A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

"I'll see you again when you're looking for a place to run, you bastard."

The Ferryman couldn't compose himself in the end. That damned mouth—he was sure there was a devil curled up inside it.

"Get lost."

He repeated, spitting the words out.

Enkrid opened his mouth to speak—but the Ferryman couldn't bear the sight of that shape forming again. The way his lips rounded, as if preparing to say another "Buu—" was too much.

And so the lunatic named Enkrid was cast away once more.

The Ferryman sat at the edge of the boat, watching the glow of the lantern, staring toward the coming day.

Let's see where he goes from here...

He startled himself with that thought.

He hadn't imagined a future trapped in the same, torturous today. Instead, he'd envisioned an uncertain future—of how Enkrid might progress.

Am I... hoping for something?

Was it because of everything Enkrid had shown so far? Perhaps.

Even so, he doubted the end would be a good one.

Why wouldn't he? He'd seen many heroes—many great men. Some had accomplished more than Enkrid ever would.

And yet... how did their stories end?

The Ferryman turned inward, conversing with the voices within him. Most were the same.

"You'll be dragged down into the muck like all the others."

"Hope? What hope? That's the talk of a fool."

"You're still holding on?"

"If he must repeat today, call it eternity instead."

Only a rare few had something different to say.

"Think we'll get to see him writhing in despair? Could be fun."

"Will he survive this time?"

Was this... actual hope? Not disappointment or contempt, but something lukewarm and unfamiliar.

The Ferryman was never just one.

He was many.

That's why Enkrid always felt like a different Ferryman showed up each time.

So it was only natural that their voices didn't agree.

But though they were many, they were also one.

That unified Ferryman once longed for a companion.

And now, that unity had begun to crack.

This was the result of one human's stubborn madness—his relentless will.

"What are you trying to do? What do you expect?"

One of the many voices asked. The Ferryman currently in control simply smiled.

A dark curve formed on his dull gray face—grotesque, warped.

If Enkrid had seen him just then, he might've said: nothing's more ominous than when that thing smiles.

***

Enkrid's work wasn't done.

In just one day, he'd crushed three crime guilds, slain a cultist-born monster known as the Evil Eye, killed a vampire who had posed as the city's lord and his three werewolf sentinels—but the city was still stained with soot.

"Die!"

A group of fledgling assassins came at him.

Three of them moved as one. But their technique was crude, and they gave away their presence with a shout. What kind of assassin screams as they strike?

Clearly untrained.

Why? Because after the Evil Eye seized control of the city, he'd turned it into his personal playground.

That's why all these sloppy thugs and killers had managed to survive.

What was the Evil Eye's goal? Pure pleasure, it seemed. A pathetic creature with nothing better to do.

Watching the assassins charge, Enkrid shook his head.

Kraxen would sigh if he saw this.

He drew his sword.

Chring!

With one clean motion, he sliced all three in half—the blade cleaving sunlight as easily as flesh.

It kept happening.

"Lord Demon!"

He entered a gathering. Cultists plunged daggers into their own hearts, trying to summon a demon.

Of course, no demon came. Demons of the Nether don't answer such cheap calls.

Instead, the remnants of their wills birthed a wraith.

The first cultist collapsed, and black waves shimmered in the air.

The spirit's manifestation. It might not be as powerful as the Evil Eye, but left unchecked, it could prove deadlier to ordinary people.

Lua Gharne puffed her cheeks.

"Bastards."

Then, ★ 𝐍𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 ★ she cracked her whip—erasing the wraith in one blow.

SSHHHZZT!

KYYAAARRRGGHH!

The sound of the wraith being torn apart echoed, followed by a dying shriek laced with curses—none of which had any effect.

A faint blue glow lingered in the air where her whip had struck.

"A magic weapon?" Enkrid asked.

Lua Gharne nodded.

"Jealous?"

"Not at all."

He answered without hesitation. Normally, he might've coveted such a weapon—but not this time.

Later, when they caught another cult gathering, Enkrid cleaved the enemy with his own enchanted sword, proving he too carried one.

It was a longsword with darkened steel, imbued by Esther herself. It bore magic now.

GRAAAAAUGH!

The spirit howled and turned to smoke.

"Told you I'm not jealous."

The sight reminded him of the first time he saw the Whistle Dagger. Back then, he'd practically drooled over it.

As they swept through the city, a familiar name cropped up in the slums.

"Oh mighty god of war, Balrog, descend upon this place!"

A cultist screamed, waving a rusted sword. He invoked Balrog's name—his eyes began to glow, and one arm ignited and twisted into a whip.

Sometimes, Balrog would lend strength to a human body for a mock possession. This was one of those moments. Not a true descent, just a borrowed ember.

Still, it irritated Enkrid.

"If you can hear me, I hope you get the message—I'm coming for you."

He meant it. If he could locate Balrog, he'd run there right now.

The cultist, now burning from every orifice, tilted his head.

It wasn't a real piece of Balrog, just a fragment. A single strike would suffice.

He stepped wide with his right foot and drew.

The sword flashed from its sheath, a line of silver light.

Flick!

Thud.

The cultist's head flew. The borrowed power dissipated.

Another cleansing, another day spent scouring the city.

Louie followed behind him, gradually grasping the extent of Enkrid's might.

He's different.

It wasn't just the swordsmanship, reflexes, or strength. Those, he couldn't even measure.

No—what amazed Louie was Enkrid's judgment and action.

What others would wrestle with for a day, he settled in seconds.

Was it because of his innate capacity? Or just sheer talent?

Louie believed it was the former. His mind, his will—they were of another tier.

And despite doing so much, Enkrid never once asked what would happen next to the city.

That too was strange. Did he lack ambition?

If Enkrid demanded loyalty now, everyone—including Louie—would kneel without question.

Of course, taking over the city would involve all kinds of complications. But ambition often blinds people to such problems.

That's the flaw of desire.

But Enkrid had only ever cut away the city's "problems." Nothing more.

What did that mean?

Louie didn't know. He couldn't measure a man like that. All he felt was respect.

And so, before it was too late, he finally said what he had to:

"My name is Louie. I know it sounds shameless, but... thank you."

"It was nothing," Enkrid replied. Not out of false humility—but because it truly was nothing to him. Just one night of exercise.

But to others, it meant everything.

Especially to Louie, who had finally reclaimed his rightful place and purpose.

Once he shed the hyena's skin, Louie bowed deeply—no longer clinging to opportunity, only to gratitude.

It wasn't a bad feeling.

Especially since Louie's mannerisms and behavior sat well with Enkrid.

Even if Louie ruled a foreign city, Enkrid wouldn't have objected.

In the end, work was work. Enkrid widened the scope of his mission.

He'd been hired to deal with cultists—so he would deal with all of them.

The roots were deep—too deep to pull easily. But Enkrid was no ordinary knight.

Thanks to his relentless Will and brutal endurance, he made progress.

Four days after his arrival, Cross Guard was no longer the city it once was.

A near-magical transformation.

Along the way, he made... connections.

"What's your name?" he asked the inn's little boy—one who'd stayed near him for days.

"Delma."

"What do you want to be when you grow up?"

"I'm going to take over my uncle's inn."

The child answered with complete sincerity. It wasn't selfish greed—but a wish to continue serving the city.

His uncle bowed his head. "I never thought this day would come."

An adult who had protected a child in a lawless city.

He'd once ignored Enkrid's danger just to keep the boy safe from thugs using sleep powder for petty theft.

Should I really blame him for that?

Enkrid didn't want to.

Some people turned a blind eye to the crime guilds but still tried to do something good.

They'd protect a child, slip poisoned food to send a message—things like that.

Not everyone could live perfectly righteous lives. That didn't mean he forgave them all—but he wouldn't condemn them blindly either.

"You don't have to do bad things anymore!"

That was the fool's cry.

The ones who still had a chance were recruited into Louie's new city guard.

The fool and his group declined—they hated fighting.

"We'd like to establish trade with the Border Guard someday. Thinking of building a ferry line across the Pen-Hanil River."

One had a talent for shipbuilding—though Enkrid didn't know why he was telling him this.

"Just... thanks," said the fool beside him.

Enkrid simply nodded.

He later learned that these former gang members had lost fingers protecting citizens.

They weren't all bad.

"Here, have this."

A familiar face handed him a shriveled apple.

He bit into it—bitter and sweet all at once. Not delicious, but not terrible either.

"It's the last apple we have," the toothless fruit seller grinned.

This city wouldn't change overnight. Louie would have to fight for every bit of progress. There were still criminals hiding in the shadows.

Even Enkrid couldn't cut them all down.

And telling good from evil wasn't always so simple.

So he left it. It was up to those who remained now.

They'd kill and be killed. Cry and rage. Find joy.

That was life.

And the burden of those who chose to protect their home.

"Shall we leave tomorrow?"

Enkrid asked, watching Lua Gharne return from another sweep.

"Yeah."

He answered and spent the rest of the day in peace. The unsettling gaze he'd felt before was gone—probably a voyeuristic trick by the Evil Eye.

He slept well.

The next morning, he ruffled Delma's hair, did his usual training, then leaned against the tree beside the inn and looked up at the sky.

A cool early-winter breeze dried his sweat.

Above, the sky stretched cloudless and blue.

Ahahaha!

Children's laughter echoed from a distance.

Would it be too cold to nap here?

Maybe—but in this moment, he simply closed his eyes.

He felt at peace.

A child's laughter. A blue sky. A gentle wind.

Perhaps this was what the sword was for.

That thought drifted through his mind.

Though it was still morning, the streets were already bustling.

Even their noise sounded like a lullaby.

Because hope was blowing through the city.

But far beyond that hope—just past the breeze of peace—a fire was walking in, ready to burn it all down.