A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

True Silver in his right hand. Firebrand in his left.

Chii-ching!

From the left side of his waist, the True Silver Sword came free, exhaling a soft light. The blade cut through the air, perfectly level to the ground.

At the same time, Firebrand was drawn from the right and thrust into the space in front of him.

Slash and stab. Simple movements—yet with speed, even simplicity can become the scythe of the Reaper.

Enkrid repeated the sequence once more: slashing and stabbing with not a hair's width of deviation, thrusting and severing the neck with precision.

In the darkness, four insolent attendants had rushed forward to greet the uninvited guests—only to be cut down, their throats pierced or sliced.

A breeze of Will brushed past his eyes, aiding his night vision.

The greatest difference between a sub-knight and a knight was this: the conscious use of Will versus its unconscious, instinctive flow.

Right now, Enkrid was using Will unconsciously—letting it naturally assist his awareness amid this pitch-darkness.

He couldn't see perfectly like a fairy with thermal vision, but he could sense enough to react.

Four drowned corpses. Their swollen bodies sagged and collapsed.

Splutch.

The sound of bodies falling. The squelch beneath his boots. The wetness in the air, the stench—moist, heavy, repulsive. It awakened all five senses.

Water?

The labyrinth was damp.

And that wasn't all. An unpleasant weight pressed across his entire body.

It's suppressing.

Something was pressing down on his Will, trying to stifle it. The air seemed laced with poison. The hostile presence clung to his shoulders like it wanted them gone.

In short: this place was a duet of discomfort and foreboding. Worse, something in it actively suppressed Will.

Not that it affected Enkrid much.

He was a knight. Reflexively, he deployed the Will of Rejection.

Perhaps not an absolute counter to this place—but more than enough to resist its influence.

All that remained was the stench, the damp air, and the lingering unease.

Just after he granted rest to the four drowned corpses, Pell, Lua Gharne, and the rest of the fairy group followed behind.

"...What a stench," Pell muttered.

The shepherd of the Wastes had smelled his share of foul dung—but this was worse. The tainted air Enkrid felt had reached Pell too. His hand hovered instinctively over the Godslayer.

"It's foul and ominous," Lua Gharne added, scanning their surroundings.

Even in a darkness deeper than moonless night, they could sense the area without a single light source.

Not because their eyes worked, but because the rest of their senses remained intact.

Then one fairy produced a small stone, casting a soft glow. Not especially bright—but enough.

Fairies, as a race, were naturally gifted with darkvision. Some were even born with the ability to sense heat.

A few among their group possessed that gift.

Still, having a light source made a difference in how much one could see.

And judging by the way it was prepared, this luminous stone wasn't for Enkrid or the others—it was something they had brought in advance.

"Already fighting when we got here?" Bran muttered, pulling another herb stick from his pouch.

Tap tap—he struck flint, igniting the tip with a hiss. A stray ember flared orange amidst the luminous stones' pale glow.

The scent of burning herbs mixed oddly with the stench of the Demon Realm—but pushed some of it away, faintly.

"You been here before?" Enkrid asked.

"Once."

"Ah."

"I'm here to guide."

The inside of the labyrinth wasn't as tight as expected. Even Bran's hulking frame fit just fine.

He hadn't planned to explore this way—but now that he was, it didn't change anything.

The cave was damp, sticky, the uneven ground wrapped in limestone walls. This was the entrance to the so-called labyrinth—the Demon Realm.

"Lady Shinar would want you to turn back, even now," said a female fairy. A sword at her hip, similar to Firebrand.

Whether she was trying to speak for Shinar, test Enkrid's heart, or simply worried for him—it wasn't clear. Her emotional restraint made it hard to read.

"She's always been too stubborn to listen to others," Pell answered for him.

Not a wrong answer.

"Let's go," Enkrid said, moving forward.

The reeking, ominous air tried to halt him, but it barely counted as a wall.

The fairy with the luminous stone raised it high.

The four drowned corpses and that manticore were unlikely to be the last threats.

And they weren't.

As they walked down the cavern's wide passage, monsters appeared without pause.

Grrrooooogh.

The stench of rotting corpses and a grotesque roar struck their ears. From beyond the light came another monster.

They hadn't walked far—just turned a corner—and already, it lunged.

"Drowned corpses mixed with man-faced hounds," Lua Gharne noted, observing with her Frokk intuition.

Not that she had to say it aloud—it was obvious from the appearance.

Their bodies were bloated from water, skin sloughing off as they moved. Dozens of four-legged man-faced hounds shuffled toward them, their black eyes rolling wildly.

Was it a threat? Not quite.

"We'll handle this," Bran said as he stepped forward.

Naturally, none of them were fools. They had prepared for the labyrinth. These fairy swordsmen had trained their bodies as weapons in place of spirit energy.

Enkrid crossed his arms and watched their combat unfold.

It was time to assess the strength of his allies.

Fairy combat was the epitome of pragmatism.

Bran, the Woodguard. The other three: Brisa, Arcoiris, and Zero.

Zero was the towering fairy who'd once talked to Enkrid about dueling when he arrived in the city.

Aside from Bran, Zero was clearly the standout.

"Not bad," Lua Gharne remarked.

Enkrid nodded in agreement.

Zero dashed forward and drew his sword—a naide, the fairy's signature blade—slicing the darkness.

He moved and drew in the same motion, channeling strength from his ankles, knees, waist, shoulders, and wrists to unleash a strike.

His naide curved in the air, illusion-like. Within the luminous glow, the blade bisected a man-faced hound vertically.

Splurt!

Despite the faint light, the monster's pitch-black blood soaked the floor. The already damp ground grew even wetter.

"He's mimicking you," Lua Gharne noted.

The blow resembled Enkrid's earlier strike against the manticore. Not identical—but similar in structure.

'Does he have talent?'

Fairy power comes from spirit energy. And yet, Zero had cut down that creature with pure technique, devoid of magic.

The other two weren't far behind in skill.

Enkrid felt as if a heavy iron weight had been strapped to his ankles. Not from the foul air, which his Will of Rejection kept at bay—but from the general oppressive atmosphere.

They were likely experiencing the same.

'He's fast.'

His steps were light, his strikes sharp.

Zero's technique focused on sheer power—cutting and crushing.

The other two fairies focused on inflicting multiple wounds without overextending.

With no gestures or words, they fought like twins.

One would casually turn their back, and when a monster pounced, the other would sever its neck.

'They bait, provoke instinct, and strike the blind spot.'

That was their tactic.

Engage from the front, and force the enemy to expose its back. A simple concept—hard to execute.

Bran was a little different. His fighting style was much simpler.

Growl!

A man-faced hound lunged, biting Bran's arm. Its fangs couldn't pierce his armor.

While it bit down, Bran's massive wooden fist smashed into its skull.

Wham!

His punch was neither slow nor fast—but carried the force of a giant.

The hound's head burst on impact.

Bran's fighting style was basic.

'Take a hit, return a hit.'

A Woodguard's body was bark—armor stronger than most plate mail. Even their eyes and organs were protected.

They were born of wood.

'Do Woodguards even have internal organs?'

If you couldn't break the shell, go for the inside. A stray thought, automatic, even if no fight demanded it.

Later, Zero rejoined the other two.

Over twenty man-faced hounds had appeared, but [N O V E L I G H T] Enkrid hadn't lifted a finger.

He just watched.

And then, an unexpected realization struck him.

'Zero...'

That fairy fought with instinct, not intellect.

He shut out emotion, concealed his heart. Left only combat in his head.

And yet—he was still thinking.

Instinctive combat and logical analysis don't usually coexist.

But he made them work together. Somehow.

'How is that possible?'

In terms of experience, no one on the continent surpassed Enkrid.

His mind accelerated, dissecting the fairy's technique. It wasn't just study—it was obsession. He couldn't help himself.

It was the kind of thing Ragna used to do.

The difference? Ragna understood the moment he saw. Enkrid didn't. He needed to dissect and understand the process.

He didn't need long. His thoughts moved fast, even if little time passed.

Enkrid understood the fairy's tactical thinking.

'What I use is accelerated thought.'

From outside, it looked like dozens of thoughts at once.

Internally, it was just a fast sequence.

But the fairy used a different method.

'Right hand: True Silver. Left hand: Firebrand.'

It was like wielding two swords. That's what the fairy did—with his thoughts.

Divided thinking. Parallel processing.

Now that he'd seen it, Enkrid thought: maybe, after a few tries, he could do it too.

Not right away, though. Just because he understood something didn't mean he could do it instantly.

He hadn't been born with that kind of talent.

He used to wish for talent like that.

But not anymore.

Not now.

Even if he couldn't do something immediately—within him, a seed had sprouted. Something new.

'What you learn through effort doesn't fade as easily. You remember every step of the path you walked.'

In simpler terms: what the body masters through repetition, the mind also comes to understand.

Enkrid didn't mind that approach.

And that's why—he no longer wished for talent.

"Our job is to find the stairs down."

Bran said after clearing the monsters.

More kept coming.

Drowned corpses were a given.

Even two more manticores appeared.

There was no rest, but no real threat either.

Barely worth calling monsters.

Nothing like the manticore at the entrance. Not even colony-grade.

Fairies handled them easily.

'Though stamina will eventually become an issue.'

It was the sheer number of them that was a problem.

Even simple tasks wear you down if you don't get a break.

Pell and Lua Gharne took turns. Enkrid didn't rest either.

As monster corpses piled up and the floor turned too slick to walk easily, they kept pressing forward.

Along the way, annoying monsters like bloodsucking flies and giant leeches emerged—trying to bite ankles from below.

The flies were especially irritating. Their bites caused endless bleeding.

Which meant getting bitten was not an option.

The fairies used precise swordplay to swat them down—but there was no end.

"They were a pain last time too," Bran said.

He wasn't worried—his bark body couldn't be pierced. He didn't even try to kill them actively.

Just swatted a few down with his hands.

Smack!

He slammed one into the wall. Black blood and crushed innards dripped down.

Not a pretty sight.

Enkrid didn't even draw his sword—he just knocked them aside with his fists.

"These pests..." Lua Gharne muttered, igniting flames on her whip.

The area lit up.

She swung wide, creating a gust of heat that incinerated the flies mid-air.

The heat trailing her whip resembled a flame spell more than a weapon.

Noticing Enkrid's curious gaze, she explained.

"Magical weapons behave differently depending on how you use them."

Even after clearing the flies, they walked on.

"This place is too damn big," Pell muttered.

Bran nodded. "Takes three days if it's long, two if it's short."

It truly was a labyrinth. Just finding the way was a trial. Without Bran, they might've been completely lost.

Eventually—perhaps after half a day—

"Found it," Bran said.

He hadn't memorized the layout. He didn't follow the terrain.

He watched the monsters to determine their location.

"Those things are the ones guarding the stairs."

Ahead, a few drowned corpses appeared. Unique variants. Clearly not average.

And there were a lot of them.

"Even if you kill them, they don't stay dead."

Bran added. The fairies visibly tensed.

Enkrid, too, saw it—they wouldn't go down easily.

Over the shoulders of the drowned corpses shimmered vague forms.

Not monsters with shapes.

Formless things.

Drowned corpses possessed by wraiths.