A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

Twin swords, identical as if they were born together, slashed at him in an off-beat rhythm.

Enkrid parried each strike with Dawnforged, blocking the attacks one by one.

It wasn't about having the faster sword.

He used his footwork, forcing his opponent's sword paths to grow longer and more tangled.

Ting, ting-ding-ding-ding.

His opponent responded in kind, dancing in closer, swinging the swords with narrowing distance.

Their movements overlapped and crossed again and again, sending up a shower of sparks between them.

Then, as their swords locked together as if Bind-locked, the opponent spoke up.

"You've got some skill, huh?"

With their blades pressed close, they stared each other down—so close, they could've smelled each other's breath if they leaned in any further.

With a blank expression, Enkrid raised his knee.

He aimed it straight for a groin shot, causing his opponent to retreat.

The way he sprang away, feet tapping the ground, was nimble as a fairy.

It even reminded Enkrid a bit of Jaxen.

Enkrid doubted the man would just pull back quietly.

And his prediction was right.

Just as it seemed he was withdrawing, needles shot out from the soles of his feet, flying straight at Enkrid.

And before he realized, both swords in his opponent's hands had already been thrown forward.

To make things worse, whatever trick he'd used with the blades sent a wave of searing heat rushing toward Enkrid's face first.

His accelerated thoughts broke down the tricks his opponent was using.

He could clearly picture Dawnforged becoming a Breaker, blocking the incoming wave—a perfect realization of the Wave-breaker Sword through the optimization of his thinking.

'I'm the one wielding the sword.'

After all, a sword is just a tool, and swordsmanship is the art of using that tool well.

There's no point in separating the two.

Whether it's Flash or Wave Blocker, mixing them together is the right approach.

With that brief reflection, Enkrid blocked every attack.

He swept Dawnforged low across the ground, creating a gust of wind that blew away the needles.

He then neatly deflected the two flying swords with a tap of his sword's pommel.

A surge of heat from the blade brushed past his cheek, like touching a hot pot to his face for just a moment.

As the sound of metal rang out from knocking the incoming swords aside—

"Impressive skills," the man said.

After throwing his swords, the man sprinted forward, quickly closing the distance.

With his fingers curled, he reached out, obviously intent on grabbing at anything he could—gripping, tearing, or breaking whatever he caught.

Enkrid again saw through his opponent's intention.

'Pretending to grab, only to stab.'

With what?

Clearly, a hidden blade.

It looked like a technique that surpassed Hide Knife.

The man actually had several more short-bladed daggers hidden inside his sleeves.

Enkrid swung Dawnforged down as if to pin his opponent beneath it—a Heavy Downward Slash.

It was a sword strike that pressed down with a weight of intimidation and force, meant to suffocate the enemy.

The man ignored it and kept moving his hands.

There was no way his body would freeze from this much pressure.

Anyone who enjoyed close combat was used to facing these kinds of situations.

'So this time, victory is mine again.'

There was no need to show off any greater skill than this.

Confident, the man continued to reach out with both hands.

The hidden blades in his sleeves slipped out, grazing his skin as they responded to the motion of his muscles.

If he could just grab one and stab, it would be over.

But that brief instant felt unusually long.

When you focus too intently, even a fleeting moment can stretch on indefinitely.

It's a kind of mystery brought on by the acceleration of thought.

'Even so, this is lasting a little too long.'

Could it be that his body was in such good shape lately because he'd taken some time off?

Within the stretched-out time, the man looked into Enkrid's eyes.

Those blue eyes, steady and unwavering, stared straight at him.

Not the slightest hint of shock or even surprise.

Between those calm eyes, there was only the faintest trace of curiosity to be seen.

'What is he so sure of?'

At that moment, the man realized what his opponent was relying on.

The hand that had been gripping the sword that was pressing him down had, at some point, reached up with another blade.

The speed of that blade was twice as fast as before.

At this distance and speed, there was no way to dodge it.

'No, I've already been hit.'

The reason time seemed to be stretching out wasn't because he was overly focused, but because his sense of awareness of his surroundings was breaking down.

In other words, it was just a strange sensation caused by his skull being split open.

"Ghk."

Even so, he barely managed to twist his head to the side, and so the blade of Penna, thrust by Enkrid, sliced along the side of his head.

Starting from his mouth, a little less than half of his face was cut away.

Offense and defense, deception and calculation—all had played their part.

The man whose head was nearly severed slumped backward and collapsed onto the floor with a splat.

Enkrid simply stared at him.

Is this guy going to start sprouting limbs from his body too?

But it didn't happen.

Instead, the man opened his mouth, his severed lips quivering as he spoke.

"I have to admit, it's impressive."

It wasn't exactly something you'd expect a dying man to say.

He wasn't refusing to accept his own death, nor did he seem in denial about his defeat.

That in itself was oddly unique.

As the man finished speaking, he toppled over and began to dissipate into black smoke.

"Doesn't seem like a dream,"

Enkrid muttered to himself, feeling his own voice reverberate through his body as he looked around.

This wasn't his mind speaking, but words resonating through his vocal cords and flesh.

His senses, honed by years as a knight, told him this was reality.

A path appeared before his eyes—a road stretched straight ahead.

To the left and right, walls blocked his way, and above, a dingy ceiling had somehow formed.

It felt as if he had wandered into a cave.

Torches were mounted at regular intervals along the walls, casting light around him.

What was that acknowledgment the opponent gave as he fell?

And what exactly was this place?

The only thing clear was that he had to keep moving forward.

Nothing was going to change if he stayed where he was.

'Feels like I've wandered into a maze.'

Something seemed to have thrown off his sense of direction.

For a moment, he even wondered if this was what Ragna experienced all the time.

Regardless, Enkrid kept moving forward.

It wasn't long before he encountered another figure.

"Did you struggle so desperately because you wanted to die?"

He wasn't even sure if 'person' was the right word for what he saw.

A knight, holding his own head in his hand while riding on top of a phantom horse, appeared before Enkrid.

Even in the Demonic Domain, this was a rare sight—a high-ranking monster called Dullahan, the headless rider.

The face atop the ghostly steed wasn't distorted like a monster's.

Though not attached to his neck, it was the face of an elderly man, with a white beard grown as long as a finger.

That head was tucked in at his side.

Short blue veins bulged where the neck had been severed, and the flushed face looked uncommonly fierce.

The body, merged with the phantom horse, appeared large and powerful.

"I, Donafa, will put an end to your pathetic struggle—hiya!"

Instead of responding, Enkrid swung his sword.

He drove off with force from his left foot, kicking off the ground and rapidly closing the distance between them.

His lowered body surged forward, breaking through the wall of air, and at the same time, his thoughts stretched out and his grip tightened around Dawnforged as if it fused with his hand.

With heightened senses, he slashed straight down vertically.

There was no way his opponent could evade.

No—Donafa didn't try to dodge.

This was a realization that came not just from his five senses, but from a warrior's sixth sense.

It was a clean, efficient slash—so textbook perfect that anyone watching could learn from its honest trajectory.

Beyond that, it was incredibly fast, filled with power that surged from his whole body, twisting as he put everything he had into the blow.

This was a single strike, woven together from Flash and Vortex.

The Dullahan tried to swing his massive axe in return, but failed.

As he moved both arms, the head tucked under his side slipped to the ground and rolled away.

Thud, roll.

"You scoundrel, you scoundrel."

The rolling head kept chattering, its mouth the only part still lively.

The exchange ended in an instant.

Enkrid held his sword in the downward-slash stance and replayed the recent fight in his mind.

His opponent had revealed his fighting style through his speech, attitude, choice of weapon, and stance.

'An enemy who delights in heavy, crushing blows—one who favors powerful attacks.'

How would such a foe react to a straight, honest slash?

Enkrid had anticipated his opponent's movement, and with a strike even heavier than expected, he split his enemy's body vertically.

He then reviewed his own swordplay, looking for areas to improve.

'I used too much force—it was a bit awkward to follow up with the next move.'

It was just his first attempt.

Enkrid knew he didn't possess Ragna's natural talent.

Still, he'd made it this far.

With a few more tries, he was sure he could get the hang of it.

If you keep at it, things work out one way or another.

Now, even if the path ahead isn't clear, it doesn't bother him.

The road he's walked and the experience he's accumulated gave him confidence.

"How dare you defy Donafa!"

Donafa—that name sounded rather old-fashioned.

As Enkrid thought this, he raised his sword and brought it down on the head.

It was his first time meeting a Dullahan, but when he split that head open, both the head and the body scattered like black smoke at the same time.

This made it the second time.

He yanked his sword out of the ground with a sharp tug.

"Amazing."

He encountered his third opponent after advancing a little farther down the hallway.

This time, the distance was a bit shorter.

The enemy had actually come out to meet him, but Enkrid had no way of knowing that—and honestly, didn't care to.

Also, it was only because Donafa had died that this opponent could come out to meet him, but again, that was unknowable for him.

"You beat Donafa? That was a bad match-up for him."

She was the kind of woman who said only what she wanted, no matter what Enkrid said.

Her torso was unusually long, bringing to mind the body of a serpent.

Though she was as tall as Audin, her body didn't feel especially large.

Instead, she reminded him of a supple, flexible pole.

Her arms were as long as her waist, giving her a distinctly unusual physique, and her entire body was packed with lean, wiry muscle.

But even more striking than her figure was her outfit.

Instead of armor, she wore clinging fabric that hugged her body so tightly she looked like an older sister who'd stolen her younger sibling's clothes on a whim.

The clothes didn't fit at all, stretched taut across her frame.

He couldn't resist commenting on it.

"Who did you steal those clothes from?"

It wasn't meant to provoke her, but her face hardened with murderous intent.

"Keep mocking me like that, and I'll chew up that tongue of yours piece by piece."

With her old-fashioned speech, she lunged forward.

She was no ordinary swordsman.

Charging low, her chest nearly brushed the floor as she came at him—the speed of a flying arrow.

There was a twang, then a crash sounded in her wake.

The oncoming woman twisted her waist from that low stance, displaying contortions as unreal as a serpent or a bending pole.

Her waist moved with impossible flexibility, like a snake itself.

Her attack was one layered anomaly after another.

In her hand was a pulsion: a single-edged sword with a wide blade and a curved tip.

She slashed, tracing an unpredictable arc upward from the floor.

The long, sinewy muscles packing her arms rippled and snapped through the air, lashing with the force and suppleness of Luagarne's whip.

Thud!

The woman's slash was blocked by a sky-blue blade, raised so that it formed a flat line with the ground.

A shower of bright red sparks flew between them.

Even if you could block her unorthodox attack once, blocking it twice or three times in succession was extremely difficult.

She knew this herself, which was why, rather than betting everything on a single blow, she made chaining attacks her signature move.

When her weapon bounced away after striking her opponent's blade, she used the recoil to build even more speed.

Feeling the strain on her arm muscles, she drew on her will, focusing all her strength in both arms.

This was her style—and with it, the pulsion grew even faster, the attacks more unpredictable.

The ceaseless, unnaturally prolonged assault would rattle any foe who could do nothing but defend.

And soon enough, their hands would falter.

Her long arms whipped, the tip of her now-accelerated blade following the principle of a whip—coming down at Enkrid's head.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

With each strike, the sound of her sword and arms ripping through the air echoed.

Before long, the cave was filled only with deafening noise.

Bang—clang! Crack! Slam!

The sky-colored sword blocked every one of her chained attacks.

Sometimes he deflected; other times he redirected, but he never once lost his composure.

The woman attacked over and over, barely pausing to breathe.

She pressed on, pushing her assault until her body could no longer endure.

All she managed to accomplish was to barely graze her opponent's cheek.

A faint swipe of her blade left dots of bright red blood blooming on his cheek—something she herself did not possess.

Because of the speed of her movements, the blood scattered into the air almost instantly.

She needed to catch her breath, to compose her will as well.

The woman pulled back, abruptly sheathing the relentless sword she'd been swinging.

Pararak.

Her opponent's cloak, now slightly shorter from the fierce movement, fluttered in the wind.

The woman saw Enkrid raise his sky-blue sword, leveling it horizontally with the ground until it nearly touched his lips.

His blue eyes seemed to push aside the yellowish torchlight that filled the cave.

Seeing this sent a chill down her spine—her instincts warned her that something ominous was coming.

With the blade covering his mouth, only his eyes were visible.

That's when his voice reached her.

"It's my turn now."

What?

The woman hastily twisted her waist, bringing up her sword.

Suddenly, Enkrid was upon her, swinging to strike.

She barely managed to block his attack with her blade.

The roles were now reversed.

Now she was defending, and he was pressing the attack.

"Hah!"

Unlike Enkrid, she couldn't hold out for long.

It was because her tactics had always been focused purely on offense from the start.

She was vulnerable when it came to defense.

Of course, only someone of Enkrid's caliber would have ever noticed this.

"You."

The woman, her neck half-severed and billowing black smoke from the wound, lay sprawled on the ground.

Her gaze locked on the man who had struck her down.

He stopped swinging his sword and flicked his hand through the air several times.

She realized what he'd done even before she saw it, but now it was unmistakable.

"You!"

She shouted in anger.

Enkrid looked down at her with indifferent, unfeeling eyes and spoke.

"You were a worthy opponent."

The woman cried out in rage.

"Did you just use me as a training scarecrow?"

But her outburst only made her neck wound tear open further, causing more smoke to spill out—and she was left unable to speak any longer.

Her body dispersed into mist and vanished.

Enkrid watched her and then moved on.

She had been right.

His first opponent had used personal tactics with the Hide Knife, and Enkrid had responded with Enkrid-style Orthodox Swordsmanship as his foundation.

His second opponent favored powerful strikes, so he ended the fight with a decisive blow.

The woman now lying at his feet specialized in overpowering her opponents with a barrage of relentless, unconventional attacks.

Enkrid had identified her specialty and used it as a training opportunity.

"Well, not quite a scarecrow."

Murmuring to himself, Enkrid found this somewhat entertaining.

Every opponent he encountered boasted unique swordsmanship and a different area of expertise, which made it feel worthwhile as training.

It was refreshing, too, after all those matches against Rem, Ragna, Audin, and the others.

As he walked a few more steps, he met his next opponent.

Crackle, crackle.

It was a woman tending a campfire inside the cave.

She leaned her sheathed longsword casually against her body and warmed herself by the fire, humming a light-hearted tune with a calm expression on her face.

Hmm, hmm.

As soon as Enkrid saw her face, he stopped in his tracks.

The distance between them was short—he could have drawn and swung his sword at her right then and there, had he wanted to.

But he didn't.

"Oh, you're here?"

Sensing his presence, she greeted Enkrid as if welcoming an old friend she hadn't seen in ages.

In fact, Enkrid felt much the same, and at the same time, he seemed to realize just who was behind all this charade.

Enkrid opened his mouth to speak

"Sir Oara."

Knight Oara lived up to the name of her sword.

She smiled, and to Enkrid, that smile seemed pure and unfeigned.

It was the same smile she'd shown when they'd fought their final battle and ended things in the City of Oara.