A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

"Then what profit is there for you?"

Enkrid threw the question back.

"To become the next Grand Paladin."

So there was a clear gain.

Desire burned openly in the man's eyes. It was no surprise he stood in this place.

Of course, not everyone in the Grey Holy Army was like him.

Azratik, for instance, had just unleashed a pure white radiance—a clear exception.

Among them were also zealots who mistook twisted belief for righteous conviction.

The actions of Myl were undeniably foolish. A new god? What heretical nonsense—like the son of a ghoul.

A normal believer would respond:

"A Grey God? So you want to become a corrupted apostate? Or perhaps make friends with cultists?"

Is it just me who finds that suspicious?

People who followed Myl's words should have been similar... yet, that wasn't the case.

Even among those who lived in the temples and within the church's fold, people were still people. They leaned on each other, influenced one another.

Some were simply swept up by the atmosphere. Others were dragged along by those around them.

There were also those who had spent a lifetime training their mind or body, isolated from the world—too naive to see through deception.

Such people could be easily fooled.

Some among them might have simply believed this path was right.

Not that they truly served the Grey God, but they believed Myl's claim—that this was divine revelation in a different form.

Myl deceived them with lies, and people followed.

Was that wrong? Then who would punish him?

Were former bishops so innocent? Were all popes throughout history clean?

Despite their faults, they still had followers.

Even the famed prophet Overdeer had once served what was known as the foulest pope in history.

But the man standing before Enkrid had acted entirely for self-interest.

His words made that crystal clear.

"I've already surpassed Azratik and all the paladins here. I'm the strongest one present."

He was arrogant.

He didn't even give his name—just smiled, as if his victory was guaranteed.

Apparently, he liked the sound of his own voice, but now he'd said all he needed to say.

He lowered his guisarme.

The way he handled the weapon with one hand showed his raw power.

Its blade, shaped like an axe-head, with a spike jutting from the top, pointed at Enkrid's chest.

Even that gesture carried an invisible pressure, but Enkrid brushed it off lightly.

The first Will he'd learned was rejection.

From fighting Rem, he'd also learned some of the traits of curse-based magic.

Will was a formless power—so Enkrid had trained himself to perceive it as if it had form, to strike it down.

Once again, the training proved effective.

The opponent's weapon tried to bind him like chains, but Enkrid cut through it with the blade of his mind.

It was a short exchange—an invisible duel of attack and defense without hands or feet.

Only those who understood Will could see such finesse.

By lowering his weapon, the paladin had clearly declared:

"I'm the best fighter here."

And he wasn't wrong.

He had defeated Azratik, and all paladins present acknowledged it.

From Enkrid's point of view, he was an unexpected formidable opponent.

And that made Enkrid happy.

"Guess I'm kind of lucky today."

He responded earnestly.

"Idiot."

The paladin curled his lip in a sneer and immediately lunged, folding the distance with a leap.

For someone wielding a polearm, his footwork was quick—but it was no surprise attack.

The movement was painfully obvious.

Enkrid swung the True Silver Blade given to him by Aitri.

A diagonal arc.

Clang!

His blade struck the shaft just below the axe-head.

It didn't break. Instead, a jarring rebound shot into Enkrid's hand.

Definitely an engraved weapon.

The durability was in a league of its own.

But the Will behind the weapon felt... empty.

Just because Enkrid was excited to meet a strong opponent didn't mean he had to bet his life on the fight.

He parried and, without hesitation, split his Will to empower his attack.

Anyone could learn to unleash Will explosively in an instant—splitting it into pieces for more control was harder.

But Enkrid had trained relentlessly. Now, he could do it.

Speed surged into the True Silver Blade.

His footwork changed.

He incorporated the moves he had trained, including a touch of the Valen mercenary style.

"Cheap tricks?"

The paladin was fooled, veins bulging on his forehead.

Feigning exhaustion had worked—he rushed in to seize the opening.

That slight disruption affected the flow of divine energy through his body.

Clearly, he wasn't all that experienced.

Sure, his use of divine power and techniques were impressive. But that was it.

He was weaker than Rem, weaker than Ragna, and nowhere near Oara's level.

Compared to the knight from Azpen, this one seemed lighter in every way.

Honestly, if Enkrid had fought him before facing the Living Flame, he might not have been confident in victory.

But now?

'Even back then, I don't think I would've lost.'

"Block this!"

The man unleashed his trump card.

A full-body twist into a crushing overhead smash.

An ultimate move, hidden until now.

Most paladins preferred sustained pressure to overwhelming strikes, but he broke that mold.

The axe-head swung in a perfect arc from outside Enkrid's perception—essentially behind his back.

It felt like lightning falling from the sky.

But Enkrid had seen it before it even fell.

Before the man shouted, his body already betrayed his intent—to finish the fight in a single blow.

Footwork, muscle tension, grip strength, angle of arms, weapon position—

All were within Enkrid's scope of perception.

With one-point focus activated, his thoughts accelerated.

Within the cracked moment of time, he knew what to do.

Will, being formless, was not bound by speed.

He already knew how to unleash it in an instant.

It was once a difficult task—

But now, it was as easy as pouring out a cup of water all at once, instead of trickling it.

Ziiiing.

The blade made by Aitri resonated.

The vibration traveled from his hand through his entire body.

Though not engraved, it felt as if the sword had a will of its own.

Telling him: Strike. You are not weaker.

Left foot forward, knees bent, then straightened.

No evasion.

He didn't underestimate his opponent just because the man fought for gain rather than ideals.

But the weight of Will behind their weapons was starkly different.

On the surface, the guisarme was much heavier—

But the heavier blade was Enkrid's.

His movement appeared light and swift, but the pressure behind it told a different story.

CRASH! CRACK!

The rising blade split the axe-head cleanly.

With perfect timing, Enkrid stepped forward and used Oara's chained blade technique.

The silver flash went beyond slicing the axe—it grazed the crown of the man's skull.

With his step, the blade extended farther than the guisarme could reach.

The result:

The man's scalp split. His eyelids twitched as blood and brain matter dripped down his forehead and temple.

Through the diagonal gash in his head, the insides were now visible.

With his final breath, the man spoke.

"What... the hell is this?"

He didn't blink.

He recognized his own condition. He was dying.

Years of knightly training told him so.

And that was his last question.

"I trained all my life. Can't I be allowed just this much in return?"

His regret poured out at death's door.

Living like a monk didn't automatically make one virtuous.

Becoming a knight didn't guarantee lofty ideals.

Becoming a knight was always a mixture of talent, effort, and luck.

But when your heart is light—

Isn't it natural that your Will would be light too?

That's what Enkrid thought.

They ✪ Nоvеlіgһt ✪ (Official version) were both knights.

But the difference in the weight of their Will was undeniable.

The man's body tilted forward—just as light as his conviction—and fell.

For a knight, he was a bit too easy to handle.

That was Enkrid's honest impression.

***

Rem thought Enkrid always found the right opponents.

And that everyone around them was a maniac.

Why else were they all grinning while they fought?

"You crazy axe bastard, why're you smiling?"

As Rem drifted into thought, the man beneath his feet spoke.

"Did I smile?"

Rem replied, tilting his head.

"Freak."

That was the man's final word.

He had held on even while his guts spilled out.

The guy had used Grey Divine Light to heal himself mid-battle.

Divine energy, by nature, was good for endurance.

Rem's opponent had been the same. One who bore the name of one of the Apostles of Abundance.

They called him "The Undying."

His tactic was to wear down opponents with constant defense, healing small wounds with divine light.

"Well, thanks for the compliment."

Rem hefted his axe.

It had been a while since he invoked his full spirit, and his body ached.

The paladin, who had tried so hard to endure, couldn't handle the final storm of Rem's axe blows.

Looking around, it was clear how the battle was progressing.

Especially after those fights with the knights—overwhelming.

Rem spotted Audin in the middle of a fight, too.

'That bastard.'

Ever since he became a "lightstone"—that's what Rem called his divine state—he was a pain to deal with.

Not that Rem thought he'd lose.

The sun was beginning to sink.

"What in the..."

Myl was at a loss for words.

"What should we do?"

His subordinate and disciple asked.

The man had no divine power to speak of, but served like a tongue in Myl's mouth.

He was quick-witted—that's why Myl kept him. But now, panic clouded his judgment.

Myl spotted the woman standing in front of the palisade.

Wearing only a black robe in this freezing cold—a witch.

Though Myl himself was a capable mage, he wouldn't dare imitate her magic.

That's why he hadn't interfered with the subordinate priest's magic earlier.

The sight of the man with the greatsword had frozen the entire battalion.

And the paladins they relied on were falling, one by one.

The name of the Mad Knights had spread across the continent—

But their true skill had never been fully known.

One had to face them directly to understand.

Myl now understood that.

'Why are warriors of this caliber wandering around like this...?'

His head was spinning.

"Apostle!"

His disciple called again.

He'd told them to say "Pope," but the old title slipped out.

"Advance. All units—advance."

Myl muttered.

"Advance! Advance!"

His muttering grew louder.

He began chanting a divine incantation.

One he'd prepared just in case.

Those who fought the former Holy Nation all said the same thing—

The most terrifying aspect of the Holy Army was their fanaticism.

Even with arms or legs severed, they'd keep fighting.

That's what this spell invoked—a berserker's devotion, blinding soldiers to fear.

A holy frenzy, where all enemies became demons.

Once cast, his army would become martyrs.

"O Lord, I call upon Your strength. Lend me Your strength..."

Myl began shouting with desperation—

Just as two groups slowly approached from different directions.

They'd been advancing from afar, and Jaxon, Shinar, and others had already sensed them.

Enkrid, too, had noticed, along with several soldiers.

Eventually, Myl and his entourage saw them as well.

Two armies, both large in size.

Two banners were visible—

One bore the symbol of the Holy Nation: a winged spear, flown into battle to declare annihilation of evil.

Even the Grey Holy Army had copied that symbol with a makeshift grey spear banner.

Now the original had arrived.

The other was a black flag marked with a diagonal stripe.

The nameless paladin at Noah's monastery had warned: even if they won, they might be branded as demon-possessed.

Enkrid didn't care what names they threw at him—

But he couldn't ignore an army that might turn hostile.

Myl saw the two forces approaching and halted his spell.

From both groups, individuals sprinted forward.

The one from the Holy Nation—Enkrid recognized.

The other was known to the nameless paladin.

"...Why is the commander here?"

He muttered in surprise.

The black-striped banner belonged to the Inquisition's Heretic Execution Division—

Colleagues of the nameless paladin.

Perhaps they had come to punish him for betraying his duty.

"Stand down!"

A voice shouted from the Inquisition's side.

"You're late!"

"Commander!"

The nameless paladin greeted him.

Enkrid, watching, felt the man's weight instantly—unlike the opponent he'd just faced.

His face was covered with scars—forehead, cheeks, all across.

The man from the Holy Nation also arrived on the battlefield.

Who else could it be? The prophet—Overdeer.

With a small knight order at his side, he approached and halted near the clash.

Enkrid didn't care if they called him a demon—

If they attacked, he'd respond.

That had always been the plan.

As everyone faced one another—

Overdeer was the first to speak.

"You half-witted sons of bitches."

His voice burned with fury.