A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

The Holy Nation had dispatched five people to track down the Saintess.

The core team was composed of three: Paladin Alma, Priestess Shilma, and Inquisitor Bert.

The actual combat was handled by Alma and his two disciples, and Alma's strength was, without question, overwhelming.

Of course, the highest military force within the Church was the Holy Knights. It was said they possessed power equivalent to knights of the continent.

That didn't mean the Paladin Order was weak.

Within their ranks were individuals whose skills rivaled knights as well.

More importantly, they had the full support of the Church.

That alone made paladins worthy of respect wherever they went.

Still, not all paladins were like that.

In the Order of Plenty, if your skills weren't recognized, you wouldn't even be granted a name. You'd be referred to only as someone's disciple or a trainee warrior—just as Alma's disciples were now.

The lack of names was a symbolic gesture: once you entered the Church, you became like fallen fruit or dead leaves—meant to forget all you had in the world and devote yourself entirely to the service of God.

So being granted a name was proof that you'd received the baptism of Plenty, that the power of God had descended upon you, and that your abilities had been acknowledged. To carry the name Alma meant one could walk proudly among those who revered them.

And now Alma had personally taken part in this tiresome chase—supposedly in case his strength might be needed for unforeseen circumstances.

"So then, where is the Saintess?"

Alma's brow furrowed deeply. The scowl on his face clearly expressed just how irritated he was.

He was truly displeased.

Displeased that he had to personally take part in something like this, and even more so that the matter hadn't been resolved and had required him to cross the border.

"Did you not know the Saint Child had such talents?"

The voice came from a priestess standing about three steps away from Alma and his disciples.

Her name was Shilma, the one in charge of the monastery-fortress. She didn't care for Alma's impatience, but she shared the urgency of the situation.

They had to capture the Saintess—fast.

The man who would answer them felt the same.

His name was Bert, standing before Alma and Shilma with his hands calmly folded.

Though his appearance was plain, the others clearly paid attention to what he said. Bert wasn't a powerful warrior, but he was a seasoned expert in tracking people.

He glanced between Alma and Shilma and spoke.

"Yes, Brother Alma. Based on my analysis, I believe we'll catch her before the day is over. Priestess Shilma, only after the incident did we learn she was raised by a solitary ranger from the mountains."

Alma's brow twitched.

He already didn't like a single thing about this, and now here was more unfamiliar nonsense to irritate him further. His two disciples watched him nervously.

Their master had been unable to indulge his urges for days.

Once they caught the runaway Saintess, it was clear she wouldn't be returning with her limbs intact.

Both disciples knew their master's cruel tendencies well.

Wasn't his favorite thing when heretics resisted? Or more accurately, when he got to beat them into submission?

Breaking bones and bodies was a hobby of his.

Bert glanced briefly at Alma's twitching brow and added an explanation.

"They're sometimes called independent combatants..."

Independent rangers—also known as autonomous fighters—a name used by those in the know.

One scholar even theorized that they had different lifespans than ordinary humans and called them Highlanders.

Most people just called them Highlanders or mountain folk.

They were named that way because they rarely left their territories in the mountains.

Their origins were unclear. In cities, those who fit in well were called insiders; those who didn't were outsiders. Highlanders were extreme outsiders.

Origin aside, they were undeniably unusual beings.

In a world overrun by monsters and beasts, they could live alone—or at most, in groups of two or three.

They didn't seek work, nor did they desire anything.

All they wanted was to continue living on their land.

"You're talking about Highlanders?"

Shilma interjected mid-explanation.

"Yes, that's correct."

Bert replied while lightly stroking the brooch pinned to his chest.

Seven grape-like beads—a symbol of the God of Plenty and the Seven Martyrs. It soothed his nerves a little.

If this mission failed, he wouldn't die... but he would lose much.

"Don't Highlanders have stark white skin and eyes that resemble beasts?"

Shilma recalled reading that Highlanders had adapted through convergent evolution due to long-term survival in the wild.

Eyes that could see clearly even in total darkness.

Shilma had spent several months near the Saintess. Her eyes looked human.

"She's not descended from Highlanders. It seems another mountain person raised and trained her."

That was Bert's conclusion. It was speculation—but close to the truth.

Highlanders were experts in mountain terrain and masters of tracking.

Within their territory, they were never caught, and no one dared pursue them.

They were masters of traps and ambushes.

That's why, after gathering enough information, Bert changed his approach—because of the Saintess's background.

He, too, was a skilled tracker. Like Enkrid, he didn't just see dots—he saw the lines her movement carved through space.

'Is she just running aimlessly?'

Highlanders litter their domains with hundreds of traps and memorize them all.

To them, tracking, fleeing, and hunting are daily life. Chasing behind them blindly would be pointless.

If you only looked at where she had been, you would certainly fail.

That's why Bert arranged for her to be driven forward and predicted where she'd move next.

Now that he understood what # Nоvеlight # kind of girl the Saintess was.

A monstrous mountain-dweller who could memorize the position of every stone in a place after staying there for three days—that was who the Saintess really was.

'If we lose her even after all this...'

That thought fanned the anxiety smoldering in Bert's heart.

If that happened, they'd have to return to the site of her initial appearance and restart the search from scratch.

But in that new search, there would be no place for him.

So she had to be captured now.

'Whatever happens, we end this here.'

He had no desire to follow her into the mountains—where the one who trained her likely lived.

Highlanders used traps, arrows, and poison. In their own territory, they were monsters in human form.

Even the famous Glacier Rangers—Guardians of the Ice—had developed their techniques from Highlander methods.

If it came to that, he was done for.

It would mean mission failure—and having to report that to Alma, which terrified him.

That's why Bert wanted this over. No—he needed it over.

Fortunately, he had krona to hire people, the strength to hold his own, and enough information to predict the Saintess's movements.

He had even hired several hunters familiar with the terrain to guide them, and brought along Shilma and Alma.

They set up near the northern woods beyond Fellheim.

Once in position, Shilma used a divine incantation to hide the party's presence.

"O Lord who watches over us, conceal us for a time from the eye of the sun."

The spell deepened the shadows slightly. That darker area marked the barrier's domain.

"As long as she doesn't cross that edge, she won't notice us first," Shilma explained.

It was a barrier invisible to the eye but unmistakably present.

Alma waited with a face full of scorn. Just crushing the monsters they encountered along the way hadn't calmed his rage.

Bert was busy running through contingencies in his head—what to say, what to do if the Saintess had already slipped past.

He'd need a defense if things went south.

Time passed.

Just as he was holding back even the urge to urinate, he spotted a shadow in the distance.

He exhaled a sigh of relief.

The shadow drew closer, and her outline came into view. A shabby cloak hung down to her calves. He didn't even need to see her face to know.

It was the Saintess.

'Thank goodness.'

Bert felt genuine gratitude toward her for walking straight into their trap.

Now he wouldn't need to make excuses. The sun wasn't setting yet, so he could probably have dinner in the city tonight.

The chase had been the hard part—what came after would be simple.

"Saint Child."

Shilma spoke. As she did, the black veil—visible only to her—faded and vanished.

Alma, his two disciples, and Bert sensed something disappearing. They hadn't seen it, but had felt its presence blocking them earlier.

Now it was gone.

Only now could they recognize what had been there—a spell of perception inhibition.

Shilma, too, had recognized their target.

And then the Saintess responded—and stood her ground.

Alma didn't wait.

He raised his war hammer, dangling at his side.

Just as his disciples had predicted, he planned to break both her legs and drag her back.

Her so-called "divinity" was supposed to heal her anyway, wasn't it?

She wasn't any different from some damn Frokk—and yet she had caused him all this trouble.

That was an unforgivable crime.

***

Enkrid perceived the situation in the simplest terms possible.

North. Pursuers. Saintess.

With just those three words, he instantly determined what needed to be done.

"I run."

Bathed in autumn sunlight, he sprinted—over hills, through monsters, ignoring everything in his path.

It would've been great to find a trail, but luck rarely came easy.

Isn't there a saying that says when you're dumb, your legs do the work?

Enkrid was willing to admit he was dumb if that's what it took.

He pushed his legs so hard his heart and guts felt like they were burning. Sweat began to pour. Just because he was a knight didn't mean he'd stopped being human. Of course he sweat. Of course he panted.

The only difference from a regular person was that he could run absurdly far and breathe far deeper.

There were even knights trained in Will who could hold their breath underwater for over an hour.

Enkrid propelled himself forward with powerful legs and zigzag movements.

Right now, he didn't need to hold back his breath, so he exhaled freely and picked up speed.

Boom!

With every stride, the ground erupted beneath him, leaving clear marks in his wake.

Wrong direction? Wrong path? He didn't care. Whatever was lacking, he'd cover with his legs.

"You'll just be exhausted by the time the real fight starts."

Shinar said something—but he ignored it.

Truth be told, Enkrid knew a much easier way to handle this.

For example—where would the Paladin Order go after capturing the Saintess?

Wouldn't they head to the nearest city?

They wouldn't embark on a long journey without supplies. That was certain. Catching them there would be far easier.

But he didn't want to do that. His gut didn't want to do that. His instincts warned him otherwise.

It was like when he saw the cracked skulls of monsters and the signs of battle.

"That's the work of a nasty bastard."

Hadn't Shinar said the same?

You could tell a lot from the remnants of a fight.

The presence of a persistent, cruel fighter.

There was also witness testimony.

Deutsch had mentioned someone among them looked absolutely furious.

And the rest seemed to be walking on eggshells around that person.

A Church member, clearly angry, with a rotten personality.

Was such a man really the type to just say "mission accomplished" after capturing the Saintess?

Not a chance.

That alone was enough reason for Enkrid to run.

If his legs had to suffer a bit more because of his dumb head, and that could reduce someone else's pain—even a little...

Especially if that someone was an innocent child?

Given the clarity of the facts, Enkrid had no reason not to run.

Bwoop.

At that moment, a faint sound tickled his ear from far ahead.

"There."

Shinar pointed with his right index finger. It wasn't just the sound—they had also found tracks and signs of movement.

Beyond a short stretch of faded yellow grass. In the distance, a ridge of the Gigant mountain range stretched across the horizon.

The peaks reached so high they brushed the clouds.

The footprints they found weren't obvious. They had to inspect the ground closely to see them—easy to miss otherwise.

"There's a trace of divine power."

Audin said, frowning.

Enkrid didn't care how Audin felt.

He simply moved forward. This was the kind of action the situation called for.

Boom!

He kicked off the ground again. Dirt burst behind him as his body pushed past its limits—compressing space, killing time.

He had no hesitation in pitying the Saintess who had been captured.

And when he arrived—

He saw a child swinging a short blade, right leg broken.

The blade cut through empty air. A man, once within its arc, backed away with a mocking grin.

Enkrid saw everything.

The thunderclap of his sprint had already put the five people in front of the Saintess on high alert.

Dragging light and afterimages behind him, Enkrid came to a halt.

Crash!

Even his stop wasn't quiet.

He stomped down to brake, kicking up dust that clouded the air around him.

From within that cloud, a pair of clear blue eyes locked onto the five enemies ahead.

Up close, the child who ought to be pitied gripped her dagger in a reverse grip—eyes cold and colorless.

To stay calm in such a moment...

Her leg was clearly broken, yet she hadn't even screamed. Of course, Enkrid couldn't know all that.

He simply assessed the scene, gauged the state of things, and his instincts told him all he needed.

"What are you supposed to be?"

The man with the perpetually furrowed brow asked. Clearly the type who wore a scowl like a uniform.

Enkrid believed that sometimes, fists worked better than words.

So he didn't answer.

Audin hadn't even caught up yet.

Enkrid's foot pressed into the ground. His ankle and knee flexed softly before exploding outward in one clean motion.

The movements were fluid—so much so that despite the loud stomp, his body launched forward like a swallow diving for prey.

The scowling man reacted—clumsily.

Which, to his credit, meant he wasn't half-bad.

But that was all he was.

As he raised his left arm like a shield and swung his warhammer upward with his right, Enkrid seized his face with his left hand and kicked at the back of his heel with his left foot—driving the man's skull into the ground like a hammer striking an anvil.

CRACK!

The sound of that skull meeting dirt confirmed it—it was a very successful impact.