A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

Shinar's gaze swept past Ragna.

It didn't even take the fairy's sharp senses to assess his condition.

'He's not dead.'

Ragna, using his half-broken sword as a cane, was pressing it into the ground in place of his leg to prop himself up.

His eyes were still open—still carrying that slightly vacant look.

'If someone approaches, he could probably swing his sword a few more times.'

He'd block a couple of projectiles too.

Of course, if an enemy soldier with a spear fixed their glare and threw their life into the attack, who knew what would happen—but that was only a concern if he lacked the confidence to stop them.

It had already been decided—silently—that one of the two would take the enemy commander.

The enemy commander had gone after Ragna first.

That alone had divided their roles.

'He's alive. I should take him with me.'

If Ragna had died, Shinar would've stepped in next.

Knights didn't double their strength by combining—they weren't that kind of force.

So fighting this way was the right choice.

Though Ragna looked like he was on the brink of death, Shinar judged he was a man who could survive.

And as for the enemies before her—they were no longer a threat.

Then the commander rolled his eyes and played his hand.

"There will be no surrender! We fight to the death! Let our names be etched into the Hall of Honor!"

Azpen had built a grand hall in the capital's heart—to have one's name inscribed there was the highest honor.

Only the names of the dead were written—specifically, those who died for the nation.

Families of the fallen received yearly compensation. Some fought for posthumous glory. Others, for their ★ 𝐍𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 ★ loved ones.

The Ironclad infantry all pulled out pouches hidden in their armor's waistbands and poured them into their mouths.

The powder scattered around their lips and fell to the ground—because they hadn't even measured the dose.

But what was certain was that most of the powder entered their mouths, mixed with saliva, and went straight to their stomachs.

Under their helmets, veins bulged from their foreheads and temples.

That drug wouldn't suddenly let them use Will.

But for a brief time, it would numb the pain, erase fear, and boost their strength almost twofold.

It was a drug called Fury, found only on the black market—designed to incite rage and forcibly draw out latent potential.

"For the homeland!"

One soldier, especially patriotic, cried out. With the shout, the blood vessels in his eyes burst, and red tears streamed down his cheeks.

Some bled from their noses from the side effects. Five collapsed, limbs trembling violently. Their bodies couldn't handle the drug's force.

The rest stomped the ground and charged. Spitting and bleeding, eyes wide with bloodshot madness.

Ordinary people would've been paralyzed with fear. Even the bravest would've felt chills.

Knights weren't emotionless—at the very least, they'd feel disgust.

But not Shinar.

She calculated coldly.

'That one... can't be saved.'

She thought so while watching the commander flee behind the drug-crazed soldiers.

"Uwoooooh!"

One of the frenzied soldiers charged with spit and blood flying. Shinar swung her leaf-blade.

Even before the glowing edge made contact, his head was already gone.

Shinar was at the level of a knight—but that didn't mean her body weight had magically increased.

In other words, if she let those mindless charges close the distance, even she could be toppled or injured.

Of course, that didn't happen.

Not even metaphorically—she could literally fight with her eyes closed and still avoid it.

Thump!

She kicked off the ground and leapt like a butterfly. A butterfly's flutter—that was the leaf-blade. And it ceaselessly slashed at necks and split skulls.

She moved as needed, exactly how much was needed, cutting down only what needed to be cut.

That was all she did. And it was enough.

The Fury-fueled soldiers charged at Ragna—but none made it close.

She could've left Ragna and caught the fleeing commander instead.

'Should I have?'

Shinar didn't feel the need. Nor could she leave her post.

Ragna wouldn't just quietly die if left alone—but he was in critical condition.

His shoulder and knee were problems, yes. But if that cut above his eye wasn't treated fast, he could end up a one-eyed swordsman who lost his way.

So this was more rational. More efficient.

And so, Shinar slaughtered all the drugged soldiers. In that time, the commander escaped.

***

'I'm going to die.'

Corwin's insight had been like a supernatural power since he was young.

And after a few clashes, that insight delivered its conclusion.

No matter what—he would die.

If he stayed here—he would die.

It was a predetermined result.

A fixed, immutable fate.

His own future looked like that.

Just like the name of his sword—Fate.

Driven by fear, he chose to flee.

It wasn't some calculated decision.

Against Rem, using foresight and tricks had no effect.

That terrified Corwin more than anything.

Why did it work on Barnas but not on him?

The reason was simple—Rem didn't think at all before attacking.

He just fought by instinct.

In every fleeting moment of decision, he always found the best path.

That was how he fought.

The whoosh of the sling ripping the air—

Was it the Marsh of Monter, or Monter's morons—?

An assassin's skull exploded.

Even that movement hadn't triggered Corwin's insight.

'Does this make any sense?'

It did.

Rem hadn't been aiming.

This translation is the intellectual property of Novelight.

Whether it was a rock or a metal ball, he just hurled whatever he saw.

There were no calculations in his head.

Every action was impulsive judgment.

Choosing the best direction without hesitation or strategy—could a person really make the right choice every time in a desperate moment?

Impossible. Rem was no exception.

Even when the red aura swirled behind him and the misty red eyes appeared—Rem didn't think.

He simply tried to split Corwin's skull.

Corwin barely read Rem's intent in that microsecond—managed to block with his sword—and the red eyes stabbed a curved dagger—a kris—toward Rem's back.

That curved blade was laced with a spell poison.

In terms of results, Rem wasn't stabbed.

A ghostly, legless white wolf appeared and bit the kris.

"I never said I'd fight alone,"

Rem muttered.

Even if he couldn't make the right choice, he had someone—or something—to fill the gap.

The moment the red-eyed assassin saw the wolf, he twisted the kris's hilt and let go.

The blade turned red and emitted light. He was condensing his spell power to detonate it.

"Eat it, Cloud."

At his words, the spirit wolf swallowed the glowing kris and dashed away.

Boom!

A distant explosion rang out.

The wolf dispersed—then reformed.

Only a little smaller than before.

Its legs weren't really legs—they were like tufts of cloud, allowing it to move as if floating.

The sight of it swallowing a poison-drenched blade stole everyone's gaze—even Corwin and the red-eyed assassin briefly lost focus.

In that instant—Rem whipped the sling in his left hand.

Raised his right foot and stomped the ground.

Then brought the axe down in a vertical chop.

The sling pierced the skull of the assassin throwing a net from behind.

His foot crushed the collarbone of a hidden attacker crawling beneath the earth.

And the axe—targeted the red-eyed one.

If you broke it down frame by frame, the axe was the slowest move.

But by the time the sling struck and the kick landed—the axe blade had already met the red-eyed assassin's skull.

Every movement happened in an instant—and every movement was fearless.

If Corwin—the bastard lurking behind Rem—had stabbed him in that moment, he likely would have landed a hit somewhere.

That was how completely Rem had shown him his back.

Of course, if the bastard had tried to stab him, Rem would've blocked it anyway.

Even though Cloud, the wolf, was far away, he could have retrieved his falling axe to intercept.

After all, he'd already been fighting like that—one enemy getting pressured, the other jumping in to help.

It was the kind of annoying fight where you couldn't just focus on beating down one guy.

But instead of stabbing, the bastard behind him ran.

"I've got the front!"

And even had the nerve to pull a cheap trick on his way out. He pretended to charge—then bolted.

His innate foresight allowed him to twist pressure into a form of psychological warfare.

Corwin used that.

He flared his aura and charged as if he really meant it.

It looked completely real.

All that rage from earlier—about the ghouls and everything—he seemed to have forgotten it in an instant.

But Rem knew it was all bluster. The act Corwin had just pulled—he'd seen it a thousand times sparring with Enkrid. He was used to it.

'Fake.'

His judgment was instant. And his hand didn't stop moving.

The axe fell straight toward the red-eyed assassin.

Red Eyes had already drawn twin krises and raised them to block.

The curved daggers and the axe met midair in a power struggle—but the daggers were quickly forced down.

Clang! Crack!

Rem added force and dragged the axe downward.

Tididik!

One dagger shattered, and the axe skewed diagonally.

"Grahk!"

Red Eyes' ear was severed. He instantly began to phase into mist—but that trick was useless against a weapon like this.

The axe Rem wielded wasn't just a heavy tool. It had absorbed magic and could suppress sorcery. It was sorcery, molded into form.

Throwing spells at it was a mistake.

"Damn... that's the real deal."

Rem tried to track the bastard's aura as he vanished—but this time, there was no helping it.

He hadn't expected him to run like that.

What a waste of effort guarding against it.

Still—

Gone was gone.

Rem turned back to Red Eyes and said:

"Even if our affinities had matched better, the result would've been the same."

He'd grasped the nature of his opponent's power—analyzed the spiritual imbalance and made his assessment.

But Red Eyes hadn't comprehended any of the spiritual mechanics Rem referred to.

He had barely reached knight level by awakening and subduing a sealed ancient soul. That was his foundation.

'That bastard Corwin...'

Instead, he saw Corwin fleeing and concluded that the situation had gone to shit. Just like a ghoul's reproductive organ.

One moment of hesitation could be fatal.

'Leave it to me.'

Then came that voice again. The one that had tempted him before.

The whisper of the sealed ancient soul.

Normally, he would've ignored it without hesitation.

The ancient soul was a kind of vampire—driven by a single desire.

Blood. Blood. More blood.

A being deranged by hunger.

But now? Now, if he stayed still, he would die.

"He said never to do this..."

Barnas had forbidden it. But seeing no other choice, Red Eyes offered a fragment of his soul to the ancient vampire.

Not the whole thing. He meant to bargain—to surrender only part, and retain control over the rest.

It was arrogant thinking.

He had dreamed of eventually subjugating this vampire soul, then seeking out other ancient spirits—becoming a soul-knight without precedent.

"This is my body now."

The ancient vampire's Will instantly seized control of the flesh. It only took a sliver of time.

"This is the mortal world..."

The vampire spoke. Rem scratched his ear. He didn't understand the language.

Of course not. The vampire came from an age long past—their tongue was different.

Did it matter?

Not really.

The vampire's eyes glowed red—hypnotic and sinister. He stared directly at Rem.

"Kneel before me. So we may finally meet eye-to-eye..."

Crack! Splorch!

"What the hell are you saying?"

The vampire realized his charm spell had failed. At the same time, he realized something worse—he hadn't even seen the axe swing.

It was already embedded in his skull.

His head split vertically—Veins and sinew tangled, trying to stitch the two halves back together.

It was a nauseating sight. Blood and sinew knotting together in plain view as the head tried to regenerate.

"You bastard—!"

He raged before his skull had even finished knitting.

"How many pieces can you be chopped into?"

Rem muttered indifferently. And brought the axe down again.

Crack!

The vampire only managed to raise his arm after the axe had passed. A delayed reaction.

Even with all his powers, the ancient vampire had only just taken over the body. He didn't have time to adjust.

Even if he had, it wouldn't have mattered. The gap between them was too wide.

Rem's axe danced. The vampire had no more words.

The next swing shattered his tongue and fangs.

The body split into dozens of chunks. They twitched—then pfft, vanished in a puff of gray smoke.

Rem flicked his axe through the air and muttered:

"Filth clung to me."

At least the axe didn't seem to hate it. That was a relief.

Rem turned his gaze toward the direction the bastard had fled.

One of them got away. But he'd done what he needed to.

He stepped forward. Whether to chase him down or to rejoin the commander—it was time to move.