A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

"You're saying they don't die?"

Enkrid asked calmly.

"That's right. They don't die. Wraiths can't be cut down with a mere sword. If we could use spiritual energy here, this would be easy. But inside this place, it's sealed. That's why those things became so dangerous—like grim reapers."

As he spoke, several drowned corpses stretched their necks forward. Their spines elongated unnaturally, as if gaining elasticity. A grotesque feat, possible only because they were possessed by wraiths.

Some of them bore frostbite across their bodies—clear signs of freezing. It seemed the wraiths carried cold within them.

"You can't kill them by slashing with will-infused blades, either. So don't even ask,"

Bran said. Among the Woodguards, he was clearly the most perceptive.

He answered even before Enkrid could ask the obvious question—why not just use Will-infused strikes?

"Zero."

Bran called out, and Zero dashed forward. He severed the arm of an advancing drowned corpse.

As he sliced, a wraith behind the creature stretched out a translucent arm. It wasn't particularly fast, and as long as you could see it, it was easy to dodge.

It shimmered faintly—clearly visible in the light. Though depending on the angle, it might disappear momentarily, no fairy would fail to notice it.

Zero stepped back, deftly avoiding the ghost's reach.

The severed arm flopped on the ground for a moment, then began crawling forward, its fingers dragging it along the floor.

"See? If you cut off an arm, the arm moves on its own. Same with legs. And burning them isn't easy either."

This wasn't something one could know without prior experience.

In other words, the fairies had scouted and attempted to clear this labyrinth before. That's how they knew all this.

Enkrid had already guessed as much when Bran mentioned they'd been here once before.

Despite the enemies' seeming immortality, Bran remained calm. That meant he also knew how to deal with them.

Enkrid looked his way, and Bran continued without hesitation.

"Go past them and find the orb nearby. Smash it. That's their life vessel. While the rest hold them off, one of us will go for it."

Enkrid nodded. It sounded like a pain in the ass.

Until they found this so-called orb, the fight could drag on endlessly.

It felt like a trap designed to drain stamina and build fatigue.

'If there's a demon in this place...'

...it must be a sly bastard who # Nоvеlight # enjoys toying with its prey.

"These enemies can't be dealt with unless you've got a weapon that cuts through souls. If we buy time, Brisa will find it."

One of the fairies offered to risk herself pushing through the wraiths.

Brisa, the female fairy, replaced her needle blade with a short dagger. Her eyes scanned the mass of drowned corpses, calculating the most efficient path through them.

And then, just as the plan was forming—

"No need for that."

Pell spoke up, stepping forward with his sword.

The weapon he carried was the Idol Slayer—a blade that could cut through wraiths and spirits.

A natural enemy of ghostly foes. Against soul-based, amorphous enemies, it was nearly a cheat.

"Make way."

Enkrid ordered, and Pell lightly stepped forward.

"Danger,"

Brisa warned. She had seen it—when Pell moved, every drowned corpse in the area reacted, not just the ones closest.

Yes, it was dangerous.

It would've been fatal—if it wasn't Pell. Or if the weapon in his hand had been anything less.

Without a word, Pell stepped outward with his left foot and swung his sword.

In that arc, Enkrid saw a glimpse of Ragna's Severance—a blade forming a wall as it sliced through necks without slowing.

Even during sparring, Enkrid had felt it.

'Exceptional talent.'

If not for Ragna, Pell would easily stand out.

No—even with Ragna, he still stood out.

It wasn't just that he learned techniques by observation. He interpreted them and adapted them into his own.

He had an innate eye for spotting weaknesses.

So he didn't swing with thought—his instincts led the blade to its ideal path.

Calling it "natural talent" didn't even feel like enough.

The Shepherd's Sword danced toward the horde, and Idol Slayer moved as if in a graceful waltz.

These ice-bound drowned corpses were dangerous. Even in death, they clung and lashed out. Severed arms moved independently.

These were enemies that wouldn't die no matter how many times they were cut or stabbed—they simply split and attacked again.

Burning them was difficult too—the wraiths repelled flames, and the damp ground wasn't helpful either.

If spiritual energy were usable, one could purify them. But in this sealed space, they were as tricky as it got.

Two fairies reached for the oil flasks tied to their waists. They were ready to toss them if things got bad.

But they didn't need to.

The oil was a mix—Woodguard sap, flaxseed oil, and rare crushed herbs—an advanced alchemical concoction.

If Kraiss had been here, he'd have said:

"You're using that expensive stuff on monsters? Oh please, let's not. Just kill the monsters and hand the oil over to me."

No need. Pell was enjoying the rare feeling of wielding Idol Slayer again.

He sliced through skulls, stabbed near where the heart would be, then pulled back.

Even compared to lower-tier knights, his skill was exceptional.

Of course, it made sense. Pell's usual sparring partners were Enkrid, Ragna, and Rem.

He trained daily against those stronger than him. Add to that his rivalry with Rophod, and everything in his life pushed his talent further.

Even as a hundred drowned corpses blocked his path, Pell showed no hesitation.

Not a single one fled. Each lunged with cursed, festering wounds waiting to mark anyone who got close.

Still, Pell didn't flinch. Like the lead of a ballroom, his sword swayed and spun—graceful and lethal.

Thwack!

A split skull leaked thick black fluid—wraith's remains.

Slash.

A wailing shriek burst from beneath a decapitated head—the cry of a dying spirit.

For Pell, spirits were the easiest enemies.

Easier than slicing through bloodsucking flies one by one.

When the wraiths were finally cleared, a staircase leading downward appeared behind them.

A faded orb rolled out from the pile of corpses.

Bran had said to go behind the enemies and find the orb—but one of the wraiths had been carrying it.

If they'd followed Bran's plan, they might've wasted time and energy.

Not that anyone would complain about that now.

"Let's have a spar sometime."

Zero said to Pell. A rare fairy with a strong competitive streak.

To Enkrid, Zero was an excellent fairy—but the other two didn't react to his words at all.

"You and that Frokk... We've got some serious fighters on our side."

Bran muttered, a tinge of hope beneath his even tone.

"We can't leave Lady Shinar as the demon's bride."

Another male fairy said. Enkrid said nothing, just started walking.

The stairs were well-maintained this time. Whether it was human, monster, or demon—this place bore clear marks of design.

"Any idea how many floors there are?"

"Even if it's a labyrinth, it's not a grand labyrinth. The demon is probably hiding on the next floor."

Bran replied. He wasn't certain, of course—no one knew the labyrinth completely.

Descending, they were greeted by clean, square-cut walls.

A corridor stretched forward—pitch black at the end. The darkness was so deep, even the fairies couldn't sense anything through heat.

'Magic.'

Enkrid's instincts whispered it.

"Now's the only chance to rest."

Bran suggested a short break.

Not exactly ideal for sleep or meals, but better than the soggy floors earlier.

Still, the air grew more oppressive, the pressure on their bodies more intense.

The fairies' complexions dulled, except for Zero and Bran.

Pell and Lua Gharne were completely unaffected.

"Better than that week-long no-sleep mountain training."

Pell quipped. He was talking about a training course Enkrid had endured too—handling extreme fatigue and crisis.

Audin and Rem had devised it. They endured it perfectly. Ragna hadn't even bothered.

All he said was:

"Why the hell would I do that?"

That course was a famous hell within the Border Guard.

Pell passed it proudly. Frokk, being of a different species, had insane base stamina.

Enkrid? He enjoyed the training the most. He didn't even feel tired now—just warmed up.

Still, they rested. Exhaustion erodes the mind. And even fairies would eventually show cracks if they got too worn down.

After the short break, they advanced. The hallway was straight—no chance to get lost.

The darkness parted slightly, and a monster leapt out.

"A troll."

Pell noted.

Before he could even finish, Enkrid grabbed the troll's neck and ripped it out, then sliced off the second one's head as it swung a club.

All in a flash.

The corridor was wide enough to fight comfortably.

Glowstones barely lit their front and rear, while to the sides, darkness swirled like living smoke.

From that dark, soot-like shapes leapt occasionally.

But Zero noticed them.

"Wraith."

As he named it, Pell cut it down.

There were more—cockatrices, basilisks, petrifying creatures.

But for monsters, they looked unusually... frail.

The group felt like they'd been fighting for a full day.

"Are they mass-producing these things somewhere?"

Pell muttered. Exhaustion was one thing—boredom was starting to creep in.

Until it vanished.

The next monster wasn't part of a group. It stood alone.

Like a suit of armor mounted on a stand, unmoving in the center of the path.

Black armor. Hollowed-out eye sockets. Maggots writhing inside the helmet.

Eyes dull and lifeless.

Clearly dead.

Gaunt figure. Oversized sword that didn't match its frame. Its tip dragged along the floor.

The blade was a dull maroon. Instead of reflecting glowstone light, it absorbed it.

No light passed beyond a certain distance around the blade.

Skewed shadows spilled across the floor like stains.

"Argila?"

Zero recognized her.

She was once a fairy knight who entered this labyrinth.

Now, bound to the cursed place in death.

Enkrid had no time to process Bran or Zero's words.

Click.

The corpse's head tilted sideways.

No bloodlust. But its posture said everything.

Enkrid stepped forward, blades crossing.

His drawn Jinblade scattered light, opposite to the shadow-eating sword in Argila's hand.

Why step forward?

Because this was no enemy he could entrust to someone else.

His instincts told him so.

Black smoke flickered behind the corpse—and then it lunged.

Crkkk!

Its sword scraped the ground, rising in a vicious arc.

Bran recognized the weapon.

And yelled.

"Dodge it!"

What he really meant was—

Don't let your weapon meet hers.

Bran had seen Enkrid in action. It gave him hope.

That man had the skill. The stories of him slaying demons weren't lies.

But even then, there were things the fairies had prepared.

'We can't release spiritual energy—but that doesn't mean we can't use it at all.'

Emission was blocked. But refined energy?

Of course, the fairies had come equipped.

Their secret weapon was a spiritual gem refined into fruit form—Kiaos.

In the continental tongue: "Final Dance."

If eaten, the user dies. But before death, they erupt with spiritual power and can fight briefly.

Bran believed it was time to use Kiaos.

The enemy—Argila—was once a fairy knight. Her sword, a demonic weapon.

Once it clashed with a weapon seven times, the opponent's sword would become twice as heavy.

A genius fairy knight's technique, forged from Will and spirit.

Whatever trick the labyrinth used to bind her here—Bran didn't care.

All he knew was one thing.

"If you clash blades—you lose."

Clang!

Before he could finish saying "dodge," the swords met.

And Bran yelled again.

"Don't match weapons with her!"

Enkrid was holding off Argila's rapid strikes.

Bran couldn't even clearly see the movement—but one thing was certain.

If you stood still, you'd be annihilated.