A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

It was just outside the inn door the administrator had left open. A hooded figure stood there, and something about him looked familiar. Upon closer inspection, Enkrid realized it was one of the people who had observed him warily when he first entered the city.

Enkrid gazed at him without emotion.

The administrator, still facing forward, said without turning around,

"You mustn't. Many aim to harm distinguished guests. Let's head to the estate immediately."

"Damn you,"

the hooded man growled, baring his teeth at the administrator. Clearly, the two didn't get along.

Then his gaze shifted back to Enkrid. Now both pairs of eyes were on him—pressing, almost as if demanding a decision. It felt less like a simple choice and more like a diverging path.

But... was it really a fork in the road?

Would a wrong choice now trigger something, just as the Boatman once warned?

Enkrid briefly entertained the thought—but he didn't hesitate. As long as it was his decision, either path would do.

And truth be told, he found the hooded man's offer more interesting.

The administrator, ✧ NоvеIight ✧ (Original source) on the other hand, gave him a nagging feeling. Not enough to justify a beating, but something was off. Enkrid stepped outside and gave the administrator a pat on the shoulder.

"I'll hear what he has to say. I'll come find you by evening."

"My lord..."

the snake-eyed administrator called out, but Enkrid didn't look back.

Lua Gharne followed after him.

Standing in front of the hooded man, Enkrid waited as the man said,

"The administrator doesn't care for the city. He only looks after his own gain."

His voice was low—inaudible to the administrator behind them.

"Then why not speak louder?"

Enkrid asked.

"Because now's the time to stay hidden. Follow me."

The man turned briskly and moved into the alley, not hesitating for a moment.

Though the sun was up, the alleys remained dim. Winter air made it chillier than usual, and a heavy gloom seemed to hang over the place.

But Enkrid followed without pause.

"Hurry!"

The man urged, and Enkrid obliged with calm steps.

"That path is dangerous!"

the administrator shouted from behind.

Enkrid ignored him.

As they walked, that familiar unpleasant sensation crept up again—the feeling of being watched by something unseen.

"Feel like something's watching us?"

Enkrid asked as they walked. His pace was fast, though not quite a run.

Lua Gharne puffed her cheeks slightly.

"Nope."

Was it just nerves? Or was it the city's pervasive rot?

Hard to say.

"Damn."

The man ahead suddenly stopped.

The alley had opened into a wider space—broad enough for five people to walk side by side. They entered a plaza-like area filled with people.

Seeing that, the man halted.

Enkrid grabbed his cloak.

"A trap? You a cultist, by any chance?"

The hooded man pulled back his hood and replied.

"I'm the Lord of this city!"

The lord? Out here?

He was a man in his thirties with light brown hair. He glanced anxiously around.

"The situation is dire. We'll open a path—let's break through."

As he spoke, two more hooded figures dashed in from one side. They wielded short spears and seemed fairly competent—maybe good enough for the Border Guard, if given some basic retraining. Their footwork faltered slightly, which Enkrid attributed to weak lower bodies.

In truth, they hadn't rested for days, keeping watch for any threats from the Border Guard's arriving forces.

But their enemies had moved faster.

The lord had been ousted and was now on the run. He didn't want to die, nor leave the city.

He needed outside help to reclaim control, but avoiding the grip of those ruling the city was no easy feat.

They had slowly built up a small force to resist—and then news came that reinforcements from the Border Guard had arrived.

He wanted to explain the city's current state and ask for help in ridding it of those who'd turned it into a cesspool of drugs, prostitution, and gambling.

But first, they had to survive. And these people had to believe him.

So they had begun moving—but the criminal guilds had acted first.

How they moved so quickly, even the lord didn't know. They always seemed one step ahead.

"Funny, you're the lord and yet seem chummy with the administrator,"

Enkrid said dryly.

"That bastard isn't on my side!"

The lord's voice rose in frustration. He drew his shortsword, eyes scanning the surroundings.

Could they make it out?

The situation was worse than grim.

"My lord, we'll buy you some time."

One of the spear-wielders spoke. Looking back, they saw enemies now blocking the path they had just used.

They were surrounded. Easily over a hundred foes.

At the center stood three figures radiating presence: a beastkin with one ear, a disfigured half-elf with scaly, pockmarked skin and a twisted nose and mouth, and a seated female swordswoman.

The woman stood out—wearing armor that emphasized her chest, she had wild red curls and a playful, sultry smile. Not exactly beautiful, but the combination of figure and expression made her hard to look away from.

"My Lord, where are you headed? That Frokk and the gentleman with you look like my guests,"

the beastkin with the missing ear said. He was known as Windblade—the man ruling the city.

He wore a scimitar at his waist, said to slice faster than wind when drawn.

Just as knights earned epithets, so too did anyone remotely famous.

The half-elf sneered at Enkrid, his hideous face twisted in contempt.

He specialized in poison darts, and ever since a childhood mishap disfigured him, he couldn't stomach anyone with a decent face. Seeing Enkrid made his blood boil.

"Wow. Handsome,"

the woman in revealing armor said, her tone dripping with mock admiration.

She'd learned a strange form of charm magic as a child—seducing with body and smile. She was already laying the groundwork to cast it.

All she needed was for the target to look at her—even briefly—and the spell would latch on.

And Enkrid did look.

His gaze was calm and detached, but she thought that was enough. She believed her charm had taken hold.

"You lot!"

The lord's eyes went wide.

These three had always claimed to be enemies—hadn't they fought bloody battles for control of the city?

Now they stood together, waiting for him. How could he not be shocked?

"That one's not really my type,"

the woman said, sticking out her tongue. Enemy or not, she looked rather pleased.

The lord shook his head, close to a breakdown.

"No choice. I'll open a path. Go back to the Border Guard and report the situation. I hear General Abnaier is stationed there. He won't ignore this city."

The lord's resolve was firm.

Even if it cost his life, he would rid the city of these parasites.

He drew his sword with grim determination.

"I'll die here. This is the end of what I can do. May the goddess of fortune bless Cross Guard, and show mercy to its people."

Beside him, Lua Gharne thought:

Their intelligence gathering is awful.

'No one seems to know who Enkrid is,' she mused.

Enkrid thought the same.

Not even the three guild bosses recognized him.

"You've got some skill. Ever think about staying? I'll take you under me. From now on, call me Master,"

Windblade offered.

Even with generosity, Enkrid could only see him as squire-level.

And that was generous. Even with the beastkin's innate athleticism, he was unimpressive.

Three people ruled this entire city? Were they this weak?

Was there some other power at work? Numbers?

Didn't seem like it.

There was the self-proclaimed lord standing beside him—maybe he'd know.

If this was all just part of a power struggle, Enkrid had no intention of picking a side.

But then again, someone tried to kill him, poison his food, and now this bastard was asking him to join.

Clearly, something had to be done.

Enkrid casually raised his hand.

"Which one of you tampered with breakfast and threatened the innkeeper?"

His tone was relaxed, far from frightened or nervous.

The three guild leaders scowled.

What was this man relying on?

Did he not grasp the situation?

"So what if we did?"

The half-elf sneered. His lips twisted in what might've been a smile—though it looked more like a spoiled child pouting.

"Don't mess with food,"

Enkrid said.

"Screw you."

The half-elf made a move. With an upward flick of his hand, two specially-forged needles flew toward Enkrid's eyes.

Needles, in name—but closer to short, thick blades.

His aim was excellent—targeting small areas like the eyes wasn't easy.

"Watch out!"

the lord cried.

Enkrid lazily waved his short sword—Aitri's gift—in front of his face. As if swatting flies.

Ding-ding!

The thick needles bounced off his blade.

No one could even see what happened.

It was simple—he saw them coming, so he put his sword in their path.

No flair or fancy technique needed.

Looking past the stunned attackers, Enkrid saw a low building and a clear patch of blue sky. It was a crisp winter morning.

The sky was clean—the city was not. Filthy, reeking, littered with waste.

"You ever hear of the Gilpin Guild? Someone from there came here and vanished."

He asked casually, eyes on the sky.

"...They capture people,"

the lord admitted, nervously.

To Enkrid, the situation didn't seem bad.

He'd planned to take action anyway—and now they'd all shown up together. How convenient.

"Lua."

"I got it. I'll guard the lord."

As Enkrid strode forward, Windblade drew his blade.

Shhhh.

The wide scimitar gleamed in the light.

Faster than wind, they said.

Enkrid barely looked. A glance, then his focus spread out again.

The half-elf readied six poisoned darts between his fingers—his life's work.

The woman stepped forward, smiling.

Her charm magic was already in play. No one had ever resisted it before.

She approached gracefully, breasts swaying.

Any man would've looked.

"Oh my, you look like—"

She never finished.

Enkrid's sword swept sideways as he walked—and split her skull open.

Just then, the poisoned darts flew.

He knew only the tips were coated. The half-elf refused to cover his precious hands, even for safety.

Enkrid snatched each dart from the air, fingers carefully avoiding the tips.

What others couldn't even see, he intercepted with ease.

Knights were beyond human—they were disasters in human form, capable of cleaving hundreds alone.

This wasn't even a fight.

The half-elf gawked, speechless.

Windblade lunged, swinging his blade horizontally.

Enkrid calmly brought his sword down vertically, slicing through Windblade's weapon and cleaving his chest wide open.

Rrriip!

His chest muscles split, exposing a twitching heart.

Lua Gharne turned her gaze away from the grisly sight.

She'd split a heart too, but that had been out of necessity. This... this was different.

"More, aren't there?"

Enkrid asked after killing two in an instant.

"Kill him!"

the panicked half-elf shrieked.

None of them knew who they were dealing with.

Some were high on drugs. Enkrid swung his sword.

The first attacker got a new lid on his skull.

The second had his face smashed into nothing by a punch.

More swings followed—but it barely qualified as a battle. Few dared approach.

After just five slashes, the area was clear.

Enkrid flicked his sword through the air.

Drip-drip.

Blood splattered onto the ground.

They'd added black steel to the blade—heavier, but more satisfying to swing.

He'd cleaved two men in a single stroke earlier. It cut like silk.

This sword could rightfully be called a masterpiece. Aitri's craftsmanship only seemed to improve.

"So, you said you're the lord?"

Enkrid turned to face him.

The man's jaw was slack. He looked about ready to drool.

"Y-yes... yes, I am."

He finally answered.

His expression said he'd gone far past shock—he'd forgotten how to speak.