A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

He slashed, and slashed again, and kept slashing.

Ragna's blade cut, cleaved, and crushed enemy soldiers.

He wanted to build an iron wall.

One more refined, at least, than what Enkrid had shown.

It worked—yes, it worked—but was this truly refinement? Depending on how you looked at it, one might say this was even more brutish, ignoring the cost in Will.

Ragna's swordplay wasn't insanely fast.

Which meant every soldier broken and mangled by his blade could be seen—vividly—by everyone.

No, it didn't just "come into view." It was as if someone was jamming the image into their eyes with force.

"Get down. Or die."

Ragna moved as he spoke. A warning thrown mid-swing.

It was a death sentence aimed at enemy soldiers.

"What a joke!"

One paladin, confident that even a knight couldn't kill him in a single blow, was slain.

Another, said to be the best shield-bearer in the unit, also died.

A passing swing even took out a junior knight by accident.

Terrifying. That thought flashed in a soldier's mind.

It wasn't about not wanting to die, or missing his mother. It was the sheer instinctive rejection of death that kicked in first.

Pure fear gripped the soldier's heart.

In that way, Ragna drew a wall of fear.

When fear becomes a wall that blocks the path ahead—

That's when no one can step forward. That was Ragna's iron wall.

"...What the hell."

Myl stood speechless, dumbfounded.

Those who recognized the power, Will, or intent behind Ragna's strikes couldn't help but shout at the sheer audacity of it.

"Excellent, brother! Allow me to show you mine as well!"

What Ragna displayed was the sword he had polished over time.

Audin, seeing that, couldn't help but get fired up.

Ragna had responded to the idea of proving himself when Audin returned—through the blade.

So, are we still talking about "education"?

Even if Ragna didn't mean it that way, that's how it sounded to Audin.

A returning member stepped forward and spoke.

"I am Audin of the Mad Knights."

His tattered clothes mattered not. No one noticed them.

Just stepping forward engraved his presence into everyone around.

"This lowly servant feels shame. Father, why have you sent them down the path of corruption? I now send them to your side. Please guide these lost lambs back to where they belong, and bless their heads with your hand."

Audin stepped forward toward Azratik.

They weren't far apart to begin with, so two steps closed the distance quickly.

Azratik saw him approaching.

Not just a growing figure—his presence swelled with each step.

For twenty years, Overdeer had been his only rival. But now, others were rising.

This man before him was likely one of them.

That much was clear from the pressure he exuded.

Had he remained quietly within the Church, Azratik would never have met him.

"If one side of the scale is to be raised, something of equal weight must be placed on the other."

Watching Audin approach, Azratik muttered.

If what he longed for was the passion he'd forgotten, then what must he place on the other side of the scale?

Whatever he wished for, he was told to offer something of equal value.

Be it honor, or even life.

That was the doctrine of the God of the Scales.

Though abandoning the Church might be crossing a line... perhaps that line could be crossed if one was desperate enough.

Or was this all just self-justification?

Had Enkrid heard these thoughts, he would've nodded.

And probably would've told him to stop making excuses and face reality.

"Are you excited, old brother with a rotten mind?"

Audin asked as he stepped up.

His tone came from the way Azratik's expression reminded him of a child the day before a field trip.

"I am."

Azratik answered plainly, feeling that old forgotten passion ignite.

Wasn't this the path he'd chosen—to fight monsters like this?

On the opposite scale, he'd placed his fame and his life. Maybe even his faith.

What he'd gain in return was a thrilling duel with everything on the line.

"As am I."

Audin smiled.

He was about to send this poor sinner to the side of the War God to be judged.

And smiling for such a man proved his compassion.

On the outside, Azratik's body seemed half the size of Audin's.

But the pressure he emitted was no less.

Azratik waved his thick, long fingers gently up and down as he stepped closer.

Those fingers were the reason he'd earned the nickname "Serpent."

They were close enough now to reach out and touch.

Tap.

Audin and Azratik pressed the backs of their right hands together.

It was an old habit from their days as martial combatants.

Then, the backs of their hands dropped, and their limbs lashed out.

At first, it was light—

Thwap, smack!

Just the sound of limbs meeting.

They deflected and absorbed each other's strikes with no damage done.

Azratik used Sacred Infiltration, but Audin pushed back with the holy energy boiling within him.

Such techniques were folded into the simple movements of their limbs.

Those in the area capable of sensing Will could recognize the lethal tension in their exchange.

"Excellent!"

Azratik shouted.

He had feinted a sweeping ankle kick with his left leg, then tried to trip Audin by entwining their feet.

But Audin didn't block—he sidestepped.

That made Azratik cry out.

He judged that, in terms of technique, there was no difference between them.

'Or perhaps...I'm the one falling behind?'

That was thrilling, too.

If he was being outdone in skill, what was left?

Hwoom!

Azratik began to emit light.

Not the murky gray hue seen before, but a brilliant white flash.

It was divine power accumulated over decades.

It didn't surge endlessly like someone with an unquenchable Will, but it was enough to defy easy estimation.

"Excellent!"

Audin shouted back.

Just as Azratik had read his moves, he had read Azratik's.

Before Azratik could trip him, he'd feinted a chop to the shoulder, then turned his fingers into a claw to grab.

Azratik, in turn, grabbed his hand to block.

They had tested each other's strength briefly, and Audin realized:

He couldn't overpower this man with just a short burst.

Now light shone from Audin as well—

His light was more of a yellow-tinged flare compared to Azratik's white.

Their auras collided, blending in a way that made it hard to say who held the advantage.

This wouldn't be decided quickly.

Enkrid watched all of this unfold, recalling the conversation he'd had just before the battle.

A drifting thought.

***

"If there's no guarantee of victory..."

Enkrid looked down at the hand that had figuratively grabbed him.

A hand made of words—but not something he could ignore or brush off.

It belonged to someone who had called him a friend.

It was Noah, who had approached him.

He was genuinely worried.

And if he truly wanted to be friends, Enkrid couldn't just ignore that.

But in truth, Enkrid didn't find it that important.

Even if he understood Noah's sincerity, he wouldn't follow his words.

"I may not have an eye for great tactics, but I know this can't be solved with one."

Noah said again, in a tone that was neither fast nor slow.

He wasn't wrong.

Even the nameless paladin had said something similar.

Winning a fight with elite few would be nice.

But even if they managed to hold out, if the army advanced, the monastery couldn't be saved.

If the paladin ◆ Nоvеlіgһt ◆ (Only on Nоvеlіgһt) held back their elite fighters, the army would break through—and people would die.

It was inevitable.

And didn't they say the enemies standing at the front were more than capable of doing that?

Of course, that had been blocked—first by Rophod and Pell, then by Teresa, then finally Ragna's blade.

But Noah couldn't have known that.

This was before any of it happened.

"I could lose. I could die."

Enkrid acknowledged Noah's words.

He said it because he understood what Noah meant, beyond tactics.

The lack of a guarantee of victory meant death or defeat was possible.

He could be dancing on the edge of a cliff.

"Then why do all this?"

This was a man who originally only wanted to save the children.

Noah's eyes were pure.

The kind of light you couldn't find in priests corrupted by the world.

'Why?'

Enkrid pondered the question.

Maybe it was because he'd show resolve, knowing he'd just come back anyway if he died.

But no—it wasn't that.

Enkrid forgets his curse in moments of crisis.

That was the thing that most impressed the Ferryman about him.

A madman walking solely toward tomorrow.

"If a traveling merchant can die from a lightning strike while walking, why does he still take the road? Same thing."

Enkrid answered casually.

To Noah, it sounded like a koan—a line from scripture used to seek truth.

But unlike a koan, the meaning was clear.

'You can't start a journey if you fear tomorrow.'

If you fear losing, you can't draw your sword.

If you're afraid of dying, you wouldn't dream of knighthood.

And if you fear the dreams that come after, you might as well turn back.

Because it's far too arduous to reach them.

"What if I run away here? What happens when something similar comes up later?"

Enkrid asked, still in a calm tone.

The kind that made everyone believe he never would run.

If you turn back once, you can turn back again.

If you justify it once, you'll justify it again.

One mistake doesn't define everything—

But ignoring the chance to make it right? That's what he couldn't stand.

An uncertain tomorrow lay before him.

But now, he had strength he didn't have before.

And that made him happy. Truly.

These were thoughts sparked by Rophod's stand, Ragna's blade, and Audin stepping forward.

More precisely—by the man now standing in front of him.

'Didn't they say there were only two paladins?'

It was the man with the guisarme.

His iron boots clinked as he moved.

But it wasn't that the man was approaching—Enkrid was the one who had stepped forward.

The man removed his helmet and set it aside.

A visored iron helm.

Wearing it in a knight duel could limit vision.

But that wasn't why he removed it.

"You prefer not to wear helmets? I suppose we should match. Our armor looks similar enough, doesn't it?"

He was trying to balance the field.

To fight on equal terms.

But to Enkrid, something about it felt off.

Tone, attitude, atmosphere—

It hit a sixth sense.

He said he wanted fairness, but he gave off the vibe of someone who'd do anything to win.

A man whose outside didn't match his inside.

"In that case, shouldn't you change weapons first?"

Enkrid spoke. Half-joking.

Shouldn't their weapons match if they wanted balance?

That thing in the man's hand looked a lot like an engraved weapon—he wasn't imagining it.

"Changing weapons would be too much. An engraved weapon is like a part of me. I can't throw myself away."

The man refused instantly.

Not even worth considering.

He looked about the same age as Enkrid—so, quite young.

Enkrid's youthful appearance had always given him an edge.

When he was twenty, it wasn't so obvious. But past thirty, he often looked ten years younger.

Age aside, this man clearly wasn't easy prey.

Talent had nothing to do with virtue.

That, Enkrid had known long before he became a knight.

"Can I ask something?"

His tone was odd—sounded more like an old man's.

'No, maybe it just had that sneering undertone.'

Enkrid didn't care.

It wasn't like they were about to argue.

"Ask."

"Why did you step up?"

Ah. This question again.

But it wasn't like Noah's.

This wasn't a question about why he risked his life in an uncertain fight—

It was pure curiosity.

"There's no benefit in this, is there?"

The Church of the Scales teaches: for anything you place on one side of the balance, something of equal weight must be placed on the other.

So if this man fought here, risking his life—

Then surely, something valuable had to be on the opposite scale.

Gold? Honor? Something else?

The guisarme-wielder was simply curious.

Enkrid nodded.

There was a second reason he hadn't told Noah.

It wasn't for profit—but that didn't mean there was none.

Beyond saving lives, beyond protecting Noah's monastery—

There was the reward of this fight.

A minor one, but real nonetheless.

The chance to gain experience.

Ever since becoming a knight, Enkrid had learned the best way to improve was to fight opponents as strong—or stronger—than himself.

Even slicing through living flames had taught him something.

So yes, there was profit. But it wasn't the main reason.

Noah would've thought he was truly mad if he heard it.

Because calculating things wasn't really Enkrid's style.

"It seemed fun."

Enkrid answered.

The man tilted his head.

As if to say—What does that mean?

Fun? What could possibly be fun about this? Worth dying for?

That was the difference in the lives they'd led.

Enkrid felt joy in growth, in striving for tomorrow.

That joy made him swing his sword even when death loomed.

At least—for Enkrid—it did.

So the appearance of a strong opponent was a joy.

So yes—he stepped in for Noah, to protect and to save—

But also because it intrigued him.

That was why he smiled even when an unexpected foe stepped forth.

"...So that's why you're smiling?"

The man asked.

"Yeah."

Enkrid nodded again.