A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

The short blond-haired squire subtly lowered their sleeve at the presence sensed near the gate.

A thin blade hidden inside their wrist slipped into their palm. It wasn't because they felt danger. It was just a habit.

With a trace of caution, the squire asked,

"Do you have something to say?"

The Westerner barbarian, Enkrid's comrade—Rem—was leaning by the gate. He stared silently.

There was no particular emotion in his gaze. In a flat tone, Rem spoke.

"Where did you learn that poison craft?"

It was a sudden question, but the squire understood right away.

The West. A barbarian. Someone he had once saved. His thoughts connected the dots quickly.

He also knew the poison craft he used wasn't ordinary.

Poison came in many forms.

For instance, he had used poisons extracted from plants, animals, and minerals.

Vis, belladonna, poisonous mushrooms, and countless other toxins were combined to create synthetic poisons.

But the poison the blond-haired squire used wasn't that. It was sorcery-born.

The purification process and application were similar, but—

Rem muttered inwardly,

"The method of creation is completely different."

It wasn't something one could use without having been taught.

Especially when it was a method he himself was familiar with.

The blond-haired squire guessed that the man before him must've learned it through some strange encounter—and he remembered the feats this man had shown on the battlefield.

It hadn't been for Oara.

It hadn't been for the city.

But it was help, undeniably.

Besides, the squire's sorcery wasn't based on using the dead, either.

In other words, it wasn't likely they shared the same source.

"I happened to save someone once. I learned it then," the blond-haired squire replied evenly.

"You saved their life?"

"Probably? He was a bit strange. You could say he had this impressive composure for someone who'd barely escaped death."

The blond-haired one recalled the memory in fragments.

Rem, too, recalled someone from his past.

If ✧ NоvеIight ✧ (Original source) it was that guy, he probably spouted some weird crap out of sheer embarrassment at being saved.

"Is that so. Alright."

Unless he had been recruited through a special method, that must have been it.

Rem also knew how unlikely that was.

Still, he had just wanted to confirm.

Now that he had come and asked, Rem felt he understood why he was really here.

Even here, he could see traces of the place he used to live.

It felt like a sign that it was finally time to return.

Like a ritual to drive out bad luck before something big—

That was what this battle had been.

He had fought with half his life on the line.

'Honestly, more than half.'

His ribs still ached.

The bruise on his side hadn't even gone down, making walking uncomfortable.

With no other purpose left, Rem turned his body slightly toward the blond-haired squire and said,

"Thanks."

A flicker of sincerity opened Rem's mouth further.

"That guy... even when he left, he had the brightest, dumbest smile on his face."

At that, the blond-haired one smiled too.

Maybe there would be days filled with tears, but from now on, they'd try to live with more laughter.

That must be Oara's will.

After leaving the blond's house, Rem looked up at the sky.

The sunlight was pouring down, not warmly but with an almost suffocating weight.

The air felt lighter for a moment, then heavy again.

It was a sunlight unlike the West's.

It had rained just yesterday, but it was still humid and sticky.

A day like this would normally be miserable even without doing anything.

But he could see people moving about with no complaints.

As Rem walked through the city, he became a spectator, taking in the surroundings.

Everyone's so damn diligent.

That thought crossed his mind just as he reached the front of their lodging—

And there, someone even more absurdly diligent than the rest...

Rem's mouth opened automatically.

"Aigo, look at you trembling like a leaf—what are you even doing, huh."

Enkrid was swinging his sword very slowly, his grip tight.

It was clear he was trying to suppress himself to avoid reaching a limit.

He was training—a slow and deliberate movement of the sword, done with focused breath control and body awareness.

It was slower than regular sword forms, and it lacked structure.

Most didn't even see the point in doing it.

Even after watching Oara fight, Rem hadn't felt the need to learn anything from it.

What's the point of learning something so obvious?

But Enkrid was different.

He would chew and digest every bit of what he experienced.

Rem knew it.

He also knew this desire to offer comfort was some kind of instinct.

"Recovery."

Of course, Enkrid didn't respond to the comment like he'd actually heard it.

He just kept repeating what he was doing, emotionless.

Standing in front of him with arms crossed was Lua Gharne.

"You should express your gratitude to whoever gave you that body."

From what Lua Gharne had observed all this time, she believed one of the foundations of what made Enkrid now—was that body of his.

She had seen Enkrid replicate the strength of a knight.

His muscles bursting, his breathing hyperventilated to the point of collapse—yet he endured it all.

That was impressive.

But then, what about the aftermath?

What about the emptiness that follows the draining of willpower?

That brought another thought:

'The Curse of Emptiness didn't work on him.'

The Curse of Emptiness referred to a state of losing one's drive after overusing their will.

It's also called burnout or depletion—

A condition where one has drawn on more power than their body or mind can contain.

'Normally, you'd collapse from it.'

Even Roman, who was familiar with replicating such a strike, had collapsed onto the ground, panting.

After sending an attack with his absurdly large greatsword, he'd stood completely exposed.

If Aisia hadn't stepped in to block the counterattack, Roman would've had a spot in this afternoon's funeral.

But Enkrid was fine.

As soon as the pressure on his body lifted, he stood up and started swinging his sword again.

He was perfectly fine.

It was impossible not to be amazed.

Lua Gharne thought—

There was nothing more interesting to her right now than this.

***

For Enkrid, half the day was spent swinging his sword.

But now he needed meditation.

He had slumped onto the dirt floor inside the lodging.

To others, he probably looked like he was just staring aimlessly at the sky.

His gaze did follow the clouds.

The clustered white clouds felt especially dense today.

On one side, thick gray clouds hung low, nearly touching the ground.

It looked like it might rain in the afternoon.

With his eyes still on the sky, Enkrid's mind drifted.

'How did she block that?'

The shard at the ankle had lowered its stance and lunged in. It was aiming below the knee.

Enkrid would've prioritized dodging—but Oara had intercepted it by transitioning from a swing at the top of the ankle to a downward slash.

The blade dropped directly, aiming to crack the shard's skull.

The shard sensed it and backed off—snapping away as quickly as it had lunged.

The shard's movement had been surprising, but Oara's sword was even more so.

How had she done that slash?

Before, it would've been impossible to understand.

Now, he could almost see it.

By channeling knightly energy through her will—

That experience had opened a new field of vision for Enkrid.

Breaking down Oara's movements let him understand.

'Same as before.'

Using her footwork, she connected dots into lines.

Her sword reacted instantly in any given moment.

It was like reaching out to grab something—then changing at the last second to fold the hand instead.

Accelerated response speed.

'You don't predetermine the destination. You react in the moment.'

The downward strike was practiced as usual—

Then adjusted depending on the enemy's movement.

Could he prepare that and still swing with full strength?

Oara had done it.

Whether it was possible or not didn't matter.

He had already seen someone do it in front of him.

Enkrid himself hadn't realized it, but that was the essence of Oara's swordsmanship.

Her sword didn't follow fixed lines.

It struck the most efficient points in real time.

It was a sword style that made even sacred forms and ceremonies meaningless.

To reach out and draw exactly what you needed, at the exact moment you needed it—

That was the core.

It was only possible because a knight had absurdly high reflexes built on physical strength.

A swordsmanship only knights could use.

Oara must have developed it after becoming a knight.

Before that, she had relied solely on fundamentals.

In a way, it was similar to Rem's technique.

Now he understood why Rem had said there was nothing for him to learn.

It came from instinct—

From the body remembering and responding.

The clouds tangled and drifted like Oara's sword.

And in front of them, Enkrid swung his blade again.

The clouds changed.

The gray clouds became the ankle shard—

Swinging a red rod with unpredictable arcs and angles.

It barely resembled a sword, and its heat scorched his skin.

The clouds kept shifting.

Soon, it became Ragna's sword—

Then the spear thrust by the Mercenary King of the East.

"Experience it."

That's what the Mercenary King had said.

It was truly sound advice.

Enkrid now knew what he had to do.

"Fully master everything you possess."

The words left his mouth like a whisper to himself.

"You have a dumb dream or something?"

Apparently, he had closed his eyes at some point. When he opened them again, there stood the gray-haired Westerner.

Rem—three steps away.

A barbarian who bathed more often than expected. A squad member who split open stubborn noble heads with an axe.

And the guy who, after casually dropping details about blackened voices echoing off loose belts, cannibalistic clans that worship strength, rivers of no return made of sand, and shamanistic rituals—had somehow never once shared his own story.

He'd deliberately left it out.

"You said you were heading west, didn't you? When are you leaving?"

Enkrid asked.

"In this body? I might die. No, more like—I'd definitely die."

"Because someone's going around splitting heads there too?"

"Nah, it's... complicated~"

Hearing Rem's reply, Enkrid glanced up. Normally, he wouldn't be curious.

But right now? Rem—the crazy axe-wielding murder machine—had just shown something like fear.

Rem. Showing fear.

That alone stirred Enkrid's interest.

Even Lua Gharne, munching on bugs in a corner, lifted her head slightly.

"Grrruk."

She shifted. In human terms, it was the equivalent of a curious "Oho~?"

"Mind if I tag along?"

Even Dunbakel showed interest—speaking up from behind, where she'd been focused on training.

A beastkin who normally feared nothing.

And now, Rem—visibly hesitant—had created quite the picture.

"You all look half-insane right now. Why the hell would you even want to follow me?"

Rem shot them a disgruntled glare.

"I'll just watch. Never been to the West before."

Enkrid answered flatly.

"You're not busy or something?"

Nope. Nothing pressing.

Unless Azpen made a move, the Border Guard would remain secure.

Crang wasn't setting off any alarms, either—so things were stable for now.

Besides, if things were urgent, Kraiss wouldn't be sitting quietly.

He would've at least sent a hawk. Or someone.

But there'd been no such message.

Everyone was eating well and staying healthy.

This translation is the intellectual property of Novelight.

The only real concern? Maybe that thing Squire Luke once said—

"What if Rophod got beaten to death by Ragna?"

Or maybe that Ragna had wandered off to the edge of the final death-engine of the Expansion Bureau.

Beyond that? Nothing.

Now that Ragna had inherited the power of a knight,

"Even if he gets lost, it should be fine, shouldn't it?"

Even if he wandered across Azpen's border now, the real ones in danger would be Azpen, not Ragna.

"I'm not busy," Enkrid said, coming to that conclusion.

"Did I ever say I'd come back after going West? Pretty sure I didn't?"

Rem's voice landed like a chunk of charcoal—dry, blunt.

Almost as if he were saying, If you expect me to come back, back off now.

That stoked Enkrid's competitive fire.

"Sounded like you did."

He masked his intent with casual speech.

But inside, he thought: Let's see what you're hiding.

"You really planning to come along?"

Rem's irritation flared for a moment, but he soon shook his head.

"Do whatever you want."

Whatever thoughts were turning in his mind, he didn't say them aloud—just nodded.

And so, Dunbakel and Lua Gharne would head west as well.

The group rested for three more days. By then, everyone's body had recovered.

It had rained twice during that time, but maybe because Oara had slain the heart of the Demon Realm, the weather had turned clearer.

The sky was high and cloudless—crisp and clear.

The sunlight stung as usual.

Knight Oara might have brought peace, but the sunlight in the city of Oara still felt harsh and fierce.

Enkrid packed his belongings and stepped outside.

Tulal, Lua Gharne, and Dunbakel followed.

Along the way, Aisia joined them.

"You're leaving?"

"I am."

"Did you say goodbye?"

"Yesterday, roughly."

During lunch, he had stopped by Munyen and told him he was leaving.

Actually, he had planned to leave three days earlier—but Roman had insisted,

"Just stay one more day."

And really, there'd been no reason to say no.

There was no urgency.

Besides, it had been drizzling—

Not exactly great travel weather.

"Alright."

And so, after that short talk, a new morning began.

He unrolled his belts, stretched, and checked his gear.

Not a single throwing dagger left.

He'd lost them all in battle.

He'd tried recovering them, but the blades were too bent to be reused.

Maybe he could scavenge a few decent knives somewhere...

He'd had the thought, but no leads.

When he stopped by the forge, the blacksmiths had closed shop like a single organism.

"Hey, I told you—we don't have anything to sell! Not a damn thing we're giving you."

The stubborn craftsman's voice lingered in his mind.

It wasn't that they didn't have anything—

It was that they shouldn't sell him anything.

As they were heading out, Aisia suddenly spoke.

"Honestly, I had half given up."

"On what?"

Her footsteps struck the ground in rhythm as she replied, like kicking a stone.

"Thought maybe me and my brother could just eat one meal a day and survive. That's it.

Didn't feel like an army anymore."

What she had given up on—was the will to keep moving forward.

Now, Aisia said she had reclaimed that will.

When asked why, she answered:

"Because I saw the back of Sir Oara."

That was what she said.

Leaving the city of Knight Oara behind, Enkrid thought—

Her death had changed everyone who had stood on that battlefield.

Just as they reached the gates—

Roman stood in their path, greatsword resting on his shoulder.

"I still don't understand it."

His voice was clear. His will sharper than ever.

He wasn't letting them through the gate just yet.

Behind him stood the rest of the squad, including Millio—

And the short blond-haired squire.