A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

Enkrid, through all his repeated todays, had never once managed to send out Oara unscathed.

The conditions for that were simply too difficult.

'Kill the ghoul before Oara steps in.'

And in that time, Roman would have to kill the spider-like monster that fought with legs made of blades.

At the same time, he had to block the ghoul's final strike.

He couldn't keep repeating a day where Dunbakel died. Or Rem.

Oara killing the owlbear hadn't been part of the plan.

'But... not bad.'

That was the conclusion he came to.

At that moment, completely out of nowhere, he recalled something the ferryman had once said.

"You know what they call someone who walks a harsh path on their own?"

"A saint, isn't it?"

"No. A dumbass."

The ferryman had always been brutally harsh in his criticism of Enkrid.

And it had never bothered him.

He'd grown too used to that kind of scorn and disapproval.

Back when he'd first said he wanted to be a knight—how many people had laughed at him?

So it didn't matter.

The sense of loss that came from lacking the power to protect what you wanted to protect—that was far more important.

He remembered a man who fought monsters to protect his family.

He saw that man die.

He saw the family he had wanted to protect.

And he saw a mercenary bastard grinning down at the daughter left behind.

Enkrid had lost his mind.

"Stop that crazy bastard!"

"Hey, hey—get off him, asshole!"

"Agh, my ear!"

Enkrid bit off the mercenary's ear and jammed a dagger into the back of his neck.

"You—huff—no. Cool your head."

The mercenary captain let him go.

Instead, he tossed him in the stockade. A punishment served like a chaser.

If he hadn't, Enkrid probably would've been beaten to death by the dead man's friends.

After six months in confinement...

He had nothing to do. So he trained his body.

Most of the guards ignored him. Except for one.

An old head warden in his fifties finally asked him:

"Why'd you do it?"

"Didn't like that smile."

"You insane or something?"

The warden released him.

And after letting him go, said something that stayed with Enkrid for a long time.

"When you have no strength, you end up unable to do the things you really want to do."

As Enkrid stepped out of the prison, he scratched at the prickly beard on his chin, rubbing it with his hand a few times before replying:

"I'm well aware."

His dream was to become a knight.

To live protecting the things he wanted to protect—that's why he chose that path.

"Hahaha!"

Oara let out bursts of laughter.

Rrrroooooar!

The shard of Balrog's blood growled like a beast.

It was hard to count, but they'd already exchanged dozens of blows.

Oara's "laughter" sliced the Balrog's arm, even punched a hole through its gut, but the damn thing wouldn't die from that alone.

Even with a hole in its belly, it moved with wild aggression. A black smoke-like haze rose from the wound, and without any treatment, the injury half-closed and didn't even bleed.

While its stomach was being gouged, it still swung that red rod—its sword—dozens of times. It was a monster.

At one point, the rod's arcs covered Oara like a net.

Instead of backing away, Oara raised her laughter even higher.

In one strike, the net shredded apart and scattered. The burst of blood-pressure shook the surroundings.

BOOM! Rumble...

The earth trembled with a roar—as the Balrog slammed the ground.

Oara swung her sword.

With the swing, the vibrations in the air sliced through the rod, segmenting it.

To Enkrid's eyes, it looked as if her blade had multiplied into dozens.

Intangible Will, channeled through an engraved weapon, had become tangible power that stirred the air.

The Balrog did something similar.

The clashing red rod and white sword—

Sometimes they turned into whips, sometimes beams of light.

At times they bent, at times they rushed in like rigid lances. They formed surfaces like steel walls.

That's how it looked through Enkrid's eyes.

In reality, they were simply fighting—swinging their swords.

BOOM!

With a thunderclap, the shard of Balrog's blood and Oara crossed paths.

No one could interfere. Anyone who did would only get in the way.

This was a knight's fight.

"Master!"

Roman shouted.

Enkrid said nothing. He watched in silence.

The battle between Oara and the Balrog shard didn't last long.

Having brushed against omnipotence, Enkrid could already glimpse how the fight would end.

Oara would win.

But it wasn't a fight where the Balrog could be said to have lost.

Rem, who'd been thrown aside, had gone pale. Blood trickled from his lips—likely from a broken rib puncturing something.

But he wouldn't die from this.

He actually got up, walked over, and stood beside them to watch the fight.

"It's over,"

Dunbakel said, still seated, having narrowly survived.

A long line appeared across the Balrog's neck—not red, but black.

That line cleanly separated the monster's head from its body.

Was it a heart-wrenching farewell? Or a satisfying one?

No one knew. Who cares what a monster feels?

Oara turned around.

Still smiling.

"People die anyway."

She said it with a smile.

Enkrid knew.

He knew she wouldn't live long.

No matter what he did, he couldn't save someone already dying.

Repeating today didn't mean you could change everything. Some things remained absolutely fixed, even in a cursed day.

"Hah... that felt good."

Oara's voice said.

In her chest was the red rod once held by the Balrog.

A sword resembling a fused nucleus.

Lua Gharne had said that the Balrog fused flame-whips and swords.

This shard was only half of that, so all it had was this—an unlit red rod, its weapon.

"Roman. Take care of the city."

Said the knight with the rod buried in her chest.

"Sorry I can't make it to Rowena's wedding."

Said the mistress of the city built from a thousand bricks.

"The Demon Realm ends here. So just kill the rest. No new monsters will be born."

Said the hero who still worried about tomorrow.

Without Oara, this city wouldn't have existed.

If it weren't for her, this place would've already become part of the Demon Realm.

"Thank you, Enkrid."

She even acknowledged what Enkrid had done.

"Hey. That was fun."

That was her last line.

Where there's a beginning, there must be an end.

What flies must one day land.

To live is to walk toward death.

But what you do with that walk—that's up to you.

There's no point in looking back at the roads you didn't choose.

That's meaningless in life.

Whatever path you choose, only the effort to turn it into something real brings richness and beauty to life.

Enkrid sheathed Acker, then stood up straight.

He placed his hand on his right hip.

This translation is the intellectual property of Novelight.

A gesture—a promise to properly wield his weapon.

It was the start of a motion to show respect to the person before him.

And then, he bowed his head.

It was something he could do, because he respected her efforts.

"Oa."

Enkrid called out her name.

And watched, smiling, as the knight met her end.

***

The two junior knights cleaned up the situation, and Aisia, worn out and weary, took charge of the aftermath.

Anyone could die on the battlefield.

Knights weren't immortal.

No one was ignorant of that.

"Master was already dying."

A short-haired blond soldier came up and said it bluntly. The sunlight lit her face. Smiles were rare today.

There was still a mountain of work to do cleaning up the battlefield. Over half the city's residents had come running to help.

Roman handled Oara's body.

They laid her in the home she had lived in. She had no coffin yet.

It felt like any moment now she might burst through the door shouting, "Surprised, you bastards?"

But of course, that wouldn't happen.

Knight Oara was dead.

Enkrid washed the blood from his body.

Outside, the noise of squads shuffling for night watch kept things lively.

Enkrid returned to his quarters, washed again, lay down, and closed his eyes. He fell asleep just like that.

In his dream, the ferryman appeared.

"Even if you turn back today, some things can never change. Like how the face of a die doesn't change. Even where a god once stood, there's no power to be used."

The ferryman spoke in riddles. Some of the words were incomprehensible.

Enkrid could only guess at their meaning.

What did he mean by "where a god once stood"?

"If you'd stayed inside this day, you'd never have had to see that death."

The ferryman's voice was almost seductive.

But it wasn't charming.

From the beginning, Enkrid had only ever wanted to protect one thing.

Oara—satisfied. Oara—smiling.

Seeing a knight fight properly? That was just secondary.

And in the end, he had seen her. Satisfied. Smiling.

He saw a hero who died with a smile—and it didn't torment him.

What he wanted to protect was her smile.

He had no intention of clinging to life if it meant abandoning what he needed to protect.

Enkrid drifted back into sleep in ➤ NоvеⅠight ➤ (Read more on our source) silence.

The ferryman's figure faded, the sound of waves receded.

And he dreamed. This time, it was a true dream.

One without the ferryman.

A chaotic blend of memories, reconstructed in fragments.

Memories and information jumbled together and resurfaced.

"Hey. How's my city look?"

Oara stood atop the wall, wrapped in a red cloak.

Enkrid found himself beside her. He didn't have a cloak.

If this was a dream, it could've at least given him one.

His back felt bare.

"Well?"

"It's good. Nice to look at. Easy to walk through."

"Then you staying?"

He shook his head without hesitation.

"Still chasing that knight thing?"

Maybe because it was a dream, the way she opened the conversation felt strangely natural.

No—this was just how Oara had always been.

She always tossed out questions impulsively.

But every single one struck like the tip of a blade—right to the core.

"Yeah."

"You know... I think you'll make it. Really—thank you. Things got dicey at the end there."

"They did?"

"You didn't really see, huh? Come on—I'll show you how I pulled it off."

In the dream, Oara reenacted the fight with the Balrog. Enkrid took the Balrog's place, then hers, switching roles to memorize every motion she made.

"So if you bring the sword up like this, the bastard flinches and steps right where you want him."

"You predicted that?"

"I made it happen."

In that short clash, countless layers of calculation were folded in.

The way she moved, like flowing energy through a magic circle while managing full power—

"You're using intention now, yeah? But when you get used to it, you can use Circles freely."

Oara held nothing back.

She explained it all.

And they talked for a long time. It was hard to tell in a dream, but it felt like a day—or maybe a whole month.

"See you around."

Oara leaned in and lightly kissed his cheek.

Enkrid gave her a look that asked: What the hell was that?

The hero in his dream answered.

"A thank-you."

It didn't seem to mean anything else. Just gratitude. Or maybe friendship.

Even in a dream, Oara was still Oara.

As she faded, the shadow of the Balrog appeared behind her.

The dead monster placed a chain around Oara's neck.

Why?

Because it was a dream?

Still, it left a foul taste in the mouth.

Enkrid woke up. It was dawn.

When he stepped outside, he saw Roman.

"You're up?"

Roman asked. His complexion was dull. Tired.

"Doesn't look like you slept," Enkrid said after seeing his face.

"I did."

The reply was flat.

He had, technically, slept. But his expression said something was gnawing at him.

Roman had taken a deep slash to the forearm in the fight with the spider swordsman. His arm was still tightly bandaged.

"She came to me in a dream for a moment. Told me not to do anything stupid."

Still wearing that bothered expression, Roman shared what had happened.

Enkrid thought—it was nothing like the dream he'd had.

"A manifestation of unconscious will?"

The voice came from Lua Gharne, who was stepping out of the quarters.

Since Enkrid had just woken and walked out, it made sense she'd follow.

"The Balrog absorbs the souls of those it kills. Forges them like crude trinkets in the flames of hell."

What exactly is a soul?

If a being has intelligence, it has a soul.

"Then?" Enkrid prompted her to continue.

Lua Gharne did just that.

"That's why the Balrog scatters its shards. It's known as the Soul Collector. In the Grand Demon Realm, they call it the Knight Slayer. It transcends its species—it collects individuals. It's a monster with a hobby."

Worthless souls it ignores.

Those with potential—it watches. It waits for them to grow. Sometimes even nurtures them.

And when they reach their peak—when their bodies are strong and their skills perfected—then it pounces, like a starving dog.

On the surface, it may look calm or noble.

But it lives entirely drunk on desire.

Such monsters exist.

Monsters with true intelligence.

Across the continent, such beings are called Archdemons.

"Then Master's soul... is with the Balrog now?"

Roman asked. The fire in his eyes flared with dread.

"Most likely."

Lua Gharne had barely finished the words when Enkrid spoke.

"I see."

Under any other circumstances, that line would've meant nothing.

But coming from Enkrid—it struck like a hammer.

Those words didn't sound like uncertainty.

They didn't sound like wait and see.

They hit ten times harder.

There was nothing they could do right now.

Even in the Grand Demon Realm, finding that creature wouldn't be easy.

But if he reached the heights of knighthood—

If he kept walking the path beyond that—

"I'll be first."

Roman said. He understood exactly what Enkrid had meant.

"I'll become a knight. And I'll kill the Balrog."

Enkrid added one more spoke to the wheel of his dream.

He would play a requiem for the hero.

The song he never had the chance to perform.

The dance he never got to declare.

He would offer them all by killing the Balrog.

That's how it would be.

Lua Gharne saw the blue flames reflected in Enkrid's eyes. Quiet. Unquenchable.

"That's dangerous."

She said.

And when Enkrid didn't respond, she added:

"Belief alone won't carry you. Don't forget—it's not easy just becoming a knight."

But Enkrid...

He had never dreamed of becoming just a knight.

The knights described in songs—those "intermediaries" standing at the halfway point of greatness—

If you pull back the curtain on that middle point, what it really meant was the power to end any fight, in any way you chose.

From the very beginning...

His dream had never been to become just another knight.

It had always been to become a knight who could do anything he set his mind to.

He had tasted a fragment of omnipotence.

He had been shaken by how precious something could be when your life was on the line to protect it.

He had come to like the feel of a sword in his hand.

That was all.

Of course, that road wouldn't be easy.

Just like everything he'd drawn out so far.

But that didn't mean he would cast aside his sword.

He wouldn't stop.

Just like everything he'd drawn out so far.