A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

"Would you be so kind as to lead me to where the captive is being held?"

Enkrid suspected that the person dispatched by the Gilpin Guild might already be dead. Kraiss had said the same.

But if they weren't—if they were still alive—then it was only natural to rescue them.

Right before the fight, in passing, he had asked the so-called lord of the area a question, and hadn't the man said something about someone being held captive?

Having heard that, Enkrid considered this matter his priority.

If «N.o.v.e.l.i.g.h.t» someone needed rescuing, he would rescue them. Especially someone who was captured while doing their job, and if that job had been in service of the city where Enkrid now stayed—then all the more reason.

"And who might you be?"

The lord asked, visibly startled. Enkrid had never hidden who he was, but come to think of it, he'd never stated his name either. No one had actually asked who he was until now.

"Enkrid of the Border Guard."

A short introduction. The lord stared at him, slack-jawed, then stammered:

"...The Knight of the Iron Wall?"

Even with limited information, not knowing of the Knight of the Iron Wall was unthinkable.

The astonishment and disbelief in his eyes were... refreshing. As if he were asking, Why are you here of all places?

Enkrid nodded once. The lord's mouth dropped open wider.

He's going to start drooling at this rate.

Enkrid thought that, but made no move to help the man close his mouth.

"But... why here?"

A spearman standing behind the lord interjected. His eyes were wide as saucers.

Why would you be here?

That question seemed written all over his face. Enkrid kindly answered.

"Heard there was a cult problem, so I came. But then it seemed there was something even messier going on, and they threatened me, so I dealt with it."

His tone was still casual. Remarkably so, considering he had just single-handedly crushed three of the most notorious criminal guilds plaguing the Cross Guard.

Blood still flowed freely across the ground, while the vagrants who had been loitering around the alley had scurried away, save for a few bold enough to still peek out.

What just happened here? the lord could answer that question in only one way:

The city's worst problem has vanished.

And the man who had solved it stood there, so calm and composed, that it only made him seem more formidable in the lord's eyes—and the eyes of those around him.

To Enkrid, these people felt like nothing more than sparrows in a cage. Sparrows who believed the cage was the whole world and pecked at each other, claiming superiority.

And now a hawk had entered that cage. No wonder they couldn't measure up.

A magpie alone could've brought order here. Based on what he'd seen so far, that was no exaggeration.

If this was all that Ferryman had warned him about—if this was the city's great danger—then Enkrid was going to be severely disappointed in him.

Ominous? You called this ominous?

If they met again in a dream, Enkrid would make sure to start the conversation that way. Ferryman's expression would be worth seeing.

Of course, he doubted this was all there was to it.

His instincts told him that much. Just look at the snake-eyed administrator, or this "lord" before him. Both reeked of secrets.

"Well, yes, the cultists are a problem," the lord finally said, "They've been holding secret gatherings here and there. But even knowing that, it's been hard to act against them. The criminal guilds have been running rampant, we couldn't handle it all. And lately, people say they've seen vampires, and even werewolves..."

The lord usually spoke well, but he was too rattled now for smooth explanations.

Still, Enkrid understood enough. Listening well was one of his talents.

This was a textbook example of a total collapse. Sure, the cult was an issue—but they hadn't even been able to deal with the criminal guilds, and now monsters were slipping in around the city.

Something like this had happened before. In Naurill, a noble who transformed into an owlbear had hidden and killed people from the shadows.

Enkrid didn't bother asking what the city's guards or militias were doing.

He knew what kind of answer he'd get, and there was no rush to hear it.

"So where is the captive being held?"

He stuck to his original intent—rescue the prisoner first. Brushing blood from his blade, he gazed impassively at the lord.

"There are dozens of guild thugs guarding the place."

The lord's reply was met with silence. Enkrid simply rested his hand on his sword's hilt and stared.

There was no need for words.

The lord, recalling the scene from moments earlier—when Windblade was killed with a single stroke and three guilds were annihilated—spoke again.

"I'll lead the way."

Following the lord, Enkrid walked through the city. The roads were stained with filth, the alleys twisted and narrow.

Then he saw a tree, its branches flowering even through the muck-covered ground. A white winter bloom.

His gaze followed the bloom skyward.

Above, not below—just a white flower blooming in the middle of a clear blue sky.

But back on the ground, bodies lay uncollected. Addicts slumped in the streets. And yet, among all this, a single flower had taken root.

It left an impression.

Eventually, they came to a worn-down mansion with a sloping stairway beside it, leading underground.

A crypt, or a basement.

Old elites used to bury themselves in grand tombs like this. From the crumbling steps and lack of maintenance, it seemed like this one belonged to someone long forgotten.

"Here?"

"Yes."

The bottom of the stairs was dark, the air heavy.

Even someone with poor instincts would probably feel unsettled.

Enkrid stepped down without hesitation.

Ever since becoming a knight, he could see decently well in darkness—but even without that, he could sense them.

The smells, the faint traces, the breathing—someone was lying in wait below.

If you're going to ambush someone, shouldn't you at least hide your breath?

These amateurs couldn't even manage the basics.

What would Jaxon say?

"Feels like the enemy's baring their chest and asking me to stab them. So I shall."

That seemed about right.

But something even more absurd happened—before Enkrid could act, the enemy spoke.

"Hey! You shouldn't be down here! Leave, or you'll get hurt!"

They weren't just failing to hide their breath—they were talking?

An ambusher... calling out with concern for his target?

"You idiot! If you speak, they'll know where we're hiding!"

"Well, what if he just took a wrong turn?"

Voices bickered from below.

Were they fools? Or just softhearted?

Enkrid decided it was both.

He didn't kill based on good or evil. But he did make distinctions.

To be honest, if something rubbed him the wrong way, he usually didn't act.

So you just do whatever you feel like?

Yes. Enkrid never denied it.

That's why he asked a question—one that left the other side a sliver of hope.

"Have you ever killed someone who couldn't fight back?"

"Huh? No."

The same idiot who'd warned him answered, and immediately earned a whack on the head from a nearby companion.

Then came the sound of flint striking, and flames flared to life on a torch.

There were five of them.

Three looked too kind to be deceiving anyone. Even if they tried, those faces weren't suited to lying. And even if they did try—Enkrid wouldn't fall for it.

Even if they tried approaching him while feigning injury, the skill gap was too large.

He could split them into five pieces before their blade even reached him.

"This is Windblade Guild territory," one of them said—a weathered face with three deep lines etched across his brow.

Enkrid didn't bother responding with words. He stepped forward.

"Don't come any closer!"

Panicked, one of them reached for the dagger at his waist.

Enkrid's hand was already resting on his.

"If you draw that, you'll die."

Anyone who draws a blade must accept that they might die by it.

It was a mercenary's law that had become a universal truth.

To draw was to risk death.

That was what Enkrid's words meant.

One of them was quick on the uptake. These five had grown up like brothers, begging in the streets. Kind-hearted to a fault, they avoided bloodshed.

That's why they were guarding a door.

"What if we don't draw?"

The question came from the idiot—the one who had given the warning earlier.

"Then you won't die."

Enkrid answered.

"Then I won't draw."

The fool nodded. One of the others smacked his own forehead.

An absurd exchange—but not unfamiliar.

That brother had always been a fool, but people liked him. He was slow, but things always seemed to work out when he took action.

It was strange, really.

Now, they all looked to Enkrid.

He didn't seem like someone they should mess with. But if they let him through, and he'd lied...

Two of them had already lost fingers. Windblade's doing. Honestly, they were lucky not to have lost their heads.

"If we let you through, Windblade'll kill us."

That came from the wrinkled one—clearly the most grounded of the bunch.

Enkrid removed his hand from the dagger and said:

"Windblade is dead."

The five blinked.

What?

Their stunned expressions were identical.

Whether they believed him or not was up to them.

Whether they chose to die in service of a criminal guild was also up to them.

Would they draw their blades?

Four of them broke into a nervous sweat.

What now? Just let him go? But what if he lied?

The one they'd assumed was just a fool turned out to be the one who made the call.

"Let him through."

He said it, and the others nodded.

Believing Enkrid or not didn't matter anymore. There was no other choice.

If they were wrong, Windblade might kill them later—but what else could they do?

Smart, thought Lua Gharne, watching from behind.

They would've just died if they fought.

"Well then."

Enkrid tapped their shoulders as he passed.

"Here."

The fool handed him a torch. Enkrid took it with a nod.

Inside, the space was larger than expected, and sturdily built.

The walls were smooth, with almost no visible seams. When he tapped them, the sound was solid.

It wasn't a crypt.

"This doesn't seem like a tomb," he remarked.

"So you noticed," Lua Gharne replied, adding:

"Back in the day, it was trendy for nobles and wealthy merchants to build hideouts like these. They figured, even if the city fell, they could still survive."

Not a bad hideaway. Seal the entrance and it would be secure.

Air still circulated inside, too—clearly someone had designed for ventilation.

Still, the musty scent of the underground never fully left. The chill in the air wrapped around his skin.

At this temperature, food stores might keep without spoiling. Though midsummer would be rough.

He hadn't explored the full layout, but it was clear this was a decent bolt-hole. As big as a manor with three or four rooms, plus a kitchen and a parlor.

Whoever built it had real skill.

Dwarf craftsmanship, maybe?

Could be.

As he walked, Enkrid kept feeling something strange. A presence.

He'd felt it near the city gates. Like someone watching him.

But when he turned to look, nothing. Too subtle to pin down.

He'd even tried throwing forks once—nothing.

Maybe it's just a bad feeling...

Could be.

As he kept walking, scanning his surroundings, he finally felt a clear presence.

There, deep in the stone chamber, he saw a man chained in shackles.