A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

"If you do something bad, it might feel easy for a moment, but you'll sleep uncomfortably. And if it keeps happening, your heart never settles. So why bother? It's better not to do it."

It sounded like the words of one of the five fools guarding the underground shelter, but it was actually from a wise and thoughtful friend.

"What if you get used to it? What if that discomfort disappears?"

Enkrid challenged the notion.

"I don't want to get used to it."

The friend replied immediately. No hesitation. No second thoughts.

"Fair enough."

That exchange happened one morning, when Enkrid was drenched in sweat from training. The friend had come by—apparently, just to say thank you.

The conversation had begun as casual chatter, and somewhere in the middle, it turned into this exchange.

Later, Delma brought over water and asked if he needed anything else. Her uncle watched nervously but didn't push Enkrid away.

He never had. Like Lord Louis, the castellan, he only ever looked at Enkrid with respect.

There were many in the city who looked at Enkrid with those same eyes.

But was that all there was—only reverent gazes left in this city? Hardly.

"They say if you do anything bad, he'll come find you and kill you. That rumor's spreading. Now some folks are saying they should strike first—before he gets to them."

That's what Delma said. Those were the kinds of people who saw Enkrid as a threat. They'd whisper such things amongst themselves—but of course, none dared to actually act on them.

The lord had mobilized troops, scouring the city with blazing eyes, tightening security.

And even without that, Enkrid was not someone they could hope to kill.

Still, the very fact that people with malice and ill intent remained—Delma's words made that clear.

"The Demon shall descend and purify all!"

A crazed woman once screamed that aloud.

Some hid knives up their sleeves and glared at Enkrid with murder in their eyes.

Others lurked in the shadows, watching silently.

There were addicts, the impoverished, the paranoid—all of them watching Enkrid with mixed intentions.

"So even after saving them, this is what I get?"

Lua Gharne muttered after observing them.

"Let them be. They're fools."

That was something the fool himself had said when he came by earlier.

"I don't know... I mean, I like how things are now, but... something about it still makes me nervous."

Delma added that she had never once felt truly safe in her life, and this sudden change was frightening.

Yes. There were people like her, and then there were people like that.

Enkrid recalled someone from his past—a sword instructor who had once trained him by the sea.

"I used to be an executioner."

That's what the man had said.

"It didn't matter whether the one standing before me was guilty, falsely accused, or just a scapegoat. My job was to swing the sword and kill. My mask—just two holes for the eyes—was both helmet and my most lethal weapon."

When he spoke those words, the instructor had looked tormented. Like he wished he could erase the past and start over.

After a few drinks, Enkrid had asked if he'd go back and change things if he could.

The man said yes—but of course, it was impossible.

Looking back now, Enkrid knew he too could repeat the day as much as he liked, but he could never return to a specific point in the past.

Even the repetition of this day wasn't by choice.

"There was even a child I killed. Yes... a child. The mother asked me, 'Why did my child have to die?'"

The instructor had admitted that he didn't take pride in his past.

"I swung my blade without thinking."

And somehow, his skill with the blade had only grown sharper.

He said he'd learned something as an executioner.

It was clear just by listening—this man had talent.

But one day, that mother's question changed everything for him.

"I regret it."

He spoke of regret.

What became of him after that? Enkrid only knew fragments.

After quitting, the man stopped killing altogether.

He especially avoided taking the lives of those who offered no resistance.

He began mercenary work using the swordsmanship he'd honed during his executioner days. He survived, and after much wandering, reached a small independent city tucked away on the continent.

Somewhere along the way, ~Nоvеl𝕚ght~ he had become obsessed not with killing—but with saving.

"Will those I've killed come back to life just because I live like this? No. But still, this is how I choose to live."

Had he saved more lives than he took?

That, no one could know.

Enkrid believed that you couldn't judge the good or evil of someone's life so simply.

It wasn't about forgiveness either.

There was just something he considered more important than all of that.

That thing was his anchor. His guiding moonlight. The signpost that stood before him.

"Your goal must be to protect those within the boundaries you've set for yourself. If that's the case, then it's simple. Take them all into the underground shelter. You have the means."

The Ferryman suddenly interjected. A moment of reflection. Enkrid saw the hazy illusion of the Ferryman before him.

At some point, everything had stopped. The people. The air. The wind. The sunlight.

With the world frozen, everything turned gray.

He had reached the end of the recalled memory.

The Ferryman's words were right. That was the right path.

Following that advice, Enkrid could save a few people—Delma, the fool and his friends, her uncle, Lua Gharne, the castellan.

The Walking Flame would burn the city. If it couldn't find anything left to burn, it would vanish.

All he had to do was protect them up to that point. No need to risk his life. No need to scale an invisible wall with no path forward.

Inside the gray world, Enkrid silently watched Delma.

"What do you think that girl will become one day?"

He asked the Ferryman without shifting his gaze.

But the Ferryman couldn't answer. He wasn't a fortune-teller.

Even Enkrid didn't know the answer. No one could.

Delma might grow up to be an innkeeper.

She might become a hunter. Or perhaps she'd roam the war-torn continent and one day, found a kingdom of her own.

Why not?

"No one knows."

Enkrid continued.

The Ferryman, with his gray eyes, looked quietly at the man condemned to eternal life by a curse.

A being of color in an otherwise colorless world.

"So?"

The Ferryman asked, and Enkrid finally voiced the question that had stirred his soul when the Ferryman had first posed it.

"How far... must I protect?"

The Ferryman echoed the question with a nod.

"Yes, how far will you protect?"

People. Lives. What lies behind you.

In other words—the lives of those behind your back.

That was what he had sworn to protect.

But if that was all—if only that was all—then why live this kind of chaotic life?

Was there a reason to save the saintess of the Holy Nation, far off in the distance?

None.

Why save a stranger's child?

They weren't standing behind him. Therefore, he had no obligation.

Enkrid knew then: he had wavered.

The Ferryman's words had struck home.

Only save those within reach. Those who cared about him.

The city? Just four days' acquaintance.

It made sense. It was absolutely correct.

Smack.

In the gray world, Enkrid slapped both his cheeks with his hands.

The world blurred. The dream ended.

He returned to the black river world of dreams. The Ferryman was there again, holding his lamp, staring at him from atop the swaying water.

But Enkrid didn't protect a mere four-day bond.

What he protected was something else.

"They deserve a chance too. I will protect that possibility."

Among the Cross Guard, there were those hiding daggers, fearing death by his sword. Assassins still remained. Cultists too.

There were unforgivable evildoers. Husbands who beat their wives. Mothers who struck their children.

Children who stabbed their parents. Thieves who lived off the pain of others.

And then...

There was a girl who dreamed of becoming an innkeeper.

An adult who made sure she didn't starve.

Idiots who joined a thieves' guild and lost their fingers trying to protect civilians.

A castellan who could've fled, but stayed, saying he loved every single person in the city.

People who had no reason to, but still stood by him.

The righteous. The wicked. All of them, living in this moment.

Enkrid wanted to protect that sliver of time.

He didn't know what they'd become tomorrow—but today, a forbidden spell cast to kill him would erase the futures of everyone in this city.

How could he allow that?

An end to the war. He wanted peace.

Why?

Because everyone deserved a chance at tomorrow.

An end to the war. He wanted peace.

Why?

Because even he didn't know what tomorrow's version of himself would be.

He didn't want to destroy that possibility.

He wanted the Demon Realm erased.

Because monsters and beasts always erased tomorrow.

The Ferryman asked again.

"How far will you protect?"

"To my tomorrow. And to theirs."

Enkrid raised his hand atop the boat floating on the black river.

His hand held nothing, but the Ferryman saw a sword.

An invisible blade that expressed his will.

That was his answer.

Heeheehee.

Hehhahaha.

Hahahahahaha.

Screeeech.

What a fool's answer.

Is he an idiot?

If that is your will... then I respect it.

The Ferryman said nothing, but the words were heard anyway.

In truth, they came from the being beyond the mask—the incomprehensible presence behind the facade of the Ferryman.

Dozens of meanings overlapped, trying to twist Enkrid's spirit into corruption.

It failed.

The Will of Refusal had long since taken root in Enkrid's soul.

No matter what the opponent said, even if the entire continent called him the enemy—if it didn't feel right, he would refuse it.

"What a madman."

The gray-faced Ferryman lifted his lamp and spoke.

Enkrid knew then—the dream was ending, and everything was retreating.

But for just a moment, the Ferryman's face looked like it was smiling.

A trick of the light?

A Ferryman, smiling? Unthinkable.

That was something for Shinar or Esther. Not this being.

And with that, Enkrid was flung from the black river.

The Ferryman stayed behind on the boat, still chuckling.

But it wasn't mockery. It was laughter from the heart.

This was teaching. When was the last time he had taught?

Swordsmanship? That wasn't true teaching.

Body techniques were things people learned on their own.

But igniting the spirit inside—that was real instruction.

What could be more joyful?

They call it eternal life, but it's really a prison of endless "todays."

And within that prison, one who was supposed to become one with him still struggled and screamed.

The Ferryman had grown to enjoy watching that.

Of course, not all Ferrymen felt the same.

"A practical problem remains. You, who dream of mortality, you prisoner."

He whispered into the empty void.

And somehow, those words still reached the waking Enkrid.

***

"A practical problem remains. You, who dream of mortality, you prisoner."

Enkrid heard those words the instant he woke.

It was the same short beginning he had heard countless times today.

His thoughts accelerated, one chasing the other.

Among them was the Ferryman's question.

I know already.

The Walking Flame was still out there.

Over the course of a hundred repeated days, he hadn't found a single clue. Only watched helplessly as people burned.

And yet, strangely, Enkrid felt the crushing weight had lightened.

Maybe he never truly felt hopeless to begin with.

A matter of the heart.

Without choosing a path, it was only natural he couldn't reach a destination.

But now he had chosen. He had clarified his thoughts, turned the lingering haze into words.

Only one thing remained.

To cut down the Walking Flame.

How do you cut what cannot be cut?

If the answer had come easily, the despair wouldn't have lingered.

So what could he do?

"I'm going to die."

The words slipped from his mouth unbidden.

A rare moment, even for him.

But fair enough.

He had only one option.

Do it until it works.

Still, he decided to tweak his approach.

"Lua. Tell me everything you know about the Walking Flame."

No time to waste.

He asked. He listened. He ran.

And he swung his sword at the Walking Flame—full force, heart and soul poured into the slash. He infused his Will into it, reaching even his peak omnipotence.

Whoooosh!

Enkrid hurled himself forward.

Of course, a single strike was all he could do.

But he had thrown his entire body.

Which meant the infernal heat of the Walking Flame touched his flesh—and consumed him.

Sizzle.

His scale armor burned, melting into his skin.

The pain was excruciating.

His eyes cooked. The world turned red.

Agony remained as the only sensation.

Enkrid died again.

Only after twenty-five more fiery deaths—

"You may call me a fool."

Enkrid muttered the moment he woke.

He couldn't help it.

"What?"

Lua Gharne approached, puffing her cheeks and rolling her eyes. What the hell was he talking about?

"I mean it."

He said again, pulling out the secret weapon he'd been saving.

A mirror.

The one Esther gave him, telling him to look into it when things felt ominous.

Who knows magic best?

A mage? No—a witch.

Among them, even Enkrid had to admit—there was a true expert.

Esther. The black-haired beauty blinking from the other side of the mirror.

"Do you know the Walking Flame?"

Enkrid asked.

The beauty nodded, as if it were obvious.