A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

Humans perceive, think, and judge only within the limits of what they know. The same was true even for the tree-folk known as the Woodguard.

Bran felt threatened. He believed this was the gravest danger they had yet faced in the labyrinth.

By contrast, Enkrid remained calm. There was no reason to panic or feel flustered—so he didn't. Instead, he simply did what needed to be done: think and wield his sword.

"A Death Knight."

A knight reborn through the power of the Labyrinth.

Had that power made it stronger than it was in life? In fairy terms, perhaps it had become a "hardened blade of grass."

Was this the form of someone who, clinging to life at death's threshold, was resurrected like this?

Or had it simply been twisted and enslaved by the labyrinth?

It didn't matter.

What did matter was that the thing before him now was a threat to a knight.

But was it truly a threat?

Enkrid had seen the wraith-like soot gather behind the fairy. He observed the foot positioning, the twist of the wrist.

His eyes fed into instinct. Thought accelerated.

By the time the fairy swung her sword, Enkrid had already raised his blade to block it.

Clang!

Pell and Lua Gharne barely caught the clash of offense and defense.

From their view, it looked like the fairy had aimed her sword at a predetermined target.

Because Enkrid had already blocked it.

A moment born of accelerated thought and sharpened insight. And after a single exchange, he saw even more.

"A sword that chose restraint over flash to maximize efficiency."

Enkrid understood the nature of her technique.

"Is the goal to make contact with the blade? A binding strike?"

People say that when someone swings a blade with no clear intent, they lack real combat experience.

No matter how hollowed the skull or infested with maggots, if she had been a knight in life, her strikes must carry purpose.

That purpose was to clash blades.

At first, he thought it was to bind the weapons together—but that wasn't it either.

She struck once, then withdrew. Enkrid felt something cling to his Jinblade—a residue like soot.

It wasn't visible to the eye. He simply felt it.

The dead fairy—Argila—could not use spiritual energy. Instead, she wielded the arcane energy granted by the labyrinth.

The source might be the same. Hadn't Esther once said—

"It's possible to replace spiritual energy with something else."

The reason and method didn't matter now.

Enkrid pushed his thoughts to their limit and dove into the fight.

The next strike came—rebounding steel from the previous exchange flew back at him.

That massive blade, unsuited for her lean frame, came down in a tight arc from above.

A minimal-movement strike—hard to dodge, harder to block.

Just like before, she wasn't aiming to kill with that blow.

She wanted to force a clash.

Not to bind swords in close combat, but to make sure their blades touched.

The intention was clear—even if the full meaning wasn't.

The missing piece came from behind.

"Don't let your weapons clash!"

Bran shouted. From a fairy, that was a precious warning.

The meaning: that clash transferred the soot—a curse.

A transformation was being triggered.

One that benefited the dead fairy, and disadvantaged Enkrid.

No one could see his eyes in the darkness. But they were glowing blue.

Will surged from the depths of his unconscious, racing through his body.

Thought quickened, a glimpse of the near-future flashed in his mind.

His senses rose to match that vision.

After that—it was all instinct. For /N_o_v_e_l_i_g_h_t/ Pell, recognizing weaknesses came naturally.

For Enkrid, it was a craft.

He dissected, studied, analyzed, reviewed. He'd honed that awareness in countless spars, especially against Pell.

So now, he borrowed a shard of that talent.

It was insight born from study. A technique ingrained by relentless repetition.

Will that rose from the unconscious helped bring it to the surface.

Chiriririring!

Enkrid gave Argila what she wanted.

Their blades clashed—once, then six more times in rapid succession.

With each impact, the curse spread from her demonic sword to his Jinblade. Its weight shifted.

But Enkrid never stopped moving.

The Jinblade was naturally light. Even doubled in weight, it remained manageable.

Six strikes, six deflections—and then, parting from her massive blade, the Jinblade kissed the dead knight's neck.

A direct, gleaming strike. A kiss from the Reaper that left the resurrected fairy knight motionless.

Behind Enkrid, a fairy's hand froze mid-motion—about to draw out the Kiaos.

Drip...

Black blood leaked from Argila's severed neck. There wasn't much left in her body, and even that soon stopped.

She collapsed forward with a thud, knees hitting the floor first.

The soot behind her began to fade, then vanished.

She didn't move again. The group watched in silence, just in case—but she was still.

"Let's go."

Enkrid confirmed she wasn't rising again and spoke plainly.

Spending time with emotionless fairies had rubbed off on him—his tone was naturally subdued.

It wasn't false humility. To him, what he'd done wasn't extraordinary.

After all, the one who rushed at him wasn't a true knight. Just a half-shadow of one.

Hadn't Shinar said it many times?

"There is no such thing as a fairy knight who cannot wield spiritual energy. Spirit is the base and root of our kind. To write a letter without hands is absurd. If you say you'd write it with your toes instead, I'd say it's like writing it with nothing at all."

Wrapped in jest, but wise nonetheless.

Enkrid had once retorted, "Why not write it with your mouth?"

And Shinar had replied:

"You're the sort who'd wedge the pen between your eyelids and write even without a mouth."

The exchange had been so serious, it didn't even feel like a joke.

"How did you do that?"

Zero approached and asked. Even fairies, taught from childhood to restrain emotion, were still people.

The astonishment in his voice made that clear.

"I saw an opening and cut."

Enkrid answered as he always did. It was the clearest response possible.

"Tch."

Pell clicked his tongue.

He'd seen enough of the exchange to realize what had happened—and it looked eerily like his own style.

Enkrid had created a blade that responded to weaknesses on its own.

Had he stolen Pell's signature?

No. That wasn't the feeling.

In the Mad Squad, techniques were shared freely. Holding back meant you were capping your own growth.

Limits exist only to be broken.

Pell had learned that from watching Enkrid. Still, that didn't mean he had no complaints—hence the click of his tongue.

"Talent."

A word he'd never say aloud.

But Pell felt it—his own talent was not enough.

If he understood what kind of "todays" Enkrid had endured to reach this point, he'd never dare think that way.

Meanwhile, Enkrid was already spinning thoughts in his head.

"Meaning, implementation, and training method."

Countless sparring sessions had built a sixth sense for openings—beyond the five senses.

A sword art that relied on instinct.

Whether it was refined, heavy, swift—it didn't matter.

As long as the blade could touch the enemy, the form could vary.

The meaning: "A sword that sees weaknesses."

The implementation: "Insight and experience."

And the training method—relentless sparring.

Pell had this built-in.

Enkrid had it thanks to battle.

He was just now converting instinct into theory—and even that only took a moment.

"What even was that..."

Bran murmured as he stepped closer, still stunned. The other two fairies blinked repeatedly.

Enkrid looked at them and said:

"I don't know what it is you're carrying in your coats. But I'd appreciate it if you didn't use it on Shinar."

His tone was calm, but the words pierced like a blade.

The fairy named Arcoiris flinched.

Did he know?

Enkrid's blue eyes locked onto him.

Where Arcoiris lacked deceit, Enkrid possessed uncanny intuition and razor-sharp judgment.

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

He had said it before entering. Repeated it again after coming inside.

That sentence had two meanings.

One: They would save Shinar.

And two:

"Whatever's in your coat—it can kill her, can't it?"

Enkrid pressed again.

The second meaning: they were ready to kill her.

Better to die in the arms of the gods than live in agony as the demon's bride.

He saw through them.

Not because he had to think deeply—it was simply obvious.

They weren't fairies weathered by the world outside. They didn't know how to lie.

And now, Arcoiris was silent.

It was wise. Saying nothing was better than trying to lie.

But his eyes, posture, and presence revealed more than words ever could.

"It was obvious. And knowing doesn't change anything."

Lua Gharne finally spoke. Whether it was meant to console them or not, the fairies seemed slightly less rattled.

"...Let's rest a while."

Bran said at last.

The straight corridor allowed them to pause whenever they wanted.

That explained how they'd made it in and out before.

Enkrid sat on the floor, gazing into the thick blackness ahead.

He felt it.

"Go back. Come again later."

That's what the darkness seemed to whisper.

Its malice was tangible.

It didn't matter whether this was a war, a rescue mission, or something else entirely.

Whatever the purpose, this corridor would eventually shake the hearts of those who entered it.

It always left the option to turn back—to run.

Those who lost their will would fall back. Sensing failure, some would flee.

If this were a war, if the Labyrinth and the fairy city were nations—

"One devours the other."

The fairies had lost knights. Many had died here.

The labyrinth had fed on their flesh and blood, growing stronger.

If they'd fought with full force from the start, perhaps they could've destroyed it—even with losses.

"Then the Demon of Courtship wouldn't have been born."

But the fairies had searched for ways to fight without sacrifice.

Time passed. They failed, again and again. The labyrinth became an intractable menace.

By the time they moved to eliminate it—it was already too late.

Persistent malice.

The demon's presence loomed just beneath the surface.

Its desire to take a fairy bride mirrored its desire to devour the city itself.

It wanted to escape the labyrinth and enter the world.

"The beginning of a grand Labyrinth."

If the city fell, that's what it would become.

Elvenheim—a human term for fairy lands.

What would it be called if it turned into a labyrinth?

"Elven Grave?"

Enkrid closed his eyes.

He wasn't tired. But suddenly, he was asleep.

Was it the Ferryman's doing? Or just his body taking rest before the next ordeal?

He didn't know.

But in the dream, the Ferryman appeared.

Holding a violet lantern aboard a rocking boat, he spoke:

"You don't need me to say it, but I'll give you advice."

"Advice?"

Enkrid tilted his head.

"Abandon the Frokk, the humans, and the fairies around you—and run."

The Ferryman laughed, malice seeping into his smile.

Enkrid didn't respond.

He opened his eyes.

Only a blink or two had passed. No real time at all.

He ate some dried meat. The fairies had fruit and greens, as expected.

Then, they moved on.

During that short break—what had Bran and the others realized?

Among the fairies, a strange warmth stirred.

"Demon Slayer."

"We honor you, sir."

It wasn't just their eyes—those words were spoken aloud.

Even Zero was choked with emotion.

"Save the demon, and save our queen."

Enkrid had almost forgotten—

He knew who Shinar was.

Her full name: Shinar Kirheiss.

"Elvenheim" was what humans called fairy lands. But each fairy city had its own name.

Often, they bore the name of the ruling family.

The city Enkrid visited was named Kirheiss.

Even in cities ruled by councils, the ruling family had a symbolic—and often very real—role.

The royal line.

Shinar was the last of her line.

She was the queen of this city.

"The surprising part is that it wasn't a fairy-style joke."

Enkrid said.

"Pardon?"

Brisa asked.

"Nothing."

A queen.

Nothing more surprising than that.

No more monsters emerged. The corridor widened into a large chamber.

No more paths forward—though exits dotted the walls, none were needed.

They'd arrived.

Their target sat right before them.

"Shinar."

Shinar Kirheiss—once known as the Golden Witch—sat with hands gently folded, seated upon a throne of bone.