A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

Because he became a knight, something might have changed.

To those who knew Enkrid, some things had already changed, and other things might yet change. But aside from that, there were also things that would never change.

From the moment he first picked up a sword, there was a phrase he had heard so many times it was burned into his ears.

“A guy who doesn’t properly care for his weapon will one day end up holding a snapped sword and get killed by someone worse than him.”

That was something a mercenary who first taught him swordsmanship had said. It was oddly specific, but the meaning was clear enough.

And afterward, he heard many similar sayings over and over again.

“A sword is an extension of the hand. When you protect your hand, do you spare the krona?”

Even a sword merchant had said that.

He had a real silver tongue, and his words were a fantastic weapon for emptying the wallets of many blade-wielders hoping to buy a weapon.

Of course, Enkrid had never fallen for such tricks, but he agreed with the merchant’s words.

Could he entrust the sword that would protect his life to just anyone?

Naturally, he couldn’t entrust it to someone with rotting eyes. That was obvious to Enkrid.

“You doubting my craftsmanship?”

The dwarf spoke. Was it the typical stubbornness of a craftsman? It didn’t seem that way.

All Enkrid could see in those clouded, murky eyes was greed.

Did he say he came from Martai? On credit? Where would someone so meekly allow credit to be extended? Unbelievable. He might not have killed someone, but it was likely he’d done something on the level of skipping out on payment.

“Can you go outside and call over one of the soldiers passing by?”

Enkrid spoke not to the dwarf, but to the craftsman’s apprentice.

“Huh? Ah, yes.”

The mood began to shift strangely. The craftsman stared at Enkrid and said,

“Better skill than me, is it?”

“Not to my eyes.”

“You bastard!”

The dwarf flared up like a furnace, but it took only a simple gesture to cool his heat.

Enkrid, moving faster than anyone there could see, gripped his gladius—the junction between hilt and blade now loose—and pointed its tip at the dwarf.

Even though the fitting had grown loose, there wasn’t the slightest rattle. In the blink of an eye, the slightly dulled tip was already aimed at the dwarf.

And yet, the craftsman was still proud that he’d steadily oiled the blade and maintained it well.

“If I’m not mistaken, I probably have the authority for summary execution. Martai is a sister city to Border Guard, and if you caused trouble there, then someone in charge here could hold you accountable for your crimes.”

Enkrid calmly stated a fact and looked again at the craftsman. The craftsman blinked several times.

No one spoke for a moment. The dwarf only darted his eyes around nervously. Just for a moment. Then the craftsman suddenly looked directly at Enkrid and asked,

“Is there a particular reason you insist on giving the job to me?”

Enkrid answered immediately.

“Your eyes.”

“My eyes?”

The craftsman echoed him, and Enkrid looked into the man’s eyes.

“You say your skill is lacking, but your attitude and eyes don’t say that at all.”

Just as certain things were obvious to Enkrid, there were things obvious to the craftsman as well.

Saying one’s skill is lacking was a sober recognition of the present—but that didn’t mean it would stay that way.

That was obvious to the craftsman. He had no intention of stopping here.

To gain greater skill, he faced the flames every day. His fingertips were blackened, and his face was burned. His pitch-black forearms were proof of that.

In contrast, the dwarf had a potbelly, reeked of alcohol, and demanded a house.

To Enkrid, that was trash.

If he had followed up the demand for a house by asking for a woman, he would’ve been beaten within an inch of his life.

There were quite a few female soldiers in Border Guard. Leave it to them, and they’d make sure he was properly trampled.

Sure, maybe he had a natural talent for working with metal.

That could apply to skill. But what about the will behind it?

This wasn’t something Enkrid was saying just because he wielded Will.

Even without Will, he would’ve treated him the same.

Even if the dwarf weren’t under Enkrid’s jurisdiction, even if the dwarf was a better fighter than Enkrid—it wouldn’t have mattered.

When something changes, there are always things that must never change.

The craftsman’s pupils trembled.

Did this man know something?

No, it didn’t seem like he was speaking from knowledge.

Still holding the sword in his left hand, Enkrid asked,

“Do you have a dream?”

The craftsman blinked. Slowly, three times.

Something must have changed in his mind during that pause, for the tremble in his eyes stopped, and he opened his mouth.

“Call me Aitri.”

He suddenly gave his name, even using an honorific.

“Enkrid of Border Guard.”

“Then I’ll call myself Aitri of Border Guard, too.”

Outwardly, he remained composed. But inside, Aitri the craftsman had never before met someone who looked into his eyes and spoke of dreams.

Staring into that man’s blue eyes, he felt like he could say anything.

Even something like his dream—something he would normally be laughed at for mentioning.

In this age, many treated working with fire and steel as a means to put food in their mouths.

Among them, some did possess the spirit of craftsmanship. But once they reached a certain status, even they would eventually talk reality and stop striving to improve.

People who talked about dreams and struggled to fulfill them? Sure, they existed at first. Some even boasted about it.

But over time, their hearts changed. Everyone’s did.

But not Aitri.

He had a dream. A dream he could never easily tell anyone.

It was because of that dream he forged the single-piece steel axe from Mt. Rewis, and also the one-piece black-gold greatsword.

He was now talking to someone who spoke of dreams. Aitri, despite his white hair and thinning scalp, despite the diminishing strength in his arms, remembered something he had never forgotten and said,

“I want to try making an Engraved Weapon.”

Engraved Weapons referred to the weapons used by knights.

Normally, a knight would only ever make one Engraved Weapon in their life. For a craftsman, to make such a weapon was the ultimate honor—but it required not only skill, but fortune and talent. Without qualification, one couldn’t even dream of the opportunity.

At present, there were likely no more than three craftsmen on the entire continent known to make Engraved Weapons.

Would there be more if hidden ones were discovered? Maybe.

There’s no such thing as a sage who knows everything in this world, after all.

So if one wanted an Engraved Weapon made right now, what would be the best course of action?

If you wanted a proper Engraved Weapon made at this very moment, your best bet would be to seek out the White Flame Guild near the Demon Realm.

They were a group of craftsmen known for handling white fire and had experience crafting Engraved Weapons.

Of course, finding them—and having them take on the job—would not be easy, but they were the best option.

And yet, making an Engraved Weapon... that was the dream of an aging blacksmith who worked with fire and steel.

“You said you couldn’t even touch magic weapons.”

“I’m studying and researching. One day, will you let me make your weapon?”

This translation is the intellectual property of Novelight.

He was being as courteous as could be.

The apprentice hadn’t even stepped out—too stunned to breathe properly.

It was the first time he’d ever heard his master speak like that.

Even though the master had made weapons for the Mad Platoon before, he’d never shown that kind of attitude.

Not to anyone, ever.

Was it because the other party was the Demon Slayer? No—his master wasn’t the kind of man to change his words or lower his head just because of someone’s status. That was exactly why the apprentice respected him.

“I’ll wait.”

“I meant, once I become a knight, I’d like you to do it.”

“That’s why I said I’ll wait.”

“...What?”

“If you meant a knight as in a noble title, then you’d need to visit the royal palace. But that’s not what you meant, is it?”

Blink.

Aitri blinked, confused by what he just heard.

But soon, realization struck, and his eyes widened—only to return to a neutral expression.

It wasn’t a secret that Enkrid had the skills to be called a knight, but there were very few who actually knew it.

And now, he was just saying it so casually.

Aitri was surprised. The apprentice was surprised. Even the dwarf was surprised.

The dwarf, who had quietly been trying to inch away while the Demon Slayer and the blacksmith conversed, gave up the idea of escape when the Demon Slayer, without even glancing his way, shifted the tip of his sword in his direction.

The dwarf thought he was seriously screwed. He’d assumed that if he ever ran into someone high-ranking, they’d fawn over him instantly.

Usually, when someone who handled weapons saw his skill, they would fall over themselves with admiration. Was it because he hadn’t shown his skills yet?

No chance. Just one look and it was obvious—if he tried to act out, he’d die.

Even if he managed to forge a top-tier sword on the spot, that man would still never use it.

“You’re still here?”

Enkrid spoke indifferently, and the apprentice, startled, quickly darted out.

Aitri held his hand out again. Enkrid handed him the gladius.

The dwarf stood there awkwardly, gauging the mood.

“If you try running and get caught, I’ll break your legs. But if you need that kind of warning, I can just say it now.”

Enkrid said, watching Aitri begin his work.

“I’ll stay put.”

The dwarf’s voice was noticeably smaller than before. No one paid him any attention.

Aitri picked up a hammer and chisel, gave the connection point of the gladius a few gentle taps to dismantle it, then lifted the blade to eye level to examine its flatness and condition.

“I’ll heat it up once and resharpen the edge. Do you tend to use your weapons roughly?”

“I face tough opponents.”

Enkrid answered plainly, without a hint of bravado. Aitri focused intently on the task.

Fwoosh.

With one press of the bellows, the flames roared to life. The blast of heat filled the forge.

The air grew so ✪ Nоvеlіgһt ✪ (Official version) hot it pressed against their lungs, making it hard to breathe.

Even Enkrid, who wasn’t sensitive to discomfort, could feel it. Aitri and the frog sitting beside him must have found it unbearable too—yet both remained perfectly composed.

Seated in a chair, Enkrid watched Aitri.

After a while, he casually pulled out the leather he’d bought earlier and held it up.

“I’ll fix that up too.”

Aitri glanced over and replied. When Enkrid mentioned the Whistle Dagger, he said he could make a few of those as well.

“That frog doesn’t look like a customer.”

Frokk, who had glanced back earlier, had returned to his original posture. He was seated on a higher chair than Enkrid, arms resting on the desk, completely absorbed in his work.

“He’s a friend who came to learn how to make accessories.”

Aitri said.

Enkrid was more baffled than when he’d seen a giant turned merchant.

“Frokk?”

He couldn’t help but ask.

They were born with slippery skin.

Their bodies often secreted oil based on emotional shifts, so they typically used ringed weapons when fighting, hooking them around their fingers.

It wasn’t for nothing that weapons like Loop Swords and Loop Axes existed.

Frokk’s slippery skin was a major advantage in combat—most blades would slide right off.

Unless someone wielded Will, they had to be a master of weaponry just to fight one. It was a huge advantage.

But trying to make delicate accessories with hands that drop everything they hold? That sounded like a massive drawback. Anyone could tell it would be incredibly difficult.

Frokk, by nature, weren’t suited for craft-based professions.

“What? Am I not allowed to?”

Frokk said.

Enkrid stared at him. He noticed sharp studs on Frokk’s hand—nails driven into the skin.

With palms that slippery, there had to be limits. So that was his solution.

He drove nails into his flesh and used his regenerative ability to keep them in place?

“You think Frokk don’t feel pain?”

Even if Lua Gharne hadn’t said it, pain was still pain for Frokk too.

Just having those driven in was proof he was enduring pain.

The nails fused with his flesh—an extension of his own hand.

“What? You want to stop me?”

Frokk asked again.

Enkrid looked into his froglike eyes.

He’d spent time around Lua Gharne, but he still couldn’t perfectly tell Frokk apart by appearance alone.

But their eyes—those, he could distinguish.

The heat glowing in them... something he’d seen in Lua Gharne’s eyes now and then.

But this burned even hotter.

“I won’t set my own limits either.”

That was something Lua Gharne had said once.

Enkrid hadn’t only seen eyes like that in Lua Gharne.

He’d seen them just moments ago.

Shining eyes—the eyes of someone moving forward toward something.

“No.”

Enkrid finally spoke.

As always, he supported dreams. This was no different.

“I’ll inform the city administrator. If you need anything, speak up.”

Enkrid said.

“Don’t need anything.”

Frokk replied and refocused, lifting a carving knife without even saying his name, ready to shape the wood.

“I’m providing him with the tools he needs.”

Aitri said from behind.

One who has a dream was helping another who had a dream.

They were always yearning, always craving, always walking forward.

And Enkrid could see it in their eyes.