A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

"I knew you'd become something big... but were you really the Demon Slayer?"

Sir Jamal.

A knight whose name even Barnas Hurrier wouldn't take lightly in single combat.

And Jamal had once tried—and failed—to cut down the black-haired, blue-eyed man standing before him now.

He had acted under a pact with Abnaier, but the encounter left a deep impression on him.

And for good reason.

"He was heavy."

He had swung with a trembling blade, but that strike had not been light. It left a mark—etched into memory.

At the time, Sir Jamal had not expected his opponent to receive his sword.

No—"not expected" wasn't even strong enough. He hadn't imagined it was possible.

The conversation afterward had been just as memorable.

The man had said it was an honor, spoken of glory and honor, and added that it wasn't every day one got to face a knight's sword.

"...A shame."

Jamal clicked his tongue.

He did feel some regret, however slight. Meeting again like this, in this kind of place.

"You two knew each other?"

General Frokk, standing beside him, asked.

Jamal gave a small nod, and Frokk turned his gaze toward the man as well.

Some things, you never forgot. Frokk had an excellent memory for human faces—especially the beautiful ones.

Even Frokk's eyes recognized the man.

"So that's where I'd seen you..."

Frokk muttered.

A familiar face. It was in his memory.

This was the man who had killed one of his soldiers.

Back then, Frokk had joined a battlefield for fun, tried to kill this man, and failed.

And now, this man was the Demon Slayer?

Frokk had the talent to read talent—and so did General Frokk.

But the last time he'd seen him, he hadn't even stood out.

Back then, the one with grey hair and an axe had felt far more dangerous.

Frokk still remembered withdrawing because he couldn't guarantee victory on that battlefield.

For a brief moment, Frokk had closely observed the man who'd killed one of his own soldiers—one who had been personally raised.

The guy had been kicked away at his own feet.

He'd already been sure back then—this one would die the moment he stepped onto a battlefield.

And yet, this same man had once blocked Sir Jamal's sword.

Now, he was being called Azpen's most dangerous enemy.

"...Something doesn't add up."

Frokk muttered.

Then he raised his three stubby fingers—white at the tips.

Some Frokk pursued impossible dreams, trying to become artisans with those same fingers.

But this Frokk put his gifts to full use.

He was a frontline Frokk. He hadn't reached the level of knight, but he stood at the level of a quasi-knight and had been acknowledged as a capable commander.

The soldiers who saw those fingers drew cold, uneasy breaths and scattered to the sides.

Twenty soldiers armed with crossbows formed a semi-circle around Enkrid and aimed their loaded weapons.

It was a sight to behold—twenty crossbows aimed at a single man, who merely stood there, unfazed, watching them in silence.

It was a clearing of modest size—or rather, one deliberately carved out by felling trees.

General Frokk believed it unwise to fight on terrain familiar to the enemy, so after entering the Pen-Hanil mountains, he had his men clear the forest and secure a favorable position.

A clearing known only to their side, invisible to the enemy.

A move the enemy could never have anticipated.

They had entered the mountain range ahead of their foes—and had time to prepare.

But had the enemy commander come with no preparation at all?

General Frokk hadn't stopped sending out recon teams.

Groups of five, constantly patrolling the perimeter.

And his conclusion—

"The enemy commander is a fool."

He was referring to Kraiss.

There were no signs of hidden traps or reinforcements nearby.

Enkrid was alone.

He rested his right hand at his waist and let his left arm hang loosely, surveying both sides.

"This for real?"

He asked suddenly.

"For real? What kind of question is that when we're about to fight?"

Frokk was a master of psychological warfare. He smoothly returned Enkrid's words.

In the meantime, two squads moved behind Enkrid and assembled long spears, aiming them forward.

In front: twenty crossbows.

Behind: twenty spears.

On top of that: twenty more soldiers with swords and shields.

Every one of them handpicked and personally trained by Frokk.

Crack.

Some of the soldiers clenched their teeth so hard it sounded like something broke.

They had volunteered for this mission, fully aware of its danger.

Former members of the Graydog Unit—in other words, men full of resentment.

Resentment aimed squarely at Enkrid, the Border Guard.

"I am Enkrid of the Border Guard."

The moment he gave his name—

"I know."

General Frokk answered.

As he spoke, he placed both hands on the two looped swords hanging at his sides.

Thick blades, heavy and brutal—these were his weapons.

"...So you're serious?"

Enkrid asked again.

And General Frokk answered again.

"Is talking nonsense before a fight your thing? Maybe you're scared? That would make sense. I understand."

Frokk's voice was calm—like a man who'd already secured victory. He knew exactly how that sounded to his soldiers.

"Fire."

At his command, twenty crossbowmen pretended to shoot at Enkrid.

But Enkrid didn't move.

"...Really?"

He simply asked back.

"You bastard..."

One of the crossbowmen ground his teeth at Enkrid—but still, they didn't fire.

Instead, from behind Enkrid, twenty spears lunged forward.

For weapons of that length, they were remarkably fast. Just like the thrusts Enkrid had seen at the start of this endless day.

Frokk had personally trained them in this method.

He predicted Enkrid would dodge to the side.

Accordingly, the crossbowmen had already adjusted their aim left and right.

When facing someone of knightly skill, moving as you see them move was too late. So they trained, and they moved as trained.

But Enkrid didn't dodge sideways.

Instead, he brought his sword down on three of the twenty incoming spearheads.

It wasn't fast—it was heavy, like slamming down a giant boulder.

Even General Frokk could see it.

Enkrid's sword pressed the three spears to the ground, burying their tips in the soil. The remaining dozen or so, he either evaded or knocked aside with the leather bracer wrapped around his wrist.

Easy to say.

Even seeing it up close, it defied belief.

Swinging a sword to block and dodge incoming spears?

Twenty spearheads swirling and stabbing from every angle—how could one do that?

Well—if you could read every timing... and had strength and speed that overwhelmingly surpassed it all... then maybe.

Even if twenty toddlers came at an adult with sticks, most grown men would panic.

But Enkrid?

He batted away the storm of spearheads like it was nothing. Not a single person died in the process.

General Frokk puffed up his cheeks.

Even the spears struck by Enkrid's sword hadn't broken. They had just been driven into the ground.

The three soldiers whose weapons were struck now trembled at the knees—and collapsed with a thud.

"...Heh."

Sir Jamal, witnessing it all, let out a pure breath of admiration.

Only Jamal understood what had just happened.

"Again!"

General Frokk shouted. He yelled "again," but it was a new tactic this time.

"Uwaaaah!"

The soldiers wielding swords and shields charged with a roar, while the flanking crossbowmen fired their bolts.

Thudududududung!

Neither Abnaier, nor Barnas Hurrier, nor even General Frokk himself truly believed that this force would kill a knight or inflict any serious harm.

All they aimed for was a scratch—anything that might throw him off, even slightly. It would increase their own knight's chance of victory.

In short, these men were sacrifices.

Even so, they hadn't expected him to be this untouchable.

Was I arrogant?

What is a knight?

A calamity, they say. And the man before them was exactly that.

He swung his sword downward three times from above.

The paths of his blade remained like afterimages in the air.

It looked slower than the arrows flying at him—yet those very arrows dropped like broken sticks to the ground.

Tatadang!

The sound of clattering metal followed.

"How...?"

The general muttered.

It was a realm he couldn't understand.

Then the spear unit thrust again.

This translation is the intellectual property of Novelight.

This time, Enkrid's descending blade broke four spear shafts at once.

The shafts were made of oil-soaked birch, yet snapped like brittle reeds.

The broken ends stuck out like the jagged teeth of a beast.

Enkrid swept them aside with a casual swing, and when more bolts flew toward him, he brought his sword down again, smashing them as if pounding dough.

Then came the charge of the suicide squad—men armed with swords and shields, their jaw muscles taut beneath their helmets.

They had come with the resolve to die just to rip even a thread from the hem of the enemy's trousers.

If not that, at least to force him to spend one of his secondary weapons. Their goal was simple: make him waste something—anything.

But the sword fell upon them.

Everyone within the reach of his swing raised their shields.

The blade seemed to come down at a speed that almost looked considerate—like he was giving them a fair chance.

But the result was the same as before.

A massive blade, heavy as a boulder, crushed the shields.

"Urk!"

"Guuh!"

Several soldiers dropped to their knees.

Their shields shattered. Blood splashed from their arms.

Others were thrown to the ground, unable to absorb the shock.

"Aaaagh!"

One unlucky soldier screamed—the blow had broken his arm.

"A pressing sword...?"

Sir Jamal muttered aloud, and Enkrid nodded.

"Ha!"

Jamal let out another shout of genuine admiration.

Now he was certain.

He hadn't expected that the man he once thought would rise high would return as a full-fledged knight—but here he was.

And he'd become something.

"A fascinating man you've become."

If this were a newly knighted soldier—one who had tasted limits but still lacked refinement—then sure, a suicide unit might've worked.

Even leaving a scratch would've been a win.

At the very least, just having a well-trained unit at your side could be a burden on the opponent.

If, in the middle of battle, your strength dropped to the point where you couldn't even lift a finger, then winning wouldn't matter—death would still come.

No one could stop a crossbow bolt in that state.

And the moment that kind of doubt entered your heart, the blade you had forged in your will would start to ⊛ Nоvеlιght ⊛ (Read the full story) dull.

A fight with a knight could hinge on those small moments.

Abnaier had factored in all of this. The man was meticulous.

Even if Naurillia had knights of its own, he had assumed this one had only just become a knight.

Therefore, he would still be lacking in experience.

He was only half right.

Enkrid had only recently been knighted.

But his experience was already complete.

He didn't lead battle with words—he could taunt his enemies purely through his actions.

From the very start, Enkrid had never even acknowledged someone like General Frokk.

And hadn't he proven it?

When Frokk swung both of his swords, Enkrid broke one of them with a single strike and kicked the other aside like trash.

The suicide charge, the spear wall, the wave of bolts—they were all meaningless.

The opponent was a knight.

"Good. Good."

Jamal found himself exclaiming aloud. This man had a way of making one's blood boil.

The pressing sword—it was the same blow that had blocked his own blade in the past.

He had asked then: what was it that stopped his sword?

"A pressing sword."

That's what he'd been told.

And now, why had Enkrid used that same technique to deal with an entire unit?

To summon him.

Jamal made up his mind, and stepped forward.

Just that was enough for his refined Will to pour forth, pressing down on Enkrid with weighty force.

Enkrid shrugged it off as naturally as breathing.

"I never liked Abnaier's way of doing things."

Jamal spoke.

In a battle between knights, there were things more important than winning.

When speaking of honor and conviction, one must never carry even a shred of shame in the heart.

For an unclouded heart was the true source of a knight's power.

"Sir Jamal?"

General Frokk called out as he bent to pick up his dropped sword.

"Leave. From this point on, just being nearby may get you killed."

Jamal said this without turning. His gaze remained fixed on his opponent.

And only then did Enkrid show something like a smile.

He had found his true enemy—and his gaze locked onto Jamal.

And with that, a memory came unbidden.

There had been a day he died to that man's sword.

Ragna had died to that man's sword.

There had been a blade that made him want to die.

And now, that very blade was within reach. Right before his eyes.

"Are you ready to die?"

Enkrid asked.

"Hah. Arrogant bastard."

Jamal laughed toward him.

No—they both laughed.

Were they equals?

...Or perhaps not quite?

Would it be natural and expected for the veteran knight, one long trained in his own signature style, to win this fight?

Enkrid had already forgotten about victory or defeat.

Instead, a searing joy, like a raging flame, burned through his chest and spread through his limbs.

"Isn't this exciting?"

The question, filled with anticipation, sounded no different from that of a madman.

But for knights, this level of madness was ordinary.

Jamal, too, had once burned with that same madness. Enkrid's presence reignited that memory with force.

"...It will be."

Jamal gave a firm answer.

In an instant, the space between them collapsed—and they exchanged blades.

Whummm—

Jamal whipped his sword down with vibrating force.

Enkrid raised Gladius instead of his Valerisian steel sword and deflected it upward.

CLANG!

Two hunks of iron, each with clear intent, met and produced a resonant harmony.

The clash made Enkrid and Jamal switch positions mid-strike and spin around.

They turned, facing each other once more.

"Didn't work, huh?"

Jamal said.

Even though his vibrating sword had been blocked, he didn't look surprised.

Naturally.

That wasn't even his specialty.