A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

Sir Jamal moved his Will, and the sword in his right hand began to hum.

Wuuung!

Once again, the vibrating blade.

Enkrid saw the trembling sword leave behind afterimages.

As it hummed, the blade looked as though it had multiplied into dozens—hundreds—like the flapping wings of a bee.

Unless that sword was chattier than Acker, this had to be Sir Jamal's unique swordsmanship.

"Let's see you take this one too."

Jamal spoke as he swung.

No sound of footwork, no air-splitting whistle from the blade.

A sword swung with the intent of a knight moved outside the range of normal perception.

Speed beyond limits—cutting through the air silently.

They called it the moment sound dies.

It was a term coined by a bard who had only ever heard the description.

In truth, it simply meant the sword moved faster than the sound it should have made. To ordinary eyes, it seemed like action and sound were out of sync.

But to those who operated within that space—the realm where sound was already dead—it was normal.

Enkrid, with foresight, read the path of attack a beat ahead. And judged that it was hard to dodge.

The trajectory was deliberately difficult to evade. No—it was clearly a strike meant to be blocked.

A single blow designed to end the fight.

Dodging would have ceded the momentum to the enemy.

Enkrid raised his sword {N•o•v•e•l•i•g•h•t} to meet the strike and released his full strength.

"Deflect it."

The moment his will took shape, it became a heavy mass—adding power to both legs, lower abdomen, and his right arm. Naturally, the Heart of Might activated.

BOOM!

The two weapons collided, and a blast erupted. But this time, their positions didn't swap.

They simply exchanged strikes and each stepped back two paces.

"Brute strength, huh?"

Jamal said.

Enkrid gave a slight jerk of the chin.

As if to say: you're the one to talk.

Wuuuuung...

Jamal's sword continued to hum.

The vibration formed consistent waves, and those waves became power imbued into the strike.

Knights used Will to go beyond human limits in strength.

And when such a knight also mastered wave techniques, even solid-forged steel could be cleanly sliced.

Jamal's overwhelming power was structured like that.

Enkrid, by contrast, had simply taken it head-on with force.

The Isolation Technique had trained his body beyond its limits, and the Heart of Might amplified that power. As a result, the force behind their exchanged blows was evenly matched.

That was why Jamal called it "brute." He had blended technique into his strike, whereas the other had seemingly blocked it using nothing but raw Will.

Was it wasteful? Or had he just been born strong?

He blocked wave power... with raw strength?

As Jamal watched, Enkrid switched his sword to the opposite hand and flexed his right hand—clearly trying to shake off the impact.

Seeing that, Jamal immediately thrust his sword forward.

Despite the relaxed tone, the thrust itself was like a beam of light, aiming straight for Enkrid's heart.

Even if one could block a slash with brute force—what about a thrust?

Tatang—tatatatatatatatatang!

Enkrid parried the thrusts with the sword in his left hand, deflecting them.

No—he didn't stop at just deflecting.

Even as he diverted the attack, his sword curved and coiled like a snare, slinging itself toward Jamal's neck.

Jamal tensed his waist, yanked his sword back, and leaned away.

Flick! The blade grazed his chin.

Not even a drop of blood was drawn.

The sword, having missed, dropped down to slash at his abdomen.

Still leaning back, Jamal tugged his sword harder.

His blade was longer than Enkrid's.

If he could cut while evading, it would be to his advantage.

It was a split-second decision—but an effective one. Enkrid had to hurl himself sideways.

He couldn't risk exposing his neck in order to land a hit to the gut.

Whoosh!

Jamal's blade sliced the air where Enkrid had just been—a step and a half to the side now.

Regaining his stance quickly, Jamal grinned.

"So you're not just muscle, huh?"

He had skill too.

For a brief moment, Jamal found himself jealous of the talent.

Look at this.

How many years had it been since he became a knight?

Even if the man before him had reached the level of a knight back when he survived Jamal's sword, that would've only been—what—one or two years?

Yet his power and technique were barely inferior to his own.

Would Corwin crumble if he saw this?

That bastard had always been drunk on his own talent since childhood.

That arrogance—yes, enjoying one's own gifts was also part of Corwin's gift. But the man before him didn't seem to lack any of that.

A refined blade—this man seemed like steel hammered endlessly on the anvil.

He didn't just rely on his gifts—he forged his path through effort.

It was an illusion anyone could fall into. Jamal wasn't wrong to think it.

Though it wasn't talent, but effort alone that had brought Enkrid here, there was no way for Jamal to know that.

Enkrid had reached the level of a knight.

Who would look at him now and call his talents meager?

Whether it was a misunderstanding or not, it changed nothing. Jamal raised his blade toward his opponent.

Waves won't work, huh...

Then what should he try next?

Jamal moved on to the next step. Wave power was useful, but it wasn't his true specialty.

He never went all out immediately. He preferred unraveling his techniques one at a time.

Barnas hadn't liked this aspect of him, but it did pair well with Jamal's unique style.

This was his way.

The next technique: formal fencing.

Since the order had a prodigy like Corwin, who could see into the future, Jamal had spent extra time mastering unpredictable swordplay.

Against an opponent who could read all your moves, you had to twist and distort your intent.

So he tried it again this time—

Thud—thump—crack!

As Jamal attempted a wide overhead slash, Enkrid intercepted it with a sideways swing.

This time, it was the Valerisian steel sword gleaming blue.

Normally, if the initial blow was blocked or brushed aside, Jamal would follow by pivoting his right leg, bringing the blade down at an angle—making it impossible to predict the next path.

But Enkrid blocked it right from the start.

And it didn't stop there.

When Jamal attempted a diagonal thrust and went in for a half-swording technique using his ricasso, Enkrid blocked it cleanly—then immediately lunged with a headbutt.

Jamal's fencing style was all about unpredictable flow—making his opponent hesitate by throwing off their rhythm.

Now, for good measure, Jamal feigned a slash and launched a low kick at Enkrid's shin.

It was a common mercenary swordplay trick.

But when performed by a knight—it was deadly.

And yet, Enkrid cut off every first move. Every irregular opening strike Jamal tried—he saw it coming.

He's reading everything?

Or was he just responding by instinct?

This translation is the intellectual property of Novelight.

Jamal didn't know—but Enkrid had mastered formal fencing and Acker's Spiderweb swordsmanship to the point of muscle memory, thanks to the thoughts sealed inside his blade.

To be honest, Jamal's trickery seemed amateurish in comparison.

Acker had once fought madly against knights using swordplay alone—he was a master of manipulation.

If what Enkrid learned from the cursed sword Tutor was like a child's wooden toy, then what Acker had left him was the blade of a true master—razor-sharp and fatal even if it merely grazed you.

Jamal, halfway into his mind-games, was starting to feel pressured.

While he twisted his body and footwork to confuse, Enkrid's Will imbued clear intention into every move.

Jamal saw it—the path of Enkrid's blade.

Head. Chest. Legs. Back of the hand. Neck. Then shoulder.

The next second—his entire body was targeted.

He saw it clearly—a glimpse into the very near future, with sharp insight.

And it was absurd.

A sword cutting through his whole body—simultaneously?

This was Will at work. Enkrid's manipulation through Will.

A gift from Acker, now fully awakened.

"You're doing some strange shit, huh."

Jamal muttered.

He knew that if he stayed in place, it wouldn't just graze his chin—he'd end up with a hole somewhere.

So he leapt far back.

This movement—right now—was proof of his experience.

In the situation just before, choosing to retreat had not been easy.

Once one sees a future where they're struck by a blade, most become too occupied just trying to block the incoming attack.

But to leap away entirely?

Doing so would nullify the formless strike of Will.

Could Enkrid extend his Will further to reach him even now that he had pulled back? Could it work again if he tried it twice?

Unless this was a game of tag, there was no point repeating something that had already failed.

Only after he retreated did Jamal fully grasp the trick Enkrid had used.

"Was that... Will?"

Jamal, blessed with overwhelming talent, had reached this point because of it. That's also why he had the insight to recognize what his opponent had just done.

He couldn't replicate the technique himself—not precisely—but he understood the principle.

That didn't mean he could stop it.

"Troublesome..."

So what now?

It was the kind of moment where cold sweat could form along your spine.

And yet, Jamal felt a thrill.

How long had it been since he'd felt this?

From the moment he first picked up a sword, there had been very few who could challenge him.

The first real threat to his life was the monster named Barnas Hurrier.

That beast of a man was truly beyond human.

Since then, there were few—very few—who had given him even the slightest tension.

And in recent years, such moments had become rarer still.

Knights couldn't just wander around looking for fights. In truth, he didn't even get many chances to clash with real enemies.

And now, an opponent who made his heart race—was also a knight.

Jamal wore his joy openly. But the source of that tension—Enkrid—remained completely composed.

"...Now I'm serious."

Jamal said, and swung his sword again.

No more tricky footwork or half-measures—this was a direct assault.

He struck with a speed that left no time for thought.

Fast—faster still.

The moment one realized Jamal's sword had moved, Enkrid had to respond.

Now stripped of all tremor, Jamal's blade focused entirely on speed—like a bolt of lightning.

Enkrid responded immediately. If he didn't, he'd die.

Jamal's blade soared upward, then came crashing down in a vertical arc—Enkrid spun his sword to deflect and counter-thrust.

Jamal evaded, swinging his sword horizontally.

Thud—ting—tatang!

Sparks flew constantly between them.

Anyone who could properly follow the fight would hesitate to name either as having the upper hand.

Jamal looked like he was about to be pushed back—but always found a way to extend his blade, stabbing, slashing—just enough to connect.

Just the trajectory and speed of his sword were more threatening than the ghouls Enkrid had faced in the gray forest.

Had he not been a knight, Enkrid wouldn't have been able to dodge these blows.

And yet, all those slashes rained down—and Enkrid blocked every single one.

He had adapted slightly to the speed, and now began mixing attacks into his defense.

That's when Jamal spoke.

"...Let me tell you about my specialty."

He paused to catch his breath.

"Better to die knowing than to glare at me in ignorance."

THWAM!

Their swords clashed again, a large spray of sparks bursting between them.

Blue and red light scattered in the air.

The rising heat was strong enough to push back the sunlight itself.

Within that space, their Wills surged—pressing outward like invisible shockwaves.

The soldiers watching were slack-jawed, their minds blank.

One soldier even screamed as a stone, kicked up by the fight, slammed into his head.

From the outside, it looked like a storm was raging.

No one could follow the movement of their blades—how they clashed, where they aimed—it was all a blur.

And then a voice echoed from within that storm:

"The name of my sword... is Seizure."

Jamal's engraved weapon was not tough like Oara's sword, nor was it as light as someone else's. It resembled an ordinary longsword.

But the Will imbued into it absorbed and scattered the Will of others.

In short—

"With Seizure, I don't get tired."

When a person grasps Will and steps into the realm of knights, the first thing they learn is limit.

Jamal had reached that limit. And then he thought:

"What if I could take it instead?"

Why did his ability manifest this way?

Perhaps because, from a young age, taking from others had been his life.

He had stolen his brother's place. Stolen his father's house. Born a bastard, he had now become master of the family.

If he'd taken a wrong step, he might've ended up just another thug with a sword.

A knight who knew only how to steal—that was Jamal.

To go deeper—Seizure was not meant to own what it took. It simply scattered the Will within.

Even if he pulled out every last drop of Will, it wouldn't become his.

That wasn't how Will worked.

But it looked that way to his opponents.

All the wave attacks, all the formal swordplay, the rapid slashes—had just been setups to use this.

Once clashed, the enemy would feel their strength being sapped.

If an opponent had one unit of Will, they'd need three to match Jamal.

"How long can you last?"

Jamal grinned with confidence.

And Enkrid...

...hadn't been listening to him for a while.

What he had taken from the realm of consciousness with Acker—he had re-forged through battle, made real through training.

Now, he was just repeating that in this real battle.

Why?

"...I'm losing my mind here."

Because it was just too much fun.

This was a kind of joy Enkrid had never felt before.

That exhilaration—it set his blood ablaze.