A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

They were sharing stories about Oara, who shone like sunlight.

The funeral was over. Among the townsfolk, no one sobbed loudly. They shed tears, yes—but quietly, composed.

"Oara!"

Now, only the cries for her remained.

"In honor of Knight Oara!"

The voices of those left behind continued to ring out.

The will of Knight Oara would be forever etched into this city.

Just as every knight bore an engraved weapon, Oara now had a city engraved with her name.

City of Oara—the new name for Thousand Brick.

"Spend some time talking. I'll head back first."

As Enkrid and Crang became engrossed in conversation, Lua Gharne quietly stepped away to give them space.

After a bit of talking, they arrived at the city gates. Enkrid flexed and unclenched his hand a few times. His forearm still ached. It was sore enough that even gripping a sword felt like a burden.

While checking his condition, Enkrid suddenly asked,

"You heading out right away?"

He could easily rest for a day before leaving—but Crang hadn't even lightened his luggage. And the knights escorting him had only looked more and more tense since earlier.

They also seemed impatient. All of that pointed to one thing:

He didn't plan to stay. He'd come to mourn the death of a knight and offer comfort to the people—but in truth, he was a man with far too many responsibilities.

"Check the carriage. A broken wheel would be more trouble than anything else."

Crang turned his head and gave the order to one of his escorts, then answered Enkrid.

"I dropped everything to come here. If I don't leave right away, someone might end up dead because of me."

Half a joke—but it rang half-true.

"Then go."

Crang had come like the wind, and now left like the wind. As if he needed no real farewell, he turned to go.

But just before leaving, he glanced back and asked,

"Next time... will you come as a knight?"

Crang's eyes shimmered with light. Even in the sunlight, they glowed clearly, expressing his intent. Those eyes were asking—

Will you reach that place?

Will we meet again at the height of our roles?

Enkrid stared straight back into Crang's eyes.

"You really believe I can rise without even wearing a red cloak?"

Crang smiled as he spoke.

It was a question, yes—but filled with trust.

A question that expected the obvious answer.

His unwavering gaze revealed the belief that Enkrid would surely rise.

"Do I have to answer that?"

"No."

Crang laughed and turned away. One of his escorts approached him just before departure and said,

"Squire Luke, sir. How is Loftdan these days?"

"Probably doing well."

Hearing that name again felt oddly distant. The repetition of this day had blurred its weight.

Loftdan—he'd followed them all the way from the border guard after the civil war.

He often remembered the way Ragna used to move.

If he hadn't been killed by Ragna's sword, he'd likely still be alive.

"That friend of yours, he wandered for ages—then suddenly changed. They say it was all because of you, Sir Demon Slayer."

That title was strange.

He'd apparently been dubbed "Sir" and given the nickname "Demon Slayer."

Not a knight, but strong enough that people saw him as one.

Enkrid just thought it was an unpleasant nickname.

"Would I be able to receive your guidance someday?"

Squire Luke asked again.

What Enkrid saw in those eyes was ambition.

A desire to challenge the man whose name had spread.

"Luke, if you ever get sick of being his escort and want to become Enki's squire, just say the word. You're welcome any time."

"No, Your Highness! I would never think such a thing!"

"Even if that's a lie, I'd still bet your entire annual budget on it."

Crang laughed and tossed the joke. Luke bowed slightly and stepped away.

"Come visit whenever you want."

Enkrid called after ❀ Nоvеlігht ❀ (Don't copy, read here) his back.

Luke turned briefly and gave a nod of thanks with his eyes.

"Alright, for real this time. I'm exhausted. They say those who wear the crown must bear its weight? Lies. It's not the crown—it's the damn work that's crushing me."

Crang said that, and just like that, he was gone.

With the sunlight, the swaying air, and everything else, Enkrid moved his feet too. He'd seen how much the sudden trip had worn Crang down, but figured after a few days of rest, the guy would be wrestling boulders again.

He had that kind of stubborn, boundless energy.

As Enkrid walked, he glanced around and saw the ever-troublesome soldiers nearby. They looked lively.

Some hauled materials to repair the broken city gate. Others stoked fires in braziers, baking molds or forging arrows.

He'd heard the shells of the spider monsters from the Spider Village were sturdy enough to make good shields—and sure enough, some people were dismantling those corpses.

The stench was awful. They wore cloths over their noses as they worked.

Everyone looked busy. Moving with purpose.

A funeral was a funeral. But work was work.

That was the rhythm of this city.

This kind of liveliness suited it.

"Oara!"

The battle cries still rang strong.

Soldiers passed by carrying logs on their shoulders.

So this city was now officially called Oara?

The knight's name passed directly onto the city?

City of Oara—had a nice ring to it.

On the way back, fatigue surged.

A dull ache in his muscles. A pulling tension in the tendons. Even his shoulder blades felt sore.

Might just be good muscle pain—but one wrong move, and it'd become an injury.

"Rest when it's time to rest."

Lua Gharne, waiting at the lodging, said it first. Enkrid nodded.

She was right.

Now was the time to recover. Time to close his eyes and sleep.

Still, there was something he had to say first.

"Dunbakel—if you don't get out and wash up right now, I swear I'll bathe you in blood."

They'd sent her out to help with the cleanup. She'd brought back a few of the monster corpses—but never washed off. Now the smell of those spider corpses was drifting through the lodging.

Dunbakel recovered faster than he did. Something about drinking some poisonous thing that ended up being good for her body—but even when she explained it, he never understood.

"Do I stink?"

Dunbakel asked innocently.

"How the hell are you the only one who can't smell yourself?"

Rem, lying on the side to recover, muttered sharply.

But Dunbakel didn't flinch.

"Not really my problem, is it?"

Whatever happened recently had made her bolder. At the last moment, she'd thrown herself in front of Enkrid.

She must've known what she was doing—but if not, she could've died.

A sobering thought.

This was a battlefield. Anyone could die.

Crrrk.

Rem chuckled and ground her molars.

"You think just because I'm like this, I can't kill you?"

...Even off the battlefield, if a pissed-off barbarian was in the group, death was always an option.

"I'm going, I'm going!"

Dunbakel, freshly re-acquainted with fear, darted out the door.

Rem, holding a half-shattered rabbit axe, muttered,

"She's got some disease where she only listens if you threaten her."

And you've got some disease where you insist on working instead of resting, Enkrid thought silently.

But Rem picked up on it.

"Sounds like you're talking shit about me."

"I was actually going to ask what's out west. Might as well hear about it while we're both laid up."

Neither of them was in shape to do much.

Their bodies were wrecked from fighting monsters.

Rem was borderline severely injured.

This translation is the intellectual property of Novelight.

She lay there pretending to be fine—but if it had been anyone else, they'd be wailing in pain.

"Low skies, boring clouds, and on the flip side—high skies and an unreachable river of sand. What, you wanna hear old stories?"

"If they're good ones."

"I've got a few from when I was a kid."

Enkrid listened attentively as Rem began recounting a few old stories passed down from the West.

They were like myths or folk legends.

Some touched on the origins of the Twilight Sky, and a few involved ancient lore.

In the West, they seemed to speak a different language—but not quite.

"Ever since the Language War, the whole continent speaks the same tongue."

The Language War had been started by the Empire.

Back when the Holy Kingdom was still divided into three smaller realms.

Rem continued the stories with rhythm and charm. Enkrid listened well.

In the West, terms like "Fist" and "Sneak Watcher" held special meaning.

It was because people there actually experienced having things stolen from them—not through strength, but through stealth.

"Fist? Sneak Watcher? What the hell are those?"

"Poison again."

"Stealing things in a straight fight is one thing—but isn't sneaking just robbery?"

Lua Gharne chimed in with her question. Rem shook her head.

"It's different. Robbery is just brute force. This is like a bet."

Enkrid listened in silence. Before long, Dunbakel returned, freshly washed. She joined in, and the conversation bloomed.

Stories from the West were always fascinating.

"Over there, people don't really ride horses. They use other things. In the desert, nothing sticks out more than a camel—but flashy runners the size of women? Those are the Velltridan side-striders."

Enkrid had heard of them somewhere—but he'd never seen one himself.

***

The ferryman watched the madman's disciple as he chatted with others.

"You look like you're enjoying yourself."

The ferryman spoke.

Because he truly did seem that way.

Each time this day repeated, the walls one ran into left behind wounds.

Those scars lingered, gnawed at a person over time.

There were moments when no matter what you did, you could never bring someone back.

This day, the ferryman thought, seemed tailored for that madman.

"When do people die?"

The ferryman murmured.

When their life ends?

Then when does a knight die?

When the sword of conviction breaks.

When they fail to protect what they vowed to defend.

The knight named Oara had fulfilled her duty, upheld her oath, and died with a smile.

That mad disciple had moved on from what was already lost and could not be changed.

Instead, he acted so that the choices already made would become the best ones.

That attitude stirred something within the ferryman—a memory.

He let that memory flow down the river, carried away with the current.

It wasn't something he wanted to bring back.

It had been too long already—something long forgotten.

"To regret the road not taken is to be left only with remorse."

The ferryman muttered as if reciting a verse.

He spoke with rhythm, a cadence of meaning.

He continued to watch the one burdened by the curse.

And before he knew it, the man was already up, brushing himself off.

A realization came—

This was someone who shed yesterday's death and lived for tomorrow.

From the stillness of today, he shone too brightly to look at.

That's why the ferryman couldn't look away.

Those who live in darkness yearn for light.

That's why he wanted to keep this one seated in the shadows.

Wanting to keep something bright close by—it was only natural, wasn't it?

Waves lapping, violet-petaled pelgo drifting past, the ferryman on the wooden boat silently watched the man cursed by fate.

This was a man doing what no one else the ferryman had ever seen could do.

And that stirred something in him.

A change—subtle, but undeniable.

So then, what remained?

There were still things he didn't know.

Even tripping over just one of them could have ended it all. That's what made it a curse.

The cursed ferryman let out a short exclamation.

"Huh."

Well, would you look at that?

Barely recovered, and already moving like that?

The madman swung his sword, sweat pouring from him.

And yet—it didn't look entirely sane.

"A madman. A madman indeed."

The ferryman muttered to himself.

And seeing him like this, he understood something instinctively.

This mad disciple had never simply moved on from the deaths before him.

He was reflecting on everything he'd gained from the dead.

***

After two more days of rest, his body was mostly healed.

Even the pain that shot from his wrist with the slightest finger movement was gone—completely.

"Regenerative Body," was it?

Something to thank Audin for.

His body had recovered remarkably quickly.

He got up, gathered his gear, and stepped outside the lodging.

"You were patient."

Lua Gharne was already there, enjoying the sunlight on her pale cheeks.

The weather today was meticulous—bright, calm. The kind Frokk would've loved.

"Yeah."

Enkrid replied, and the thoughts swirling through his calm, heavy head came back again.

There was a lot to think about.

Knight Oara had left behind so much in his mind.

It wasn't just laughter that she'd left him.

Oara and the shard of Balrog.

Every movement from their battle remained etched in his memory.

Beating Balrog could wait.

You had to repeat every day to truly reach tomorrow.

Enkrid knew that better than anyone, so he did what had to be done now.

He went over Oara's movements again and again. What she had carved into his body.

Even Balrog's moves, which he'd barely caught, he now studied.

It was a battle at a knight's level—not that of a squire. There was more he hadn't seen than he had.

And yet, there was a mountain of things to reflect on and learn.

Lua Gharne helped with that.

Step by step, slowly.

Enkrid moved with purpose and resolve.

"No need to tell you not to rush, huh?"

Lua Gharne looked pleased.

This man was worth teaching. Slow as hell when it came to learning—but still.

That thing Frokk had said earlier?

Enkrid already lived that way.

"Everything starts with a single step."

He studied what he couldn't understand, and what he could, he absorbed through endless repetition until it became his.

"Gain experience, then train again until it's yours."

Lua Gharne said. She'd said it before.

Reflecting, chewing over every piece—that was part of Oara's legacy too.

Even in her fight with the monster, she paused sometimes, as if stopping time,

and her blade shone—not metaphorically, but literally.

Oara's strikes had been ruthlessly simple in repetition.

Balrog's shard, on the other hand, was not.

It twisted its body, made bizarre movements.

So how had Oara's sword managed to intercept all of that?

Enkrid began to reflect on all of it.