A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

The man who resembled Odinkar had come here on his master’s orders.

His master had said:

"Go. Kill them."

Why?

There was no need to ask. His master was a god. Obedience to a god was the bare minimum for a true follower.

Besides, what was so significant about killing one girl? It was a trivial task. He had set out with a light heart.

His real mission would come after all of this. This was no different from picking up a slum rat before they lost their hands to the Thieves’ Guild or got crippled and became beggars—no different from grooming one to become a future pickpocket.

Just that easy. Just that unimportant.

Honestly, even sending one of his underlings would have been enough to retrieve a test subject.

And yet, he felt a tiny spark of dissatisfaction rising in him.

Wasn’t he meant for greater things? Then why was he being made to do this?

‘Blasphemy.’

He scolded himself. He was a follower. Loyalty to the divine came first.

Even if it wasn't visible, his master must have planned this with a higher purpose. That’s what gods did.

They tested faith—by stealing your wealth, killing your children, or covering your body in boils to drown you in agony—just to see if you would still believe. Some would call that cruelty. For him, it was devotion.

Returning to this insignificant task—if the slum child resisted, it wouldn’t change anything.

He had a group of mutated monsters with him and used poison.

One knight stood in his way—but that shouldn't have been a big deal either.

"No way they could counter my poison that easily—"

He shook his head and started to taunt the brat in front of him—but never got to finish.

BANG!

A thunderous roar tore through the downpour, louder than the storm.

It was the sound of a blade slicing the air.

A greatsword had just cleaved apart a monster—one with skin as tough as scaled armor, a match for the follower himself.

That monster had gone for the girl. The one wielding the greatsword had turned his body mid-motion and casually swung—despite being poisoned.

‘Why the hell is he fine?’

Knights were monsters. He knew that. That was why he used poisons that melted bones and seared flesh.

KRAAAAH!

The roar of rain filled the gap left by the sword swing. The hall flooded as water rushed in from the room. The ground was slick beneath them.

But Ragna kicked through the water without hesitation, shifted his stance, and swung his greatsword in both hands.

WHAM, SLASH! RIP!

Two charging owlbears and a black-scaled Scaler were hacked to pieces and collapsed across the floor.

The Scaler’s glossy black eyes rolled in its split head, twitching in its last moments.

The knight—the monster with the greatsword—calmly spun his other arm as if stretching his shoulder.

"What was in that antidote?"

The beast with the greatsword asked the girl beside him.

"Nothing special. Looked like a crude neurotoxin, so I gave you an old antidote I had. It’s the neuroparalysis type, probably snake-based. If you extract venom from snakes and administer it slowly to goats or camels, their blood builds resistance. I made it using that principle. Not that you'd understand."

The girl—his target—spoke without pride. Her red eyes were calm, emotionless.

"That’s impossible!"

The follower shouted.

He had only just developed this neuroparalytic formula last month. How could she have an antidote?

"What’s so impossible?"

She asked.

"You can't make an antidote without knowing the poison!"

The follower growled back.

The girl replied as if it were trivial—as if she were plucking a weed.

"What’s so special about some crude toxin made with basic methods everyone knows?"

To make sense of her words, he had to accept one theory:

That what he had researched and refined over decades—his life’s work—was to her just another basic method. Just another theory among many.

If that were true, she was a monster.

Worse than the beast with the greatsword—she was the true monster.

"Die."

The follower’s eyes burned with jealousy. He didn’t know why, but the urge to kill surged through him.

He pulled out a new poison—this one caused hallucinations, triggered ecstasy, and then killed the victim.

Had this been outdoors, it might’ve blown away in the wind. But luck was on his side.

He crushed powder in both hands, reducing it to fine particles that spread through the air.

"Still acting cocky? What’s with that face? Surgery?"

Anne muttered, reaching into her triple-layered, oil-treated leather bag—tailored by a former Border Guard quartermaster seamstress. She popped one pill into her own mouth, then shoved another into Ragna’s.

The beast with the greatsword obediently chewed it, his arms still intact.

The follower hated that too. The need to kill them surged again.

The powder spread—but neither showed symptoms. No flushed cheeks, no red eyes, not even a cough.

It didn’t work.

Frustrated, the man threw a vial next—an infamous acid that could burn through monster-hide armor and bones alike. It would melt human flesh on contact.

He tossed it into the air—and with his other hand, hurled another short spear coated in poison.

His enhanced muscles gave him knight-like strength. But matching a knight with strength alone was foolish.

He knew that—so he used the poisoned spear.

Three spears remained on his belt. He’d thrown two—one at the window, one earlier.

The monster deflected the spear with his sword like a fencing parry and sidestepped the falling vial with Anne still in his arms.

"Ughhh!"

The follower howled, enraged. His heart pounded and his vision turned red. He had to kill them—especially the small monster.

Modified Scalers with bat wings charged from the shadows and ceiling.

‘The dangerous one is the small one. I can kill the swordsman somehow.’

That was the assumption.

And it was wrong.

The greatsword moved faster than his eyes could follow.

BOOM! CRACK!

Monsters were ripped apart mid-air. Four died in seconds.

The follower, reaching for another spear, froze.

"...What the hell are these insane monsters?"

It was ironic for a man who had mutilated his own body and surgically changed his face to say that—but in his mind, it made sense.

He had abandoned humanity and embraced monsters to become a superior being.

What he really wanted, deep down, was to surpass those damned geniuses and feel superior.

But now, two monsters stood before him. Ones who hadn’t abandoned their humanity—and yet, they outclassed him by talent alone.

It was a crushing realization.

‘Why? Why? I gave up being human—why?’

Even if he brought monsters that could make most knights struggle, and even with poison—none of it mattered.

‘It’s hopeless.’

The one with the greatsword killed them all—effortlessly, while protecting the smaller one—and now he was coming for him.

The follower never once had a proper view of Anne again. The beast with the greatsword never let him.

That included the end.

He charged, struck with his sword, then pulled back—shielding the girl.

He retreated faster than he advanced.

The follower had nothing left to use. Even if he had, it wouldn’t have worked. The man never let his guard down.

"Ghk..."

His skull split under the blade, and the poison inside his body finally ran wild, tearing through his organs.

In the end, the poison would kill him before the sword did.

As the final light left him, he understood why he had felt that burning urge to kill the small girl.

‘She’s a threat to the master.’

Too much talent was terrifying.

She looked like someone who could destroy everything his master had prepared.

That final thought died with him.

"You alright?"

Ragna wiped his sword clean, stepping back from the corpse. The blade was visibly dented—worn from slicing monsters soaked in poison.

One had blood identical to the acid thrown earlier.

It wasn’t just about having an antidote—anything that made contact was instantly damaged.

But Ragna had avoided every splash—just by observing the blood’s spray angles.

A few drops had hit his shirt.

But his doublet, reinforced with high-quality monster leather, held strong.

A few holes had formed, and the blade was slightly damaged—but nothing more.

"Aside from my guts flipping a bit, I’m fine."

Anne replied, closing her prized bag’s triple-layered flap.

KRAAAAH.

Even in a storm like this, nothing inside would be ruined. It was built to keep out water even when submerged.

"We should head to the captain now."

She said again.

There might be chaos outside, but it was impossible to tell. Even Ragna couldn’t pick out specific sounds in a storm like this.

CRACK!

Thunder roared again. Ragna walked slowly, keeping Anne behind him—watching for threats he hadn’t yet sensed.

"Are you... protecting me?"

Anne asked.

Ragna answered plainly, without a hint of pretense.

"You’re not dying until I do."

Anne’s cheeks flushed a little.

Was that... a confession?

***

Enkrid stood with the head of the Zaun family in front of him, and behind him was the fastest swordswoman he had seen—Alexandra.

And between the two of them stood a rogue element: Schmidt.

A servant of the Empire, skilled with fast swordplay and steeped in the scent of sorcery.

“What the hell is going on here?”

Schmidt stood soaked like a drowned rat. His wet hair clung to his face, but he didn’t even try to move it aside, too stunned to do anything but gape.

‘If that’s an act...’

Then Schmidt would be the greatest actor on the continent.

But no—Enkrid, beyond just a knight’s instincts, knew it was genuine.

He turned to the family head and asked:

“Why did Millestia die?”

He asked why. Even if he didn’t know the full situation, he could sense it was orchestrated.

That was the meaning behind his question.

The family head understood it immediately and answered:

“To bring about this very situation.”

Then he turned his head toward Enkrid.

KRAAAAH.

The rain poured down like steel. Thunder kept hammering the earth, making everyone holding metal nervous.

If you weren’t careful, you would die from a lightning strike. That’s why, during this season in Zaun, fighting with metal weapons was traditionally forbidden.

Because Zaun’s location—atop a basin—combined with lightning’s affinity for metal, made for a deadly combination.

“May I ask you a favor?”

The family head asked.

Grida had been suspicious of the family head. She feared he was betraying the house and plotting something.

“Go ahead,” Enkrid replied flatly.

“If I die... take care of the aftermath. My successor is...”

He stepped closer, bringing his face next to Enkrid’s ear and whispered the rest.

Enkrid nodded.

“Alright.”

“Thank you.”

“It’s nothing.”

“Ragna showing up with you at this timing... might just be our stroke of luck.”

As the family head and Enkrid spoke in hushed tones, Alexandra commented while watching the confrontation before them.

Her gaze didn’t hold sadness—it burned with resolve.

“Even if it’s not, there’s no helping it.”

Enkrid agreed. Especially with that last part—there was no helping it.

‘The family head probably isn’t the enemy.’

Grida had her doubts, but Enkrid didn’t think so. Sometimes, when you looked from the outside, things became clear.

‘The family head already holds the greatest influence here. He wouldn’t need to act personally.’

And if his goal had been to destroy Zaun, he could’ve summoned people one by one and eliminated them quietly.

Even Odinkar’s disappearance likely had to do with the family head.

Not a disappearance, but a strategic withdrawal—by request or by order.

Odinkar had come to the Border Guard because of the family head’s command. If he didn’t vanish of his own will, there was only one other possibility.

There were still many hazy details, but Enkrid had pieced together this much from the clues.

‘Well, there’s also that theory about the family head falling into some kind of cult...’

But could someone of knightly caliber—someone who wielded Will—be so easily swayed?

‘The odds are too low.’

Of course, maybe everyone standing before and behind him were the enemy. Enkrid didn’t know for sure.

But that didn’t matter. That’s why he had come alone.

Just then, the one who had shouted so loudly earlier stepped forward.

His name was Lynox—the one most outspoken about the family head’s recent behavior. And yet, he had not betrayed the house.

The reason he shouted earlier was simple: to somehow calm things down.

He’d barely managed to stop the two divided factions from clashing.

“Damn it all. If any of you swing your blades at each other, I’ll smash your skulls in. I mean it. Don’t fight. Got it? No warnings. No jokes.”

He probably didn’t even know what he was saying. His words were a mess—but the message got through. The two factions, for now, didn’t move.

Having defused the tension, Lynox approached and said:

“Heskal stabbed Grida.”

Through the sheets of rain, Enkrid saw that Lynox had wrapped all six of his swords in thick cloth—likely to guard against lightning.

He must’ve been sparring in his quarters when things suddenly exploded—and then got attacked too.

Scratches marred his cheek and shoulder. Black blood clung to the wounds.

The family head responded to his words.

“I see.”

“It’s not the time to be calm. Andante’s dead too. I was attacked. Some still believe Heskal wouldn’t do this, but he killed Jerry, Iven, Roist, Pale—damn it, and others went with him. So what now, Tempe?”

The family head’s name was Tempest Zaun. “Tempe” was his nickname—used only by friends.

Lynox had that right. They were old friends.

Tempest Zaun measured the situation. Between what he had expected and what he hadn’t, he decided what needed to be done.

“We find the enemy.”

“And then?”

Lynox pressed.

“We fight.”

The event had ◆ Nоvеlіgһt ◆ (Only on Nоvеlіgһt) happened. Now the only thing left was action.

Enkrid nodded. That was the right answer.