A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

"This is impossible."

A man appeared in my dreams and showed me his life.

He had captured humans, experimented on them, and used the knowledge he gained to alter his own body.

In this way, he lived for two hundred years.

To sum up his life simply: he survived by recklessly sacrificing the lives of others for the sake of his own.

There wasn't much else to see.

"O Red Foot."

The man from the dream muttered these words.

Then, leaving only those words behind, he scattered like a water-soaked, torn piece of paper and was swept away by the river.

Enkrid blinked.

The place where he now found himself was at the boat's gunwale of the small ferryboat.

The owner of the boat let out a dry, cackling laugh.

It wasn't a real laugh, but something delivered directly to his mind.

In other words, the ferryman was making it obvious on purpose that he was laughing.

The dying man, called the Apostle of Red Foot, was the one who had appeared in the dream, so it was clear to Enkrid that what he was seeing now was just the ferryman's trickery.

"You have a rather nasty sense of humor. Are you trying to show me something?"

Enkrid spoke indifferently as he watched, but the ferryman showed no sign of displeasure at his words. He chuckled again and spoke.

"Do you know what it means to kill their Apostle within the Demonic Domain?"

The ferryman asked.

To Enkrid, most of his words were difficult to comprehend.

The ferryman didn't bother to take into account Enkrid's general knowledge.

He simply said what he wanted to say.

"Now, they know you."

Splash.

The ferryman, standing on the swaying gunwale, suddenly felt unfamiliar.

Enkrid tilted his head as he watched the ferryman, unsure whether he was being mocked or if the man just wanted to emphasize that he was laughing.

Enkrid wasn't a fool, and by piecing together the ferryman's words, his own actions, and all he had experienced so far, he began to infer the meaning.

Just who were "they" in this context?

An Apostle is a devotee—a being who serves and is devoted to someone.

Audin had called himself the Apostle of the God of War.

Then the answer to the question of what "Red Foot" meant became clear.

'The Six Demons.'

It was right to assume Red Foot was one of the Six Demons who ruled over the Demonic Domain.

He ought to be afraid.

The Lord of Thornbriar Fortress had only lived for two hundred years, but there was no way to even guess how long the Demons had inhabited this land.

If such beings were after him, it would be only natural for fear to take root within him.

Of course, Enkrid did not feel that way.

"So now I really deserve to be called 'demonic charmer,' huh?"

He cracked a joke as he woke from his dream.

"You crazy bastard."

The unfamiliar ferryman insulted him from behind, but it didn't bother him.

The world around him faded, reality returned, and Enkrid opened his eyes, sitting up and reflecting on the previous night.

'Returning to the Village of Corruptors.'

As soon as they saw Enkrid, the residents either fell to their knees in tears or broke into prayer.

"Demon God!"

Some, swept up by fervor, took to calling Enkrid the Demon God on their own, and Luagarne, clearly displeased, corrected their words and tone.

"He's not the Demon God, he's the "demonic charmer."

Or, if you must, you could call him the one who bewitches all things."

A few villagers, intimidated by the aura Frog was exuding, timidly echoed her words.

"The one who bewitches all things."

What is this, a stage play?

Enkrid just brushed it off, but the Frog looked oddly pleased, puffing out her cheeks with satisfaction.

As they went farther in, they saw a life-sized statue about as big as Enkrid being erected in the middle of the village.

"I'd like someone to explain what that is."

When Enkrid stopped in his tracks at the sight, Zhoraslav, acting as the village chief, bowed his head and spoke.

"We're carving it to honor the Knight of the End and Apocalypse."

Most of the villagers were extremely skilled with their hands.

Their talents in working with the hides of beasts and monsters shone through even in their carving. It wasn't the work of a master sculptor, but their sincerity was unmistakable.

"…So why isn't there one for me?"

Rem voiced his confusion upon seeing it.

Ragna, covered in wounds from killing the Apostle, didn't pay it any mind and just strode into the Village Hall, which was doubling as their temporary lodging.

"Not bad."

Jaxen paused, taking in the sculpture and offering his opinion.

He had a good eye, having experience dealing in art.

The Information Guild was renowned for handling stolen goods, too, and as the head of the continent's best Assassin Guild and Information Guild, it was only natural that he had a discerning appreciation for art.

"It's not a statue of The Lord, but if it brings these people some comfort, then that's enough."

"Yes."

Audin and Teresa each shared their thoughts.

Honestly, Enkrid couldn't say he disliked it, but he couldn't help feeling that something was a bit unusual about the way these people were looking at him.

The reason behind their peculiar glances became clear before he went to sleep, when a few children started humming a familiar song.

"Sing that song for me again"

It was a song where "The End" and "The Apocalypse" were used interchangeably.

It was the same song Enkrid had listened to and absorbed when he was a child.

"Why are there two sets of lyrics?"

In response to this harmless question, a child—wearing an expression that was half curiosity and half fear—started to explain in detail.

They said that to end the fighting, the world itself had to end, which is why they sing of The End.

When Enkrid asked what world they meant, the child admitted they didn't really know.

Interpreting it in his own way, Enkrid thought they probably regarded all their suffering and despair as a singular world, and bringing that to an end was what they meant by the End.

"Lead that world to its end."

To end the fighting is to achieve the end of war. Wasn't that what they meant?

It was early morning when they returned from ending the battles inside the Demonic Domain.

The group had skipped a meal, washed up, and gone straight to sleep.

What followed was after a deep rest.

Leaving such brief thoughts behind, Enkrid stepped outside and loosened up his body as usual.

Since there'd been an intense fight just yesterday, he kept things light with some basic stretches instead of a full workout.

Soon enough, hunger struck, and his stomach rumbled.

Right beside the entrance to the hall, in a basket woven from tree branches, he saw a variety of fruits.

He filled his belly with apples, some unfamiliar hard fruit, and a tough loaf of bread as long as his forearm.

Just then, he sensed someone behind him.

"You're awake."

Dawn hadn't broken yet.

Today, with so many clouds, it looked like the sunlight would be faint.

Still, it wasn't nearly as gloomy as it had been inside the Demonic Domain.

Shinar, with her green eyes and otherworldly fairy beauty, looked even more pale than usual—like someone who had just managed to get up after a long illness.

'It makes sense.'

Before Ragna cut down the Apostle, Shinar had also fought against the Corrupted Fairy and its black lightning.

The Corrupted Fairy was just as skilled with a sword as it was with a bow.

If the hooked tip of its sword caught flesh, it gouged out chunks, and from the way wounds rotted with just a scratch, it seemed the blade had been coated with poison.

The exposed flesh on Shinar's arm was proof of that now.

The torn wound was blackened.

Scabs had formed, but it was hardly a simple cut.

'But Shinar still won.'

How?

Enkrid had watched it all unfold.

The Corrupted Fairy had freely used the power it called Will or Demonic Energy.

Her blade gleamed a dark ash-gray, proof she truly had survived uncounted years in the Demonic Domain.

In contrast, the spirit Shinar channeled into the Leafblade–Winter Sword seemed dangerously unstable.

If one side was a refined blade, the other was like a sharp needle.

'And yet.'

The one who survived was her.

Shinar showed the poise of someone about to unleash Vortex's technique, then delivered a chilling slice.

Blurring her senses with spirit energy, she drove the tip of her blade into the heart of the fairy, and in that opening, her arm had been deeply slashed.

'It was almost like Jaxen's lethal thrust.'

From a young age, fairies are skilled at suppressing and controlling their emotions, making them adept at blending into their surroundings.

They're remarkably good at moving without making a sound or hiding their presence altogether.

'She combined a fairy's technique with Jaxen's.'

Shinar fixed Enkrid with a calm gaze.

She knew this madman standing before her, and she knew exactly what piqued his interest.

"Umbra-Acleus. In the Common Tongue, it means Shadow Needle."

So, when she out of nowhere revealed the name of the style she'd just used, Enkrid's eyes lit up.

As expected—she knew he'd be curious about that.

As she spoke, Shinar drew her wounded arm forward to make the injury even more visible and asked,

"Before I die, will you grant me one last request?"

Shinar posed her question, but Enkrid was still replaying yesterday's battle in his mind.

The Corrupted Fairy, the black lightning—its sword was merciless.

If not for assassination, there would have been no hope.

Just as he'd seen in the Imaginary Realm, the opponent held the upper hand.

Of course, just because the odds are in your favor, that doesn't mean you always win and survive.

Shinar had seized that exact moment of opportunity.

She deliberately released her spirit energy, making it look as if she was about to engage in a head-on fight, but then turned it into a psychological ploy and went straight for the heart.

It was clear she had referenced Enkrid's own classic swordsmanship at that moment.

The corrupted fairy was caught off guard so easily in part because she hadn't expected a fairy to fight this way.

After all, fairies don't know how to lie.

However, they do know how to twist the truth.

Shinar had said she wanted to fight, and she had projected her spirit energies to signal her intent, but she'd never actually told a lie.

It was a flawless rationalization.

Like that, Shinar's plan succeeded; she was able to strike at a spot that would have horrified Luagarne, who had a phobia of hearts.

At the very last moment, the Corrupted Fairy also tried to use the Apostle's power, forcing her whole body's flesh to swell in a desperate transformation—but her hope was not realized.

The spirit energy that had pierced her heart severed every muscle strand inside her.

It all happened in an instant.

This was, from the start, the victory of a fairy who had prepared everything for a single decisive blow.

"Rotten potatoes belong buried and rotting in the earth."

Shinar said these words, but the corrupted fairy did not accept her end quietly.

"Bullshit."

With a final burst of fury, she swung her sword and cut Shinar's forearm.

If Shinar hadn't evaded, it would have been a blow to the neck that severed her head.

Returning to the present, Shinar's eyes softened wistfully.

Surely, he could grant the last request of a fairy on the verge of death?

Her eyes said as much.

Enkrid looked straight into her eyes.

In those two green gemstone-like eyes, he could see earnest longing.

It was truly rare for a fairy to reveal her emotions so openly.

"Let us marry."

Couldn't he at least grant the final wish of a fairy who was about to die?

That's what everyone would think.

By now, the rest of the group, having gotten up, were either eavesdropping on their conversation or watching the two openly from inside and outside the hall.

Of course, it was only Rem who was watching openly.

"Did you use the spring water from the Dryus Clan and the ointment that Bran made?"

Enkrid asked.

"…I did."

Shinar's answer was a little slow, but she wasn't flustered.

Remaining calm was a specialty of her people.

"You're acting like you'll die soon, but how much longer do you really have?"

Enkrid knew that fairies had a way of twisting the truth.

The traditional Enkrid swordsmanship was about exploiting openings in an opponent's intent, and Enkrid himself was its founder.

There was a short silence.

"Tch."

The fairy clicked her tongue, a gesture that hardly suited her.

"He's truly like an impenetrable wall."

Luagarne nodded as she spoke.

There had been countless things to marvel at before, during, and after the battle.

Rem snickered at the sight.

Ragna was still asleep, and Fel and Ropord hadn't shown much interest from the start.

These people, too, knew fairies—well, Shinar in particular—quite well.

What she said about dying soon wasn't exactly a lie, but not a truth either.

The truth was, if you only considered lifespan, Shinar would outlive Enkrid.

"What a shame."

That was Shinar, clicking her tongue.

Enkrid thought this fairy went to rather extreme lengths for the sake of a joke.

He wondered if it was really worth all that effort.

The group ended up resting in the village for two more days.

***

"You mean you really cut down a fortress and made it out alive from inside the Demonic Domain?"

In the meantime, Roman was beside himself with astonishment at what the group had accomplished.

***

And that evening, after filling his stomach, Enkrid was swinging his sword while mulling things over—and suddenly realized he was lost.

'I'm lost?'

He wasn't Ragna; how could he possibly get lost in the outskirts of the village?

It just couldn't happen.

So then how…

Looking around, he realized he was in completely unfamiliar terrain.

It wasn't exactly narrow, but now there were walls on either side of him.

The walls looked as if packed earth had been shaped and hardened to resemble stone.

Those walls stretched out into a long corridor and turned sharply just ahead—maybe twenty paces away.

And from behind the bend in the wall, a vague shadow crept along and then a person emerged.

"Oh, a visitor."

The man spoke.

He was a face Enkrid had never seen before.

He wore a loose robe with wide sleeves that concealed his build completely, and his eyes were small and sharp.

In a move like something out of a circus act, two short swords appeared in his dangling hands.

He even wore a sword at his waist, but those short blades had been hidden in the wide sleeves and were drawn in an instant.

Enkrid remembered practicing a similar trick once.

'Hide Knife.'

Torres, his friend from Border Guard used a technique like that.

Before the thought had even finished crossing his mind, the man's body blurred—stretching as he darted forward and closed the distance to Enkrid in an instant.

The two short blades aimed straight for Enkrid's heart and throat.

A charge as swift and violent as this left no room for hesitation.

The moment Enkrid registered his opponent, he could read the man's intent—no, he felt it.

And once he sensed it, his body reacted on instinct.

Dawnforged drew a rising arc from below, aiming to split the oncoming foe vertically through the torso.

But in the end, both of them had only sliced through afterimages.

With just that single exchange, Enkrid realized that his opponent was a knight—and not the sort Balmung would dismissively call a Flower Knight.