A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

A ferryman biting his tongue and stuttering?

At first, Enkrid thought it might be a new kind of joke. Since there was no such thing as a fairy joke, maybe this was a ferryman-style joke instead.

Of course, it wasn't that.

His thoughts accelerated, racing toward a conclusion.

The opposite of Walking Fire.

What had been necessary to slash through Walking Fire was focusing all his strength into a single strike.

So that wasn't the answer.

In fact, he had already tried that method in countless todays.

Pouring all his Will into a slash didn't work.

Then what about the opposite?

Enkrid's intuition was sharper than it had ever been.

On top of that, as he repeated today again and again, he had come to understand, organize, and absorb a vast amount of knowledge.

As a result, Enkrid began to glimpse things beyond the range of his understanding.

Just as one can guess a word's meaning by reading the surrounding context, repeated experience allowed him to infer results from causes.

That inference, that glimpse of a conclusion, is what he meant when he said he saw light.

The ferryman's words are incomplete.

Even more so since he only uttered the first part.

So—was it meant to tease him? Maybe.

A part of him feared that. But if there was a method to try, wasn't it foolish not to?

So he chose to focus solely on the present.

The ferryman's advice had been broad.

Enkrid accepted it in his own way.

"Remember the moment you faced Walking Fire."

From there, it was all review. Not the moment he learned the technique, but the situation itself.

He relived the todays where he fought Walking Fire, recalled the mindset he had then, the thought process he followed.

The kind of battle where even a brush meant death.

Even a scratch meant death.

Then just don't get hit.

There had been a battle where he endured, peeling the fire off layer by layer like skin.

Endurance.

And then a memory surged forth—someone once made that kind of fight their specialty. Rearvart. The chimera knight Count Molsen had presented.

He had made stamina his greatest strength.

Even if he relied on underhanded methods like body modification, he ultimately failed to reach his desired destination.

But fighting him had helped. And fighting Walking Fire and enduring it helped, too.

The library of experience opened. He recalled what he had learned. He reviewed and enacted it with his body. Even etched theory into the act.

The meaning:

A sword that can stop even waves.

The manifestation:

Blocking every incoming attack.

The training methods:

Dozens of them.

Once meaning, manifestation, and method were defined, they could become a martial art.

He had awakened to it. Now it was time for his body to execute it. He was ready.

Every one of the Onekiller's attacks was fatal. Every swing carried a threat sharp enough to freeze his blood.

To block such a foe's blade, Enkrid would have to swing not dozens, but hundreds of times with extraordinary precision.

Choose the wrong answer and you die.

A shiver of tension, excitement, and joy raced down his spine.

In this new today, the Onekiller swung first, as if it had been waiting. The blades on both its arms moved like separate beings. It resembled a duet of the Valen-style mercenary swordplay.

Facing those differing rhythms, Enkrid held just one True Silver Sword.

Calculation.

He split the incoming attacks, perceiving them in temporal sequence. That was the realm of insight. Accelerated thought made it possible.

His heart pounded. Blood surged through his veins. With it came the intangible force of Will, coursing through him, reinforcing his intent.

Clang!

He raised the True Silver Sword and deflected the diagonal blade. Without pausing, he swung again, linking the trajectory. He had to. With that flow, he blocked a blade that had slipped in through a gap, but there was no time to breathe or blink.

He immediately drew his blade back and raised it before his face.

A blade, jutting out like a shortsword from the tip of the Onekiller's foot, stopped just short of his jaw, blocked by his sword.

The blade that had sprung from the enemy's foot halted just before piercing his chin.

Skkkrkkk.

Steel scraped against steel. Blade against blade, each pressing its claim.

I see the intent.

After that kick, a chain of continuous attacks would follow.

Enkrid decided it was time to attack. He pulled sparks from within to steal some of the enemy's momentum.

The Onekiller's compressed muscles allowed for explosive surges. It could even retreat at similar speed.

Its shifting leg forms made this possible.

When pushed past a certain point, its legs transformed, becoming beast-like. Even now, they had.

From a human's perspective, it looked like its joints bent backward. But in truth, it wasn't.

Understanding beast leg anatomy revealed that this "reverse joint" was an illusion.

To a human, what seems like a beast's knee is actually its heel.

So beast legs aren't "backward"—they're just designed for upright stance on tiptoe.

An evolutionary trait to flee predators.

Like standing solely on your toes—ready to leap at any moment. And in that form, the strength of its legs more than doubled.

Boom! Boom!

The stone floor cracked and burst. Through the debris, streams of orange light shot forward.

The creature that had just retreated now surged twice as fast. Swinging its arms, it created a visual spectacle.

From the opposing view, it looked like meteors were raining from the sky.

Orange trails streaked not only downward, but in straight lines, curves, and even horizontally across the ground.

They say the Shower technique of the Four Seasons Sword becomes a meteor shower at its peak.

It resembled Shinar's Shower technique. Only faster. Stronger. Blocking each strike felt overwhelming.

Enkrid had to break through his limits. So he did.

His trained body, his fire-forged mind, pushed beyond.

He had no choice—get slashed, stabbed, or struck and he'd die.

His awakened eyes caught the changes in speed. A visual acuity beyond human range.

Will boiled within him. First, it strengthened his muscles. Then, it circled his organs, climbed to his brain.

Will enhanced every sense, allowing him to exceed the ordinary. That was how these feats became possible.

The Onekiller's body changed again. First the legs—then the arms.

Its arms stretched like an octopus. No bones—just solid muscle, coiling and adding speed to its blades.

Enkrid dodged, blocked, struck back.

Blood trickled from his grip on the True Silver Sword.

Even with cloth gauntlets, the shock couldn't be fully absorbed. Over callused palms, torn and healed countless times, new wounds opened.

It's overwhelming.

But giving up wasn't an option. He blocked, and blocked again.

He lost track of how many times. Because he lost track of time itself.

At some point, his eyeballs burned as if someone had poured hot wax on them.

Naturally, countless decisions led to mistakes.

Fatigue piled up. Blind spots formed through over-calculation.

A blade from the Onekiller grazed his cheek. Its fleshy forearm elongated, leaving an orange streak.

Splurt!

Enkrid cut off both of its arms—but not before it scratched him.

Even a scratch is death.

That rule had not changed. It was failure.

Agonizing pain tore through him. It felt like someone had driven a blade through the blood in his veins.

He remembered an old crone once warning him as a child—if a needle hits a vein wrong, it'll kill you as it travels through the bloodstream.

Now it felt real.

Crack!

While he faltered, a blade from the Onekiller's foot stabbed into his skull.

Agony exploded from his head through his entire body like a lightning bolt.

It hurts.

Pain came first. Then blackness.

Death followed. Today ended.

—

"Will that be your answer?"

The ferryman, standing on the black, rippling river with his violet lamp, asked indifferently.

Enkrid didn't reply.

The opposite of Walking Fire.

The ferryman now before him felt different—like another person entirely.

"I don't know either."

"How absurd."

The ferryman spoke without a hint of laughter.

And today began again. A start like yesterday, like every today before it.

He took up his sword, with passion as his blade and will as his shield.

"Today will be more fun than yesterday."

Enkrid said something no one could understand.

"What was that?"

Shinar asked, but no answer came—because the Onekiller, sensing Enkrid's killing intent, charged at once.

Clang!

Steel rang in harmony. The battle began anew. He calculated variables. He derived a rational answer.

Enkrid felt his growth in a single day.

If the Onekiller didn't change its limbs, they were nearly equal—or Enkrid had the edge.

But when it transformed, he was clearly outmatched in speed and power.

But I can catch up.

So he fought.

He clenched his teeth and endured.

His body bore the cost.

At first, blood streamed from his eyes. Overheated Will burst the vessels.

Then his nose bled. The more variables he had to calculate, the more his brain strained.

Heat built in his skull until blood gushed from his nostrils. His lungs shrank. His muscles flushed red.

For a moment, his entire body turned crimson with bruises.

"Damn it."

That was Lua Gharne's comment upon seeing him.

Clang!

Pell, seeing Enkrid, drew the Idol Slayer and prepared to fight.

I think I've held out long enough.

But the Onekiller didn't seem tired. Didn't even seem like it could be.

A knight, with just momentary bursts of Will, could strike down a thousand enemies in a day.

Enkrid had channeled Will throughout his entire body. As if he had slain far more than a thousand foes—not in a day, but in an intensely condensed stretch of time.

So nosebleeds flooding like a broken dam weren't surprising.

Not good.

He judged that his training method had a flaw.

He completed hundreds of calculations at once through accelerated thought—believing it was the only way to block the Onekiller's ever-shifting strikes.

There's a clear limit to accelerated thinking.

So what then? Another wall in front of him?

No.

Even as he bled profusely, Enkrid drove his sword into the ground and endured.

He saw the Onekiller withdraw.

This bastard...

He thought the creature targeted him because he was the most dangerous.

Maybe in combat, its thinking ability rivals mine.

That seemed likely.

Sure, it targeted him because he was a threat—but also because it was the most efficient choice.

Once it judged his capabilities had dropped, it turned to a new target.

It was fighting in the most rational and efficient way possible.

If it can kill me, the rest aren't worth the effort.

Had it gone after Lua Gharne or Pell, they would've all fought together.

Even if it didn't change the outcome, it never chose that path.

It always took the smallest advantage it could. Just like Enkrid had.

Demons are rational. Fitting.

"It's not over yet."

Enkrid opened his mouth. The Onekiller, rather than respond, turned its sword toward a new target.

Not Lua Gharne. Not Pell.

It aimed at Bran, the Woodguard.

"I knew it would come to this."

And Shinar rose to her feet.

Crrrrrk.

As she stood from her stone chair, veins or cords fell from beneath it.

Blood flowed from her back. So that hadn't been just a chair.

Enkrid saw a dying ally. He saw fairies joining the fight.

He saw Shinar rise in defiance—but not fight like she once did.

And he saw her die.

She clenched her teeth and rushed, enduring torn muscles—but the Onekiller pierced her heart in an instant.

And °• N 𝑜 v 𝑒 l i g h t •° she died.

Even the ferryman did not appear after that darkness. Shaking from the memory of pain, Enkrid awoke.

"If I can't rely on accelerated thought..."

Pain aside, his mind still worked. So he muttered aloud.

Theory, imagination, training, and experience merged in his mind to open a new path.

The Wave-Stopping Swordsmanship.

Meaning: A sword that stops even waves.

Manifestation: Blocking attacks.

Training method:

Train the mind itself.

How can one train thought?

Until now, Enkrid had known two ways.

One: accelerate thought.

The other, he learned in the fairy city.

Divide it.

The division of thought.

The enemy used both hands separately. It divided its thoughts to fight.

It used its whole body to battle. And its thinking wasn't just split in two.

What it had absorbed was fairy knight swordplay.

Instinctive battle capacity paired with fairy-style tactical thought.

Its weapons were deadly even with a graze. Its form matched that.

Its thoughts had developed in the same way.

They say demons are the enemies of knights.

And truly—it suited that label.

"Then I just have to divide it."

Enkrid's eyes lit up. Rather than despair at failure, he—like any true seeker—took the first step on a new path.

He repeated today again. Died again. Over and over.

Five hundred fifty-six todays passed.

The ferryman eventually stopped appearing.

And when he did show up, he recited the same lines like a third-rate actor.

"Give up. You're trapped in today."

"Do you need something to hate? Then hate yourself."

In one of those repeated todays, Enkrid once again spoke to Shinar—and heard the same reply.

Coincidentally, it was what she had said on the first today.

In these repeated todays, that was rare.

The future is mutable, after all.

But life constantly changes, and sometimes coincidence becomes miracle.

"So, Enki, will you save me?"

Shinar asked.

"Yes, I will."

Enkrid answered.

Hadn't that been the purpose of his journey?

Even after five hundred todays, his resolve never wavered. His will, like a sword, remained sharp and fierce.

He had always known what he had to do.

From accelerated thinking to divided thought.

He had no certainty.

But as always, Enkrid simply... challenged it.

The Onekiller stepped forward. Watching him, Enkrid muttered inwardly:

"Seen you so much, I might just get attached, bastard."