A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

Shinar stepped forward next—and lost again. Of course, she hadn't fought with her life on the line.

It was, how should one put it... maybe a case of poor compatibility, or perhaps simply a gap in skill.

Enkrid didn't consider himself exceptional among knights, but even he was surprised to encounter someone so clearly superior. Especially since the opponent hadn't even tried to kill him. He had no choice but to acknowledge defeat.

Overdeer had driven them both back, yet no one was seriously injured.

After the fight, Overdeer's gaze shifted to Audin.

His eyes resembled those of a fairy—devoid of emotion, impassive, like dull, colorless orbs.

"I've heard of you. The Heretic, Audin," Overdeer said.

As an Apostle of the God of War and one with sacred talents, Audin was too famous to be ignored. Overdeer, who bore one of the names of the Seven Martyrs of Plenty—Paladins representing the Church—was bound to know him.

A brief silence settled with the descending sunset, muffling all sound. Even the monsters' cries from afar had gone quiet. Only the rustling grass and wind remained.

***

Caw—k.

By some coincidence, Rem, Ragna, and Jaxon had all gathered at the training ground outside the barracks. Over their heads flew a crow.

Caw!

It was chased by a magpie, flapping after it like in some territorial squabble. Birds, for some reason, were making a racket above their heads as if holding a group drill today.

They'd already heard the cawing of crows multiple times.

"How many is that now?"

Rem muttered, glancing at the sky.

The twins from the West curled their fingers and replied,

"Third time?"

"Black birds are showing up a lot today."

Rem murmured again, an ominous feeling creeping in.

Crows were intelligent—often used to carry messages. However, training and handling them was notoriously difficult. They frequently wandered off in the middle of missions.

Because they were smart, without proper trainers or druids, they would often just eat the food and disappear. The one that had just flown overhead probably wasn't trained.

There wasn't any urgent message for the border guards either.

"Tch."

Rem clicked his tongue, irritated.

In the West, there was a superstition that crows flying at sunset brought bad luck. Rem didn't believe it—not really.

But he ◆ Nоvеlіgһt ◆ (Only on Nоvеlіgһt) did know where the rumor came from.

A long time ago, a shaman who spread curses used crows to rain plague over the heads of Western tribes. That was it.

Still, having heard the tale all throughout his childhood, it left a lingering unease.

And now, seeing the people who'd randomly gathered here—he felt like asking something.

It was unlikely, but maybe they didn't know. Or maybe they knew, but pretended not to.

And, just maybe, they knew something Rem didn't.

That chance was about as likely as a lazy, directionless fool going out on a solo walk and managing to return on time.

But still, it was worth the perspective.

"You guys know the Captain's weakness, right?"

Rem threw the question out casually.

Jaxon, who'd been whittling a piece of wood with his knife, glanced at him but said nothing.

Still, even just a glance was something. Normally, he'd completely ignore Rem no matter what he said.

"Where'd you lose your tongue, huh? You blood-crazed brat."

Rem snapped at the wildcat and turned to call on another.

Naturally, Ragna ignored him. He probably didn't even realize he was being called.

Rem's title for him was wrong from the start—so his ears likely filtered Rem's words out entirely. And at the moment, Ragna was immersed in his first proper training in a long time.

To be precise, he'd recently taught—more like beat down—Rophod, and realized something new.

He was now reflecting on that.

Swoosh, swoosh.

Ragna absentmindedly swung his sword up and down. Rem's forehead twitched with visible veins.

"That bastard..."

Should he chop off an arm with an axe to get a response? Or maybe cast a curse on him?

Rem was seriously contemplating it when—

Jaxon finally muttered under his breath.

"Lacks technique in channeling power into a single strike."

Brief and blunt, but accurate.

Still, Rem didn't like the tone. Nor the attitude.

"Should I hook you up with a speech coach or something? Did you forget how to talk politely?"

Just because they were knight-tier now didn't mean Rem or Jaxon had changed. Same for Ragna.

"He'll take a while again."

Ragna, mid-swing, finally opened his mouth.

He'd filtered out the unnecessary and responded only to what mattered.

What he said was fair.

Everyone had seen Enkrid.

Whether slow or roundabout, he always advanced toward his goal. He wasn't the kind to stop walking if it meant getting what he wanted.

He had awakened Will and reached the level above knights. Enkrid had changed.

He'd learned techniques, developed his own swordsmanship, and progressed to a dazzling degree. Watching him had become enjoyable in itself.

Lua Gharne had said that if she stayed near him too long, she'd end up watching instead of training herself—so she purposely didn't come this time.

That's how fast Enkrid was growing.

Compared to when he first arrived as squad leader—there was no comparison.

Still, that didn't mean they were satisfied.

Why? Because it felt like a waste.

The Will inside him was a force so great it could make him forget exhaustion. But no matter how fine the steel, if it isn't honed, it's just a blunt club. If it isn't forged into a proper shape, it's hard to wield.

To Rem, Jaxon, and Ragna, Enkrid's weakness was clear. He never tired, thanks to his absurdly dense Will—but he didn't channel much of it into a single blow.

It was a matter of technique. Rem already knew. He asked just to be sure.

Fortunately, no one had any secret solutions.

As expected.

They were all the same as him.

"I'd rather teach a ghoul to talk than keep chatting with you two."

Rem spat the words at them and turned away.

It was a fluke they even ended up talking.

Everyone knew what they weren't saying. And none of them believed Enkrid was unaware of it either.

A guy who was always swinging his sword and reviewing battles wouldn't be that clueless. Of course he knew.

***

Audin knelt on one knee before the Saintess and looked ahead.

He had witnessed the fight between the Prophet Overdeer and Enkrid—and before it even began, he had foreseen its outcome.

'Not good.'

There was something that not only he, but Rem, Ragna, and Jaxon all understood.

Enkrid had an unfailing well of Will—but the bucket he used to draw from it was too small.

The amount of water one could draw at a time depended on the size of the bucket.

That was Enkrid's current state.

Overdeer's staff suddenly emitted light, and Enkrid was repeatedly pushed back trying to deflect it.

It must've been disorienting.

Perhaps even humiliating.

Among the techniques learned by monk-like warrior-priests—known as Monks—was Sacred Penetration, which bypassed armor and struck the interior directly.

Holy knights and crusaders trained in the technique of Iron Body before becoming full knights.

Since everyone mastered and polished Iron Body, it was only natural that methods to break it would also be developed.

Monks were those who trained in such techniques.

Reaching a level where they could break or bypass Iron Body was the next step.

'I haven't taught him that yet.'

Audin thought to himself.

Sacred Penetration caused joints to seize and limbs to stiffen. Not a fatal blow, but an annoying one.

In a fight between knights, even minor stiffness could easily determine the winner.

If it had been Rem or Ragna, they might've erupted with Will or magic in a single burst to repel the sacred power.

Enkrid had done something similar.

But the opponent kept repeating it—layering irritants that slowly disrupted the body's movement.

The more they clashed, the worse it got.

Sacred energy filled with intent interfered with his physical actions.

And yet, Enkrid didn't fall easily.

"Curious,"

he muttered, smiling mid-combat, still swinging his sword.

The sword was fierce, wild, and fast.

For someone without awakened divinity, it was difficult to follow.

Miss even one detail in the movement of the ankles, or the whole body, and you'd lose track of the strike point. It was that precise.

But that was all.

The balance between his trained body and his unleashed Will didn't align.

He had strength—but not much Will was packed into each strike.

Not that it was lacking in a normal sense.

The opponent was just... too much.

Overdeer was a fully formed warrior.

He lacked nothing in speed, strength, or technique. His sacred power constantly struck Enkrid's body.

Enkrid could endure. But he could not win.

That was Audin's conclusion—and the outcome proved him right.

It hadn't looked like Enkrid fought with everything he had.

Same with Overdeer.

Then came Shinar, but her match-up was even worse.

Her strikes might've been fatal to Overdeer—if she could find an opening to land them.

But creating such an opening was far from easy.

"It's an attack that won't work on someone clad in sacred power."

Shinar's signature technique, the Spirit Blade, was ineffective against Sacred Armor. When sacred energy enveloped the whole body like steel plating, it became Sacred Armor—capable of deflecting most forms of attack.

The faint glow surrounding Overdeer's body was proof enough. Shinar's Spirit Blade struck true—but the condensed blade of refined energy shattered with a crisp clang.

The aftershock did cause Overdeer's glow to flicker briefly, but ultimately, the blade broke apart and vanished while the sacred light reasserted itself. Between the two forces, the stronger one would dominate—and right now, Overdeer's sacred power was vastly superior. So much so that comparison felt pointless.

Shinar had no choice but to lose. Of course, she hadn't used her trump card either. Even if she had, victory wouldn't have come easily.

And so, both of them were defeated.

"Did you come here to rescue the Saintess?"

Overdeer asked before the last of the purple twilight had faded.

The wind stirred his hair. The scarred ground and scattered debris made it clear that knights had fought here.

It would've been strange if the surroundings remained untouched.

The pursuers of the Saintess had already withdrawn long ago. Among them, the one named Alma had been watching Overdeer for some time.

Would Enkrid and Shinar join forces now? Or would they call Audin to fight alongside them?

If that happened, they might have a chance. In fact, if one of the three were sacrificed, victory would be guaranteed. If they were truly determined to kill their opponent, that was a viable path.

But would that man—their captain—choose such a route?

No. He wouldn't.

Then would he retreat? Also unlikely.

So what would happen now?

Audin had already made up his mind—at least halfway.

'If necessary, I will take her place.'

Even if it meant losing years of his life, even if it meant being beaten for the rest of his days—he would live that way.

It was something only he could do, and so he would do it.

Enkrid wouldn't back down no matter what was said. Even if it meant death—he was that kind of man. So he couldn't be left to face this alone.

"You should step back now,"

Overdeer said again.

The interesting part was that Enkrid wasn't the kind of man to obey just because he'd lost once.

"One more time?"

he asked.

Whether it was a spar or a real fight, he wouldn't leave things like this.

His will surged, igniting his blue eyes with a fiery gleam.

At that moment, Overdeer felt something stir within him. A premonition.

That this man—no matter what happened—would never give up.

***

'He's no pushover.'

Naturally, Enkrid knew his own weakness. When using Iron Wall, he had time to prepare. Given a moment, he could draw out more Will than usual. That's what the technique proved.

But this wasn't the same situation.

Now, he had to inject that much Will into the narrow sliver of time that was a single sword swing.

He'd already tried several times—but with little success.

'Hmm.'

Enkrid adjusted his grip on his sword, organizing his thoughts.

Now then—was this a crisis?

It certainly seemed like it. This might be the greatest crisis since he began repeating today.

If death approached—if the opponent showed a killing intent—then fine. He would die and restart.

But what if the opponent had no such intent? Then what?

That was the real issue.

Overdeer, the holy knight before him, had no intention of killing him.

Thwack!

Even when swinging his rod, Overdeer merely struck, never crushed or shattered. Which meant Enkrid would only endure—nothing more.

He never even considered teaming up with Shinar or Audin to kill the opponent.

Not because it required a sacrifice.

Rather, because the opponent had come alone and stood proudly. He would meet that with the same stance.

Joining forces to kill him would be a path Enkrid would never take, even if it cost him his life.

Then what was left?

"Stick your head in."

He heard the Ferryman's voice again.

"Go ahead, shove your head in and die."

The voice echoed endlessly.

What it offered was the easy path. Truly the simplest route.

"Die that way. Die and start over. That'll be enough."

"You'll get another today to repeat. That too is a wall—one you can overcome."

To Enkrid, those words sounded like this:

"Abandon today for the sake of tomorrow."

They were urging him to pick second-best.

Not to live the best possible today—but to settle.

He'd been hearing the same in dreams these past nights—and now even in waking hallucination.

If Overdeer wouldn't kill him, he should find a way to repeat today himself.

Doing so would give him another chance to surpass Overdeer.

But he would be condemned to live an eternal today.

"Ugh, I really hate that."

Enkrid muttered as he took another hit from the rod and was forced back.

"What are you saying?"

Overdeer asked.

But Enkrid simply shook his head.

"Talking to myself."

If anyone were to ask why he insisted on taking the harder path despite knowing everything—

Enkrid would answer this:

If there were an imperfect tomorrow and a perfect today, he would always choose the imperfect tomorrow.

"Stubbornness changes nothing."

Came the Ferryman's whisper.

"Persistence won't alter the outcome."

Overdeer's voice overlapped with it.

But who could say for sure?

In truth, it wasn't just stubbornness. It was obsession. No—closer to conviction.

Still, Enkrid did what he always did.

He stood, sword in hand, unmoved. Same as before.

Nothing had changed. He had lost—but that didn't mean he'd step back.

"Why are you doing this?"

Overdeer asked.

Enkrid spoke plainly.

"I heard the Church locks up girls labeled 'Saintess' and drains their sacred power dry."

He didn't mince words—cut straight to the point.

Shilma flinched at his remark. What nonsense was this man spouting?

Only then did Overdeer's gaze shift behind Audin—toward the fallen girl.