A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

"Is your head just for decoration?"

It was something people said when frustrated with someone who could not think for themselves.

In other words, the Ferryman was currently feeling frustrated with him.

Enkrid clasped his hands and assumed a posture of attentive listening.

Among the habits of a good listener, giving encouraging cues was important, but so was body language toward the speaker.

Tilting your head in the speaker's direction, meeting their eyes to show you're truly paying attention — that's how it's done.

When Enkrid did exactly that, the Ferryman asked,

"What are you doing?"

"I am preparing to listen."

"To what?"

What else? It had to be some hint offered by the one who just called him frustrating.

Enkrid answered with his eyes instead of words.

"You're seriously insane."

The Ferryman flung the highest praise at him, then followed up with a question.

"Do you think you can stop it just by blocking it?"

And with that, the vision blurred.

The Ferryman began to scatter like grains of sand.

The dream was ending.

Enkrid did not awaken from the Ferryman's words with any kind of thunderous epiphany.

Instead, it left behind a vague frustration.

Something small and sharp, lodged in his heart like an itch he could not scratch.

"What the hell does that mean — like a ghoul barking nonsense?"

So he asked.

To Enkrid's question, the Ferryman merely gave a faint chuckle.

"Live forever. That is your path."

To Enkrid, that phrase felt empty.

It sounded like something spoken out of obligation — not conviction.

"I refuse."

With that answer, he opened his eyes.

Today, he woke from his nap.

"'Do you think you can stop it by blocking it?'"

Isn't that exactly what he was desperately trying to do?

Even as the question lingered in his head, his body moved on instinct.

He was cutting through the flames.

"Cutting through the flames" might sound poetic, but what Enkrid did was brutally physical.

He took only his black iron longsword, slashed the cords on his armor, and cast it aside before taking off.

"Where are you going? What is this?"

As he ran without answering, Lua Gharne called out behind him, and Delma blinked while holding a water cup.

Enkrid, caught in a moment of sentiment, said,

"I will not let it reach this far. Not here, little one."

The reply to that passing remark seemed to come only much later — because his thoughts had already accelerated, and he was sprinting in sync with them.

Even so, he still heard Delma's voice.

"Huh?"

That one-word question was all there was.

She blinked, having no idea what he meant.

"I will not let it come this far. I will stop it."

As he said those words, Enkrid readied his sword in his heart.

And so, he began to repeat today again.

There was no time to ponder.

He had to speed up his thoughts and rush forward.

There was also the Ferryman — the one who sometimes appeared when he died.

"I will show you the method."

From that particular day onward, the Ferryman's attitude changed.

He became uncharacteristically kind.

No longer bursting with rage, he calmly gave advice.

"If you cannot abandon everything, abandon just a part. Give up the outskirts near the slums. Prepare. Face it head-on. That way, you might endure."

That was the gist of what the Ferryman said.

He was telling Enkrid to use the time when the fire spread through the city's edges — burning people, children, mothers, buildings, horses, stablehands — and prepare.

"Are you hurt?"

Enkrid answered the Ferryman's words with care.

The Ferryman's advice remained consistent in the following days.

"Sacrifice is inevitable."

"Those who must die, will die."

"No one will bless you for what you have done."

"What are you struggling for?"

"Just hold out at the town square entrance, somehow. That might be enough. Heh."

Then his words turned from helpful to mocking, and completely useless.

He even started taunting him outright.

Listening to all of that brought back a certain phrase.

"Do you think you can stop it by blocking it?"

Those were the Ferryman's words before he had changed his tone.

"I told you, I am desperately trying to stop it."

A phrase that made him want to shout into empty air.

And after that?

It was the same.

He repeated today.

And burned to death.

Enkrid's swordsmanship became more refined.

But that did not mean anything changed drastically.

No version of today came easily.

His skills improved, and he got better at drawing out his Will by slashing at intangible flame.

He passed through today after today — learning and relearning.

It felt like exploring a cave with no end in sight.

A journey accompanied by the pain of burning alive, paid as the price for not giving up.

Until this point, Enkrid never once thought he was doing it wrong.

He would cut.

He would endure.

That, he believed, was the only path where even a sliver of light could be seen.

But just because light shines on a path does not mean it is the right one.

Sometimes, the right path lies hidden in darkness.

In truth, what is right or wrong, or which path is correct or not — all of it comes down to personal choice.

To Enkrid, there were simply two paths.

Neither of them was the one the Ferryman had suggested earlier.

One was to keep repeating what he had done until now — to prevent the fire from consuming everything.

Some would die.

The city would burn.

That was inevitable.

Trying to protect everyone was not just difficult — it was impossible.

Unless the walking fire focused solely on him and charged only at him.

But its target was the city itself.

If it responded only to provocation, none of this would be so hard.

It was difficult to keep thinking when you were burning alive.

The pain was so intense that even Enkrid began to hesitate.

It hurt that much.

And those moments passed.

Yet the strength behind his sword never wavered.

Then came one of those many repeated days — and Enkrid, while running, took out his mirror and asked,

"Isn't that kind of spell something you can just cut through?"

He was not trying to change the way he extracted information from Esther.

The line came out reflexively — a provocation, stirred by recalling the Ferryman's words about blocking and failing.

Even as he ran, he could see Esther's expression shift in the mirror.

A cold smirk settled on her face.

At the same time, the treasure trove of knowledge within her opened up.

Her mind was indeed a vault — a treasure chest of witchcraft knowledge.

"What if you can? In theory, it is possible."

At those words, Enkrid's ears twitched.

More than intrigued — a part of his ear muscle literally moved, like a pixie.

"A spell is a phenomenon. That phenomenon represents power. Any spell is an emission of force, based on magic. So what does that mean? If the walking fire is a force far beyond ordinary spells, and your Will surpasses the mana drawn from nature... then yes, it is possible. Hmph."

That last snort was barely audible.

Honestly, Enkrid was too stunned to hear anything clearly.

"Surpass the mana of nature?"

He had once sliced through a fireball spell flying at him.

When was that?

He could not recall precisely — it had been so long ago.

Maybe it was that bastard Swiftblade who had used a scroll.

How did he slice it back then?

He had not thought about it.

He had just done it.

He simply rallied his will and slashed.

"Why can I not do that now?"

Because the fire moves?

If he borrowed Esther's reasoning — it was because the natural mana pushed back against his Will.

That was why the fire did not split.

It burst.

Thoughts continued flowing.

His body fought the walking fire out of habit.

He died saving a child.

He died saving a mother.

The searing flames burned through body and mind.

And then today came again.

"Magic is also a matter of supply and demand. What lies between the supplier and the receiver? Hmm? If you cut that... yes. As you said — it can be cut."

The road connecting spell and caster was magic itself.

That provocative question drew out more treasures from Esther's vault.

Enkrid reveled in them.

It was not that he had understood the complexities of the magical world or built a new theoretical framework.

He had simply thought of a slightly more brutish method.

In the newly started today, betraying his own desire not to burn again, Enkrid opened his mouth.

"It is the walking fire."

It was like speaking into the air.

But Lua Gharne poked her head out from behind and asked,

"The Forbidden Spell?"

Instead of activating his mirror, Enkrid stepped forward and said,

"I should not have tried to block it from the start."

"What?"

"I should have cut it."

"What are you talking about?"

To Lua Gharne, it sounded like a lunatic's rambling after a good night's sleep.

"Do you think you can stop it by blocking it?"

That was what the Ferryman said.

That mad Ferryman.

Enkrid thought of him as he ran.

If he was going to tell him, he could have at least done it kindly.

Ferrymen laughing as he desperately tried to block the fire?

They were all saying the same thing, in the end.

"Do not block it."

Do not stop it — cut it down.

How do you cut it?

"Endure and slice" was, in a way, the last desperate act pulled out after countless deliberations.

That road merely appeared to be the only one lit.

But now, he saw a different path — one that led to tomorrow.

"Did she say you must be superior?"

That was what Esther said.

Suppress the walking fire spell through raw power.

But must one always be superior?

Probably not.

His thoughts did not need acceleration.

Not this time.

Because it all came down to one simple action.

"Are you really not going to cut it?"

Enkrid stood before the walking fire and asked.

The spell had no intelligence and could not reply.

But the Apostle Anella, watching through the spell, heard him.

***

To Apostle Anella, it must have sounded like utter madness.

But to Enkrid, it was pure sincerity.

There are things in this world that cannot be measured by objective means.

Enkrid was one of those things.

Apostle Anella had observed him.

She had studied him.

She believed that even if the city burned, he would not give up easily.

But would he truly stake his life?

From that point on, it was fifty-fifty.

No matter which path he chose, Anella would ❖ Nоvеl𝚒ght ❖ (Exclusive on Nоvеl𝚒ght) gain something from it.

She had planned for every outcome.

If he did charge in after all?

Even if he did not die, if he sustained a serious injury?

Then she would activate the trap she had prepared and finish him off.

And if he chose not to risk his life — if he held the line for a while, then retreated?

That was acceptable too.

Knights are beings who forge and wield Will.

From what she had seen, Enkrid was the kind of man who could not stand letting down those who stood beside him.

Even if he saved just a few and fled?

That would not be a failure either.

Because this plan, while targeting Enkrid specifically, also served a broader purpose — to show the continent that the Holy Demonic Church could burn a city to the ground if it wished.

It was a warning.

And through this warning, they would also reveal the power the Church had kept hidden from the world.

To offer "true salvation" to those who had lost their blind faith.

"Utter nonsense."

Anella spoke.

Her response to Enkrid's question: "Are you really not going to cut it?"

Of course, Enkrid did not hear her.

Through the walking fire — through the spell — she saw his face.

His expression had barely changed.

Yet something about it seemed excited, even joyful.

The searing heat had already singed his hair.

Beneath that scorched hair, the blue fire blazing in his eyes burned more brightly than the real flames.

***

He raised Black Iron and brought it down.

With his Will imbued, the sword cleaved through the walking fire.

It burst.

It exploded.

At the center of that eruption, flesh split and tore, the flames burned his eyes, and his tongue was seared.

The damned pain returned.

But it seemed... less painful than before.

Why?

"Is that your madness?"

The Ferryman asked in a dream.

Instead of replying, Enkrid gripped his sword.

Even in the dream world, his blade had shape — real form.

That was because his overflowing Will had begun to influence the realm of thought itself.

Then he awoke to a new today.

With a new understanding.

He needed only five more repetitions of today.

Enkrid formed a fortress wall in his mind and stood it behind him.

Then, all he had to do was channel the Will that had created that wall into a single sword strike.

He had found a method — and he advanced.

Each slash, fueled by life itself, became something incomparable — the distilled essence of his countless experiences.

Enkrid had accumulated those experiences dozens, hundreds, thousands of times.

Now he was drawing them all together.

How to release Will?

He had realized long ago — it must flow naturally.

He had reached that conclusion after his conversation with Seiki — and even earlier, with Overdeer, who had helped him glimpse the path.

"To release it naturally."

There were other things too.

Will is formless — it must be felt.

Had Jaxon not said so?

If you feel it, you can use it.

That is what he did.

Ragna had told him to focus during the swing.

Rem had told him to apply force in the moment.

They were all right.

That is what he did.

One by one, all those half-assed explanations that had once meant nothing started to make perfect sense.

Once he understood, they became crystal clear.

His overflowing Will flowed into the blade.

He had no finesse.

He was not used to it.

So Enkrid simply poured everything he had into the sword.

Ziinng.

The blade rang.

Had it not been forged with meticulous care by Aitri, it would have broken.

Craack.

As Will filled the sword, a fracture formed at its center.

By the time Enkrid faced the walking fire again, his preparations were complete.

Other than the Will within the sword, everything was just as it had been.

He ran, armor stripped, carrying only the black iron longsword.

He met the walking fire at the moment it devoured the two horses in the stable.

That was when he faced the spell again.

"Are you really not going to cut it?"

He asked again.

The stablehand who had been about to charge the flames with a pitchfork froze.

It was the perfect moment.

The walking fire had not yet consumed a single person.

Enkrid raised Black Iron above his head.

A vertical slash — crown-splitting form.

In the blade was all of his Will — everything he could presently feel of that intangible power.

If it had a name, it might be something like a Wall-Cutting Strike.

The same Will that had formed a fortress wall was now converted into a sword stroke.

Whoosh.

There had been many todays where he died burning to death.

On all those days, Enkrid refined his technique further, instinctively exuding Will and withstanding the flame.

This was the culmination of all that experience.

His blue eyes were hidden behind the descending blade.

The Will that had held back an army like a steel wall now fell in the form of a sword.

Fwoom.

There was no thunderous blast.

No explosive boom.

Only the line the sword carved as it passed through.

The walking fire scattered along that cut.

A stroke that seemed to split the world.

His colossal Will, compressed into one instant, overwhelmed the spell's magical power.

No ordinary person — no one without an inexhaustible Will — could even attempt such a feat.

And thus, the walking fire spell was cut.

Pffooom.

It vanished with a pitiful hiss, like air escaping from a burst balloon.

The flames dimmed and were extinguished.