A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

Long, long ago, the knight Acker, standing at the brink of death, lamented the thought of his swordsmanship being lost.

'More precisely, it's not the swordsmanship itself, but what I realized through it—that's what's too valuable to disappear.'

He'd offered to teach many times, but he'd never truly taught anyone. Like most geniuses, Acker was the same.

There was no way he could find joy in teaching. But he still wanted to leave behind his techniques, including his swordsmanship. So, on the verge of death, he came up with one method.

To anyone else, it would have sounded like utter madness.

What if he could store his thoughts within the sword?

Acker was gifted at transferring his Will into weapons.

'Will is the power of intention. Couldn't I embed my thoughts into that will?'

Acker's engraved weapon was a gift he'd received when he first picked up a sword.

He had reforged it, hammering it anew—and that reforged weapon became his engraved weapon.

It was the sword he had wielded his entire life, tailored specifically for the knight Acker. And because his specialty was the transference of Will, this feat became possible. Luck played a role too, of course.

Sometimes, luck is the most important factor.

To achieve this, Acker enlisted the help of a wizard—and in the end, he succeeded.

He embedded his thoughts and intentions into the engraved sword.

"There are four conditions."

Acker set the conditions for the sword to awaken.

The first three were easy.

Someone who had learned his swordsmanship—it would never disappear completely, after all.

Someone who had, at the very least, awakened their Will—for without it, there would be no point.

And the wielder of the sword.

The final, fourth condition was hidden: someone who, even after becoming a knight, still yearned.

That fourth condition was demanding—but it was also essential.

After all, what was the point of teaching someone who had no desire to learn anything in the world conjured by the sword?

It was a necessary condition. But why was it the hardest?

Because becoming a knight meant one had already carved their own path with a blade.

The time for desperately scrambling to learn something was long past.

And yet, it had to be someone who still desired to learn.

It was far from an easy condition.

Those who knew what Acker had done all said the same thing—that it was meaningless madness. But the knight Acker didn't care.

Because he was satisfied with it.

That's how the ego-sword Acker was born.

The legend would later become twisted, and something like the cursed sword Tutor came into being.

Some foolish wizard stole the original wizard's vision—the one who'd helped Acker—and created the cursed sword Tutor.

Tutor was a demonic blade that imprisoned a human soul, and it was the name of the cursed sword that had once forced a mental death upon Enkrid.

In other words, Tutor was a counterfeit.

Over the long ages, Acker's swordsmanship had also been lost to time—but the fact that fragments of it were embedded within the cursed sword Tutor was no mere coincidence.

The knight Acker had created the ego-sword Acker, and died content.

That was the closing chapter of the story left behind by the knight Acker—but there was something beyond the story that still remained.

Regret. His regret remained as lingering thoughts embedded in the sword.

So then—was that thought still intact?

Could such regret-filled thoughts be stable?

Even a human soul trapped in a sword eventually became a wraith.

Had he not become a corrupted wraith like the cursed sword Tutor?

That was certainly a possibility.

The thought-Acker had remained trapped in the sword for a very long time. Though he was but a thought, he retained intelligence—so he too could have gone mad. But he was, after all, a part of the original knight Acker.

Though he was regret incarnate, he had once been one of the three swords that protected the founding king of Naurillia.

His noble mental strength had carried over to the thought-form, keeping it from being tainted.

Even if Acker's final wish wasn't noble in nature, it gave the lingering thought a clear sense of purpose.

Still, just because his mind hadn't decayed didn't mean everything was satisfactory.

His current form was forged from regret.

You could call it the ghost of the past—not quite a person, and not something that truly existed—but even this lingering thought had its own desire.

'I want to finish passing it on and ascend. I want to resolve this lingering regret, and then disappear.'

When the thought dispersed, it would vanish. But whether it was ascension or annihilation, all it wanted was to let go of what remained.

That was the wish of the thought-Acker.

So when someone appeared who had perfectly satisfied even the fourth condition, how could the ghost-Acker not rejoice?

Even if the man was a bit insane, it didn't make the joy any less intense.

After all, the time he'd waited was far too long.

That was why Acker spoke without being asked. It was his way of showing care, making sure the other party didn't break down from overexertion or disillusionment.

He wanted to tease him a little, but the man refused to fall for it—so what else could he do? The man was his savior—the one who would release his lingering regret.

"If you want to quit, just tell me. Then go rest, and come back later."

There was no need to die. If it was too much, it was fine to take a break. That was the difference between the cursed sword Tutor and the true sword Acker.

As the thought-Acker spoke, the man kneeling with one knee on the ground and his head bowed lifted his gaze.

"...My face is going to get sunburned."

Acker replied. His blue eyes burned fiercely.

What had turned that man into this?

He didn't know. He didn't want to know.

It was enough for Acker to know that his regret could be fulfilled.

Still, he worried.

'Isn't this too much?'

You want to keep fighting? That's fine.

But Acker wouldn't inflict psychological death on him, like the cursed sword Tutor did.

Even so, didn't mental strength wear down if you never took a break?

That's why he thought it best to rest, then return and face him again.

"Hey, I'm telling you to give up. You can just come back."

Acker said it again—but the man in front of him didn't know how to give up.

"Not yet."

He didn't finish the sentence, but Acker could guess what the missing words were.

Not yet. I'm still okay.

He'd been saying the same thing over and over.

"You said it would only be for a month."

Enkrid stabbed the ground with the tip of his sword, stood up, and leveled his blade.

"I've already fulfilled the fourth condition. That should give me a little bit of extra time, right?"

Acker's regret was to find someone to inherit his techniques—not necessarily someone to whom he had to teach everything.

What mattered was something mental. As long as the foundation was laid, the techniques could grow and evolve on their own.

That was what Acker believed—but Enkrid thought differently.

'Only a month.'

Then he had to make full use of that time.

He couldn't fight for his life against Rem, Ragna, Jaxon, or Shinar.

Even if their skills surpassed his own, he couldn't afford to go all out against them.

He couldn't risk who might live or die.

So he kept a certain distance, masked his killing intent, and fought with restraint.

But he didn't need to hold back against the knight Acker, conjured by the thought-form Acker.

Acker's sword had already pierced through his body eight times—and yet, he wasn't dead.

There was pain, yes—but it was dull, like fighting after drinking a powerful numbing potion.

It didn't hurt that much. At least not compared to the pain that came with actual death.

"Doesn't it hurt?"

Acker was worried that the pain would leave a scar on Enkrid's mind—but to Enkrid, this was nothing.

He wasn't actually dying, nor was he suffering the soul-crushing trauma that came with the cursed sword Tutor.

Compared to repeating the same day or being trapped in Tutor, this was far easier.

In short, the risk was small compared to what he could gain.

"If you push too hard, it'll poison you instead."

"I'll handle it myself."

"You really are unbearable."

Acker said it again with a smile—but Enkrid no longer heard that phrase the same way.

There was a subtle fondness behind it. He could feel it.

That affection eventually made Acker speak again.

"If I leave you alone, I really don't think you'll stop. So I'll say it—your shouting is too loud."

What was that supposed to mean?

Enkrid silently pointed his sword at Acker again.

This translation is the intellectual property of Novelight.

"You're shouting too much. You charge in screaming 'right side' at the top of your lungs—who wouldn't figure it out?"

Rem had described Enkrid's Will embodiment as heavy-handed.

Ragna called it chaotic.

Jaxon called it noisy.

"When did I ever?"

He spoke, lips moving with ease, but his posture and breathing remained unshaken.

More than anything, Enkrid was enjoying this moment—utterly and completely.

And why wouldn't he?

He had become a knight.

Setting aside the feeling of omnipotence, wasn't it only natural to want to unleash everything he had within him?

He was indulging in that desire to the fullest.

What would happen if you handed a water bottle to someone who hadn't had a drop to drink in three days?

That's why, even while questioning Acker's words, Enkrid's body moved instinctively.

"You crazy bastard, at least listen before you charge in."

Boom!

Grass shredded, the earth split open.

Enkrid surged forward—twice as fast as the charge of the junior knight he once saw in Greenperl.

He gripped his sword tightly, letting his shoulder and elbow stay loose, slicing in rhythm with the momentum of his advance.

Shweeek!

Even with knight-level reflexes, the blade seemed to bend from sheer speed.

Acker raised his sword vertically to block.

His blade caught Enkrid's, and several quick exchanges followed.

When Enkrid tried to overpower him and sweep Acker's heel with a low kick, Acker pulled back first and aimed the pommel at the back of Enkrid's hand.

If he just stayed put, he'd get hit—so should he pull back his hand? But... was that really necessary?

Couldn't he just take a hit and deliver one in return?

Here, that might be perfectly fine.

The decision was made in an instant, and there was no hesitation in the execution.

"What's the use of making fast decisions when I already tell you everything in advance!"

Acker rendered all those judgments meaningless, barking angrily as he leapt back and widened the distance.

Enkrid, who had been planning to sacrifice the back of his right hand in order to sock the ghost in the face with his left fist, paused.

Because Acker's earlier words finally sank in.

"Will is intention. I get that your will is overflowing—but what do you think happens when you let it spill everywhere?

If your opponent is on your level, they won't need precognition. They won't need mind-reading.

Your intentions are painfully obvious."

Then Acker added,

"That's what I meant when I said you were shouting."

"Oh."

Acker nodded.

He was a thought-form born of a genius. Naturally, the living Acker hadn't been the best at explaining things.

"Just do it like this—why can't you?"

That's how geniuses talked when they taught.

But the thought-form Acker had spent time thinking about how to pass on what he had.

And that time made all the difference—his explanations, by comparison, were excellent.

'Compared to Rem, he's a damn angel.'

Enkrid nodded. He blinked, recalling Acker's words and chewing on them.

With the sword still held before him, he began to review.

He entered a state of focus, briefly forgetting the present.

He stood there, repeating the thoughts, organizing them.

"So you're saying I should rest first, and then come back? Huh? Is this bastard seriously insane?"

The thought-form felt genuinely dumbfounded.

Enkrid had him right in front of him—and now he was just meditating, eyes half-lidded in contemplation.

He stayed like that for quite some time.

Eventually, Enkrid opened his eyes and spoke.

"I think I get it now."

"Get what?"

"The meaning behind what you said."

Shouldn't he have fully mastered it, given how much time he'd just spent?

The answers had all been laid out.

But no.

"Again."

Enkrid charged once more, and Acker had no choice but to meet him with his sword.

They swung.

They moved.

They fought with all their strength, as if their lives were on the line.

And little by little, Enkrid began to grasp it—

Not just Will itself, but how to manage the massive lump of it inside him.

If it's too heavy to wield—then what?

Break it up into smaller chunks and use it bit by bit?

Enkrid refused that approach.

Instead of splitting it, he chose another path.

Instinct told him that dividing it would only lead to his ruin.

Maybe it wasn't the correct answer.

But if that's where his heart led him, wasn't that as close to truth as anything could be?

Life only allows you to walk one road.

Just because he repeated today didn't mean he could undo every choice.

Even if he went back to childhood and started anew—life's choices still came only once.

So all he could do was give his best to the road he chose.

There was no reason to regret the forks behind him.

That's how Enkrid had always lived.

And that's how he continued now.

Straightforward, unyielding, like the way he swung his blade.

The massive chunk of Will within him tried to burst in all directions.

He seized it, one by one, and brought it under control.

"You thick-headed brute."

Acker said it sincerely.

But Enkrid didn't change a thing.

How much time had passed?

He didn't know.

But Enkrid had crossed a threshold.

They had sparred more than a hundred times now.

"What I've taught so far is just the basics. The ability to read future moves comes from insight—and you create that confusion in their mind by faking your intentions."

"Is that it?"

He'd picked up the technique well enough. So he asked—and Acker's smile vanished as he replied.

"It's not over. But take a break! No compromises!"

Acker was firm.

Even in his eyes, Enkrid's mental strength was impressive—but no human could endure without eating, without sleeping.

That went for the mind as well.

No matter how solid your will, it still wore down.

Enkrid, realizing this too, nodded.

"Then again."

He didn't say 'Let's go again', but the intent was clear.

"Yeah. Again."

Acker cast Enkrid out of the world he'd created.

Out in the real world, not even an hour had likely passed...

Enkrid vanished—and barely any time later, he returned to the mental realm.

With black hair and blue flame-like eyes.

"You're back already?"

How long had it been since he sent him out?

Enkrid stepped back into the conscious world. For someone who'd only entered once before, he seemed to have grasped the process far too quickly.

"I rested enough."

Acker didn't express surprise or confusion. He just nodded.

You could only be surprised so many times.

Now, he thought he understood what made Enkrid so formidable.

'That overwhelming Will—that must've come from this monstrous mental strength.'

Though he was only a thought-form, he had all the perception of the knight Acker.

"I used to like spiders."

Out of nowhere, Acker said it.

Enkrid swung his sword.

You could talk while fighting, after all.

"You insane bastard, could you just wait till after I'm done listening?"

"Don't waste time. Just talk while we fight."

Enkrid spoke, all while stealing Acker's secrets—like how he never disrupted his breathing, no matter what stance he took.

His longing had rekindled.

Now, he meant to do everything he could.

His desire surged like never before, driving him onward.

Telling him to go further.

To never stop.

And Enkrid—he didn't resist the shove that desire gave him.