A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

"I see."

Abnaier received immediate reports of the enemy's little trick.

He was currently positioned in the rear—far in the rear—and had publicly installed a puppet commander to act in his place.

If this were a true full-scale battle, Barnas Hurrier would've taken command. But this fight wouldn't be decided at the front. It would be decided on the flanks.

'In that sense, is this similar to the last battle?'

Back then, too, a minor skirmish on the flank had escalated into a full engagement.

Abnaier had every battle against Naurillia committed to memory, so he recalled the previous one now.

Similar in form, but not quite the same.

Back then, the flank fight had been secondary. But this time, the outcome would hinge on that flank.

Abnaier took a sip of tea. He'd just finished a hearty meal. A full belly helped the mind stay sharp.

Even now, it was by eating and resting well that his brain spun at full speed, allowing him to read the opponent's intentions.

Well, anyone could've figured this part out.

Even the puppet he'd put in charge at the front would've picked up on it.

So Abnaier had to look beyond the surface-level intent.

That surface-level intent was clear and unobscured.

They were testing the waters.

Asking to see what was left in the main force. Wondering if they were being tricked—if this was a fake-out and a real front-line clash was brewing.

Compulsion.

Abnaier sensed compulsion in the enemy's tactic.

Not just tapping the bridge before crossing—it was as if they needed to know who built it, when it was built, and exactly how sturdy it was before they dared ➤ NоvеⅠight ➤ (Read more on our source) step foot on it.

'They're also trying to confirm if we have knight-level forces left here.'

While they're at it, they'll try to lower morale and prepare for a potential full-scale engagement by securing the upper hand.

Their intent was obvious.

But just because it was obvious didn't mean it was easy to block.

"Send someone who's confident they can crush the enemy. Winning isn't mandatory, but they mustn't be defeated easily. Add that it's not a weak opponent."

Abnaier processed it all instantly and issued his instructions.

What kind of card had the enemy played? Let's assume the worst.

A quasi-knight?

Most likely. In that case, they just had to respond with something of equal value.

Abnaier didn't know exactly who the enemy had sent out.

Honestly, he didn't think it would be much of a card.

He still believed the real fight would take place in the Pen-Hanil Mountains.

He still believed this war would end in Azpen's victory.

He had no certainty—but he had faith.

They had hidden their knights, the forces that could truly decide the outcome of war. Three of the four might've just recently attained knighthood, but they were still knights.

How could Naurillia block that?

They might have hidden forces too.

At best, two knights.

They had already lost one who crossed into Azpen's border and killed two quasi-knights.

Then there was the unexpected one.

So let's say two.

Fine, let's say three—even more than expected.

Even so, nothing changed.

The Wolf Beastman General was a symbol of raw power, rivaling even Cypress of the Red Cloak Order.

And among them, there was a knight who could all but guarantee victory in a one-on-one duel.

Sure, he had weakened a little after selling off his vow—but still.

That wouldn't be a problem.

And even excluding those two, they had two more.

Even without General Frokk.

And Frokk, too, had mobilized with intent.

If they fought, they would win. If it came to blows, they would prevail. That was the kind of fight this was—and they had made the first move.

Assuming the enemy had knights, it was a psychological strategy to secure a small advantage.

And that small edge could tip the scales.

Every knight said the same thing.

"If you're evenly matched in skill, the one who wavers even slightly loses."

That was the answer to the question: What's the biggest factor that determines victory in a fight between knights?

The Beastman General had said it while poking at his own heart.

Abnaier recalled how General Frokk, standing beside him at the time, had puffed out her cheeks in annoyance at that gesture.

Abnaier had finished calculating.

Just then, the second messenger from the puppet commander arrived.

He'd just been enjoying a slice of fruit pie for dessert.

The sugar would help his brain spin even faster. And his tongue would be happy, too.

He picked up his fork in anticipation—but the messenger arrived before he could take a bite.

Seated across the table, the breathless messenger caught his breath and delivered the report.

"Four defeated in front-line duels."

"Four?"

"Even after the first loss, Naurillia kept demanding more duels."

Abnaier knew that among his forces were hidden assets—mercenary blades and quasi-knights from the Royal Knight Order.

And four of them lost?

"Did we send out a quasi-knight?"

"Yes."

"And he still lost?"

Unexpected, but not disastrous. As long as they didn't fall easily, it was fine. The real fight was in the Pen-Hanil Mountains...

"Morale is shot. All of them were taken out one-sidedly. The second one, a shock troop captain, called them lunatics."

Abnaier's thoughts halted. The messenger's words reached his brain faster.

What the enemy had done—their goal—it all connected in his head.

"...Bastards."

They had pulled out some of their forces.

Weren't we supposed to avoid a full-on battle? And yet they shifted forces?

So if things went south, they'd still win this fake battle at the front? Even if it wasn't the real battlefield?

What would they gain from that?

Trying to buy time for the Red Cloak Order to arrive?

No.

The Border Guard still had more men, even without Enkrid or the knights.

Kraiss had left them behind out of sheer caution.

"How many?"

The messenger caught on quickly.

"Four stepped forward."

"Four? What's this 'lunacy' about?"

"They're all... crazy. That's what he said..."

The soldier, usually so crisp and articulate, now trailed off awkwardly.

Clearly, something bizarre was unfolding at the front.

Abnaier pushed his fruit pie aside.

"Tell them no more fighting."

Morale be damned—no more fighting. That was his call.

He figured all this talk of lunacy was just another trick to shake morale.

He was wrong.

Both Kraiss and Abnaier had miscalculated.

Something had happened that neither could have predicted.

***

"So he's picking a fight because he's big? I'll take care of it."

Just as Audin made his provocation, a formidable figure stepped out from Azpen's side.

The commander had just received the messenger's report from Abnaier.

The man stepping forward was skilled—a martial artist in his own right.

"Failure will not be tolerated."

He was a quasi-knight of the Royal Knight Order of Azpen.

Not among the absolute top tier, but a quasi-knight nonetheless.

"Hey! You'll pay for your arrogance!"

He charged forward on horseback.

Audin, meanwhile, stepped down from his own horse and stood quietly, as if simply basking in the sunlight.

He tilted his head toward the light, eyes closed, softly humming to himself.

The sight of him made the quasi-knight furious.

Without even dismounting, he swung his mace.

Charging on horseback, empowered by acceleration and imbued with Will, he swung down diagonally—his weapon became a black streak, like the scythe of death itself.

Audin heard the horse's gallop, the fury in the man's voice.

He planted his feet and took a stance.

Then, looking up, he clearly saw the incoming arc of black.

Audin calculated everything in a flash—the horse's speed, the point of contact.

He raised his hand.

The rough steel gauntlet on his left hand glinted in the sun.

CLANG! CLANG!

Two thunderous clashes struck the ears of every soldier nearby.

It was the moment the Azpen quasi-knight and the Border Guard fighter crossed paths.

The Will in that mace had one intent: to crush.

But Audin didn't meet it with brute force.

He looked like a limp corpse—but his true strength lay in technique.

He received the mace on the angled edge of his gauntlet, deflected its direction with a twist, and in that narrow window, drove a karate chop with his right hand into the man's waist.

That ended the duel.

This translation is the intellectual property of Novelight.

Even through thick gambeson and chainmail, the edge of Audin's hand cut through.

Flesh tore. A hipbone shattered. Organs spilled across the ground.

The opponent hadn't let his guard down.

He had believed in his armor, and aimed to endure, building up damage using the mounted advantage.

A strategy he often used—flesh-carving attrition.

His opponent was large, so he didn't take him lightly.

It was a tactic built on respect for his enemy's strength.

But Audin crushed it in one blow.

The gap in skill was simply too vast.

Shaking blood from his hand, Audin asked,

"Any more brothers who know how to fight?"

"Ughhhhhh—"

Even before he finished, the Azpen quasi-knight who had remained mounted coughed up blood and collapsed to the ground.

The foot caught in the stirrup as the body pitched forward, and the frenzied horse neighed, rearing its front legs high.

The corpse swaying above it—now surely at the side of the gods, wondering when he died, or if he was even truly dead—was all that remained.

"...What the fuck was that?"

One of the soldiers at the very front of Azpen's formation muttered without realizing.

Most of those who'd witnessed it had no idea why the guy on horseback suddenly flew forward and dropped dead.

He just charged out—and then dropped dead. That was all they saw.

They hadn't even clearly seen the scattered guts.

All they saw was the monster still standing, boldly calling out for the next opponent.

Whether it was a bear or a giant, the thing that had just killed their mounted ally filled their vision.

All gazes were drawn to the overwhelming display of power. But Audin himself looked perfectly composed.

That made it all the more terrifying.

Was that the kind of monster they had to fight now?

Unfair as it might seem, the Azpen quasi-knight had simply faced too terrifying an opponent.

Now that Enkrid had attained the level of a knight, Audin—capable of standing against knights even without any divine blessing—could be considered the strongest among all quasi-knights.

And with Rem's recent return, perhaps Audin had unknowingly built up a bit of frustration.

Which may have led him to go a little overboard.

Still, Audin acknowledged those feelings as his own and didn't look away from them.

Instead of denying them, he decided to channel them a bit more. Not out of anger, of course.

It definitely wasn't because the Barbarian Brother used to joke, "Hey, youngest," or because Brother Mia would nod in agreement.

Even if thoughts of the two gave his fist a little too much strength, it absolutely wasn't an emotional outburst.

Big-Eyed Brother had said this kind of fight was necessary—so he stepped forward.

"I shall not discriminate between brothers and sisters. Come forth."

He meant: even if a woman stepped out, he'd turn her into a bloody hunk of meat just the same.

Though it was a bold statement, his tone was calm.

He'd shut their mouths with a single punch—so that voice surely carried to the enemy, but the air still remained quiet.

The response came not from the enemy, but from their own side.

"Hard to step up when you go that far. Even I wouldn't want to fight you."

It was Peld approaching, his eyes sunken with worry, his face burdened with thought.

Whatever was on his mind, he stepped up beside Audin and added,

"Head back. With you standing there, no one's gonna challenge us. Big-Eyes said it'd be more effective to take turns beating them than just having you kill everyone solo."

Audin felt some regret, but steadied himself.

"I see."

Maybe he should've held back a little.

But the moment someone from the enemy said "Hey," his body had moved on instinct.

That "Hey" had sounded oddly like the Barbarian Brother's tone.

Of course, this wasn't anger. Not even close.

"Then."

Audin stepped back, and Peld took his place.

"Next challenger, step forward."

So Peld said.

Even if Audin had stayed, Azpen still had warriors willing to fight. Their commander was the one holding them back.

Abnaier had told them to hold out for as long as possible, but what could they do when they died in a single strike?

Were their own soldiers weak?

Or was the enemy just too strong?

Weren't they told the enemy didn't have knights?

Then what was that?

A knight?

A giant?

Even if he was a giant, it was rare to see one fight that well.

"Let me go."

Someone with a dangerous look in their eyes stepped forward and spoke to the commander.

It was the shock troop captain.

Not a knight order member, but someone who knew how to win fights.

"If we charge now, our troops will be torn apart. So we need to take someone down."

The shock troop captain was the one who always charged at the front.

If things continued like this, they wouldn't even land a proper hit before being forced back.

His instincts told him so.

The commander thought the same, but he also knew something else—

There would be no charge without Abnaier's command.

No full-on battle.

Even so, they couldn't just sit on their hands. He, too, was capable of thought.

What if a fight did break out? What if it turned into a full-scale war?

"Go."

"Understood."

The shock troop captain dashed forward.

Peld waited patiently, no matter what Azpen tried to pull.

Not being used to horseback combat, he didn't ride.

He simply waited, looking up at the sky.

He felt the wind brush his cheeks, smelled the metallic tang of blood.

But the sky, the breeze, the stench—none of it really registered.

His mind was still filled with turmoil.

Maybe my talent's actually worthless.

Back when Enkrid's skills had skyrocketed, he had once said, "I've never met a genius like you."

That had been their first meeting.

At the time, Peld had believed his own talent stood even higher.

He'd thought he'd soon catch up.

Even later, after they met again, he'd thought the same.

But now, the foundation of that belief had been shattered.

So what was left?

The Idol Slayer. That's what remains.

Was that magic sword all he had? The only thing that represented him?

"Cut the arrogance, would you?"

That's what that pretentious swordsman Rophod had said.

He was almost good enough to kill, but not quite.

Did that mean Peld had to rely on the magic sword to finish the job?

He hated that. His pride wouldn't allow it.

So what should he do?

He was lost.

The night sky above held not a single star—only darkness.

And in that darkness, he felt a spark.

I want to do something. Anything.

He wanted to swing his sword.

It was the moment his fighting spirit surged.

Enkrid's Will had influenced him.

And from that surge of drive, a question was born:

Is it so wrong for someone else to be more talented than me?

Ironically, Enkrid had become a knight. Right in front of his eyes.

And even after awakening, he hadn't stopped training.

"Shepherds can be trampled to death by their own sheep at any time."

That was what being a shepherd meant.

The same went for swordsmen.

"Then why be a shepherd in the first place?"

He'd asked that question as a child.

The elder of his village, said to be the wisest, had laughed.

Peld still remembered the hiss of wind through the old man's broken front teeth.

"Should I say, 'because someone's gotta do it'? Or maybe, 'because it brings me joy'? Or maybe it's because of an oath—something that must be upheld?"

The answer is within me.

Now he understood those words.

Peld no longer looked around.

Instead, he connected what he had to do now with what he would do next.

Now, he'd fulfill his duty as the one standing here.

Next—

I'll try to catch up.

He would chase after Enkrid.

He would acknowledge the difference in talent and bridge it through effort.

This was the beginning.

"You look young. How old are you?"

This time, the enemy had also dismounted and asked as he approached.

A shepherd of the plains was more accustomed to trickery than head-on fights.

And so he opened with a dirty tactic.

He spoke as he pulled a pouch from his waist and hurled it.

Azpen's shock troop captain, expert in winning battles, had thrown poisoned sand.

But Peld read the movement in his arm and leapt to the side, dodging along the predicted trajectory.