A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

It was the next day.

Enkrid, who had deliberately woken up late, slowly and carefully loosened his body. There was hardly any fatigue left in him.

The bruise he got from being hit by Ragna must have faded too. He didn’t need a mirror to know.

A knight’s trained body far surpassed an ordinary person’s ability to recover.

“Legend.”

That was always the title that came first when speaking of Zaun. A name that only those beyond a certain level could occasionally hear, never even sung of in the songs of bards. The word “legend” fit Zaun better than anything else.

“Among them, the family head.”

A tingling sensation zipped from the soles of his feet to the top of his head, and the fine hairs on his body stood on end.

“How fun this will be.”

His excitement surged.

“Nice weather.”

Enkrid looked up at the sky and spoke. Anne, rubbing her eyes beside him, also looked up and asked,

“Nice weather?”

The sky was full of thick black clouds. What exactly did he mean by “nice weather”?

“Yeah, very.”

Enkrid replied. Behind Anne, Ragna spoke.

“You won’t hear anything. He’s like that sometimes.”

It was a side of him Anne hadn’t seen before. But it wasn’t surprising. She just thought, this is why he’s called a madman.

“Looks like it’ll be a busy day for me too.”

Anne hadn’t come to leisurely visit Ragna’s family home. She had come to find the root of the illness.

Not long after, a page wearing a sword came to inform them that the family head was summoning Enkrid.

It was just after dawn, quite an early hour—but Enkrid had already finished his preparations. And so he responded to the family head’s summons.

At the center of a wide training ground, the family head and his wife welcomed Enkrid.

There was no need for greetings like “Did you sleep well?”

The moment Enkrid stepped forward, about ten paces away, he knew who would be going first in the spar.

“The family head.”

The man who represented Zaun, Ragna’s father.

This kind of pressure was new to him. It didn’t stop at simply weighing down the body. The pressure had form. A great sword stood before him.

It was an illusion—but not an illusion. It felt real because the presence was truly alive and breathing in front of him.

“It feels like it actually exists.”

This was what one would call presence.

The pressure that should have been intangible formed the shape of a greatsword, a blade so large it made a person’s body seem small. The blade was three times the size of the family head’s body.

But it wasn’t filled with killing intent.

Why?

The answer came quickly, through instinct aided by insight and experience.

“This pressure isn’t directed at me.”

It was merely a signal that he was ready to fight.

Probably, the minimum requirement to duel the family head was to withstand this pressure. It was a near-certain instinct—and it was correct.

Ragna looked at the manifested pressure of his father, whom he hadn’t seen in a long time.

“It’s gotten bigger.”

Even before swinging his sword, he crushed his opponent. It was his father’s specialty.

Standing before him, Enkrid looked like a reed swaying in the wind, or a branch about to snap. The difference in aura was that stark.

Before this manifested aura, most people felt infinitely small. In reverse, it meant their opponent grew inside them before the fight even began. A fight where the heart surrendered first—this was what that meant.

The thought of being crushed if that greatsword moved—such pressure suffocated the heart. That was the power of this aura.

As he watched, Enkrid’s aura shifted drastically.

Ragna was behind him and couldn’t see his face—but he could tell.

“He must be smiling.”

That’s the kind of man he was. And he was right.

Enkrid felt a shiver of joy and thrill, and his lips twitched on their own.

The aura was different. He had never experienced this before. That made it exciting.

Suddenly, someone came to mind—the King of the East, Anu. Anu might be at a similar level.

“When he came to the Border Guard, he was just playing with me.”

Back then, Enkrid hadn’t been able to draw out the Mercenary King’s true strength.

But now?

His lips twisted, his fangs bared. His clear smile made Alexandra’s right eyebrow twitch.

“He’s smiling?”

Her expression seemed to ask that question. But it didn’t register for Enkrid. He was focused only on the family head.

***

Teresa, who had been immersed in training, suddenly spoke.

“Brother Audin, Sister Shinar.”

The two assisting her turned their heads at the same time. Shinar recalled the floating daggers she’d suspended with spiritual energy. Audin was removing a damaged steel gauntlet from his arm.

“What’s the most troublesome thing about fighting Captain Enkrid?”

It wasn’t a deeply thought-out question—just something that popped into her head. Good conversation during a short break.

Audin and Shinar answered at the same time.

“Stubbornness.”

“Refusal.”

Different words, same meaning. “Stubbornness” came from Shinar, “refusal” from Audin. Audin added,

“In terms of learning, he absorbs everything. But once the fight begins, no pressure works on him. It’s what they call the Will of Refusal. I think that’s his essence. A force that pushes through, no matter what anyone says.”

Shinar added,

“He doesn’t stop. Even when it’s clear he should. That kind of stubbornness is unpredictable.”

Without Enkrid around, Shinar’s teasing decreased. If he’d been there, she would have said something like:

“Even a fairy of my level can’t shake his stubbornness, pride, and obliviousness.”

Different words—but the same core idea.

“I feel the same. That means it’s my turn to show the mindset I learned from our captain.”

Teresa nodded and stood up, limping. One of her legs was broken, but that wasn’t a sign of giving up.

Enkrid had inspired everyone—and as a result, everyone except Ragna had chosen to stay with the Border Guard.

Because they wanted to absorb that inspiration.

“Let’s go!”

Teresa shouted. She was in the process of pushing past her limits.

***

Smiling?

Alexandra knew the pressure her husband ~Nоvеl𝕚ght~ gave off.

Even just the way someone responded to it could reveal their nature.

The worst kind of opponent was someone who began the fight already assuming they couldn’t win.

Such people could never become trailblazers.

“No, even becoming a knight would be difficult for them.”

Zaun divided its knights into three categories: Trailblazers, Researchers, and Observers.

Trailblazers were also called Seekers. Researchers were called Technicians. Observers were Guardians.

This system reflected the structure of Zaun’s sword training.

“In any case...”

If one started with the assumption of losing, the best they could become was a researcher.

The second worst type were those who ignored their own weakness.

“That’s just arrogance.”

They know they’ll lose but refuse to accept it. They lack the ability to objectively view themselves.

Some of them, gifted with talent, might still become trailblazers—but Alexandra had never seen one succeed.

“And they can’t be researchers either.”

Those who analyze and refine techniques must first be able to examine themselves.

The third type were those who acknowledged their weakness.

This was the common trait of people who advanced to the next level. They admitted their flaws and looked for what they could do now.

Her husband hated it, but Alexandra thought that was a great mindset.

Even when expecting defeat, they didn’t just fight—they tried anything and everything.

People who desperately tried to improve their odds.

“They have enough potential to become researchers or great observers.”

The last type was her husband’s favorite.

“Those who enjoy pressure.”

Not just swordsmanship—they found joy even in pressure. They became intoxicated by battle. The trait of a true trailblazer. Those who forge ahead.

And among those who enjoyed it, there had never been someone like this.

A full smile on his face.

Just looking at it, you could tell how overjoyed he was.

Enkrid looked like he could die from happiness as he charged in.

He stepped through the pressure. Even if a meteor fell or a mountain collapsed, he’d charge in with only a sword in hand.

“A temperament shown through his entire being.”

Her husband, Tempest, drew his sword. Alexandra didn’t look away.

Though this wasn’t a fight to the death, their aura surged. It was like being one step away from actual combat.

Boom!

Her husband’s greatsword came down vertically. A strike nicknamed “Mountain-Crushing Blade.”

That’s how heavy it was. It looked slow on the outside, but just before the swing, an invisible force—Will—would bind the opponent.

As she predicted, Enkrid felt the pressure clamping down on his feet and body—and immediately refused it.

“How fun.”

Odinkar was exceptional too, but not like the family head.

When still, he was a massive mountain. When moving, a storm.

That presence ignited the Will that surged through Enkrid’s whole body.

Enkrid reached out and blocked it with Samcheol. Blocking a heavy sword head-on?

It looked that way. But Samcheol’s black gold blade subtly tilted, redirecting the force of the strike.

Boom!

Even so, the collision sent a shockwave outward. Ragna stepped in front of Anne, while Alexandra simply crossed her arms and watched.

“What was that?”

Anne couldn’t even tell what had happened.

“We need to step back,” Ragna said, shielding her. If they stayed put, a flying rock could split her forehead.

Whish—

The moment the blades clashed, Enkrid let go of Samcheol and dashed in. One of the most reckless moves. Something an opponent wouldn’t expect.

A Valen-style mercenary sword move—one born from a flash of calculation.

From the first move, he was going all in.

Enkrid clenched his fist and swung at the family head’s face.

A strike to the jaw would stagger any knight, disrupting their balance and clarity.

The family head lowered his chin and caught the punch with his forehead.

Boom!

At the same time, the family head punched Enkrid in the face with his sword-wielding hand.

Enkrid ducked quickly, evading the fist, and crossed his arms in front of his chest.

The Wavebreaker Sword could block any attack. It was a decision made through high-speed cognition.

Whack!

The family head’s knee slammed into the center of Enkrid’s forearms.

Enkrid deliberately lightened his body and retreated like he was flying back.

While doing so, he stretched out his left hand and reclaimed Samcheol.

The tip of the blade, stuck in the ground, came free naturally—and Samcheol rose in his grip as if it had been waiting for him.

The family head used the recoil of recovering his raised knee to thrust his greatsword forward.

“Skilled.”

Both in combat and in sparring.

Enkrid felt numbness in his right hand from the knee strike.

He’d aimed for the muscle tendons.

He blocked Enkrid’s punch with his forehead, then temporarily stole control of his right hand with a knee.

Beyond swordplay, he was a born fighter.

Enkrid could use either hand freely—so even wielding a sword with his left hand didn’t reduce his strength.

In fact, using his numb right hand as support, he demonstrated a skillful hand switch.

A technique now embedded in his body. Valen-style mercenary sword switching.

He kept his left hand on top, and with his right hand supporting the grip from below, he aimed to break the family head’s blade with a thrust.

“Aitri.”

It was a sword forged by him. It wouldn’t break easily.

The family head didn’t stop his thrust.

Clang!

The tip of Samcheol traced a curve through the air and struck the center of the oncoming blade. The target point of the family head’s sword shifted. Enkrid had altered it by force.

Will boiled up. Joy and zeal surged within him like a volcanic eruption.

“Hah!”

With a shout, Enkrid grounded his right foot, twisted his waist, and thrust his left leg forward.

He kicked the family head’s sword.

Boom!

He altered the target with his blade, then kicked the flat of the sword with his foot to cancel the attack.

Then, the family head let go of his blade and swung a clenched fist.

The light in his emotionless amber eyes left a trail like a comet as he closed in on Enkrid.

“Did I subconsciously assume that a greatsword user would be slow?”

He had.

The family head’s sword wasn’t fast—but his feet were.

Calculations from both the Wavebreaker and Flash methods overlapped and returned an answer.

Born from high-speed cognition:

“I can’t dodge this.”

Enkrid clenched his teeth, still smiling, let go of Samcheol (Three Iron sword), and raised two fingers from his left hand—aiming straight at the opponent’s eyes.

Every move came naturally. So there was no hesitation.

If he couldn’t dodge, he’d stop it with an attack.

A conclusion of the Wavebreaker.

The family head closed his eyes and punched Enkrid in the stomach.

Boom!

With a bursting sound, Enkrid felt a rare sense of buoyancy.

Lifted into the air, he flew backward.

At the end of the float, he felt his back slam against the ground with a hollow thud.

Though he quickly sprang up like a cat, it didn’t change the fact he’d been hit.

If the family head had followed up with a charge and swung his sword, Enkrid would’ve been seriously injured—but he stopped, blood dripping from the corner of his eye.

There was no damage to his eyeball. The fingers that had aimed at his eyes had only torn the skin at the edge.

Even while feeling his breath catch from the fall impact, Enkrid had already drawn his horn-handled dagger.

Though sitting, he was ready to throw the dagger and get up to fight again at any moment.

“Excellent,” the family head said. The spar was over.

Someone let out a low exhale, and the family head spoke again.

“Urgency in the moment is always one step behind.”

He added a few more words.

“Only the efforts of the past respond to today’s desperation. Therefore—you are excellent.”

He wasn’t one to speak much during or after a duel.

Enkrid didn’t know it, but those who had quietly gathered around to watch knew exactly how fired up the family head was.

Normally, he barely said a word after a spar.

But now, he started with the word “excellent.”

So of course everyone was stunned.

“A precious guest,” said a man with thick blond hair.

“He doesn’t seem particularly talented, though,” added another man with light brown hair, carrying six swords on his back, waist, and thighs.

As everyone watched in astonishment, Enkrid said,

“One more round?”

It was the kind of thing you’d expect from him. But this time, his expression was different.

He still wore a smile, but something deeper showed beneath it.

Like he was staking everything on these words. The scent of emotion spilled like upturned perfume.

Even someone who couldn’t wield Will could sense it—it was that strong.

The scent spread uncontrollably, and everyone felt what Enkrid was feeling.

It was desperation.