A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

Fairies are trained from a young age to restrain their emotions. Because of that, it was difficult to find any sort of fire or passion in them.

Come to think of it, even when Enkrid had become a knight—on that day when Shinar lost one of her arms—he remembered how composed her expression had remained.

'You couldn't chalk that up to just being older and more stoic.'

It was the quintessential restraint unique to fairies.

And he hadn't forgotten the words she had added then.

"Go on ahead."

Was that what she had said?

In any case, these fairies were much the same. Rather than proving themselves through passion, they did so through action.

What did it mean for fairy knights to willingly enter a place where they would die?

'A mass suicide?'

Not a phrase that suited their race.

They weren't always rational or purely logical, but they did strive to be—fairies, after all, approached problems with cool-headed analysis.

Yet this situation had cornered them.

They had chosen to fight, knowing it would lead to their deaths.

All of them. The entire tribe.

'That just means they've been pushed that far.'

That was how Enkrid saw it.

Even if he hadn't come, they would have entered the cave. This was only the beginning—they were prepared to fight until every last one of them died.

Shinar had decided to become the demon's bride to stop that from happening. The Demon Realm had brought tragedy, and their tragedy was still ongoing.

This was a fight to honor the ones they had already lost.

It was also a requiem for those they were yet to lose.

They went in knowing they would die—so yes, it was.

But if they all died without a single soul left to sing their dirge, would their determination mean anything?

Probably not.

The voices of the powerless rarely bring about change.

Just as true orators are rare, it's uncommon for the weak to raise their voices at all. And even if they do, changing reality is no easy feat.

This was an age defined by swords, blood, iron, and the battlefield.

A memory, inherited from the past, whispered to him like a specter.

"You said you'd protect us?"

It was the voice of a wife who had lost a husband—a man whose face Enkrid could no longer recall.

His inner self bore many old wounds. They weren't scars.

Because they still bled, they couldn't be called scars.

"So what did you protect, then?"

The specter whispered again.

Did anything change just because the powerless raised their voices? It didn't.

He lacked talent—he couldn't impose his will through force.

Because of that, there were many he failed to protect.

Because of that, many things slipped through his fingers.

Because of that, regret and remorse lingered.

And even so, he had no intention of stepping back. Just because he bled didn't mean he couldn't walk.

And even if he couldn't walk, he would crawl forward.

He would become a knight.

That was his dream.

He would protect those who stood behind him.

That was why he wished to become a knight.

Seeing these fairies brought old memories flooding back.

"Not bad at all," Enkrid murmured.

He wouldn't water a tree with the peace bought by laying all responsibility on one fairy named Shinar. That was how a fairy might put it. Though it seemed such a turn of phrase was unique to Shinar—none of the others made similar jokes. Perhaps she just had a personal taste for that kind of humor. Or maybe this wasn't the moment for jokes.

"If you intend to enter with us, I'll thank you in advance."

Bran, the tree giant, approached him. His root-like feet scraped the ground, kicking up dust. A smoking herb stick still hung from his lips.

"Isn't that stench awful?" he asked with a surprisingly friendly tone. Yes, friendly—even from a Woodguard, who rarely displayed emotion.

"It's bearable. Was it your plan to go in today?"

Enkrid checked his sword belt, adjusting the position of his weapons and briefly inspecting his gear. Whether soldier or knight, proper maintenance of one's equipment was fundamental.

"No, not exactly. But we would've gone in before the month ended, at the latest."

Bran nodded.

"Then why now?"

"A sign. Seeing you arrive—perhaps that was the gods' way of saying the time is now."

It seemed his arrival had not simply coincided with an attack, but rather had been taken as a kind of omen.

And it wasn't just the fairies who treated him as a signal.

Right after Ermen declared that he would end the demon's granted reprieve—and Bran exchanged a few words with him—a sour, putrid stench began to waft from the cave. Along with it came a deep, rumbling growl.

From the darkness of the cave emerged a head, casting shadows darker than the gloom surrounding it.

Its body remained hidden within, with only its head peeking out—its brown mane drifting in the air as if suspended by nothing.

"All units, battle-ready."

Ermen gave the order, and Bran along with a few Woodguards moved to block the front.

From a human's perspective, the massive, sturdy Woodguards took the role of shield-bearers.

But the sight of just the floating head lasted only a moment.

A beast-like monster emerged, walking on four legs.

Its head resembled a lion's, but a snake's head adorned the tip of its tail.

That tail lashed once through the air before striking the ground.

Sssk, chaaaak!

Dust burst upward as its tail smashed the earth.

A Manticore. And not an ordinary one.

'A variant.'

His instincts categorized it instantly. Intuition led the way, and his eyes followed, seeking evidence.

'Poison on the claws.'

The tips of its claws were black—not just dark, but coated with a sticky substance that left marks on the ground with each step.

'Scorched lips.'

No whiskers. A parched mouth. Lips like thick leather.

'It can breathe fire.'

No—it will.

Lua Gharne had said all battles begin with observation. He had heard similar things when wandering to study swordsmanship.

Jaxon, too, had said nothing was more important than seeing clearly before a fight.

As he assessed the Manticore, the fairies launched the first strike.

He had assumed the tree giant was simply playing the role of a shield, but several fairies suddenly ran up his back.

The giant bent his legs slightly to help them.

They were agile. Eight fairies stepped onto his shoulders and head, drawing their bows simultaneously.

Thud-thud-thud.

Muscles swelled, fingertips turned white from the strain of pulling the strings. All of them aimed without hesitation—within a breath and a half.

The giant ducked, the fairies climbed, took aim.

No one had to give the command—they all loosed their arrows at once.

They had said even the younglings were making arrows due to lack of manpower.

But there was no need to doubt the quality—these were solid, well-fletched arrows.

Twang.

With the snap of bowstrings—

Piiing!

Eight arrows flew as one. Just like in the forest.

Enkrid's mind accelerated naturally, tracking each trajectory.

Two aimed for the eyes. Two targeted the front shoulder joints. The remaining four went for the tail.

A display of expert marksmanship.

But the Manticore's response was simple.

Fwomp.

It closed its eyes, twisted its body slightly, and flicked its tail.

That was enough.

Its hide was too thick for the arrows to pierce.

"I call upon the Spirit of Wind."

One of the eight invoked a spirit. From what Esther had told him, it was one of their standard chants.

They borrowed the power of otherworldly beings—and fairies excelled at this.

A current of air gathered around one of the archers. Her green clothes fluttered in the wind.

"Ops, Vigor, Inhabito."

Below her, a Dryas reached out and chanted softly. He didn't know the meaning, but he could guess the intent.

A green glow shimmered at her fingertips, lighting the arrowhead.

With the wind's power flowing through her, she pulled the bowstring—this time effortlessly—and released without even a breath of hesitation.

Fwoosh.

The sound of the wind splitting accompanied the arrow. It shot for the Manticore's forehead—far faster than anything ordinary.

Enkrid's insight told him it was too fast to dodge.

The arrow would pierce the Manticore's skull. That was the predetermined outcome. The wind spirit had granted it the force to do so. Even the essence of life was concentrated at its tip.

Hope must have flickered in the fairy's eyes. He didn't get the chance to see, though.

Perhaps she restrained her emotions too well for it to be visible.

Still, they had surely hoped.

But their hope was not fulfilled.

The arrow stopped just a finger's width from the Manticore's forehead.

"Telekinesis," Ermen murmured. His voice remained dry, though the situation was worth surprise. Internally, he was startled—but his fairy restraint kept it ◆ Nоvеlіgһt ◆ (Only on Nоvеlіgһt) hidden.

The Manticore snorted.

Red flames burst from its breath, incinerating the arrow mid-air.

Fwooosh.

The charred shaft dropped to the ground.

Crackling embers danced through the foul air, bringing the stench of scorched wood.

Then, the eight sword-wielding fairies stepped forward.

"Would've been nice to see it once before I die."

"Agreed."

Two of them spoke.

What they hoped to see, Enkrid couldn't tell.

Among the eight was the tall fairy who had once spoken to him of honor—he wielded a broader naide than the others.

The base form of the naide was the "Spring Blade," but each fairy's sword differed slightly. Some weren't even naides—one had a long, single-edged blade.

Grrr.

The Manticore didn't even acknowledge them.

It exuded arrogance, the confidence of a superior predator.

It used telekinesis, breathed fire, and had poisoned claws.

It was a flawless guardian for a demon.

This one monster alone might be enough to wipe out all the fairies gathered here.

Of course, they weren't fools. They had prepared what they could—like the wind spirit's arrow and spells infused with life force.

"At least three will die."

That was Frokk, whose talents included analyzing abilities, reading environments, and evaluating situations.

"Shall I handle it?"

Pell asked.

"No."

Enkrid responded and stepped forward. In truth, the Manticore had been aware of him for a while now. Even when the eight fairies stepped up, its attention remained partly on him.

It instinctively sensed a threat.

Enkrid walked slowly. His gait now resembled that of a fairy—quiet, restrained.

Shiiing.

He drew his True Silver Blade. The blade reflected the sunlight in this space thick with stench, radiating a soft golden glow.

"Move aside, beast."

He said as he walked between the eight fairies. No one stopped him.

To them, even a straw or dry twig was worth grasping. So they had no reason to reject a helping hand.

Why hadn't Shinar told him?

He could guess.

'She didn't want to transfer the demon's curse to me.'

Or perhaps she judged that he wouldn't be able to bear what lay within the cave.

Was that a lack of trust? Or a cold, rational decision?

'Or maybe...'

Maybe she truly feared for him.

Enkrid might be able to kill the demon. But he might not.

There was no way to know. If things went out of control, the demon could kill everyone. At the very least, Enkrid himself might suffer a fatal wound.

It might all become an obstacle on the path to his dream.

"If I bear it alone, won't that be enough?"

Shinar's apparition said. But it was only a vision—he didn't know how she would really answer.

So—

"There's someone I need to meet inside. Step aside."

He would ask her directly.

His voice carried the force of Will.

The Manticore couldn't understand speech. But even so, it flinched at Enkrid's presence and stepped aside.

Realizing what it had done, it opened its mouth in shock.

As if to say, I'm not scared!

ROOOAAAR.

Its roar echoed—less a show of dominance, more like a scream of panic.

And it didn't just roar.

A fireball exploded from its mouth with a whoosh.

Compared to the walking fire, it was almost playful.

The golden light of the True Silver Blade split the flame.

Fffsh!

With a crackling sound, the flame dispersed and died out.

Flames that are crushed by will can burn nothing.

Telekinesis gripped his limbs. But the Will of Rejection activated instinctively, and he shrugged off the residue with brute force.

Then came the poisoned claws.

They slashed down with wild ferocity—but compared to the Four Seasons swordplay Shinar had shown him during their duels, it was just a beast thrashing about.

A faster, stronger human blade sliced from head to tail.

Even the snake-headed tail lashed out at the last moment to bite—but Enkrid's sword traced its path cleanly, cutting through it as well.

If the fairies had shown precision marksmanship with arrows, Enkrid had done the same—with a sword.

Once, that would've been impossible.

But now, he could.

And so, he did.

Sssshhhh.

The split Manticore's black blood pooled like a swamp, its guts spilling haphazardly across the ground.

"Fantastic,"

Ermen said.

Still dry, but with just a hint of awe hidden within that ever-composed fairy tone.