She had transformed into a white lion, baring her fangs as she crouched low.

With one hand on the ground, her head raised just above the dirt—her body nearly flattened—she stared upward.

She was on full alert.

It was a raw, unfiltered intimidation.

Most knights' presence felt like a heavy stone pressing down on your shoulders. But Oara’s was something else entirely.

Her pressure was like iron shackles. No, more like being struck by a slab of steel.

Not "If you move, I'll cut you," but "Before you move, you're getting hit anyway."

“Ah, it's been a while since I’ve used this on a person. Hard to regulate.”

She stepped forward as she spoke, raising the branch and moving to stand opposite Enkrid.

Enkrid raised Acker.

Under normal circumstances, it shouldn’t have been easy to move.

Oara’s pressure radiated in a very specific range—roughly five steps, in a radial pattern from wherever she was looking. Within that zone, the pressure was unlike any ordinary knight’s.

A mere knight-at-arms would’ve been stumbling just trying to keep their stance.

But not only did Enkrid hold his sword steady, he let his battle aura flare.

The moment he felt the invisible iron weight crash down on him, the Will of Rejection ignited within his body.

Will clashed with will—overwhelming pressure canceled out.

It wasn’t something Enkrid had intended, but it caught Oara’s interest.

“He’s not even a knight, and he shook off my pressure?”

Maybe it was best to see it as some abnormal form of resistance.

Like a seven-year-old child holding a shield made of solid iron.

Any normal kid—not a giant—shouldn’t have even been able to lift it, let alone hold it up. And yet, Enkrid not only lifted it, he blocked with it. Parried. That was impressive.

Oara’s lips curled upward. She smiled faintly and said,

“Nice blade.”

“It’s a royal treasure.”

“The hero of the civil war, huh? Should’ve given me one too. Stingy bastard.”

“You know His Majesty?”

“No. Never even seen him.”

Oara had nothing to do with the civil war or royal affairs.

Her job was to guard this place.

That was the promise she made to herself.

“Wanna play?” she asked.

Her voice had a seductive lilt—like an attractive stranger inviting you into bed at night.

Enkrid accepted the temptation.

He stepped forward without a word. No tricks, no feints.

A direct line—dot to dot. That was everything.

A probing strike to gauge the opponent? Useless. His opponent was a knight.

That meant he had to show his best from the start.

The Heart of Might beat within him.

His One Point Focus kicked in, stretching time.

It felt like pressure weighed down his whole body—like he was sinking into a swamp.

But Enkrid pushed through that weight and swung his sword.

From the side, Dunbakel’s eyes widened. Her claws dug into the ground without her realizing, cracking a stone embedded in the dirt.

She had seen this technique before. She’d even been struck by it.

The Giant’s Blow, wasn’t it?

But what he showed now—this was something else. Something new.

Enkrid threw his entire body into a single slash.

Every muscle trained by the Isolation Technique detonated at once.

It felt like someone had grabbed time itself and stretched it out across a line.

On that timeline, Enkrid moved alone, bringing his sword down.

A beam of light, cleaving through the sun’s rays, fell toward the knight’s head.

Clack.

A dull, hollow sound rang out.

“I put too much force into it.”

Enkrid froze mid-swing.

Oara’s branch was resting on his wrist.

Without hesitation, Enkrid turned his left foot and pivoted.

His blade traced a new arc.

Oara lifted and repositioned her branch, striking down at his wrist again.

She figured that would be enough to make him drop his sword.

But even knights aren’t perfect in every regard.

Crack!

The force in that branch strike could’ve broken a regular person’s wrist, but Enkrid held on.

His muscles, honed through years of training, had reached a different level of toughness. And thanks to everything he’d learned from Audin about how to take a hit, Enkrid added tension at the moment of impact and pulled back, disrupting the blow’s angle.

Then he continued his swing.

Pivoting on his right foot, his muscles snapped into motion, channeling force into the blade. The extended slash shone like a bolt of white lightning.

Oara dropped the branch. The moment she realized she’d failed, she drew her secondary weapon.

Clang!

Acker’s blade was stopped.

Oara stood behind a diagonally held shortsword, her eyes fixed on Enkrid.

Her brown eyes, framed by dark hair, met his—one of them shining blue.

Despite the clash of steel against steel, neither side was pushed back.

Both had applied pressure at the exact point of contact and held it.

A feat of control—Oara’s doing. She used just the right amount of force to trap Enkrid’s blade. It was a technique called Blade Catching.

“You’re pretty good,” Oara said.

She meant it.

He was on par with the two knight-at-arms she’d trained herself.

No—if we’re talking about fighting spirit, maybe even better?

She didn’t know. Every fight had to be fought to know.

But right now, even without going all-in, she already knew.

She’d planned to end this with just a branch, but had been forced to draw her sword.

Had she misjudged his skill?

Oara had made two mistakes, and she realized them now.

“It has been a while since I fought a human.”

Sparring wasn’t a common thing for her.

That was the first mistake.

The second—

“I didn’t underestimate him, but...”

Enkrid was... tough.

If a regular knight-at-arms was a well-forged steel sword, this guy was a blade made from scrap iron—smelted down /N_o_v_e_l_i_g_h_t/ and reforged with absurd levels of care.

Hence, the misjudgment.

He wasn’t a clean-cut prodigy—he was a monster who’d clawed his way up from the dirt.

Recognizing that, she naturally adjusted her approach.

“If you don’t block this, it’s gonna hurt.”

Oara spoke as she pushed Enkrid’s blade away.

Enkrid tried to close the distance and engage in close quarters, but she overpowered him.

The force of her push was incredible.

“What is a knight?”

Oara asked, letting the arm holding the shortsword hang at her side.

Enkrid didn’t answer. He simply resumed his stance.

“A knight is someone who manifests the intangible force of will into reality.”

It was a supremely concrete definition.

No romance, no fluff—just the truth.

You couldn’t speak of knights without speaking of Will.

And right now, Oara was proving that definition herself.