A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

The demon Onekiller widened the distance—just two steps. Not too far, not too close. You could say it was just enough time to let out half a breath.

But once the clash began, there would be no time to breathe at all, so even calling it "half a breath" was a stretch.

Enkrid didn't try to close that gap. He didn't chase after it.

Instead, he used the time Onekiller gave him with care.

He posed questions and sought answers, reinterpreting the situation based on intuition, drawing out what he needed from the library of his experience.

It would take a long time to explain in words and even in practice, but accelerated thinking allowed him to do it all in an instant.

First came the question.

"Do I need to rest right now?"

It was a question for self-reflection. A good method to assess oneself objectively.

"Resting would be nice."

He wasn't in top form—he hadn't rested properly. But it wasn't a critical need.

"This is good enough."

Status check: complete. Next?

"Assess the situation before fighting. Don't just charge in like a lunatic."

That was something Kraiss had said. Enkrid took from Kraiss's words only what he wanted—what he needed.

"Check your surroundings before battle."

It wasn't what Kraiss had meant, but meaning was fluid. If it worked, it worked.

He took it further—if it helped, that was all that mattered.

It also aligned with what Lua Gharne always emphasized: don't ignore environmental factors. He had actually done this analysis before Onekiller had even appeared.

"Solid stone floor. Heavy air. Pressure typical of a Demon Realm. Corpses of previous monsters. Black blood pooled on one side. The space is wide, no structures. It's like a grand stone arena. The only obstacles—"

Shinar, the fairies, Frokk, and one human or so.

Not something he could use as a projectile. If Onekiller targeted any of them, they had to be protected.

"Not a single advantage."

Yes, everything was disadvantageous. And maybe that was why it felt even more enjoyable.

Enkrid chuckled without realizing it.

To an outsider, he looked like a madman, but from Enkrid's own perspective, it was entirely natural.

After all, someone obsessed with fighting and honing his skills couldn't help but be thrilled when such a chance arrived.

"Fights you can't win should only be fought after creating winnable conditions."

That was what Abnaier had said.

"Secure advantages before you fight."

It was hard to create favorable conditions now. Then he'd have to reduce the disadvantages.

Abnaier had said more:

"Right. If nothing else works, then drag in anything and everything that could give you even a slight edge."

It was a response to one of Enkrid's hypothetical scenarios.

Thoughts raced. Bold options, cautious options.

Enkrid drew what he needed from his library of experience.

"If I could throw it off with a taunt..."

But this opponent showed no emotional response. It seemed even more devoid of feeling than the Ferryman. So a taunt would be useless.

Onekiller moved. Its glowing orange body glided across the ground, subtly shifting its feet and lowering its blade-tipped arms.

To the untrained eye, it looked meaningless. But Enkrid saw purpose.

If a cutting wind were given form for the sole purpose of extinguishing a candle's flame—that's what it would look like.

He focused even deeper, trying to define it in a shorter, clearer phrase.

"A well-forged blade."

Why did it seem that way? Because of what it embodied.

It possessed blind killing intent. Blind—meaning it had no aim. It existed solely to kill.

A walking mass of murderous intent. A tool that moved on its own.

That was how Enkrid defined it. By defining it, he could predict how it would behave.

"It will cut, stab, and kill anything in its path."

It would do so regardless of who the target was.

Having defined it, and recalling helpful experiences, he knew what he had to do now.

Thud.

Enkrid made what looked like a meaningless move. He stomped the ground. A crack shot out from the impact point, the stone fractured, and dust rose like smoke.

"Look at me, you bastard."

He spoke and launched a phantom slash. Will surged, compressing into a wave of false momentum. Even a demon couldn't ignore that kind of pressure.

He lowered the tip of his true silver sword slightly, aiming at the demon.

With words, posture, and intent, he spoke:

Look at me. Send your killing intent at me. Focus on me alone.

The demon did exactly that. It was pulled into his will.

Its killing intent sharpened like a needle and pointed only at Enkrid. A scene beyond the five senses, perceived only through instinct.

Like an arrow nocked at full draw aimed directly between his eyes.

The corners of Enkrid's mouth twitched upward. It was a smile driven by a pure exhilaration that swept through his body—nothing dark or grim about it.

"An advantageous edge."

He'd made it so the enemy focused only on him.

That alone offset the disadvantages.

He could protect what needed protecting while he fought.

It pleased him that his strategy worked, but it pleased him # Nоvеlight # even more that the enemy saw him as an equal.

An opponent like that could not ignore him. All the time and effort he'd spent—this was his reward.

So the joy surged up within him.

It surged to the point that his brain nearly drowned in pleasure.

Boom.

Just as his knees bent, the sound exploded. The demon leapt forward and swung its blade. In the heavy air, the sword came down over his head. He sensed it and deflected.

Crash!

The sound came before the blades even met. Will flooded his body, and unprecedented insight revealed what would happen.

The demon's right blade had come down. But then the left turned into a dart and shot in.

Enkrid twisted his left ankle outward half a turn—an impossible motion for an ordinary human. Though the movement seemed misaligned, he still balanced perfectly.

The result: his body bent and staggered to avoid the slash. Like a flag fluttering in the wind.

But he didn't just dodge. As he moved, he extended his left hand. A spark burst forth and stabbed toward the demon's throat.

Clang!

Blocked again.

Between them, blades, killing intent, and malice ignited. Attacks and counters flowed one after another.

Clang-clang-clang-clang!

Sparks flew in midair as blades collided—true silver and spark, orange light and steel clashing and separating like a pair of lovers entwined in a cycle of passion and pain.

Enkrid's accelerated thoughts fired continuously.

"No opening."

He couldn't predict its next move easily. It didn't think—only moved on instinct. Which made it harder to exploit with mind games. Even landing a scratch was a challenge.

And the same went for himself. He hadn't been wounded yet either.

To an outsider, it looked like sorcery.

Movements beyond the normal joint range. Stabbing with arm strength alone. Feats impossible for ordinary people.

"Ahh..."

It wasn't a knight. And yet it fought as well as one.

How could he not be thrilled?

Clang!

After 187 exchanges of blades, though the explanation was long, the actual combat time wasn't.

Enkrid went for the kill. Onekiller stepped with a cross motion, swinging the left blade horizontally while stabbing with the right in an offbeat rhythm.

Like a Valen-style duet—he was familiar with this technique.

Enkrid pretended to parry, then shattered the rhythm.

It started when he pretended to block with the spark in his left hand—then dropped the blade completely, disrupting the demon's decision-making speed.

Madness, one could say. Rationality be damned.

Who grabs a blade with their bare hand after letting go of their sword?

But the demon, composed entirely of killing intent, made only rational choices. That was its logic structure.

So madness was effective.

A result of accelerated thought.

Not a perfect answer—but not the wrong one either.

The demon's thoughts weren't disrupted, so it wasn't perfect.

Enkrid grabbed the blade with his bare hand and held on, but—

Grind—the metal of his gauntlet shredded, and the demon's thrusting blade pierced his stomach.

But in the last moment, he twisted his waist just enough to avoid hitting any vital organs.

Then his true silver sword struck the horizontal blade and passed through—slicing the demon's neck.

Wham. Slice. Squish!

It all happened in an instant.

"We're evenly matched."

If they fought again, there'd be no guarantee of victory. That's why taking the initiative mattered.

"An advantageous edge."

He seized it again.

By choosing when to go for the kill, he projected his will first.

With skills so evenly matched, he knew—if the demon split power between its arms, it wouldn't be able to stop a full-strength true silver sword.

And in that moment, as he pierced the demon's throat while also being stabbed in the gut, he realized something—

Holding a blade in both hands against a truly powerful enemy is a mistake.

Wasn't the demon before him proof enough?

"If only one arm had a blade instead of both..."

He would've lost. Which meant their skill levels weren't just equal—the demon might have been superior.

Still, a win was a win.

"It's not over!"

Shinar's voice rang out—not loud, but urgent enough to strike the ear.

The beheaded Onekiller slammed down its deflected blade. Enkrid reflexively leapt back.

The blade slid out of his abdomen with a wet sound. Blood gushed from the wound.

"Not fatal."

There was bleeding, so he wouldn't last long—but if he pushed for a quick victory, it would be fine.

He could endure using muscle control to limit the blood loss.

A technique Audin had taught him. So he could still fight. He had to.

But then, something unexpected happened.

What was this?

Enkrid felt something spread from the wound in his abdomen. Honestly, he didn't even know if it was poison—but something was spreading, invading his whole body.

Rapidly.

Like cold water in an empty stomach—he could feel it touch everything, killing him.

It was visible, too. His eyeballs began to boil, the color turning blood-red.

"Enki!"

Lua Gharne shouted.

There was the sound of Pell drawing his sword, the fairies rushing in—but Enkrid's vision darkened, and everything was submerged in black.

"Why?"

"Oh, demon... You only needed to leave a wound, didn't you?"

Shinar's words.

She recalled Onekiller's movements.

The pieces fit. Accelerated thinking produced the answer instantly.

Onekiller didn't need to kill directly. Just a scratch was enough.

Even decapitation didn't matter. It wouldn't die from that.

Enkrid now understood the demon Onekiller's ability.

"Even a graze is lethal."

What seeped into his body felt like poison—but it probably wasn't.

If it were, his body wouldn't be dying this quickly or helplessly.

"So that's why there were two swords."

There was no need for just one. He'd probably hidden even more weapons in his body.

His thoughts didn't finish. He felt something stream from his eyes—and then the pain exploded, as though his skull were being crushed.

Then came the blackout.

Death approached. Like being shoved headfirst into a pit of black sludge and drowning.

The River of Death welcomed him.

Splash—

And so did its master.

The Ferryman didn't smile—but seemed to. At least to Enkrid.

The Ferryman said:

"Welcome, prisoner. This cell should be quite fun as well, don't you think?"

And it was true.

Enkrid nodded reflexively.

He couldn't see a way forward. The wall blocking him was dark, tall, thick. But that was what made him agree—

The taller the wall, the greater the joy of surpassing it.

"Nothing more to say, really."

Enkrid replied. The Ferryman wasn't surprised. He had expected it.

"Good. Go do it again, just like always."

There was no need for a long conversation. The Ferryman waved his hand—a gesture meaning, go on, get lost.

Enkrid returned from the violet-lamp-lit world to reality.

Today would repeat itself. Time to be imprisoned again in the demon's cell.

He awoke during that moment before meeting Shinar, when their group paused briefly—just before the corridor where they waited.

Now he could tell—the Ferryman had set this stage. Had likely chosen this as the start point for the day.

Whether he had or not, it didn't matter to Enkrid.

If he were the kind of man who gave up when the situation was grim, he never would've made it this far.

He didn't care what traps the Ferryman laid. If he couldn't change them, there was no point worrying.

So even now, things were the same as always.

"Let's go."

Enkrid faced the new "today" with a demeanor almost unchanged from the last.