A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

The Evil Eye, the city, the people, the crime guilds—all of it had been a single elaborate trap.

And the apostle of the Holy Land of the Demon Realm, the one who prepared this trap, had never once underestimated her target.

Not in the slightest.

Would a knight fall to something as low as the Evil Eye?

Of course not.

That's why Apostle Anella hadn't told anyone her true plan.

She made sure not even her own subordinates suspected what she was aiming for. To that end, she sent them all to their deaths.

"Go. Show your strength. Do you really think he can cut you down without even looking? If you can drive a spear into his heart with telekinesis before he reacts? A knight isn't immortal."

"I will bring you his head. I will offer it to the Demon God."

She had sent a follower imbued with the Evil Eye.

But she knew. He wouldn't fall so easily.

The moment the Evil Eye died, the link broke—and her vision with it.

Anella knelt calmly on the filthy ground, her hands clasped in a posture of prayer.

Those who knew Apostle Anella called her the Angel of Calamity. Why? Because of her forbidden power—she could offer her own lifespan and sacrifices to cast catastrophic, forbidden spells born of disaster.

The one she prepared this time was "Walking Flame."

Forbidden spells, by nature, devour one's lifespan. Anella had spent her life studying such spells. It was the most efficient way to use her abilities to the fullest.

At first, she estimated the spell would consume half her life.

But after witnessing Enkrid's presence—after feeling it—she revised her estimate.

Especially when he hurled a fork to trace the remnants of her gaze—she had been shaken.

So it was a pity.

A waste, again and again.

How could someone with such potential, someone the Church should've nurtured, walk so far off the path?

She had offered guidance countless times. Begged him to return to the light. He never did.

Now, there was only punishment.

She cast the city as bait.

Bigger bait brings bigger prey.

A poor soul, meant to stand with her beneath the glory of light, had taken the bait.

O Demon God...

She too was a cursed one, capable of stealing lifespans from others. She used those stolen years to cast her horrific spell.

She called forth calamity. In the name of the Demon God, she spoke the incantation.

All the lifespan she had gathered was set ablaze. Half? Laughable. She ended up burning nearly all of it.

"Come forth, Flame That Covets the Sun."

Blood streamed from her eyes. Before her, a figure of fire emerged—shifting into a human shape. Larger than a man, smaller than a giant. Its body was a writhing inferno, flickering like fur.

It had no face, no mind. It was a spell, nothing more.

But it had legs.

That's why the spell was named Walking Flame.

And it walked—toward Cross Guard.

***

Peace. Birdsong. Winter flowers under a blue sky—Enkrid drifted away for a moment, into another world.

A nap. Brief, dreamless. A doze intoxicated by serenity.

And then—

In a flash, sleep was gone. His body moved before thought.

A prickling unease stabbed at his heart. His senses screamed.

Why?

A flicker.

Fire.

Off in the distance, fire bloomed unnaturally.

Why is it warm...?

A hot gust cut through the winter air—not a breeze, but a wave of dread.

He bolted up, scanning his surroundings.

Far off, a man ran screaming, engulfed in flames.

"AAAAHHH!"

It wasn't just fire. It was a creature of fire.

From shoulders to head, its body was nothing but flame—its feet hovering above the ground as if it walked on air.

It looked light as smoke. But what it did—that was unbearably heavy.

No words. Fire cannot speak.

It only burns.

"What the hell is that?"

Delma had gone to fetch water. He saw it.

The conversation they'd had earlier, before Enkrid's nap, flashed through his mind.

Delma was going to inherit the inn. If he survived.

But he wouldn't, not if Enkrid stood still.

FWOOSH.

Winter flowers turned to ash. Fire clung to the trees. A burning trail followed the creature wherever it went.

The moment Enkrid set eyes on it—that was when it began.

FWOOM! Everything caught fire.

The heat reddened his face. Pressure crushed his body.

He drew his sword and charged.

Step. Slash. Will flowed into his blade.

Every move was fluid, unhesitating.

HWANG!

...No response.

CRACK.

A strange sound rang in Enkrid's ears—like glass shattering. It came from his sword.

Blue shards scattered from the blade like splinters of broken crystal.

Esther's enchantment...

It had broken. The magic faded.

The Walking Flame reached for him.

He reacted. Sparks surged as he countered, thrusting through its arm.

A sudden spin of his body summoned a gust of wind.

FWISH!

His strike pierced the arm—but that was it.

The creature's hand had already done its job.

A thread of flame lashed toward Delma.

FWOOOOOM!

The fire exploded.

Delma didn't even have time to scream.

The creature had only extended its hand—but the fire moved faster than arrows.

Flames swallowed the boy whole. The smell of burning flesh choked the air.

The other tendrils of fire grew into pillars of flame.

"Hup!"

Enkrid recalled his sword, grabbed his blacksteel longsword, and roared—bringing it down in a mighty arc.

He severed the creature's arm. The severed limb flew into a building—then detonated.

BOOOM!

Compressed air swept the area like a hurricane. One explosion followed another.

"AAAAAAHH!"

"HELP!"

"WHYYYY?!"

"GUH—!"

"LENNY?! LENNY!!!"

Hellfire had engulfed the city. The shockwave pushed Enkrid back, but he withstood it—and stared at the inferno before him.

People. Buildings. Children. Delma. The inn. The fool. Lovers. Families. Fathers. Mothers.

Everything was burning.

"What are you?"

Enkrid spoke, his voice tight with fury.

The dread didn't fade.

"A forbidden incantation—Walking Flame!"

Lua Gharne's voice came from behind.

The conclusion was clear.

Enkrid couldn't cut the fire.

It burned everything.

Lua Gharne died in the blaze.

Enkrid held on longer—but he, too, died.

Burning to death was a pain far worse than desiccation.

As his body burned, it felt as though icicles pierced his organs.

That was how Enkrid died. Darkness swallowed him.

A long, empty darkness.

And then, the ripple came—as if it had been waiting.

SPLASH.

Water rocked his body. The boat again. The Ferryman again. Grinning at him.

But Enkrid couldn't smile back.

"Are you enjoying yourself?" the Ferryman asked.

In his final moment, Enkrid had watched everything burn.

The tree that bloomed even in winter—burned.

The inn—burned.

Delma—burned.

Lua Gharne—burned.

He—burned.

"Is it not your turn to enjoy things now?" the Ferryman added.

Then came the next line:

"Go enjoy it some more. We'll talk afterward."

Before Enkrid could respond, the black river disappeared. The purple lamp dimmed and scattered.

Like sand slipping through fingers—everything faded.

When Enkrid opened his eyes, he realized it wasn't morning.

Right after a nap?

Had sleep become the key to this reset? No. Probably the Ferryman's doing.

He had no time to think deeply.

He'd awoken because of that same, terrible premonition.

It was happening again.

This time, he knew what was coming. He had seen this day before.

He shot up.

"Whoa! What's wrong?" Delma asked, spilling a cup of water.

"Go to your uncle," Enkrid ordered.

And he ran.

Heat—not wind—struck him in the face. He ran toward it.

FWOOSH.

"What the hell?"

"Who's playing with fire?!"

"Fire! FIRE!"

The Walking Flame had returned.

Enkrid unsheathed his sword as he ran. Shhhhk. The blade shot upward, then fell.

BOOM!

The strike split the fire.

But the divided flames exploded left and right.

Blue sparks scattered like sand—another spell breaking. Another blaze.

He had cut it—but it wasn't cut.

"No... it can't be cut. It's the Walking Flame."

Lua Gharne's voice rang again.

Enkrid survived—barely. His trained body resisted the blaze. The Flame didn't target him first.

"Look at me!" he shouted, chasing it.

But it wasn't a thinking being.

Again, the flames consumed everything.

"Delma!"

The boy who would inherit the inn died again.

The adult who tried to protect him—dead.

The cycle repeated.

"Try again," said the Ferryman. Another forced loop.

Enkrid met the same short day again.

This time, his thoughts accelerated.

Can I meet it before it enters the city?

If my sword alone isn't enough, what if I combine it with Lua's whip?

Is it an amorphous monster?

Lua mentioned it—called it the Walking Flame.

With frightening speed, his mind raced—judgment, decisiveness, action.

"Lua!"

He shouted, Will infused in his voice.

Frokk appeared with her.

He had two choices: borrow her whip, or ask her about the creature.

No time for calm. He reached out.

"Give me the whip. I need it."

No time to explain.

Lua blinked once—then threw it.

She read his desperation.

Enkrid wasn't someone who asked lightly. She trusted that.

He caught the whip in his left hand.

He didn't know how to wield it properly.

But that didn't matter.

He wrapped it around his sword and charged.

The Walking Flame met him again.

The whip burned.

The sword's magic shattered.

The fire still couldn't be cut.

"Once more," said the Ferryman.

Next loop, Enkrid chose the second option.

"What is the Walking Flame?"

Lua didn't ask why. She just answered. She read his urgency.

"Walking Flame? That's a forbidden spell. Once cast, it burns everything until its mana runs out."

So—deplete its mana?

Keep cutting it?

But doing that caused explosions.

Could he drag it outside the city?

Would it burn out there?

"Look at me! Follow me!"

But it didn't care. No mind. No empathy.

Its command was simple: burn the city.

That's what it did.

The whole city had been the trap. The bait.

As he relived the day, Enkrid realized it had all been part of a grand design.

But that changed nothing.

He died again. Delma burned again. The inn. The people. All of it.

He watched it 28 times.

28 skies blackened by smoke.

The Ferryman sat at the boat's edge, drinking tea.

A lamp beside him. A cup lifted to his lips.

Enkrid had never seen this before.

Was he that pleased?

"How is it? This wall?"

"...It hurts," Enkrid admitted.

Burning alive could drive anyone mad.

But more painful than that—was the absence of a path forward.

"Yes, it hurts. Want to hear the solution?"

"...Yes."

"Run. It won't follow you."

Enkrid didn't listen. He died again. 60 more times.

"You want another tip? Hide. If you don't want to run alone, take someone with you. Want a safe place? There's a shelter underground—you've seen it. That should do."

Still, Enkrid refused.

Another 80 loops.

The Ferryman kept talking, as if knowing Enkrid wouldn't listen.

Again, he burned. Again, he returned.

No time to count. A hell with no end.

Then the Ferryman stood.

No lamp flickered. No tea, no chair.

Just as it was the very first time.

Boat. River. Ferryman. Purple lamp. Shadowed face. Still water.

Nothing else moved.

From the darkness under the hood, the Ferryman asked:

"How much are you willing to protect?"

Enkrid exhaled. It felt like his breath burned.

He had bitten into the fire before he died—his insides had turned to ash.

"What do you mean?"

Burning from the inside... no matter how you dressed it up, it wasn't pleasant.

"If two people meet, that's a bond. I'm asking—how deep is that bond to you?"

Enkrid listened closely.

He was a good listener, after all.

The Ferryman didn't wait for an answer.

"Three days. That's how long your bond is. It wasn't even all kindness. Just three days."

Enkrid stared.

For the first time, he saw hints of eyes, a nose, a mouth.

"Before this endless today, it was just three days. Think carefully. Is it worth dying for something that small?"

Before Enkrid could answer, his mind pulled back—to the moment just before his nap.

Three days of connection. Only three.

Is that truly worth dying for?

That was the Ferryman's question.